Going Bovine

He’s right. I wish Dulcie would show herself, drop us a hint or two or just give in and tell us where to find Dr. X. The bleary morning light is pressing against the café’s windows now, and I get a good look at the desperate crew inhabiting the diner with us at this otherworldly hour: a couple of hospital workers getting off the night shift, trying to laugh off the stab wounds and gunshot wounds they saw but not really shaking the lines that have settled around their mouths like parentheses closing off all the relevant things that could be said. A couple of homeless schizophrenics talking to themselves and drinking coffee with their few panhandled coins, though coffee seems like the last thing they need. A group of still-drunk college kids in wilting costumes trying to sober up over pancakes and toast. It’s a long way from the stupid, choreographed riding mowers of my safe little suburb, and something about it makes me feel both sad and exhilarated all at the same time, like now I know a secret the sleeping citizens back home don’t, even if the secret is basically how alone we can be out here in the dead-honest haze of six a.m.

Gonzo’s going on about Captain Carnage and the time he beat a flock of Teddy Vamps. His voice is white noise. My body aches, and my arm’s shaking. I just want to sleep. My eyelids fall, closing out the world.

I’m dreaming of Disney World, but it’s like a herky-jerky, grainy home movie with the sound turned down. Hotel bathroom, Mom smiling, rubbing my wet head with a white towel. Dad and me waving from the line to the Peter Pan ride. Mom holding Jenna, who blinks at the sun. A random shot of Tomorrowland looking like another planet made of colorful balls and gears. The dark of the Small World ride. Mechanical kids going around and up and down. A splash. Me underwater, sinking, opening my mouth wide.

I wake with a gasp. Gonzo’s not talking anymore, and there’s a face inches from mine.

“Buy me a cup of coffee?” One of the schizo dudes hovers over me. He’s as matted as a feral cat and smells like he rolled in his own piss. He’s got about four teeth left, and they don’t look long for this world.

“Buy me a cup of coffee, please? I’m a homeless vet. Me and my wife got burned out of our home and I gotta support five kids and the littlest one needs an operation on her eyes and I wouldn’t do this, man, I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for them, and a guy’s gotta live, you know, gotta make his way and find his meaning in life and love, and to do that he needs coffee, he needs coffee and coffee and coffee.”

Gonzo’s shrinking down into his chair till I can only see his eyes and that huge ’fro, but I can tell by the redness in his cheeks that he’s holding his breath. The smell is pretty harsh, but I know Gonzo’s probably more afraid that he could catch some rare, untreatable disease just by sharing the same airspace as this guy.

“Here you go, man.” I leave a dollar on the table and he snatches it up.

“Thank you. Thank you. I got burned out of my houseboat and my kid needs an operation on her lungs so I need to get me some coffee and head out to the cemeteries to take care of things. To the cemeteries you just take the Canal Street cable car to the end, all the way to the end of the line, to the end where the angels live, and that’s where you go to bury things.”

My skin’s tingling now, but it has nothing to do with my disease. “What did you say?” I ask the homeless guy, but the cook’s shooing him away.

“Come on, Spanky, leave these people alone, now,” the cook says. He yanks the string to the front window shades and the café is flooded with light.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In Which We Visit a Cemetery and I Receive a Message. Sort of. I Hope.

We take the Canal Street car out to the cemeteries near the interstate. It’s a depressing ride. Sandwiched between the refurbished law offices, used-car lots, and prisonlike schools are tiny little houses that look like they could fall down any minute, all peeling paint and chipped shutters. Some of the wounded doors have red X’s drawn on them like animals marked for slaughter. Abandoned cars peek out from coats of dirt, rust, and leaves. On the corner, there’s a bent ONE-WAY street sign pointing to the ground.

“End of the line,” the guy says, which is pretty funny, considering. All around us are cemeteries—left, right, center.

“Now what?” Gonzo asks as we get off the cable car and cross over the tracks.

“He said I’d know the one,” I say, eyes scanning the miles and miles of gravestones.

Gonzo snorts. “Well, that’s helpful.” He calls out the names of the cemeteries around us. “The Odd Fellow’s Rest? That sounds like your speed, amigo. The Greenwood?”