Going Bovine

I can hear him playing with his inhaler; it makes a soft rattle.

“I was about to reach for the next one when I heard my mom scream my name. She was standing in our yard with this look of terror on her face. I could tell she was ready to run for me—she didn’t trust, you know what I’m saying? When I looked back at that next rung, it seemed about a million miles away. I didn’t feel so sure anymore. I reached for it, but sorta half-assed, you know? And I missed. Fell down and broke my arm and a rib and started crying. The kids thought I was a weenie, and their moms said I couldn’t come over anymore because they didn’t want me getting hurt in their yards. I spent a few days in the hospital and my mom bought me a bunch of Fast Wheels cars that I told her I loved and then I buried them in the backyard later and told her I lost them and she acted all hurt and said I took things for granted just like my dad.”

He makes a funny sound that at first I think is a hiccup. But then I realize he’s crying. “That was the first time … the first time I got that feeling … that … the only thing keeping me alive … was my mom. And I hated her for it.”

Outside, somebody’s getting ice. The machine thunks against the wall like a dying man’s cough. It mixes with Gonzo’s strangled, silent crying.

“So …,” I start. “So, you know, what did you have against the Fast Wheels?”

The sniffling slows down. Gonzo shifts on the bed in the deep motel black. “Huh?”

“I know you hated your mom. Shit, I don’t blame you. But what did those little toy cars ever do to you to deserve such a fate? Buried alive. Dude, that’s harsh.”

Gonzo goes totally silent—not even a sniffle. For all I know, I’ve pissed him off so completely, he’s about to risk another asthma attack just to kick my ass. I position my pillow as a shield just in case I have to ward off forty-two inches of the Gonzman pounding at me in Little People fury. And then I hear it in the dark—a bubbling laugh through tears.

“My friend,” he says with a snort. “I am the Ayatollah of Harsh. Do not f**k with the little people. We will lay waste to your souls!”

“Oooh,” I say. “Now you got me scared, dude. Terrified.”

“I put a freakin’ fatwa out on those cars.” He’s laughing so hard he sounds totally manic, but hey, whatever it takes to keep him up.

I put the pillow back behind my head. “Well, they didn’t deserve to live. They were tools of the infidels.”

“Goddamn right,” he says, his voice less tight. He flops down on the bed.

It’s quiet for another minute, and I try to get my body to relax. My legs really ache, and I hope it’s just regular, tired aching from the long walk.

“Cameron?”

“Yeah?”

Gonzo turns on his side, facing me. I can make out the silhouette of him, my shadow friend. “You ever think about it?”

“Think about what?” I say.

“Dying.”

Do I ever think about it? What does he want to hear? That lately I think about how my mom’s face looks when she’s drinking her coffee in the morning, staring at her crossword puzzle like she just might beat it today. I think about driving with my dad to the lake the day before he and Mom bought the new house when I was eleven, him singing along to the radio and looking like all he wanted to do was keep driving and singing. I think about the Jenna who made me a Christmas ornament out of macaroni when she was six, and the current Jenna, Jenna of the dance team, Jenna who can’t stand me, Jenna who will miss me when I’m gone, even if it’s just because I’m not there to make her look so much better to the world. I think about the fact that I will probably never bone Staci Johnson, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I think about dying every day, because I can’t stop thinking about the living.

I fake a yawn. “Oh, man, I’m wiped out, okay?”

Gonzo shifts onto his back. “Oh, sure. No prob. Good night.”

“Yeah. Night.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Which Treats of My Visit to a Keg Party and of My Chance Encounter with the World’s Grumpiest Yard Gnome

Within thirty seconds, Gonz is snoring lightly. It’s 12:20, and I’m wired. I can’t turn on the TV, so I put on my shoes and pad out to the Mister Motel’s parking lot with its magnificent view of I-10. A big semi roars past, followed by another. All those trucks carrying things that people think they can’t live without—new sofas and light-up sneakers, ponchos and twelve different kinds of processed cheese in cubes, strings, squares, or shred pouches.