DEAN WIPED THE CENTER console with a squishy, orange-stained rag and tossed it out the window.
“That’s the last of it.”
“You didn’t have to throw away the towel,” said Lin. “Also, can you stop spritzing Windowleen everywhere?”
“It’s for your own good. Sunny D on a hot dashboard is like Satan’s breath in the morning after a night of Little Caesar’s and MGD. The North Koreans probably stick a tray of it on the windowsill when they interrogate tourists who’ve strayed off the beaten path looking for wool rugs and pirated DVDs. A few hours of that orange mist and one of us would turn into a homi-suicidal maniac.”
“A homo-what?”
“A person who murders everyone in a 7-11 then kills himself. Or herself––crazy is equal opportunity, Lin.”
He squeezed into the rear compartment, where the girl and her wide-bodied guard relaxed on the bed.
“Sorry for that interruption, ladies,” said Dean. “Had a bit of cleanup and a phone call to make. It’s go-time all the time when you’re a famous author like me.”
The young woman watched him placidly while her large guardian wiped Funyun dust from her lips and ripped a cannonade of French at Dean. This display was complemented by wild swings of the large woman’s arms, which the girl leaned away from gracefully.
“She’s asking when you’re getting married,” said Lin.
“That’s better than what I imagined she said.”
“Which was?” asked the young woman.
“The climax to the 1812 Overture.”
She giggled and spoke a phrase to her large guardian, who promptly turned up the volume on another string of foreign phrases.
Dean raised his hands. “Cease fire! Miss, I don’t even know your name, or that of your massive friend. How can I marry anyone without a proper introduction?”
The girl whispered to her guardian and fell silent, her eyes on the floor of the compartment.
“You’re a bit shy for two ladies who’ve snuck into a man’s bed,” said Dean. “Everyone knows who I am, but just to break the ice I’ll go first. I’m Dean Cook. To be clear, not the vulgar stand-up comedian but the author, speechmaker, and dandified ne’er-do-well splotch of useless protoplasm. Those aren’t just my words, it was all in the Palo Alto Weekly. I’m on the cutting edge of goal-making motivational speaking and currently single. Single in this country, of course. Once my foot crosses a particular border, all bets are off.”
“Do you want to drive?” shouted Lin from the cab.
“Just a minute, Lin. We’ve all had our share of excitement and raised voices for the day, so let’s calm down, breathe deep, and enjoy a little social time.”
“Emerson! That’s my name,” said the girl.
“The poet and Transcendental philosopher? The premier figure of American self-reliance?”
“No, the clock radio.”
“The what?”
The girl pointed to the glowing red numbers of a digital clock on the wall. Dean peered closer and read the manufacturer’s label in white script.
“You’re named after that?”
“Not that one exactly. After the factory.”
“I see,” said Dean, rubbing his chin. “So in your country ... which is where, by the way?”
“I am from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. It is in Russia.”
Dean shrugged. “Emerson doesn’t sound like a Russian name, but I’m not one to judge. The world’s full of Chip-chops, Flip-flops, and Plip-plops, I can’t keep track of everything. What’s the name of Fatty Boom-Boom? Sorry! I mean your wedding guard.”
Emerson whispered in the ear of the woman.
“Fanta,” said the tubby matron with a smile.
Dean held up a purple can of soda. “This Fanta?”
“Not that one exactly,” said Emerson, “After the––”
“––factory, I get it,” said Dean. “You know, it breaks my heart that you can’t find a thing that’s made in America these days.” He clasped his hands together. “But, all’s well that end’s well. Lady Emerson and Fanta, what a pair. Where can we drop you off?”
“I have told you already,” said Emerson. “We have to be married, and it’s not a joke. On the wedding day, if a girl is touched––”
“By a man not her fiancé, yes, I know, he has to marry her. I’ll be honest with you––I’ve had extremely bad experiences with lightning marriages. One question: how did you find me?”
Emerson opened Dean’s book to the first pages and began to recite. “If this book is misplaced, please return to Dean Cook, 433 Matilda Avenue––”
“Right,” said Dean, rubbing his face with both hands.
Seeing this as a sign of reluctance, Guardian Fanta began another finger-wagging sermon until Dean covered her mouth with his hand.
“This is ridiculous,” he said to Emerson. “You can’t really want to marry me. Let me rephrase that. Of course you want to marry me: I’m handsome, charming, and successful. Any girl would be crazy not to want me or throw me out of her house, but this sounds like a teenage prank. Possibly the pilot of a low-quality episodic reality show on a female-centered cable network.”
“I’m telling the truth,” said Emerson. “You are famous author, you have house and car, you have face without scar and matching set of arm and legs. There is no problem for a girl to marry you.”
Dean sighed. “If only every woman thought that way ... I mean, of course they do, of course they do. I’ve had to swat them away like flies! Beautiful, lovely flies with beautiful red mouths ...”
Fanta bit Dean’s hand and he jerked it away.
“What about your fiancé? He can’t be overjoyed at being left at the altar. Call me paranoid, but I’d say he’s in the midst of homi-suicidal rage this very moment.” Dean looked out the rear window at the zipping highway and a suspiciously black Dodge Charger.
“He is horrible man. I never wanted to marry him,” said Emerson. “He is richest man in Kamchatka, he fly all his family to have wedding in most famous city San Jose, but he is also worst, filthiest, disgustingest man in Kamchatka.”
Dean grabbed onto a ceiling handle as the ambulance swerved in traffic. “Why do you say that?”
Emerson turned red and looked down. “His men come to all the houses and steal the socks of girls, but that is not the worst. The monster that is Duke Nichego knows magical spells and causes a horrible tentacle to grow from his body. He jabs this unspeakable thing into pretty girls, and months later a sickening tumor will grow inside their bellies. The poor girls are sick to stomach every morning and ask for strange food like pickle and ice cream. They are always taken away and never seen again, but of course they could not survive with such a huge, disgusting thing growing inside their bodies.”
“That ... doesn’t sound like magic,” said Dean.
“What else could it be?”
Dean put his hands over hers. “Never mind. I won’t let the Duke hurt you again. Unless he’s bigger than me. Or has a gun. Actually, if he’s holding anything sharp I might have to back off my previous statement. A nasty look I should be able to handle.”
Emerson burst into tears. “Please help me! Since that day in the sock department my entire life has become horrible!”