Tracklist:
Dreams – The Cranberries
Our Lips Are Sealed – The Go-Go’s
True – Spandau Ballet
11
Dean paused in the glare of stage lights and a sea of faces.
“That’s my key point. Yes, all of you are quitters, through and through, but it’s not enough to think, to feel deep down in your heart, that you are the truest example of any quitter that has ever existed in human history. No, that’s not quite enough. You’re also the most worthless smear of protoplasm that has ever lived since protoplasm smeared a disgusting trail out of the ocean billions of years ago, and if that protoplasmic Adam could see you now, he’d loft a gob of protoplasmic spit at your face.
“There’s no organism squatting below you on the ziggurat of life. You can’t look down and blame an aardvark for all of your problems, because even a disgusting creature like that is standing on your shoulders. When––and only when––you understand this concept can you shrug off the aardvark and climb up. And climb it you will, over the furry shoulders of raccoons, dung beetles, and senators until you’ve become a thinking, goal-oriented human being. An organism that achieves goals and lives free of mankind’s prejudice, consumer angst, and vast selection of streaming videos.”
Dean spread his arms. “A goal is not simply the place a football wants to be, it’s the place YOU want to be. Think of your goal as that beautiful girl at the homecoming dance years ago, the one who got away, the girl you desperately wanted to kiss but were too shy. Perhaps the ladies and effeminate men in the audience can imagine a huge bar of Toblerone tempting you from the cupboard. Maybe that’s not a good example––if you eat it, bikini season is definitely over, and you might as well stay indoors all summer. That goes for the men as well, because ‘Fatty,’ ‘Hairy,’ and ‘Speedo’ should never be used in the same sentence.”
“Back to my point. That girl you’re dancing with is your goal: a new job, losing fifty pounds, or setting fire to the home of a publishing executive. You can’t be shy with this girl. Grab hold of her with both arms, dance like a man who’s never danced in public before, and kiss that girl full on the lips––no tongue, please, this is high school––because you will achieve absolutely nothing in life by standing back and watching life go by. Unless, of course, that was your goal in the first place. Am I right?”
Dean pumped his fist and the crowd jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping like mad. Rapturous members of the audience threw bouquets of roses onto the stage.
A sour-faced old lady in the front row who refused to applaud was the only fly in Dean’s ointment. He watched the old woman struggle out of her seat and limp forward. She banged her wooden cane repeatedly on the stage until the vast auditorium fell silent.
The old woman turned her wrinkled face up to Dean and shouted, “You’re naked!”
Dean looked down at his body, as bereft of clothing as an infant torpedo, armed and in the tube.
The crowd roared with laughter and began to chant, “You’re naked! You’re naked! You’re naked!”
Dean gasped and jerked awake.
Painfully bright sunshine illuminated the teal green interior of the old Chevy Impala. The car, in fact, seemed to be a time capsule of cracked vinyl that smelled of dried ketchup and baby wipes. Tan mountains and a pale, featureless desert passed the windows at high speed, the wind whistling faintly from gaps in the weather stripping. Lin sat in the driver’s seat, her hands spread wide on the large, chrome-plated steering wheel. Next to her in the passenger seat slumbered the round hillock of Fanta, drooling happily against the window.
Something heavy stirred on Dean’s thigh, and Emerson murmured. She had stretched full-length on the long bench seat with her head in Dean’s lap. Her dark braids had come undone a bit, and her chest rose and fell in a slow, peaceful pattern. Dean certainly did not want to wake the young woman, but the gentle movement and warmth of her proximity was dangerously distracting for a man in his position. He sighed and gazed out the window at a pair of distant mountains.
“Sticky wicket,” he whispered.
Lin turned in the driver’s seat. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” said Dean, trying not to move.
“I thought I heard ‘sticky whip it’ and before that, ‘I’m naked.’ ”
“Definitely not!”
“It’s none of my business what you two are doing back there, but I need a break. The three of you have slept through the entire state of Nevada.”
“Of course, Lin,” said Dean. “Currently I am not indisposed, which I suppose means I'm at your disposal.”
On Dean’s lap, Emerson yawned. She opened her eyes halfway and smiled.
“Good morning, husband.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Hello, wife.”
“You were very good and brave last night.”
“For what?”
“Silly! For saving me from the American security forces.”
Dean shrugged. “I was saving myself, too.”
Emerson sat up and kissed him on the cheek. “You are always saying these kind of jokes, but I know you are a good person. This is how we know you are a good person in Kamchatka, when you do not betray your friends to the security forces.”
“I would never do that,” said Dean.
He watched her undo her braids and comb her hair with a small brush taken from somewhere in the volumes of sheer scarlet material that made up her wedding dress. The long, practiced strokes of her arm made him think of a piston in a secret underground factory where beauty was weaponized to control all mankind.
The motivational speech that he’d given in his dream was still fresh in his mind. Dean took a deep breath and slid over the vinyl seat to Emerson.
“Can I ... um ... can I tell you something?”
“Of course, husband.”
Dean slid his arm behind her. “I like you,” he said.
“I’m happy you like me.”
Dean smiled. “No. I mean, I really like you. I LIKE like you.”
Emerson considered this for a second, then leaned close, a serious expression on her face. “I am HAPPY happy you like me.”
Dean was nanoseconds from a full-on, mouth-to-mouth kiss when the car swerved, and he tumbled across the seat.
“Sorry,” yelled Lin. “That was the rest stop.”
Dean straightened his collar and sighed. “No problem. You’ve been a real trooper, Lin, driving without sleep and what-not.”
All four took a few minutes at the rest stop to stretch their legs, wash up, and flap their clothes in a futile effort to remove the smell of Funyuns. Dean settled himself behind the chrome-plated wheel, and Emerson slid across the green vinyl to the middle of the bench seat. Dean was very aware of the fact that Emerson’s hip and thigh were touching his.
“Very nice,” he said. “These old cars with no center console are very cozy.”
Emerson smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.
Dean turned the key in the dash and the Impala clattered to life. He pulled it onto the interstate and settled in for a long drive.
Lin yawned from the back seat.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Don’t worry about the cops. I switched the plates last night.”
“How very industrious, Lin. If we make it out of this desert alive I’ll apply to get you a raise.”
“Apply? You’re the one who pays my salary.”
“I still have to follow procedure, Lin. Without procedure, even a squirrel can’t find his nuts in the winter.”
“Thanks, Dean, but I’ll be happy just to make it home.”
The car whisked along at the speed limit. Emerson brushed and rebraided the rest of her hair, then turned the rearview mirror and applied a bit of mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick from a tiny black box. Dean watched her with interest.
“Where do you keep all of those things?”
Emerson pouted. “That’s a girl secret.”
“So you DO have a magic purse
in your dress!”
“It is not magic purse, just a purse.”
Emerson touched the chrome-plastic buttons of the ancient AM radio in the dash. She twisted the dial, and a small orange pyramid moved behind the amplitude numbers.
“I don’t think you’ll pick up any stations,” said Dean. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, and that radio was around to transmit the moon landing.”
“I can make it work. This is everyday radio in Kamchatka.”
“Still, I don’t think it was made by your company.”
Emerson reached under the dashboard with both arms. She fiddled around for a long moment. At last, static hissed through the speakers.
“Bravo,” said Dean.
Emerson turned the dial through a few stations.
“... but on the heels of that tragic news comes an even more tragic development,” said the female newsreader. “The body of Nando Phoenix, famous for his role as Captain James L. Sparx, disappeared from the Clark County morgue last night where it was awaiting autopsy. Sergio Martinez––the only witness to the fatal plunge of Mr. Phoenix from a Las Vegas hotel balcony into an ice cream truck––has also disappeared. Authorities have removed boxes of ice cream from the apartment Martinez rented in Henderson but are not disclosing any leads at the moment. We attempted to contact Diedrich Bader, an alleged co-star of Phoenix and Martinez, but were unsuccessful because it was kind of late and we had to get up early. Also, who’s Diedrich Bader?”
Dean shook his head in disgust. “The way this country’s going, you can’t even feel safe if you’re dead. We should all pack up and move to Australia.”
“There it is not safe also,” said Emerson. “If you are not murdered by the kangaroos, poison snake, or spider, the dingoes will eat your babies.”
“How about Russia?”
“If you are not murdered by the border guards, KGB, or angry bears, the postal service will eat your babies.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
Emerson giggled. “Of course I am! KGB is now FSB.”
For hours the desert scenery barely changed, and the Utah state line came and went.
Lin slapped the back of the seat. “Great gobs of turkey fat!”
Dean corrected his swerve and moved the car back onto the highway. “Lin! What’s wrong?”
“I left my phone at the rest stop!”