Impossible, as it turns out. I might as well be tap dancing to the theme from Jaws. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I’ve always thought Nick and I would have gotten along so well. I bet he had zero patience for the kind of thing where someone just oozed their good mood all over the place. (RIP, Nick. RIP.) For the rest of the walk, I strike the perfect balance between happy and miserable, which is, surprisingly, a narrow margin.
The nearest gas station has a sign out front that’s so faded, I can’t tell if it’s a BP or a Shell or a Marathon or what. Probably something preposterous like Ed’s Place. God, I bet that’s exactly what this is. Like a Saharan cactus, a dusty pay phone stands forgotten in the corner of the parking lot, which reminds me of my cell phone, which reminds me of Stevie Wonder, which reminds me of Kathy, which reminds me of Dad. They’re probably worried. They’re probably sort of freaking out by now.
Eff ’em.
The door jangles as I push it open.
“Afternoon!” says Man Behind the Counter.
I almost drop my backpack when I see his name tag: HI, I’M “ED,” AND I’M HERE TO HELP YOU. My brain explodes into a thousand pieces of incredulity.
It’s an Ed. In quotes. Congratulations, Universe. You win.
I turn on my heels and walk out of the gas station; I don’t even care if that was Ahab’s boyfriend or not. Henceforth, I have a new policy, and it is unflinchingly rigid: no Eds, no mo’.
The next gas station is owned by a guy named Morris, who is pretty frowny and tragic. Luckily, he answers my questions in short yeps and nahs, and I don’t have to spend any more time with him than is absolutely necessary. The third gas station is owned by some-guy-who’s-not-Ahab. The last station is an actual Shell, and the young girl behind the counter blows a giant bubble with her gum and offers me free cigarettes. (Sometimes I think Shell might be taking over the world, and I just can’t believe everyone is okay with this. I mean, pretty soon we’re going to have gum-blowing girls offering free cigarettes to underage kids on every street corner in ’merica, and I would like to state for the record, I am not okay with this.) Somehow, I end up under the very bridge I’d envisaged collapsing, watching my Greyhound speed by, northbound sans Mim.
I raise a hand as it passes, not in farewell, but in good riddance.
And that, as they say, is that.
Alone in Independence.
How terribly fitting.
I pull out Mom’s lipstick, twirl it in my fingers, and try to think what to do next. Maybe it’s the unseasonably warm weather, or the sinking realization that I just waved good-bye to 17C forever and ever, or the residue of Glenda’s third-rate spirit, or the shortage of sound sleep I got at last night’s motel, but I’m feeling decidedly insurgent and exhausted. All these Eds and Morrises and Guys Who Aren’t Ahab, and Young Girls Who Blow Gum and Offer Free Cigarettes, and unending disappointments, disenchantments, and a hundred other disses have just drained me.
So eff it.
I’m going to sit. Right here, and only for a minute.
I pull my knees up, rest my forehead between them, and stare at the ground. The cracks on the pavement come together in the shape of a rabbit. The twitchy nose, the long feet, the fluffy tail, it’s all there.
How strange.
16
White Rabbit
“MIM, WHY DON’T you have a seat?”
“Why don’t you drop dead?”
“Mary, sit. Your mothe—Kathy and I have something to tell you.”
“Oh my shit, Dad. Really?”
“God, Mim, language.”
“That woman is not my mother. And I’m not Mary, not to you.”
“We have news, would you like to hear it, or not?”
“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”
I jolt awake.
The rabbit is still there, but a different shade. I rub my eyes as a blurry pair of green Converse comes into focus.
“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”
On either side of the highway, the shadows of the trees are longer; traffic is heavier, slower. Rush hour. I curse, stand up, and brush the street off my jeans. My bandaged leg is throbbing from the awkward position of my impromptu nap.
“Hey, hey, I’m Walt.”
The owner of the Chucks is about my height, my age, and for all I know, he’s been standing here introducing himself all afternoon. His hair, poking out beneath an old Chicago Cubs baseball cap, isn’t so much long as it is scraggly and stringy, like a stray mutt’s. He’s holding a Rubik’s Cube in one hand and an almost-empty twenty-ounce Mountain Dew in the other. Before I can introduce myself, he throws his head back and chugs the last of the soda. With authority.