The beauty of religious mania is that it has the power to explain everything. Once God (or Satan) is accepted as the first cause of everything which happens in the mortal world, nothing is left to chance... or change. Once such incantatory phrases as "we see now through a glass darkly" and "mysterious are the ways He chooses His wonders to perform" are mastered, logic can be happily tossed out the window. Religious mania is one of the few infallible ways of responding to the world's vagaries, because it totally eliminates pure accident. To the true religious maniac, it's all on purpose.
It was quite likely for this reason that the Trashcan Man talked to a crow for nearly twenty minutes on the road west of Vail, convinced it was either an emissary of the dark man... or the dark man himself. The crow regarded him silently from its perch on a high telephone wire for a long time, not flying away until it was bored or hungry... or until Trashcan's outpouring of praise and promises of loyalty were complete.
He got another bike near Grand Junction, and by July 25 he had been speeding across western Utah on Route 4, which connects I-89 on the east to the great southwestern-tending I-15, which goes from north of Salt Lake City all the way to San Bernadino, California. And when the front wheel of his new bike suddenly decided to part company from the rest of the machine and go speeding off into the desert on its own, Trashcan Man was pitched over the handlebars to land on his head, a crash that should have fractured his skull (he was doing forty when it happened, and wearing no helmet). Yet he was able to stand up less than five minutes later, with blood streaming over his face from half a dozen cuts and lacerations, able to do his shuffling, grimacing little dance, able to chant: "Cii-a-bo-la, my life for you, Ci-a-bola, bumpty, bumpty, bump! "
There is really nothing so comforting to the beaten of spirit or the broken of skull than a good strong dose of "Thy will be done."
On August 7, Lloyd Henreid came to the room in which the dehydrated and semidelirious Trashcan Man had been installed the day before. It was a fine room, on the thirtieth floor of the MGM Grand. There was a round bed with silk sheets, and a round mirror which looked to be the exact same size as the bed, mounted on the ceiling.
Trashcan Man looked at Lloyd.
"How you feeling, Trash?" Lloyd asked, looking back.
"Good," Trashcan Man said. "Better."
"Some food and water and rest, that's all you needed," Lloyd said. "I brought you some clean clothes. Had to guess at the sizes."
"They look fine." Trash had never really been able to remember his sizes. He took the jeans and the workshirt Lloyd offered.
"Come on down to breakfast when you're dressed," Lloyd said. He spoke almost deferentially. "Most of us eat in the deli."
"Okay. Sure."
The deli hummed with conversation, and he paused outside and around the corner, suddenly overcome with fright. They would look up at him when he came in. They would look up and laugh. Someone would start giggling in the back of the room, someone else would join in, and then the whole place would be an uproar of laughter and pointing fingers.
Hey, put away ya matches, here comes the Trashcan Man!
Hey, Trash! What did ole lady Semple say when you torched her pension check?
Wet the bed much, Trashy?
Sweat popped out on his skin, making him feel slimy in spite of the shower he'd taken after Lloyd left. He remembered his face in the bathroom mirror, covered with slowly healing scabs, his body, too gaunt, his eyes, too small for their yawning sockets. Yes, they would laugh. He listened to the hum of conversation, the clink of silverware, and thought he should just slink away.
Then he thought of the way the wolf had taken his hand, so gently, and had led him away from The Kid's metal tomb, and Trash squared his shoulders and walked inside.
A few people looked up briefly, then went back to their meals and their conversations. Lloyd, at a big table in the middle of the room, raised an arm and waved him over. Trash threaded his way among the tables and under a darkened electronic Keno toteboard. There were three other people at the table. They were all eating ham and scrambled eggs.
"Serve yourself," Lloyd said. "It's a steam-table kinda thing."
Trashcan Man got a tray and served himself. The man behind the counter, large and dressed in dirty cook's whites, watched him.
"Are you Mr. Horgan?" Trashcan Man asked timidly.
Horgan grinned, exposing gapped teeth. "Yeah, but we won't get nowhere with you callin me that, boy. You call me Whitey. You feelin a little better? When you came in, you looked like the wratha God."
"Much better, sure."
"Dig in those aigs. All you want. Go light on the home fries, though. I would, at least. Them taters is old and tough. Good to have you here, boy."
"Thanks," Trash said.
He went back to Lloyd's table.
"Trash, this here is Ken DeMott. The fella with the bald spot is Hector Drogan. And this kid tryin to grow on his face what springs up wild in his ass**le calls himself Ace High."
They all nodded at him.
"This is our new boy," Lloyd said. "Name's Trashcan Man."