“What’s his story?” asks Beck.
I give him a brief rundown of what little I know of Walt: dead mom, likes “the shiny,” New Chicago, et cetera. Honestly, I’m stalling a little, buying time to consider Beck’s offer to drive us the rest of the way. It’s attractive for a few reasons, the main one being—well, I’ve never driven on the highway. I haven’t driven much at all, for that matter. With only one good eye, it makes for quite the Evel-Knievel-motocross-ass-grabbing-death-defying experience. The stuff of YouTube legends, really.
Beck clears his throat. “So there’s probably something you should know.”
Here we go. Without meaning to, I reposition myself in the seat. My curiosity about Beck is suffocating, and it’s just—I want so badly for him to be real, to be good, to be a person of major fucking substance and despair.
He looks me directly in the eye, leans in, and says, “Uncle Phil is a perv.”
At this, my brain splits into two very distinct factions: the first encourages me to gasp, to throw my hand over my mouth, to say No, not Uncle Phil! Beck, darling, say it ain’t so!; the second sits in silence, unmoving, thoroughly disappointed.
“Total degenerate,” he continues. “At the last family reunion, he told everyone his bald spot was a solar panel for his sex machine.”
I sit in silence. Unmoving. Thoroughly disappointed. (The second faction appears to be winning out.)
“What?” he says, noticing my less-than-enthusiastic response. “I’m kidding. I mean, I’m not, Uncle Phil is a perv, but—”
“Beck.” I sigh, and it’s heavy, because even though I don’t know anything about this guy, I’d bet all the cash in the can he’s on Team Pizzazz. So what then? What’s holding me back from going with my gut?
Walt’s Rubik’s Cube falls from his lap. I pick it up and reach to turn off the radio.
“. . . and year out, the Cubs seem to get these great young prospects, only to watch them fizzle out, or never really reach their potential.”
I pull my hand back, leaving the radio on.
In my entire life, I’ve never once felt anything akin to a maternal instinct. On the baby fever scale, I check in from the tundra. Pretty typical for a sixteen-year-old, probably. But something about Walt has stirred me up, brought out a protective side I never knew existed. More wolfish than motherly perhaps, but still. Something. The same something that’s holding me back from going with my gut. And while I don’t think Beck would harm us, or even hinder us . . .
“You okay?” says Beck, watching me work things out.
I look at the Rubik’s Cube in my hands and wonder when me became us. “We don’t need you to get us anywhere,” I say.
Beck doesn’t respond, and for just a moment, I am reminded of my odyssey’s opening scene—Mim of the Past, alone on an empty Greyhound, marveling at the madness of the world, listening to the rain stampede across the metal roof like a herd of buffalo. Opening scenes are funny, because you never know which elements will change over time and which will stay the same. The world was, and is, mad. The rain was, and is, pouring. Looking at Walt, and yes, even Beck, I know one of my elements has definitely changed.
I’ve gone from me to us.
“I’m a junior at LSU.” Beck leans his head against the back of the seat. “Or—I would’ve been.”
How old is a college junior? This is immediately followed by Holy hell, what’s wrong with me? I suppose the first faction of my brain won’t go down without a fight.
“Long story or short?” he says, closing his eyes.
“Long.”
And he begins, never once raising his head, never once opening his eyes. Walt’s snoring, the radio, the rain—all of it fades while Beck talks.
Three years into a poli-sci major, he realized a) he hated poli-sci and b) he hated college. After a summer course in photography (here, I choked down a gag reflex), he discovered his “true passion” (another gag). His parents, divorced, did not approve. He took what little savings he had and purchased a one-way Greyhound ticket from Baton Rouge to Burlington, Vermont. It was to be “a photography pilgrimage.” (And once more.)
“My parents think I’m at school,” he says. “Big state school like that, it’ll be another week, probably, before anyone realizes.” Lifting his head, he smiles, but his heart isn’t in it. He unzips his duffel bag, pulls out the camera. We sit in silence for a few seconds while Beck takes pictures of the rain against the windshield.
“And what about the shiner?” I point to his black eye. This, being a milder version of what I’d like to ask—how did you end up in the Independence police station, hmmmmm?
He trains the camera on a bug trapped between the windshield and the wiper blade. “I punched a guy. Twice, actually. He got me once in between.”
“Jane’s Diner,” I whisper.
He nods, and begins a new story. And as soon as he starts, I know exactly how it will end.
24
The Coming Together of Ways
THE DOOR TO the men’s room was locked.
Beck stood, waiting in the hallway, when a young Hispanic girl exited the ladies’ room next to him. (19A and B must be mother and daughter, a beautiful Hispanic duo . . .) “Her eyes,” said Beck, “were puffy and red, and I thought it was odd, but she was probably thirteen, and with girls that age, you just never know.” Seconds later, Beck saw a grown man come out of the same ladies’ room. “His eyes were strange, like glazed over or something . . .” (I notice his eyes are wet and shiny, but it’s not from crying or the rain.) The man shrugged, pointed to the locked men’s room, said, “It couldn’t wait.” Minutes later, Beck entered the men’s room, did his business, and, while washing his hands, peered into the mirror. Behind him was a single stall. He frowned, and stepped back into the hallway. When he knocked on the ladies’ room, there was no answer. He poked his head inside, gave a faint, “Hello?” Still, nothing. Confident no one was inside, Beck entered the ladies’ room, letting the door close behind him. “It just felt odd, you know?” said Beck, his camera dangling from his neck. “Like—dim, or something.” (The bathroom dissolves into a reddish hue, the corners dimming like the vignette of an old art house film.) Beck looked around, noted the single stall—one stall. He remembered the look on the face of the girl only minutes ago, puffy and red from crying, and he felt the blood rush from his face to his gut. (His words are ice. They hit my gut first, then spread in all directions . . .) Turning, Beck exited the ladies’ room, walked down the hall, and into the main dining area. “I saw the girl first thing,” said Beck. “She was sitting in a booth with her mom and another couple. Her mom was chitchatting across the table, but the little girl—that girl wasn’t saying a word. She looked shell-shocked.” (We’d seen the footage of the hyena and the gazelle, and it always ended the same.)