I think through the phrasing first, then open the Internet browser on my phone. The thing is ancient, and while Wi-Fi is possible, it certainly isn’t cheap. Though right now, that only serves as extra incentive. After a few seconds, I’m connected. I open my Facebook profile and update my status:
“Not dead. Not abducted. (Though aliens are, as always, welcome.) You’ll hear from me when you hear from me.”
I reread the wording a few times, press Post, then chuck the phone in my bag. After a quick shower, I pull on a clean tee and underwear, cursing myself for not bringing another pair of pants. I slip on the same hoodie and bloodstained jeans, then take a closer look at Arlene’s box. The brass lock, the reddish wood, all of it is in fine condition, wholly unaffected by the crash. I have no idea why I picked it up, except . . . leaving it there, in the middle of everything, just didn’t seem right. It obviously meant a lot to Arlene, but it’s not like I can get it to her nephew, the preposterous swimmer turned successful gas station operator Ahab. I don’t even know the guy’s last name. Or Arlene’s, for that matter.
Pushing back the Arlene-shaped knot in my throat, I tuck the box away and pull out my bottle of Abilitol. Like a Siren, it tempts me with whispered promises of the ever-elusive Normal Life. If I were home right now, this would be Dad’s shining moment, the one in which he eagerly explains the pill’s function. He always used the same tone when he talked meds, a slick salesman-slash-drug-dealer-slash-nerdy-dad combo. “It balances the serotonin levels, Mim. It’ll adjust your brain chemicals. Dopamine and that sort of thing. It just evens everything out so you can live a normal life.” I always expected him to end those speeches with “Everybody’s doin’ it, man!” Peer pressure is one thing, but when your dad’s the pusher, it’s something else entirely.
The bottle stares up at me now as only a bottle of prescription meds can do, redefining the art of seduction. I stare right back . . .
Mary Malone—Aripapilazone
10MG—TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH DAILY
Refills: No
Qty: 45
Dr. B. Wilson
And the memories tumble: Antoine knocks over ink splotches, knocks over Bach, knocks over Tell me what you see here, Mary, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .
I tip a single pink pill into my palm and hold it up to my good eye. Small. Strong. Tempting. “One ring to rule them all,” I whisper, immediately regretting it. Sometimes, things are more embarrassing when you’re alone. I guess when no one’s around to hear your stupidity, you’re forced to bear the brunt of it.
I grab my new pair of shears from the dresser, and, in the spirit of Utopian mutiny, cut the pill in half. I’d expected the thing to shatter, but it doesn’t. It’s a clean cut, right down the middle. I grab my water bottle, swallow one half of the pill, and toss the other in the trash.
All packed up, I sit by the window and pull my mother’s sixth letter from my pocket. Softened by sweat and rain, the ink is faded a bit, though not beyond recognition.
Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.
Back on the bus, I’d been too worked up to notice the missing apostrophe. I picture Mom writing this, impetuous and angry. She’d have to be to make this kind of—
The phone rings.
I look at the receiver.
It rings again.
And again.
Surely not. I cross the room and pull the phone from its cradle, daring this to be the call I think it is. “Hello?”
“Yez, hi—dis ees your vake-up coll.”
Click.
There are times when I absolutely, 110 percent, without a doubt, have to laugh at a thing. ’Cause if I don’t, that same thing will make me go stark-raving bananas.
I hang up the phone and laugh until I cry.
11
Hyena vs. Gazelle
AFTER WE BOARD the new bus (much nicer than the old one), Carl hands everyone an envelope full of vouchers and coupons. Not only do I get a row to myself, I find one with an outlet just below the window. After plugging in my phone, I stow my JanSport in the overhead compartment and spend the next hour or so watching the kid across the aisle eat deli ham straight from a Ziploc. In and of itself, this isn’t noteworthy, but as the kid looks dead-on like a young Frodo Baggins, it is, I believe, the worthiest of all notes. (We shall go through the Mines of Moria! But first, let us replenish our energy with finely sliced deli meats. Eat, drink, be merry! Elves! Ham! Huzzah!)
“Exactly why I don’t have a boyfriend,” I whisper, turning to the window.
Because you’ve referenced The Lord of the Rings twice before lunch, or because you’re talking to yourself?
I have to admit, I’ve got me there.
A couple of hours later, we pull off for lunch at a remote exit; Carl gets on the mic and goes through his spiel about not leaving valuables on the bus, and how much time we have at this stop. “If you ain’t back in forty-five minutes, I’ll assume you found yo’self a ride. We’re an hour from Nashville, and this time, we’ll be on time. I ain’t your mama, and I will leave without you.”
Attaboy, Carl.
Once off the bus, someone asks about the restaurant, to which Carl points at a sign over a nearby gas station door.
ED’S PLACE: CHICKEN-N-GAS
The image in my brain is unsettling to say the least: Ed, a disgruntled Vietnam vet, stands over a stove with two ashy cigarillos hanging from either side of his mouth; he’s stirring a giant pot of his famous chicken-petroleum soup. It makes sense, too, because where I’ve had good luck with Carls, I’ve never met a single Ed I didn’t want to ninja to death. They’re scoundrels through and through. I enter Ed’s Place not with an attitude of optimism but with an attitude of ninja-ism.