Shit.
I should’ve bought that Talking Heads record.
She would have loved it.
September 2—1:32 p.m.
Dear Isabel,
My mother was the greatest alarm clock of all time. Every morning, without fail, she threw back the curtains to let the sun in, and always, she said the same thing.
“Have a vision, Mary, unclouded by fear.”
Just like that. It was so wonderful. (Of course, this idea of unclouded vision would come to mean another thing entirely after the Great Blinding Eclipse, but that’s neither here nor there.) The quote was an old Cherokee proverb, one that her mom told her, and hers before that, and so on and so forth, all the way back to the original Cherokee woman who coined the phrase. (Mom’s father was British, but her mother was part Cherokee, which is, I think, a perfect example of history getting the last laugh.) I was so proud of this heritage, Iz, do you know what I did? I started lying about the degree of Cherokee blood in my veins. I was something like one-sixteenth, but honestly, who wasn’t, right? So I claimed one quarter. It just sounded more legit. I was young, still in middle school, so I went with it the way kids that age do. The more admiration this garnered from teachers and friends, the closer I felt to my ancient ancestry, my kinswomen, my tribe. But the truth will out, as they say. In my case, this outing took on the sound of my mother’s unending laughter in the face of my principal, when he told her the school was going to present me with a plaque of merit at the next pep rally: the Native American Achievement Award.
Needless to say, I never received the award. But even today, there are times—most notably when I wear my war paint—when I really feel that Cherokee blood coursing through my veins, no matter its percentage of purity. So from whatever minutia of my heart that pumps authentic Cherokee blood, I pass this phrase along to you: have a vision, unclouded by fear.
Not sure what made me think of all this Cherokee stuff. Maybe it’s the plethora of cowboy hats and boots I’ve seen today. Politically correct? Probably not. BUT I’M ONE-SIXTEENTH CHEROKEE, SO SUCK IT.
Anyway, I just remembered there’s a bag of chips in my backpack, so I’m gonna put the kibosh on this note with another one of my mother’s Cherokee proverbs.
When you were born, you cried while the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries while you rejoice.
Funny, as a child, I never knew whether to laugh or cry when Mom said that. But now I know the truth. You can laugh and cry, Iz. Because they’re basically the same thing.
Signing off,
Chieftess Iris Malone
I SHUT MY journal and slide the lock to UNOCCUPIED.
This new bus is far from packed, which means I get my own row again. Considering the rare collection of individuals on board, the having-my-own-row thing could not be of greater import. It’s a freak show, really. Reminiscent of my time in the Deep South. Mosquitoland: the thorn in my side, the rock in my shoe, the poison in my wine. Unfortunately, it appears the thorn, the rock, and the poison have followed my path north.
29B is breast-feeding.
26A has fallen asleep while snacking on a box of Cheez-Its.
24B is playing Battleship with 24A, complete with warlike sound effects.
21D is wearing Bugs Bunny slippers and a T-shirt that says NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG.
19A and B must be mother and daughter, a beautiful Hispanic duo. They’re asleep on each other, and it’s actually kind of adorable. So okay, they’re fine.
And . . . blimey, 17C is good-looking. How did I not notice him before? I pass him on my left, careful not to stare. He looks like that guy in Across the Universe. (Gah, what is his name?) Suddenly, my beloved Goodwill shoes and favorite red hoodie seem an odd choice. Certainly, they aren’t my most flattering articles of clothing. My jeans are fine I suppose, albeit a little bloody at the knee. But yeah, the hoodie—hmm. I should’ve put on Mom’s old Zeppelin tee this morning, tight in all the right places. At the very least, I could’ve—
What the hell?
Having reached my seat, I remain standing, frozen to the spot. A paper bag—brown, thin, square—is propped next to my backpack. I sit down, pick up the bag, and immediately know what’s inside. I’ve purchased enough vinyl to know a record when I’m holding one.
Talking Heads’ Remain in Light.
Near mint condition.
Every ounce of blood rushes to my face as this sets in. I raise my head just enough to peer over the top of the seat in front of me.
And there he is.
The perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherfucker himself, six rows up, smiling like a hyena.
In the movie of my life, I crack the record in two, open the window, and toss the pieces to the side of the highway. But as the Greyhound windows don’t open, I have to settle for the first part. It’s a shame, because Mom loves all things David Byrne, but I won’t have any piece of Poncho Man sully our time together. I pull the vinyl from the sleeve and crack it in two.
The hyena isn’t smiling now.
Collapsing in my seat, I breathe, think, adjust. It’s possible he’s not following me. We probably just have similar routes. So what, then, I avoid going to the bathroom? Spend the rest of the ride looking over my shoulder? It’s not too late to turn him in, though I would still be sacrificing my Objective.
Think, Malone.
I toss the remains of the record in the seat next to me. Outside, the afternoon sky passes in a blur. I stare at it with my good eye and wonder . . . I have money. I have brains. I have a fount of intuition.