Austin and Emily Page 13

  Austin was dizzy. He opened his door a crack, but the air outside provided no relief. Cremora arrived carrying her backpack. In her hand she held two well-worn paperback books.

  “All right, first let’s try the souvenir shops. Emily loves a souvenir. We’ll work our way toward the airport,” she ordered.

  Kenneth inched up in his seat to get a look at the books in Cremora’s lap. He squinted over her shoulder to read the titles. In red letters against a black background he could read, Monkey Graveyard. He bent his head to the left to see the spine of the second book, Shetland Pony Girl.

  “What’s with the books?” Kenneth asked.

  “They’re for reading. That’s what books are for. You’re probably a movie guy. I bet you haven’t read a book since you were forced in high school, and then you probably read the Cliffs Notes.

  “It’s the major dividing line between people. Those who read books, and those who don’t. Movies are for people too lazy to utilize their own imaginations. So they sit back and watch someone else’s imagination on the screen. Listen to someone else’s thoughts. Do you know we burn less calories watching television than we do while we sleep? You know why? Because at least while we’re asleep our minds are forced to imagine through dreams. When we watch a movie, or television, we’re like zombies. No wonder America is the fattest country in the history of the world.”

  Sweat poured down Austin’s forehead in little rivers, around his eyes, over the hills and valleys of his nose and cheeks, and dripped hotly off the edges of his face onto his nylon shorts. Each drip made a small noise.

  “Can I see Monkey Graveyard?” Kenneth asked.

  Cremora handed him the book over her shoulder without turning around.

  She said, mostly to Austin, “Do you know what the single most interesting tangible thing on this planet is?”

  Without a conscious thought, Austin blurted out, “Silly putty?”

  Cremora didn’t hear him and said over the top of his words, “A person. A person, a single human is the most interesting tangible thing on this planet.”

  From the backseat Kenneth said, “I thought they just buried monkeys in the woods.”

  Austin pulled into the parking lot in front of the first cheesy souvenir shop he saw. Cremora jumped out.

  Kenneth said, “Listen to this crazy shit,” and he began reading to Austin from the paperback book. “If I were a stingray, I would use my whiplike tail to remove the feet of the giant monkeys who venture into the waters for a meal of shellfish. I would eat the bloody feet, digest the flesh, and crap out a new monkey. Maybe one with no feet at all.”

  The two men contemplated the paragraph. Kenneth said, “She underlined that part. Why?”

  Austin wiped his brow. Cremora entered the steamy car.

  “We got lucky. She was here earlier this morning. She bought a pair of red and gold dice. The man remembered the cats. He said she talked about Los Angeles.”

  Austin perked up slightly. “Los Angeles? That’s where we were planning to be married. On Hollywood Boulevard, the Julia Roberts star.”

  “I believe it,” Cremora said. “Let’s go straight to the airport. She wasn’t at the bus station. Maybe she’s gonna fly.”

  Austin peeled out of the parking lot like he’d seen people do on television. Out on the road, Kenneth said, “I see here you’ve underlined a passage in your book. I was wondering why.”

  “Is it the part about the stingray?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s an analogy. It’s all just a matter of what people are willing to do. Some people are willing to murder or rape. Others aren’t willing to get up off the couch to go to the grocery store. What are you willing to do? That’s the question you have to ask yourself.”

  Kenneth said, “I’m willing to shave every hair from my body if you ask me to.”

  There was another pause in the stagnant car.

  Cremora spun around to face Kenneth. “Who exactly are you again?”

  “I’m Kenneth. Kenneth Mint. It’s not like my hair is doing me much good anyway. If you ask, I’ll shave all of it off.”

  Cremora looked up to see the police station over to the right.

  “Pull in here,” she said.

  Austin did as he was told, operating primarily on fumes of hope as his body slowly dehydrated.

  “Why?” he mumbled.

  “I’m gonna make sure she hasn’t been arrested or picked up for some reason.”

  Austin parked between two police cruisers. In his weakened condition, he slowly began to feel the onset of anxiety associated with proximity to law enforcement. His heart picked up speed and he actually began to pant like a St. Bernard.

  Kenneth said, “Do you have a razor?”

  A stout police officer exited the front door and walked in Austin’s direction. He immediately made eye contact with Austin and held the gaze. Austin looked away as the officer circled the car, stopped at the rear and jotted down the license plate number. The officer went back inside the station.

  Austin wiped his brow again, clearing the little rivers of sweat, making way for new little rivers to form. He caught himself panting and closed his mouth.

  “Do you have a razor?” Kenneth repeated.

  “Shut up,” Austin whispered under his breath.

  “Don’t tell me to shut up.”

  Austin tried to turn his head to look at Kenneth. Before he could say another word, there was a sharp tap on the glass of the driver’s side window.

  “Roll down your window,” the officer said.

  Austin fumbled for the button on the armrest and then remembered the windows didn’t work. He held up his hands and smiled poorly.

  The officer opened Austin’s door.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” the officer asked.

  Kenneth said, “Yeah, I’ll have a cheeseburger and some crispy golden fries.”

  “He’s just kidding,” Austin said.

  “May I see your driver’s license, sir?”

  Kenneth was reading Monkey Graveyard. With his eyes still on the book he said, “Don’t give him shit, Austin. Tell him you know your constitutional rights.”

  Austin started to negotiate the angles to remove his wallet from his back pocket and then remembered his license was lost, left on the floorboard of the Alabama state trooper’s car days ago. He began to wet himself a little.

  “I lost it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I lost my license.”

  “Sir, could you come inside the station with me for a minute?”

  Austin’s head floated from his body. His limbs were heavy like the trunks of trees. He felt himself move, and then stand, and then Austin saw himself from above as he followed the officer into the station.

  “Have a seat, please.”

  Austin collapsed into a chair. He heard his voice say, “My name is Austin McAdoo.”

  Cremora appeared in the lobby.

  “Why didn’t you wait in the car?” she said to Austin. “Emily’s not here.”

  Austin didn’t answer.

  The officer came through a door and stood above Austin.

  “Mr. McAdoo, we’ve got a hit on your name and vehicle. Apparently, it involves the death of a police officer in Alabama a few days ago.”

  Cremora said, “Please tell me you’re not a murderer. Please tell me that you and your weird friend didn’t kill Emily and bury her in the desert.”

  The officer asked, “Who’s Emily?”

  Austin released a low grunting noise before he fell sideways and slammed against the floor of the police station lobby. The chair shot from his backside and tumbled over.

  Cremora made no movement whatsoever. The officer got down on bended knee to assist the gigantic man on the floor who was panting again.

  Cremora said, with arms crossed, “Is he a murderer?”

  The policeman helped Austin to an upright sitting position, with his back against the wall. When it appeared Austin had simpl
y passed out and would recover, the police officer answered Cremora’s question. “I think he fainted. No, ma’am, he’s not a murderer, at least not to my knowledge. The state trooper in Alabama apparently died of natural causes. They found Mr. McAdoo’s driver’s license in the trooper’s car. A bulletin was issued asking law enforcement to be on the lookout for Mr. McAdoo or his car. They just told me on the phone the trooper’s widow wanted to talk to Mr. McAdoo. Wanted to ask him something.”

  Cremora listened intently. She bent down and used both of her hands to pinch Austin’s fleshy cheeks. “Wake up. A lady wants to talk to you. We’ve got things to do.”

  Cremora said to the officer, “Could you get the lady on the phone and bring the phone to Austin? I don’t think he’s gonna move anytime soon.”

  The officer left, and Austin began to regain his faculties. It was as if he were crawling through a dark pipe toward a light at the end.

  “Where am I?” he mumbled.

  “In a police station, in Las Vegas, passed out on the floor, getting ready to talk on the phone to the widow of the dead state trooper.”

  Austin had the taste of canned ham in his mouth. The officer handed Austin the telephone.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Mr. McAdoo?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Trudy Nixon,” the voice said softly.

  “Trudy Nixon,” Austin repeated.

  “Yes. My husband, Tom, recently died of a heart attack. He was an Alabama trooper. He loved his job. Your mother told us you were dead.”

  The woman’s voice trailed away. Austin looked at his shoes.

  She continued after a moment. “It’s been very hard on us. Tom was a good father. He was young. It’s just hard to understand why God would take him away from us for no reason.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Are you there?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Austin managed to say.

  The woman continued, “Anyway, I know it’s crazy, but they tell me you’re probably the last person to talk to Tom. I was just wondering what you talked about. What he might have said.”

  Austin rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Sitting in the air conditioned lobby, he could actually feel his thoughts coming back together.

  “Well,” Austin said, “he talked about you, and the kids, and said something about football, I think.”

  The woman made a noise on the other end of the line, but Austin couldn’t tell if she was crying.

  “He told me how much he loved you, and the children, and then he told me to slow down, and not drive so fast, because I might end up mutilated on the side of the highway and never get a chance to have a wife and family like his.”

  Austin imagined the woman smiling with tears in her eyes. He could picture her clearly in his mind, petite, good complexion, wearing a yellow sundress.

  Then she asked, “Did he say anything about the whore he’d been screwin’ in the trailer park?”

  Austin looked up at Cremora and the police officer above. The visual image of the widow vanished. He was very thirsty.

  “No, I don’t remember anything about a girl in the trailer park.”

  “Good.” she said. “That’s good.”

  There was a long stretch of quiet.

  “Can I go now?” Austin asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” the soft voice said, and the conversation was over. The woman was left alone to think her own thoughts.

  Cremora helped Austin to his feet and they made it back to the car. Kenneth was entrenched in Chapter two of Monkey Graveyard. He’d lost track of time and place, carried by the words of the book, undoubtedly burning huge numbers of calories in the process.

  When they finally arrived at the airport, Cremora announced, “Okay, it’s a pain in the ass getting information about passengers from the airlines, so here’s the story. Emily’s my sister, our father just died, and I need to find her immediately.”

  Kenneth said, “How’d your father die?”

  “He didn’t really die, idiot. It’s just a story.”

  “I realize it’s just a story, but you need to have details. It sounds less like a lie when you have details.”

  Cremora conceded. “Okay, then he died of poison.”

  “Poison?” Kenneth asked.

  “Yeah, poison.”

  “What kind of poison?” Kenneth asked.

  “Never mind,” Cremora screamed. “You two sit in the car. I’ll be back.”

  The men opened both doors to let any breeze enter. Kenneth sank into his book like a man in a pool of quicksand, slowly and entirely. Austin fell asleep and dreamed he was in a field of rabbits.

  Cremora slammed the car door, waking Austin from his rabbits and instantly sucking Kenneth up from the quicksand.

  “She flew to Los Angeles. We missed her by thirty minutes. Let’s hit the road, fat boy.”

  A few miles down Interstate 15 Kenneth said from the backseat, “Did they ask you what kind of poison?”

  Cremora didn’t answer. She didn’t feel like it. Instead, she opened Shetland Pony Girl and started where she left off.

  CHAPTER 11

  The shrill sound of the butt whistle split the silence inside the car. Austin’s face froze like a high school kid in class, embarrassed for the perpetrator, and at the same time afraid of the prospect of false accusation. Cremora looked up from the page of her book and then back down. The whistle blew again, a little louder and longer, pulling Cremora’s head around to the back seat.

  “What’s that noise?”

  Kenneth casually looked up from a particularly unusual section of Monkey Graveyard.

  “What noise?”

  The sun reflected on the cracked rear window catching Cremora’s attention.

  “What happened to the window?”

  Kenneth turned around as if he’d never seen it before and said, “The people guarding the world’s largest chicken busted it with a rock.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Kenneth said, “Because Austin murdered the world’s largest chicken. I saw it, and I’ll never forget it.”

  Austin was still emerging from his hangover. “Lord, no, it was an accident.”

  Kenneth had an idea. He swivelled his long body into an upside down position, feet to the roof, cocked his knees, and kicked both heels into the cracked window, sending a large chunk of shattered glass flying into the air and exploding like ice on the highway.

  Austin shrieked like an elderly woman. Kenneth swivelled back upright and announced, “It was hot.” He immediately located his place on the page where he left off, spotting the word “titillation.”

  Austin yelled, “This is my car, not yours. You don’t have a car. You don’t have anything. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

  Kenneth responded, enunciating his words very clearly, “Let me ask you this question, Austin. When you pull off a lizard’s tail, it grows back. The tail actually grows back on the end of the lizard. How come the leftover tail doesn’t grow a new lizard? Can you explain that? Why doesn’t it go both ways?”

  Austin’s blood pressure brought the pounding back to the top of his skull, convincing him a stroke was certainly imminent.

  Cremora glanced at the gas gauge. “We’re almost out of gas.”

  Austin focused his bloodshot eyes on the dashboard instruments. The needle was on the bad side of the faded “e.”

  “Oh my God,” he muttered, looked up in a panic, and yanked the car to the right and down an exit ramp.

  “Who’s got gas money?” Cremora asked.

  “Not me,” Kenneth answered quickly. “I refuse to support the use of fossil fuels.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Cremora asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. The ultimate alternative fuel source. You know what it is? Dead people. We have an endless supply. And if our demand outstretches the natural supply, we can grow humans in warehouses the size of football fields.

  “Think about it. We can harvest people
with no heads, genetically designed to be headless, without thoughts and therefore without souls. It’s no different than genetically altered cows, bred to have more delicious milk or more tender meat.

  “Of course, I know what you’re thinking. It’s a moral dilemma. Do we utilize the headless fuel cells while they’re still alive and kicking, or are we ethically bound to euthanize the mutants before they’re fed into the engine? But without heads, or brains, there’s no pain, right? And you certainly can’t hurt their feelings.

  “Sooner or later, we also have to face the racial issue. It’s a scientific fact that French Canadians provide a cleaner fuel source. Is that fact a slap in the face to all other races, or will the French Canadians protest the harvesting of their people?

  Cremora listened to the soliloquy, “I’m curious Mr. Mint, have you ever self-mutilated or forgotten to wear clothes.

  Kenneth cocked his head. “Ma’am, over these last hours, I’ve come to the realization that you’ll never feel about me the way I feel about you, but I don’t think this fact has to be fatal to our future. If one side of a relationship is especially strong, do you think it can survive? Could you be satisfied with a one-sided relationship?”

  Austin spotted a gas station up ahead. He passed a green sign that read, “Mojave National Preserve.” Kenneth waited patiently for an answer. The silence lasted long enough to make him believe. Cremora would completely ignore the question.

  Then she said, “Maybe.”

  Kenneth felt the pressure at the front end of the butt whistle. He tightened until the pressure subsided.

  Cremora and Austin paid for a full tank of gas, used the bathrooms, and bought two cold Diet Cokes while Kenneth sat alone in the car thinking about the change in circumstances. tanOn page seventy-seven of Monkey Graveyard, he read, “Life is for the present tense. The future is uncertain, beyond control. The past is long gone. Besides, you don’t even remember 99% of everything you’ve done, or seen, or said, and there’s very little rhyme or reason to explain the 1% we do carry with us. Don’t try to figure it out. Just exist in the only tense available to you, the right now.”

  The car started. Austin had a flash of hope, tried the windows again, and felt the hope escape slowly like a bad smell. He turned on the road and drove.