The Flying Troutmans

six

I WOKE UP BEFORE THE KIDS and noticed that Thebes had left a small silver notebook by the bed. Logan had covered himself up completely with his blanket. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him snoring softly, humming, like a little airplane lost in the clouds. I picked up Thebes’s notebook.

Road trip. First day. We are in America. I’ve been profiled at the border as a retard, by Logan. They still let me in. Hattie is sad about her boyfriend in Paris. He doesn’t like her any more. Logan told her Internet dating was making a comeback and I told her to try to meet a whale, they mate for life. Ha ha. Logan hit me in the face with the Frisbee. The good thing is we’re all saved. I miss you. I love you. I won’t forget the important things.

I went to the lobby again and phoned the hospital and asked to speak to Min. The nurse said that wouldn’t be possible right then…could they give her a message? Why isn’t it possible? I asked.

Are you family? she said.

Yeah, I’m her sister, I said. The woman didn’t think she had the authority to talk about Min’s situation right then, but I could leave my number and she would get the doctor to call me back later in the day after rounds.

Well, I said, I’m not…I don’t have a number. I’m at a pay phone.

Well, said the woman, will you be able to be reached later on in the day?

Well, I said, no. Is there a good time to call back? Then she told me that she believed the patient was having some difficulty speaking. That she was not quite ready to participate in normal daily routines. Yeah, I could understand that.

Hey, I said, my sister is alive, right? I immediately regretted it.

Yes, of course! said the woman.

I appreciated her emphatic confirmation, I did, but I asked her again if she was sure about that. Like, had somebody checked on Min in the last hour?

She’s resting at the moment, said the woman. It’ll take some time. She is alive, don’t worry.

I thanked her and hung up and briefly considered turning right around and going back. I felt like the kid at the end of the five-metre diving board. I didn’t really want to jump but there were twenty kids behind me lined up and yelling at me to go.

Thebes was loading the stuff into the van and Logan was picking and rolling around the parking lot with his basketball, periodically banging it off stuff like the van and the window at the front desk. The woman inside banged back and then came and told us to clear on outta there. There was a large black oil slick under the van.

Shotgun, said Thebes.

Already dibsed it, said Logan.

I hate you, said Thebes.

We were back on the road.

Thebes rooted around in the cooler and made us all peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast. Logan let her use his knife to cut them up but made her promise not to lick it. She wiped it on her filthy, rotting terry cloth shorts.

Did you bring other clothes? I asked her. How do you get so dirty anyway?

Just by way of my life, she said. What did Min say?

She said hi and sends big hugs and kisses, I said. Hopes we’re having fun. Thebes smiled and moved her purple head from side to side like her favourite song had just come on the radio. Logan glanced at me, sideways, briefly, entirely hip to my bullshit. I honked the horn for no reason and whispered, Murdo, baby. Let’s go.

It was my turn for a CD. I put in some Lucinda Williams and Logan said noooooooooooooooooooo. He covered his face with his hands. Please, no, please, he said. I’m begging you.

C’mon, I said, it’s not country. Check out the lyrics. I tossed the CD case into his lap. He screamed and tossed it back at me like it was a shitty diaper. Just put on your headphones then, I said. I’m playing it. I might play it on my next turn too. I’ve got a broken heart.

Logan took out his knife and started carving in the dashboard again. I wasn’t going to try to stop him any more. I wanted to figure out what all his carvings meant. If the dashboard was his canvas, so be it. Who cares if it lowered resale value. It was a Ford Aerostar.

If I was a band I’d be breaking up, he wrote. The glove compartment door fell open and all the stuff inside fell out and he cursed and picked it up and rammed it back in and it wouldn’t shut and for the next five or ten minutes he kept kicking it, over and over, trying to keep it closed.

Hey, said Thebes, from the back, how’s morale up there? She asked Logan if he needed an oversized novelty cheque because she sure could make him one if he wanted, she had all the art supplies necessary. I peeked at her in the rear-view mirror. It looked like she’d cut her own hair along the sides. Logan took a roach out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

Hey, no, you can’t do that, smarten up, I said. Give me that. I tried to grab the thing out of his mouth but he moved his head and then grabbed my wrist in mid-air and held it there for an improbable amount of time. And I realized he wanted to be holding my wrist or at least holding something warm and human so we drove awhile like that, him holding up my arm like it was a big fish he’d caught and he was eight years old and having his picture taken.

We flew past animated families enjoying things like waterslides and go-karts and mini golf. My CD was over and it was quiet in the van. Nobody was talking and it was making me nervous for some reason. I couldn’t stop thinking about Min, about what I should be doing, about how I had answered her question, her request, Help me die, and if it had been entirely wrong. The alternative seemed insane. Was I supposed to have agreed to kill my sister? Would that have bought her a little more time and made her happy? Just knowing that she had an out if she really, truly needed one? That her little sister would come along and knock her out with a hammer or something? Put a pillow over her face? What was I supposed to have said? Was it the least I could do considering that from the day I was born my sister had wanted to die?

None of us moved in our seats. We were all paralyzed, lethargic and irritable. Like we were a bunch of recently beached whales who hadn’t known each other in the sea and weren’t about to hook up out of the sea, but there we were, together, incapable of moving and stuck with each other.

Then Thebes spoke. What does it mean when a person asks, Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Are you stupid? asked Logan.

Don’t call her stupid, I said.

I didn’t call her stupid, said Logan, I asked if she was. Then he paused and said skaaaaa in a voice that meant he thought she was a loser for playing the sax in a ska band at school.

What does that have to do with anything? she asked. Are you clueless or didn’t you know that ska is all the rage in Mexico City?

So go there, said Logan. Want a ride to the airport?

Hey, said Thebes, what does “Do Not Siphon Gas by Mouth” mean? There was a sign at that gas station.

It means don’t steal the gas with a siphon, with your mouth, I said.

What do you mean? she asked.

I don’t know. I think just don’t suck the gas from the nozzle, like with a tube or whatever, and then spit it into your own car? Maybe. I’m not sure. There was actually an official sign that said that? I asked.

Who would do that? said Thebes. Like, who would suck gas from a car?

I don’t know, I said. People who really want gas.

Godspell, said Thebes. What’s so great about gas?

Just say “god,” Thebes, said Logan.

Hey, said Thebes, what does “Gonna Git Me Some” mean?

I don’t know, I said.

Hattie, said Logan. He looked at me. Like, Don’t fall for this shit.

I’m not sure, I said. It’s like a really rude thing an idiot guy would say about, uh…being with a girl, or woman.

What do you mean? asked Thebes.

I don’t know, I said.

You mean like “gonna git me a woman”? asked Thebes.

Yeah, but like…You know what? I said. It just…it’s a sexual reference, okay? A total moron who wants to have sex with someone, probably someone as stupid as he is.

Thebes was quiet for a bit. Maybe twenty, thirty seconds.

“If This Is Tourist Season, Why Can’t I Shoot ’Em?” she said. We’d seen that bumper sticker on a truck that had passed us earlier. What does that mean? she asked.

It’s a joke, I said. Like hunting season? Tourist season?

Yeah, but why would you—

Fuuuuuck! said Logan. Shut the fuck up! He kicked the glove compartment door and the stuff poured out onto the floor again.

Logan, cut it out! I said.

Yeah, but she’s intentionally being stupid and you’re—

Logan, she’s not intentionally being stupid!

Hey, said Thebes, unsure. Hey!

I think Thebes knew what all that stuff meant, it was true. She just wanted to know the three of us, her ad hoc family, were alive and that we still had enough juice to react to each other’s bullshit. But I understood Logan’s frustration. She likes to talk, I said to him. I shrugged. It’s better than not talking, right? I said.

He stared out the window.

We drove through a town called Kennebec. We were getting close to Murdo. When we saw a beat-up looking basketball court next to an empty swimming pool, Logan asked if we could stop so he could shoot some hoops. He’d been holding his basketball in his lap like a sleeping newborn for hours. I pulled up next to the court and he turned around and chucked his ball at Thebes.

Yo, T., heads up, he said. She caught it, thrilled to death that he wanted to play with her, and they were off.

I lay down in the prickly brown grass next to the court and watched them play. Thebes would get the rebounds and pass them back to Logan or try to block him. Sometimes she’d sit beside me on the sidelines and yell like she was his coach.

The backboard exists for a reason, Troutman! she’d say. Wake up! She took off her shoe and threw it on the ground in despair. Stay with your man, Troutman! A couple of maintenance men in white overalls walked over to where we were sitting. They asked me what we were doing there and I said we were just resting, playing some basketball, hanging out.

Nobody ever comes here, said one of the men.

I said, Yeah, I can see that. I wondered what exactly these guys were maintaining. The kids came over and asked me what was up. We’re just talking, I said. One of the guys asked Logan his name.

Logan said Lloyd Banks, and the guy took out a pen and wrote that down on the back of an envelope. Then he asked Thebes her name, and she said Veronica Lodge, and he wrote that down too. He asked them where they were from, the island of Togo? And then they laughed and said they were kidding. Logan said they were from Riverdale, Thebes’s dream town. They wrote that down too.

Why are you writing this stuff down? I asked one of the guys.

He said they were doing an independent survey to determine who and what type of people use the playground.

After they left, we all sat on the grass and talked about who they might be. Aliens, religious freaks, FBI, scouts for the Lakers. Then Logan told Thebes that the best way to deal with school and life is to pretend that everyone is stoned. The teachers, mom, friends, me, the bus driver, grandma when she was alive, kids, everyone. So that when someone says to you something like, Thebes, we’re worried about your home life, or Thebes, it’s come to our attention that you’ve missed sixteen consecutive band practices, or Hey, kid, you’ve gotta pay to ride the bus, you can just laugh and laugh at the lunacy of it all. Then Thebes went over to the van and took out a giant novelty cheque she’d made for Logan. It was about four feet long. She’d made it with cardboard and markers and Popsicle sticks for ballast on the back so it wouldn’t bend. She brought it over to us and looked at Logan, who squinted up at her, one hand blocking the sun that made her look like she was on fire.

I’d like to present this to you, Logan, for…I’m not sure what, she said.

She just likes making oversized novelty cheques, he explained to me. I get them all the time. How much is it worth? he asked her.

One million dollars, she said. Congratulations for being my brother. She held it in front of his face and he took it and looked at it.

Thanks, Thebes, he said.

Do you make a speech now? I asked him.

No, he said.

Don’t worry, you’ll get one too, said Thebes. She sat down on the grass again and then lay down and put her head in my lap. While she braided grass, I pulled some art supply stuff out of her hair and blew in her face. There’s no way you’ll be able to comb your hair, I told her. You’ll have to shave your head or grow dreads.

I know, she said.

I gently massaged her scalp. It was discoloured from the purple dye and speckled with dirt and glue and glitter. Hey, I said, where’s the scalpel stuck?

Here, she said, and guided one of my fingers over to the right side of her head.

Does it ever hurt? I asked her.

Nah, she said.

We were quiet, watching dragonflies and braiding grass.

This is way better than being in Paris with that Gandhi guy, right? she said.

Logan stared off at the highway. I admired his tactful restraint. I liked the way he didn’t always correct her, how he sometimes just turned away and let things go.

Driving the home stretch into Murdo. It was a tiny, innocuous speck of a thing on the map, but for us, at least for me, it loomed large suddenly like the shadow of King Kong, or like we were approaching the Kandahar city limits in the back of a U.S. tank with a giant American flag. It scared me. I had no plan, really. Well, I had a plan. I had an outcome planned. But I had no real plan that would logically get me to the plan’s outcome, which was, of course, to find Cherkis and beg him to take care of his kids. I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how to. I didn’t know what to say to them or how to comfort them. I wondered if Min believed in a random world or one with a divine purpose. There were so many things we hadn’t talked about and now it all seemed too late. Sometimes she could pull the parenting thing off on her own, get things done, function, we’d laugh on the phone, I’d visit maybe once a year, it was fun, normal, but then…who knows what happened. Water through her fingers. Sand, air. It slipped away.

When I was eight years old I spent an entire week living among three wards of the biggest hospital in town. My father was having his gallbladder removed, my mother was having a balloon inserted somewhere into her body and Min was locked up in the psych ward. I would spend twenty minutes, silently, at each bedside, and then spend twenty minutes searching every vending machine for change. Then I’d spend twenty minutes reading trashy magazines in whichever waiting area I felt like sitting in, and then I’d start all over again. It was really important to me that every thing I did in the hospital lasted no more and no less than twenty minutes. It was my twenty-minute survival plan. You can do anything for twenty minutes. You can survive. Maybe not underwater, but otherwise.

Did you know, said Thebes, that most but not all secret agents have blue eyes?

No, I said.

There was a pen museum in Murdo, apparently. I saw one of those beat-up signs on wheels by the side of the road. Someone had changed the museum’s “slogan” to The Penis Mightier Than the S Word. I willed Thebes not to comment on it but she was busy constructing something less mighty in the back seat anyway and didn’t notice. Someone who has a pen museum in a place like Murdo could very well have known Cherkis, who after all had a crap museum in Murdo, and how many whacked-out DIY curators can live in a town this size without knowing each other?

I followed the directions to a storefront on Main Street. Logan and Thebes were suddenly very alert, like we were poised to launch a sting op and bring it all down.

Right there, said Logan. He pointed at the building.

Thebes jumped out of the van before I could put it in park. She was carrying another one of her homemade novelty cheques, written out to Cherkis for a thousand dollars. Logan got a million, I thought. How does she decide, or does she just run out of space for zeros and then quit?

Thebes, I said, I don’t think he’s here any more. I’m just gonna talk to whoever is here and find out if they know where he might be.

Cool, baby, cool, said Thebes. The wind was howling and she was struggling to keep herself and the giant cheque from flying away. Logan had his security blanket ball with him and threw it once against the side of the van and said, Coming? We went into the pen museum together.

A middle-aged woman sat like Christ in the Last Supper at a long wooden table covered with stuff, mostly pens, yeah, and we all said hi.

Are you here to see the pens? she asked.

Um, well, yeah, I said. But I also—

So, that’ll be, um…she was doing some mental math that for the final sum seemed a tad laborious…three dollars altogether. One each. What is that? she asked Thebes.

A cheque, said Thebes.

I gave the woman three bucks and the kids and I scanned the pens for about a minute until I could muster up the guts to pop the question. So, uh, excuse me, I said to the woman, these are righteous pens but would you happen to know or to have known a guy named Cherkis who lived around here years ago and also had a small museum/gallery thing? Outside of town maybe? Like, in a field? In an old house?

Yeah, of course I knew Cherkis, she said. Are you his wife?

I said no.

Girlfriend?

No, no.

Ex-girlfriend? she asked.

No, just an old friend from high school, I said, like back in Canada. We’re travelling around, me and, uh, these guys, and I remembered that he used to live here and I thought maybe he still did and I’d pop in on him and say hello. Thebes sucked in some air, loudly. I thought about putting her in a headlock and clamping my hand over her mouth.

Yo, Thebie, said Logan, c’mere. He’d wandered over to the other side of the room to check out the quill section. She hopped over to him and he whispered something in her ear.

So we found out from the woman that Cherkis had burned his house down and left for maybe California. Well, he hadn’t burned his house down, she said, some kids or whatnot might have, or maybe a cigarette, or lightning, or a bushfire that got out of control. It could have been from cooking, or faulty wiring or possibly a random act of God. She had about five thousand other potential inferno scenarios. I didn’t really care how his house burned, I just wanted to know where he was in California. If she knew. She said she thought he had some artist friends, some Burning Man types, in the desert outside of L.A. somewhere. Then she said she’d quickly call up Rosie at the Something-something and ask her if she knew where he’d gone. Rosie had done yoga with Cherkis a few times and had fed his dogs when he was away. The woman said Rosie and Cherkis had tried to start some film thing, like showing old movies once a week on a big outdoor screen.

The kids and I waited. Please don’t touch the pens, she told Thebes, who was drawing on herself with a pen shaped like either a rocket or a dildo.

The woman made the call and said, Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, okay, uh-huh, uh-huh, okay, no, she passed away in her sleep, okay, yeah, her sleep, okay, thanks, Rosie. She hung up.

Twentynine Palms, she said. Near that park, Joshua Tree? That’s about all she knows.

Does she know what he’s doing there? I asked the woman. Do they correspond?

Nope, said the woman. That’s all ancient history. Probably still collecting, she said, doing his art. Whatnot.

Do you know when he left? I said.

Probably three, four years ago, she said. You gonna drive all the way to California just to say hi to an old friend from high school?

Yeah, maybe, I said. Why not? I smiled. The kids were already heading for the door. I thanked her and told her she had a superlative and somewhat awesome pen collection.

She said, You know it, honey, best in the west.

But you should check out your mobile sign thing on the highway, I said. Somebody messed with it.

Jesus, this town, she said. She continued to speak disparagingly of her community and all the assholes in it. I mean, she said, what kind of monster…Who would do something like that?

Yeah, yeah, I know, I said. I would have stood around talking about the rather huge gap between bored kids pranking around and hate crimes, but Thebes was blasting the horn and we had a desert ahead of us.

So, said Logan.

So, I said.

Sounds like Cherkis is a bit of a…Logan didn’t finish.

A what? I said.

Yoga? he said.

Hey, yoga’s a good thing, I said. What’s wrong with yoga?

Logan opted not to explain. His current hero was the guy who cut off his arm with a pocket knife after being pinned under a rock for a few days and then walked five miles or something covered in blood holding onto his stub.

Maybe half an hour went by and I decided to answer my own question. There’s nothing wrong with yoga, Logan, I said.

Whatever, said Logan.

Are you trying to come up with reasons not to find him? I said. Do you want to go back?

No, said Logan, I’m just saying.

Yeah, I said, but what are you saying?

Nothing, said Logan.

Yoga is a meditative thing, I said. So he’s looking for a little peace of mind.

I’m not talking about yoga, said Logan.

Then what are you talking about? I asked.

Nothing!

Cherkis is…I didn’t know what to say. He’s…he used to carry you around on his shoulders all the time, I said. Min was always scared he’d drop you.

Did he? asked Logan.

No, never, I said.

It started to rain. I turned on the wipers and the one on the driver’s side flew off and disappeared into the ether.

Great, I said. Fantastic. I pulled over to the shoulder and got out of the van to check it out. I didn’t know what I was checking out. I climbed back in the van and turned on the wipers again. The skinny metal thing was still screeching back and forth but the black rubber part that goes over it was gone.

Let’s wrap a T-shirt or something around it, said Thebes.

Okay, give me one, I said. She handed me one of Logan’s. It said Dick’s Pizza Call 474-DICK on it.

Not one of mine, said Logan. Use yours. Thebes said she hadn’t packed any other clothes. She’d forgotten about clothes.

This kid’s a disaster, said Logan, and he cranked the volume on his CD. I looked at the case. He’d drawn some strange things on it, skeletal creatures, and written up a play list.

Mudhoney — March to Fuzz

Bad Religion — All Ages

The Germs — (MIA): The Complete Anthology

Crucifucks — Our Will Be Done

The Natural History — The Natural History (EP)

Dead Kennedys — Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables

Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek — Reflection Eternal

Public Enemy — It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back

OutKast — Aquemini

Sparta — Wiretap Scars

I got some duct tape from Thebes’s art box and taped Logan’s T-shirt to the metal wiper rod. I was wet and cold and tired and pissed off. I got back in the van and tested the wiper. The shirt unravelled from the rod and fell onto the hood of the car.

Hey, said Logan, I know how you can get rid of that arm flab with different weightlifting techniques.

Thebes asked me what a Passion play was.

We sat by the side of the road in the rain listening to Logan’s CD. Not a lot of traffic passed us. I fell asleep for five minutes and dreamt that I was pregnant with Marc’s baby and we were deliriously happy and proud. When I woke up it had stopped raining and the Crucifucks were silent and Thebes and Logan were gone. Two seconds later they popped up from the ditch by the side of the road and got back in the van and handed me some wet red and yellow flowers that Thebes then insisted on weaving into my hair while I drove and Logan said it was okay if I wanted to take two CD turns and play Lucinda Williams or any of that other shit I had with me.

Logan was leafing through his notebook. He read me his personal ad, an odd assignment he had to do for Family Studies:

I am fifteen years old. I am a consistent B student and enjoy watching football and other things on television. I like gambling and am extremely wealthy. I enjoy films and music of all kinds. I like many different kinds of food and desserts including breakfast. I hate the cold and own many warm garments. I like people who are easygoing and have a crazy sense of humour. No member of my family is “known” by the police and I am relatively well-adjusted.

That’s a lie, I said. You’re known by the police.

Not really, he said.

What about when you kidnapped that guy?

We didn’t kidnap a guy. He was our friend and we just threw him into the trunk for a while and drove around.

Min had called me in Paris in the middle of the night to tell me that Logan had been taken into custody and was being questioned by the cops. They questioned each of his friends separately and the story that came out was that, okay, yeah, chill, man, he and his buddies had planned this kidnapping for the hell of it, basically. They’d grabbed one of their friends off the street, from behind, wearing balaclavas, shoved a blanket over his head, thrown him into the trunk of one of their dads’ cars and then driven around town drinking Red Bull and Jag. The kid had been scared shitless at first but had laughed it off in the end. His parents, though, didn’t see it as such a kick and went to the cops.

What eventually happened? I asked Logan.

Nothing, he said.

That’s the case so often, isn’t it, I said.

Not really, said Logan. Often things do eventually happen.

Well, there’s that, I said. You guys still friends?

Of course! said Logan. What do you think?

I loved that. I loved that Logan and his friends could plot secretly to kidnap another friend of theirs, scare the hell out of him, probably almost suffocate him, definitely scrape him up a bit by throwing him around and everything, get his parents on their asses, not to mention the law, and still come out, natch, as friends! Beautiful.

Logan was quizzing Thebes with a German accent. He’d spent about five minutes getting his hair to stand straight up. Now he was asking her scientific questions about histograms and grids and bio-amplification.

Thebes told us about her book report. She’d taken one of Min’s books: Clara Callan. I wrote that Clara is independent, said Thebes, and makes her own decisions. She decides that she doesn’t believe in God and that she will stop going to church. Another decision she makes is to have an abortion in New York City after being raped by a monkey-faced hobo near the train tracks. I concluded that I thought these were excellent decisions because it means Clara is taking control of her own life, and because I knew Min would like the sound of that.

Logan told us there were three girls with babies in his Family Studies class.

Really? I said. And the fathers?

He shook his head slowly, sighed like a burned-out social worker with an impossible caseload, and said in a fake earnest voice, Yup, where are the fathers?