The Not-So-Great American Novel
Saturday, February 22, 2003
We've been driving for what seems like hours now. All I know is that it's dark, and I'm sliding all over the Caddy's back seat. I wonder why, and then realize I'm sitting in a drying pool of Molly's blood. I realize that I've just realized this for the third time in the past hour, which makes me realize that it's not just incense those four freaks are burning in the front seat. Yep, all four of them are sitting side by side up there with their stupid black hats, silently passing a joint back and forth. Kind of like the Four Stooges of the Apocalypse.
That makes me giggle a little. Yep, definitely not incense. God, I wish Dooney was here, being the college boy and all. Call me a wuss, but the one time I was at a party where the wicked weed was being passed around (and that was the one time I was at a party period, or at least what passes for one in Hoople), I was scared to give it a try. Dooney passed me the joint, and I was ready to take a puff when all of the sudden, into my head popped an image of myself sitting in the Oval Office, a Nixon crewcut on my head and my finger on the button.
God, I'm a mess. But then again, maybe it was a preminition. After all, I just learned that I'm the Chosen One, whatever that means. I'm getting what Dooney would call a bitching contact buzz. Or maybe I'm just carsick.
I look over at Daphne, but she's staring out the window, drawing lazy curlicues in the fogged up glass. Off in her own world. Couldn't be any worse than the one where we're barreling through the Montana darkness, that's for sure.
All of the sudden, I get spooked. It's got to be the weed, I know, but it seems justified, given the circumstances. Was that snake real? I can't even remember at this point. I clear my throat.
"Hey, uh… Verger?"
A long pause.
"Yes?"
"Where are we going?"
"The destination is immaterial, my son," he said, never taking his eyes off the road. God, I hope he's the one that's driving. "The journey is what makes the difference."
The journey? In a borrowed Cadillac with a stolen TV and a comatose con man in the trunk? That's a laugh. At least I'm not the only one in the car that's stoned. On the radio, I hear John Fogerty, singing about a bad moon rising. He isn't kidding.
"Right," I say. "So. Where are we going?"
"My son," Verger replied. "The journey is what makes the difference, yet it is also important to remain on the path of righteousness. The land of California, where the Fallen Prophet was hoping to take you, is a veritable den of iniquity, a modern-day Sodom replete with bikini wax, a twentieth-century Gomorrah in the guise of liberation and open relationships, and other salaciousness which my tongue does not dare to form into words."
In other words, my Dad's kind of place. And mine, too, if given the chance. Probably. God, this stuff makes it hard to think straight.
"Your vessel is pure, Gruber," he continues. "We cannot run the risk of having the taint of such an evil place stain your soul."
Damn the luck. "So," I repeat, "Where are we going?"
Verger laughs. "To the place that has sustained your essence for these past 17 years. The holy place to which our thoughts always turn, and from where the charlatan in the trunk plucked you, like a rose before its bloom."
Yeah, right. Roses, vessels. My Lord of the Flies-loving English teacher would have a field day with these guys, and they haven't even mentioned a conch shell. Yet. I'm getting a bad feeling, and it has nothing to do with all the creepy imagery or the moon rising, bad or otherwise.
"I'm getting a bad feeling," I say aloud. "What the hell are you talking about?"
One of Verger's pals laughs, and turns back to look at me. His eyes have the look of a long-time stoner's, but that's not all. They look completely devoid of color, drained. "He means we're headed back to Hopple," he says, and God help me, he's looking right at me and I can't tell if he's making eye contact or not. "We're already back in North Dakota, praise be, and we should return to the most sacred of sacred ground before the cock cries."
The cock? Geez, what is it with these guys? Lucy would be jabbering about Freud at this point. It just figures, though. My first trip out of state, and it was over before I even knew it.
"So," I say, trying to remain calm, "Who are you guys?"
Verger laughs, a clipped little chuckle devoid of all humor. "I'm not a Horseman," he says. "But when I'm at home, I do drive a blue Ford Mustang."
