The Flying Troutmans

by Miriam Toews

  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 th
at, 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?

  seven

  I WONDERED WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO MIN right now. Was she strapped to a gurney with wires stuck to her head and a spoon in her mouth, wild eyes, and eighteen thousand sparky volts of electroshock frying her brain, filling up the spaces with smoke and ash, and helping her to reconfigure her negative thinking into something less painful but empty? I imagined her doctor sitting in a room next to hers, staring at a computer screen, saying boo-yeah! with every direct hit to her memory target. Or who knows, maybe she was strong enough to sit up and join the “Koombaya” gang in the common room. Hey there, Min, what do you see down by the river? Maybe she was enjoying a moment in her life, a sliver of light, a flash memory of one of her kids, something sweet and approaching reality.

  I remembered Min telling me that Logan had had an imaginary friend for a while when he was three or four. His name was Jackson Whinny. He was a football star but he could never play because he was always injured and he only ate fast food and he lived with his mom even though he was a grown man because he needed her to take care of him and his injuries. His other imaginary friend was named Willie the Ghost, but he wasn’t around too often. Min said Logan’s little mind was creating a more gradual exit for the people who had once been in it and then—BOOM—one day weren’t. She said he was subconsciously buying himself time to get his brain around it.

  Hey, said Thebes, there’s someone behind us flashing his lights. We’re gonna get jacked!

  I checked the rear-view mirror. Two guys in a half-ton. Logan turned around for a look.

  Don’t pull over, he said. Speed up.

  No, that’s dumb, I said. But I sped up anyway. Isn’t this supposed to happen in Miami or something? I said.

  We’re all gonna die! said Thebes.

  The truck drove along next to us and the guy in the passenger seat rolled his window down.

  Just so you guys know, said Thebes, I love you with all my heart and even if you two don’t have heaven-cred, I do, and I will put in a word with the Big Guy and tell—

  Thebes, I said, will you please shut up.

  I’ll meet you on the other side, my friends! she said.

  Here we go, said Logan. He pulled his hoodie way down over his face.

  Circle of life, said Thebes. She threw her arms into the air.

  That’s not even original, said Logan. That’s Bart Simpson—

  You don’t have to be original when your time is up, said Thebes. Word to yer mama.

  Hey, what’s up, I said to the guy. He was smiling. I smiled back.

  Nice flowers, he said, pointing to my head.

  Thanks, I said. We smiled some more. We could get this massacre over civilly at least.

  You’re dragging something, he said. Just wanted to let you know.

  They took off, flashed their taillights goodbye, and I pulled over to the shoulder once again. Logan jumped out.

  Fuck! He said. Fuck! We’d been dragging his headphones for miles. The wire had been stuck in the door. They were all dusty and torn up. He went over to them and knelt down and picked them up and held them, swearing softly, bereft and tender, but mad as hell. Then he raised his face to the heavens, to his malevolent maker, and screamed, how could he live without his headphones! Why had this happened to him? What had he ever done?

  Thebes popped her head out of the van and said that if he wanted to have a funeral for them in the field, she could lead it, no charge, “Amazing Grace,” the works. I yanked her back inside and told her to leave him alone. She took a picture of him, boy grieving, with her disposable underwater camera. She and I gave him some time alone with his headphones.

  I see Troutman corpses piling up, she said. We have to stop in the next town and get him new ones. Key to our survival.

  Hey, she said. If Logan gets to get new headphones, could I get a crimping iron?

  I don’t know, I said. Maybe.

  A crimping iron is twenty-five bucks, she said, but if you just think about it for a minute you’ll soon realize that it’ll be worth every last penny.

  Let me think about it for one hour, I said. I’ll need you not to talk to me during that time.

  I want to make it to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I told the kids when we were back on the road.

  It was smoking hot in the van and Logan took off his shirt and hoodie and climbed into the back and plunged his head into the cooler and then shook it. Water sprayed everywhere and Thebes screamed. Then she noticed a scar on his back.

  Where’d you get that? she asked. She moved her finger lightly over his skin. He stared out the window.

  Hey, she said, are you in a fight club?

  You mean like the movie? he said.

  Yeah, whatever, she said.

  You mean like that movie Fight Club? he said.

  Yeah, or you know, a variation on the theme, she said.

  A variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club? he said.

  Yeah! Like some local chapter, she said. You know? Starring Brad Pitt? Are you?

  Am I a member of a local chapter that is a variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club starring Brad Pitt? he said.

  I suggested to Thebes that she stop talking to Logan too, and write a story. Logan commended me on my first really excellent idea on the trip so far. Thebes didn’t know what to write about. Logan told her to write about a guy in a small village in South America or something like that, who is driven away because everyone thought that he had died and they were seeing his ghost and so now he lives down the road and is trying to prove that he’s alive so that he can go back and live in his village, which is all he wants out of life.

  So, said Logan, the problem is, how does he prove he’s alive?

  Thebes said she would rather rewrite the Ten Commandments on a piece of dark blue construction paper with her special gold glitter pen.

  Then fucking do it already! I said. I immediately apologized.

  It’s okay, said Thebes. Those are just words. Language isn’t real.

  Yes it is, said Logan.

  Not to me, said Thebes.

  How can it not be real to you? I said. You use it every day.

  Yeah, I know, said Thebes, but that’s all.

  Okay, I said.

  Like you know when it snows in May? said Thebes. How much that sucks?

  Yeah, I said.

  I don’t let my brain accept the word snow, said Thebes.

  Hmm, I said. Okay, so…

  I pretend it’s something else, she said.

  The snow? said Logan.

  Yeah, she said.

  Like what? he said.

  I do
n’t know, said Thebes. Like stuff somebody left behind.

  Hey, said Logan, you forgot your stuff. It’s everywhere.

  Yeah, I said, my dog’s shitting all over your stuff.

  See, said Thebes, exactly. Hey, how’s this one?

  What one? I said.

  Be at Peace with Yourself in this Chaotic World, she said.

  Is that one of your commandments? I asked. She said yeah.

  Logan said it was too vague.

  How about this, said Thebes. Do Not Let Hard Words Control Your Life.

  I said yeah, that was a good one.

  Logan said, What do you mean? Like harsh words? Or like difficult, complicated words.

  Hard words, she said.

  I think it should be clearer, said Logan. Write harsh or something. Or how about Do Not Let Hard Liquor Control Your Life.

  Logan, just let Thebes make her own commandments, okay?

  Fine.

  Fine.

  What about Be Kind to Dogs? asked Thebes.

  What if a dog is attacking your best friend? said Logan. He was carving into the dash again.

  Thebes, I said, just write your commandments down, every one you can think of.

  She was quiet and then she started to say something. No, no, I said. Don’t. Don’t talk. I’m still thinking about that thing, that crimping iron, and you have to concentrate on your commandments. Let’s all be quiet. Let’s have a quiet contest.

  Okay, she said, but just so you know? Glenn Gould could do his playing, his live performances, while reminding himself of people he had to call, the number of the cab he’d have to call later to get home, all that stuff, and none of it interfered with his playing.

  Okay, I said. Boffo. I’m buying a tranquilizer gun in Cheyenne.

  Hey, I whispered to Logan, how did you get that scar on your back? What happened?

  Shhh, he said, quiet contest, remember?

  Yeah, but, just—

  Shhh…

  This time Logan had carved the question Who needs actions when you’ve got words? K. Cobain. He had already changed the title of Thebes’s secondary reading material to Harry Pothead and the Philosopher’s Stone. Then he changed it to Happy Pothead…and then he changed it to Happy Pothead and Phil Is Stoned. I told him he’d have to buy Thebes a new book, but she doesn’t want a new one. She wants the old one with the messed-up cover and the equivalent worth in Archie comics. Logan is reading Twelve, a book about drugs and parties and death in Manhattan, and Heavier Than Heaven, the Kurt Cobain biography, which is all about pretty much the same stuff and where he must have gotten the quote he’d just carved into the dash. He’s got The Tin Drum and a George Saunders book and Maus and Howl and a book about Saturday Night Live all stuffed, along with his notebooks and sketchbooks, into a fake alligator-skin suitcase he bought at a Goodwill store for four dollars.