by G S Oldman
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Dreams of Trojan Horses fall again and again throughout history. They infect humanity's sense of the divine and, like meteorites, slice deep paths into the atmospheres of thought. Unlike meteorites, they rise like the Phoenix to tumble in a loop of infinite Hindenburgs flaming, falling, flaming, falling, burning figures jumping from the windows of Athena's brain. Awakening, June was convinced that the sun had disconnected from its hydrogen wall socket, and the falling voices of the earth's passengers were rushing past her in the aisle toward the nearest emergency exit. In those first few seconds of consciousness, she was frightened. In a flash of reason, she remembered how modern seminars and books propose states of humanness where ordinary people can deal with the exceptional events of life with perfect grace. They talk of man's connectedness with higher spiritualities, deeper life forces, stronger bonds of psychological awareness, visualizations that go beyond the best that psychic ice cream can offer. But they forget that birds and animals can sense the oncoming of cataclysm and death. That women scream in childbirth and that men cry and faint to watch their women in labor. That General George Custer, as well as an eternity of soldiers, and probably Jesus himself, died with shit in their pants.
The moment of dread passing, she yawned, saw her friend's sleeping form in the shadows, heard Prez and Bryan chatting calmly, a tape of Buck Owens filling the darkness. Bladder stirring, she called out for a stop. A Flying J and food just ahead. A few minutes after 3:30 a.m., and aware they were ahead of their original schedule, it was a longer stop than usual. In the restaurant, the guys sat at one table to talk guy stuff; the gals sat a few tables away to talk gal stuff. June acted on the urge to change clothes and traded jeans and flannel for the '50s-style dress she had bought at a thrift store in Austin. Noticing she had applied lipstick, Dedra said, "You look good, Mrs. Cleaver, but shouldn't you hold off til Bryan gets his shots?"
June gave an inscrutable grin, waltzed off to buy a few postcards in the gift shop and brought them to the table. She scribed a message on one, addressed it to Doug, then shook her bewildered head and said, "What am I doing? I can't send this."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm losing my mind. It's too soon to be sending him love notes."
"Why?"
"He needs time to deal with Angela without me interfering. I don't know if she looks at his mail. That could screw things up."
"Is that what's going on?"
"Yeah. But we're gonna be 2000 miles away from each other in a matter of days and? Geeezzz, I promised I'd call him when I get home." Eyes agoggle, she hung her head in her hands. "I need to just wait."
"Oh my god. You're in love."
"Yes, Dedra, I am." She groaned and covered her face. "Help."
The guys walked up and Bryan said, "It's a little after 5:00; we should probably hit it. There's reports of thunderstorms in New Mexico and we got a lotta non-interstate between here and Salt Lake City."
"Will you let me drive for awhile?" asked June. "I need something to take my mind off things for awhile."
"Things like?"
"Things like none of your business, Bryan."
"Sure," he chuckled. "Here's the keys. We're heading up 285 toward Roswell."
"Roswell? Where the UFO landed?"
"Uh huh."
"Can we stop?"
"That's the plan, man."
"Coooool!" the girls chorused, bouncing in their seats. June then soloed, "Maybe I can get abducted and shed this cortal moil."
"Been there. Done that," monotoned Bryan. "It ain't so great."
"Really? So tell me. Are those anal probes as good as advertised?"
"Eeew! Get away from me, June! Don't touch me!"