Arthur stands and rummages around in one of the boxes the Shrub People didn’t take. He finds the pad and pen that Seabrook gave him earlier and sits next to Esmerelda. He scribbles something.
“What’s your story?” she reads. “My story? Oh, well, I’m an orphan. My parents both bought it back in Nevada when I was a baby, and I’ve been kicked around from foster home to foster home ever since. My adopted parents in Lynnbrook were all right. That is to say they, like, treated me decent. But about a year and a half ago, my dad up and left. And my mom—well, she went a little haywire. She lost her job. We were damn close to living on the streets. Well, Mother was out doing the only thing she could do for cash at that point—hunting up aluminum cans for recycling—and she comes back and tells me we’re going to live with these, like, Shrub People.
“Well, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. I mean, like, at least there was food, which was more than we could say living in town. That Shwo-Rez asshole, he had lots of hunters that caught lots of fish and killed deer and stuff for everybody. And every so often, some of the more normal people would sneak off into town and pick up some, like, Twinkies and Ho Hos and pizza and stuff.
“But come on—we were living in cardboard boxes and pretending that Lynnbrook wasn’t real. Mother had totally, like, flicked the last marble out the ring at that point. She was even thinking of marrying that dude Yellow-Hunter. That would have got us a lot more food—hunters’ wives are well fed—but winter wasn’t that far away, and she was getting too comfortable. I mean, hello? A cardboard box in the snow? So here I am.”
Arthur scribbles something else on the pad.
“Well,” she says, “once you guys drop me off in a town someplace, I guess I’ll figure it out. I don’t know. I mean, I could talk to social services or something and tell them what’s up. But I don’t know if I want to deal with yet another family of assholes, thank you very much. Now, what’s your story . . . Arthur is it?”
Arthur, the little traitor, reddens and stares at his pad as if he’s embarrassed to look the hot chick in the eye. He starts to scribble like crazy. He writes for minutes, and Esmerelda cranes her neck to see what he’s writing. Finally, he finishes and hands the pad back to her.
She reads for a few minutes, puts her hand just above her chest, and exhales. “Oh my God. That, like, totally sucks! Your vocal chords! So you can only talk in a whisper? That is so totally harsh, bud.”
Arthur, who is now the color of the flames of hell that consume all traitors, takes the pad back from her, writes something else, and hands it back.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she says. “So if you whispered something in my ear, I could, like, hear your voice?”
Arthur nods.
Esmerelda smiles. “Well,” she breathes, “come here. Whisper something, Arthur.”
Trembling, Arthur brings himself up to his knees and leans close to her ear, pressing the bullhorn of his PA system against her side. He buries his face into her reddish-blond curls and his mouth moves. A pretty smile spreads across Esmerelda’s face. She giggles.
“Well holy shit, if it doesn’t look like rain, you two!” I yell, jumping to my feet.
Arthur and Esmerelda flinch and glance up at the sky.
“It’d be really rough to be stuck out on this boat for another night in the rain, don’t ya think, Arthur?” I stand over them and smile until my cheeks hurt.
“Oh, wow! That would suck!” Esmerelda says, frowning at the thick clouds. She stands and stretches. “I guess I’ll go check on the Doc, guys.”
Arthur glares at me and mouths several words I can’t make out.
I know, I know. Pathetic, right? But come on, people, Arthur was a few rungs down the social ladder from me, remember?
And I saw her first.
The radio says: “I believe that global warming is a myth. And so, therefore, I have no conscience problems at all and I’m going to buy a Suburban next time.”7
we eat (at last)
It’s pissing rain when Kang returns. He has first aid supplies like gauze pads and bandages, a plastic first aid kit to keep them in, and a bottle of whiskey because the store didn’t have any rubbing alcohol for Seabrook’s wounds. He also carries a small cooler full of groceries—including two bags of shrimp.
Seabrook regains consciousness while Kang redresses his wound. Kang points out on a map where we’ve anchored.
“Take us south, Kang,” Seabrook says. His voice sounds as though his lungs have filled with fluid. “Take us south, and we’ll try to pick up the Tennessee River west. They’ll be looking for us on the Ohio.”
By nightfall we still haven’t seen a sign of the Green Police boats, so Kang takes off again. It is raining steadily, and the wind is tossing tree limbs in the woods. To the south, bursts of lightning split the sky and remind me of the artillery fire in Battling Leathernecks. Kang has bought four clear plastic ponchos from the store.
We house some boiled shrimp and potatoes and drink seaweed citrus juice. Esmerelda says it’s the best she’s eaten since she moved down from Boston. We throw the shells and soda cans into the grocery bags and place them in the aft corner of the boat.
kang makes a shoe
Kang drives through the night, and we seem to pass the storm. When I wake the next morning the scenery has changed. The monster trees are gone—at least the big claw parts of them that stick up out of the ground. I guess we’re still in what once was a forest, but the forest must have really pissed somebody off—stumps stretch out all the way out to where the sky meets the ground. The trees have been mown down. Pieces of them lay in piles of sawdust.
Pipes line the hills and shoot up through the valleys. They’re old and rusty, and blackish guck pulses out of them, steady as a heartbeat. The black stuff trickles from the ends of some of the pipes into the river, which is also black with a rainbow tinge to it. It stinks, and dead things float in it. Not just fish—the bodies of furry things so coated with goo that you can’t tell what they were bounce off the hull of the Tamzene as we slide through.
It’s like there was a war or something.
“What happened?” I ask Kang, but he must not hear because he keeps driving downriver.
Eventually the forest comes back. Kang takes the boat behind some trees and drops anchor. He makes some signs at Arthur. Arthur makes some signs back, but Kang looks pissed and shakes his head.
Arthur sighs and writes on his pad: “Kang says we’re out of hemp. He says he’ll hide the boat here for a few days while the doctor recovers. He can’t go get more hemp himself because he can’t get any of the dealers to understand him. He says we need to get off the boat now because it’s too dangerous for us to stay. He doesn’t know exactly where we are, but it’s safer for us to run.”
I’m pumped, people, because we’ll be able to hitch our way out of the wilderness to the promised land to see the World’s Greatest Show. I tell Arthur, and he toes the ground.
“Should we go?” Esmerelda asks. “I mean, what if things get worse with the doc? Couldn’t you use the help?”
Kang shakes his head.
We hang out for the rest of the day, helping to clean up the decks and wash everything down. Kang disappears late in the afternoon. He shows up again at nightfall wearing a new headdress. This one has deer horns poking out from the front and feathers that go all the way down his back to his ankles. He painted his face blue and orange.
He’s carrying a bundle of weeds and twigs. He places it onto the deck and looks at each of us with this face that’s so solemn it scares the shit out of me. He makes a few signs to Arthur, whose face brightens. Arthur nods at him with this big grin.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“Kang is going to perform an ancient Milliconquit blessing on us,” Arthur writes. “He’s going to communicate with his ancestors who will guide his hands as he crafts for us the shoes of the Milliconquit, which will protect us on the rest of our journey.”
“Wicked,” Esmerelda says.
Kang kneels before the bundle of sticks, holds his arms out straight, and stares at the horizon. The river water makes light spiders on his face. He mouths a few words, bows, brings his arms in like a praying mantis, and tucks his head. Then he juts them out to the sides again, sucks them back in, and bows again. He makes these motions about seven or eight times, then jumps to his feet, skips around the pile of twigs and grass four times in a circle, and falls to his knees. He grabs handfuls of the sticks and holds them up to the sky. He freezes like that for almost a minute, still mouthing something.
Arthur watches all of this with big eyes. It certainly looks freaky.
Then Kang thrusts the two handfuls of twigs together and begins bending and twisting them. Ever see one of those guys on TV do origami, where they rip and fold little pieces of paper with these fast hands until they’ve got a horse or a rooster? It’s like that. His hands zip all over the pile of twigs. He doesn’t look at them. His eyes are clamped shut, his nose pointing downriver. His breath comes faster, and his hands move quicker and quicker on this mangled pile of twigs until all at once he holds something up to the sky and opens his palms flat.
The twigs fall through the cracks between his fingers and blow away in the breeze.
The Indian’s shoulders slump, and he looks at his feet, his eyes shifting around at us. He shrugs.
Arthur pats his back.
“That’s it?” I ask. “Where’s the shoe?”
Esmerelda smiles. “It’s okay. We’ll be all right, Kang. Thanks.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
beavers
For centuries the beavers paid the two-legged pigs little mind.
The pigs lived in the factory nearby, and further off, on a farm. The factory gave off large plumes of smoke, which the beavers knew hurt the trees and the water and sometimes made it hard to breathe. But they ignored it. Two-legged pigs will be two-legged pigs.
Then, one of their large, rumbling vehicles arrived with markings on the side that read Pawtucket Toothpick Company. The two-legged pigs buzzed and sawed and hammered and took the trees away.
The beavers defended their homes as best they could, but the two-legged pigs had discovered more efficient ways get rid of the beavers. Some were poisoned; others were shot when they stood up to the two-legged pigs. Still more died when the factory installed large metallic snakes where the trees once were and flooded the river with something toxic.
A small band of surviving beavers gathered one night at the edges of the forest where their homes once stood. Many were too weak to go on. Some argued that it was fruitless to fight anymore, that they should try to find another spot on the river, forgoing the home of their forefathers.
But one charismatic young beaver said the survivors should spend their last breath seeking revenge. He beat his tail upon the shore. Some of the younger beavers joined in, until there was a rush of applause rising from the trees.
The farm, it was decided, was an easier place than the factory for a suicide mission. The young beavers said goodbye to the older ones, the ones who decided it was best to begin again further downriver.
The young ones pressed into the woods at dusk. They scrambled up hills, through fields of fallen trees, and over round, hard circles laden with rainwater—orbs upon which the two-legged pigs rolled their vehicles, then discarded.
But things changed when they reached the top of the hill overlooking the farm. A sweet-smelling smoke filled the air. At first it meant little to them—another fire from those beasts who love fire was of no consequence.
But then they felt strange. The world seemed to spin. They fell against trees and trembled with something like laughter. They felt happy.
That farm was okay, the beavers decided, suddenly aware of the beauty of the world around them. These two-legged pigs are our brothers.
growing high farm
We’re back in the woods again—hopefully for the last time. I can’t wait for the snaps and crunches under my feet to turn into the solid feel of pavement and to only be scared of the occasional desperate homeless person, and not those chattering things we saw at the Shrub People camp.
I ask Arthur what the little monsters were. He writes on his pad and shines a flashlight on it:
Hair
Tails
Claws
Sharp teeth.
“Fucked up,” I say. “So do you think those guys were really the feds?”
“Feds don’t do stuff like that,” Esmerelda says.
“What do you know about it?”
“If they were feds, like you say, then they must have been after all that pot you guys had in the hold there. Kang and the doc are going to be in a world of shit if they don’t get out of there. I say we go back and help them out.”
“You heard Kang,” I say. “He doesn’t want us there. Says it’s too dangerous.”
“Yeah, well, like, don’t you want to help?”
“What are we going to do, man? You go back if you want, but Arthur and me are going on with the pilgrimage. Just remember, though—you’re extra baggage, and if five-oh catches up to them those creepy-crawly things might not be as kind to you as they were to Arthur.”
I look up at the charcoal sky and I’m glad there aren’t stars. Stars make you feel small. I’m little enough. Maybe that’s why people like His Eminence bust their asses so hard to become chief muckety-mucks. Maybe they looked at the stars and felt small.
In my pocket, the badge presses against my thigh. I can’t figure it out, people. His Eminence is an old-school guy, a Skull and Bones society type, a stock market player—what could he possibly have in common with that nut job Shwo-Rez from Ohio? Are they part of the same club?
I wonder if there are stars over the Compound back in Philly. I wonder if the Moms is out there, leaning on those little red marks on her forearms, staring up at the stars through the trees.
Maybe we should just hitch back home.
We keep walking, and after a while the forest thins. Soon we’re walking through a field of knee-high plants—like ferns, but in rows. In the distance I can make out the outline of a big house with gables. Around it there’s a glow.
We press on through the tall plants toward the glow.
Somewhere, someone is playing country music on a big sound system. It’s mostly flute and guitar with an old-fashioned beat, but somehow it sounds weirdly familiar. I’m going up the country, babe, don’t you wanna go? I’m going to some place where I’ve never been before. I hate redneck noise personally, but since I haven’t heard anything except the mental iPod in days, it’s beautiful.
And there’s this campfire odor everywhere that smells cozy.
Somebody runs past us, and we all flinch. It’s a kid, probably a little younger than me, but taller.
“Dude!” I yell.
The kid turns. He is freckled with short red hair. For a moment, he looks out of it, confused, but then he smiles. “Duuuuude,” he yells back.
What’s with this kid? “Hey, little dude,” I say. “What’s going on up there?” I point toward where the light is glowing. It’s wavering. But then everything is doing that. It’s weird.
“It’s the Tuesday night party! Don’t miss the grub,” the kid yells. He takes off through the field toward the light and the music.
As the house gets bigger, more and more people run past us through the field—old people, young people, black, white, Hispanic. Most of them are laughing as they hustle by. A couple of them turn and urge us to follow, but then they double over and laugh like something’s really funny. Every once
in a while you see somebody shuffling along timidly—an old lady or a couple of young guys who clasp their hands in front of them and walk like they’re afraid they might fall over. They peer at you out of the corners of their eyes like they’re paranoid.
Arthur and Esmerelda are starting to act funny too as we get closer to the light. Before they both seemed sad about leaving the Tamzene. But now every time somebody runs past they laugh and laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.
Come to think of it, I’m feeling pretty damn strange myself. I’m dizzy, but it isn’t a dizziness I’ve ever felt before. It’s like somebody placed this really heavy octopus on top of my brain, and the tentacles are hanging over the sides. My mouth is dry as a mofo. The lights are beautiful in a way I can’t describe, and I’m mad hungry. I feel like I could eat a whole freezer of steaks myself.
Soon we’re standing on the lawn of the house. Dozens of people are there. The glow comes from these big floodlights they’ve placed on top of poles, along with Chinese lanterns. There’s a wooden dance floor with a deejay who, when we arrive, is spinning that country music bullshit.
Everybody is having a great time. And I mean everybody. Usually at a party, there’s screaming kids or a crabby old person mucking up the works, but everybody on the dance floor is grinding and shaking and flailing their arms. Surrounding the dance floor are these metal folding chairs, and in them there are some other people who are smiling and looking up at the lights.
I forget about California and the Tamzene and all of that and get caught up in it. We’re laughing and dancing and running around throwing stuff at each other, playing tag and going crazy. Some of the other kids our age join in, and soon everybody is in on this game we created. We call it paper plate tag—you have to touch the person with a paper plate instead of just your hand. It’s really funny.
And the food. Oh my God, people, I’ve never loved food as much as I do now. They laid it out on two long tables behind the folding chairs. It’s a potluck with ham, mashed potatoes, watercress salad, and German chocolate cake. We slather it onto paper plates and practically make out with it. We take big gooey mouthfuls.
We Are All Crew Page 13