Mosquitoland (6 page)

Inventory

7:42 LOOKS BLURRY.

7:43 is a little clearer.

7:44 . . .

Groggy, I will myself out of bed. I've never really been a morning person, but waking up in yesterday's clothes makes me reconsider being a person altogether. I stumble across the room, push back a curtain. Well. There's a bus. So that's good. Though I don't see anyone around it, which probably means everyone's still asleep, which probably means some lazy bones down in the front office forgot our wake-up calls. I grab the receiver, press 0, and wait. After exactly thirty-two rings (yes, I count, and yes, I wait that long, because really, once it passes ten rings it becomes a game of How Many Rings Can We Get to Before Someone Finally Picks Up the Gee-Dee Telephone), I hear the soft click of someone picking up on the other end. Except . . . no hello, or anything. Whoever it is, they don't say a word.

“Hello?” I say.

“Yez, hi.” The guy has a thick accent of indeterminate origin. Gun-to-my-head, I would guess Estonian.

I carry the phone over to the dresser mirror and study my new haircut. “Hi.”

“Yez, hi.”

Well, this is weird. “Oh—hi, yes. I, umm, was with the group of about twelve or so that came in last night after our bus got demolished on fifty-five.”

I am met with complete silence. This Estonian guy could use a lesson or two in telephone etiquette, though I suppose it should come from someone who speaks his native tongue. Thank God I was born with an unending supply of Malone stick-to-itiveness.

“Well, last night, Carl—that's our bus driver—he set up a six thirty wake-up call. And I never got one.”

Silence.

“I'd hate for everyone to miss the bus, so to speak. Ha.”

Silence.

I clear my throat.

Finally, on the other end: “Yez, hi. Okay.”

Click
.

Turning from the mirror, I hang up but let my hand rest on the phone for a second.

I should give Dad a ring. Just to let him know I'm okay. Out of curiosity, I unzip my backpack and pull out my cell phone. Fourteen missed calls from Kathy. Blimey, that's a lot of shit music. A pang of something, injury maybe, settles in my stomach, when I see that Dad only called once. I've been gone overnight now, and he's called
once
. And there's a voice mail.

I dial the code and listen:

“Mim, it's . . .”
Throat clear.
“It's me. I mean, it's Dad.”
Sigh.
“Mim, where are you? We're all sort of freaked here.”
Short pause.
“Principal Schwartz says you've been skipping school. If you're worried we're mad, we're . . .”
Long pause. In the background, I hear Kathy say something. Dad responds. He must have covered the phone, because I can't make out any of it. “
Listen
,”
he says, sighing again.
“About the other night. I hate the way that conversation ended. You have to understand, no matter what happened between me and your mom, I'll—”

I snap the phone shut. If Dad wants to discuss the
BREAKING NEWS
, he's gonna have to find me first. Though I wouldn't put it past Kathy to call the cops, which could seriously complicate things. Maybe if I just let them know I'm okay, without telling them what I'm doing . . .

I think through the phrasing first, then open the Internet browser on my phone. The thing is ancient, and while Wi-Fi is possible, it certainly isn't cheap. Though right now, that only serves as extra incentive. After a few seconds, I'm connected. I open my Facebook profile and update my status:

“
Not dead. Not abducted. (Though aliens are, as always, welcome.) You'll hear from me when you hear from me.”

I reread the wording a few times, press Post, then chuck the phone in my bag. After a quick shower, I pull on a clean tee and underwear, cursing myself for not bringing another pair of pants. I slip on the same hoodie and bloodstained jeans, then take a closer look at Arlene's box. The brass lock, the reddish wood, all of it is in fine condition, wholly unaffected by the crash. I have no idea why I picked it up, except . . . leaving it there, in the middle of everything, just didn't seem right. It obviously meant a lot to Arlene, but it's not like I can get it to her nephew, the preposterous swimmer turned successful gas station operator Ahab. I don't even know the guy's last name. Or Arlene's, for that matter.

Pushing back the Arlene-shaped knot in my throat, I tuck the box away and pull out my bottle of Abilitol. Like a Siren, it tempts me with whispered promises of the ever-elusive Normal Life. If I were home right now, this would be Dad's shining moment, the one in which he eagerly explains the pill's function. He always used the same tone when he talked meds, a slick salesman-slash-drug-dealer-slash-nerdy-dad combo.
“It balances the serotonin levels, Mim. It'll adjust your brain chemicals. Dopamine and that sort of thing. It just evens everything out so you can live a normal life.”
I always expected him to end those speeches with “
Everybody's doin' it, man!”
Peer pressure is one thing, but when your dad's the pusher, it's something else entirely.

The bottle stares up at me now as only a bottle of prescription meds can do, redefining the art of seduction. I stare right back . . .

Mary Malone—Aripapilazone

10MG—TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH DAILY

Refills: No

Qty: 45

Dr. B. Wilson

And the memories tumble: Antoine knocks over ink splotches, knocks over Bach, knocks over
Tell me what you see here, Mary
, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .

I tip a single pink pill into my palm and hold it up to my good eye. Small. Strong. Tempting. “One ring to rule them all,” I whisper, immediately regretting it. Sometimes, things are more embarrassing when you're alone. I guess when no one's around to hear your stupidity, you're forced to bear the brunt of it.

I grab my new pair of shears from the dresser, and, in the spirit of Utopian mutiny, cut the pill in half. I'd expected the thing to shatter, but it doesn't. It's a clean cut, right down the middle. I grab my water bottle, swallow one half of the pill, and toss the other in the trash.

All packed up, I sit by the window and pull my mother's sixth letter from my pocket. Softened by sweat and rain, the ink is faded a bit, though not beyond recognition.

Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider
.

Back on the bus, I'd been too worked up to notice the missing apostrophe. I picture Mom writing this, impetuous and angry. She'd have to be to make this kind of—

The phone rings.

I look at the receiver.

It rings again.

And again.

Surely not.
I cross the room and pull the phone from its cradle, daring this to be the call I think it is. “Hello?”

“Yez, hi—dis ees your vake-up coll.”

Click
.

There are times when I absolutely, 110 percent, without a doubt,
have
to laugh at a thing. 'Cause if I don't, that same thing will make me go stark-raving bananas.

I hang up the phone and laugh until I cry.

Hyena vs. Gazelle

AFTER WE BOARD
the new bus (much nicer than the old one), Carl hands everyone an envelope full of vouchers and coupons. Not only do I get a row to myself, I find one with an outlet just below the window. After plugging in my phone, I stow my JanSport in the overhead compartment and spend the next hour or so watching the kid across the aisle eat deli ham straight from a Ziploc. In and of itself, this isn't noteworthy, but as the kid looks dead-on like a young Frodo Baggins, it is, I believe, the worthiest of all notes. (
We shall go through the Mines of Moria! But first, let us replenish our energy with finely sliced deli meats. Eat, drink, be merry! Elves! Ham! Huzzah!
)

“Exactly why I don't have a boyfriend,” I whisper, turning to the window.

Because you've referenced
The Lord of the Rings
twice before lunch, or because you're talking to yourself?

I have to admit, I've got me there.

A couple of hours later, we pull off for lunch at a remote exit; Carl gets on the mic and goes through his spiel about not leaving valuables on the bus, and how much time we have at this stop. “If you ain't back in forty-five minutes, I'll assume you found yo'self a ride. We're an hour from Nashville, and
this
time, we'll be
on
time. I ain't your mama, and I
will
leave without you.”

Attaboy, Carl
.

Once off the bus, someone asks about the restaurant, to which Carl points at a sign over a nearby gas station door.

ED'S PLACE: CHICKEN-N-GAS

The image in my brain is unsettling to say the least: Ed, a disgruntled Vietnam vet, stands over a stove with two ashy cigarillos hanging from either side of his mouth; he's stirring a giant pot of his famous chicken-petroleum soup. It makes sense, too, because where I've had good luck with Carls, I've never met a single Ed I didn't want to ninja to death. They're scoundrels through and through. I enter Ed's Place not with an attitude of optimism but with an attitude of ninja-ism.

There are four tables, each with checkered paper tablecloths. I wait until Poncho Man sits, and then pick the table farthest from him. Unfortunately, they're all pretty close together.

“Mim!” he whispers. Pointing to my hair, he gives a thumbs-up. “Looks great!”

I throw on my most sarcastic smile, give him a thumbs-up, and slowly raise my middle finger. A bald man with a biker beard and apron hobbles over to Poncho Man's table and greets him by name. “Hey, Joe, want the regular?” Poncho Man smiles, nods, then carries on a short, albeit jovial-looking conversation with the guy.

He's been here before
.

I don't have a chance to process this information fully before the Bald Biker Beard is at our table taking drink orders.

“What kind of coffee do you have?” I ask.

“What kind?” says the waiter, only he says it like,
Wit kand?

“Yeah, I mean, Ethiopian, Kona—it's not Colombian, is it?”

Under his beard, the waiter's jaws are chomping something, presumably a piece of gum. After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I spot the name sewn on his shirt pocket:
ED.

And all is right with the world.

“Never mind.” I sigh. “I'll just have a chicken sandwich, please.”

“Ain't got chicken sammich.”

I choose a smile over a
judo
chop. “The subtitle of your establishment indicates otherwise.”

He raises an eyebrow, chomps, says nothing.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Burger?”

“What'd you wanna drink?” he asks.

“Orange soda. Please.”

“We got grape. We got Coke. We got milk.”

“Milk? Really?” I hate this place. “Fine, I'll have . . . grape soda, I guess.”

Ed goes around the table, takes everyone's order, then shuffles off. In order to avoid the uncomfortable nearness of strangers, I thumb through the thick envelope of vouchers from Greyhound. One coupon offers a half-price massage at some mall in Topeka. The next is for a free go-cart ride at a place called the Dayton 500. The only coupons of any real value are three free nights at a Holiday Inn, a fifteen-dollar gift card to Cracker Barrel, and a few Greyhound vouchers. Fair trade, I suppose, for almost murdering us.

After maybe ten minutes, a tray of food crashes into the middle of the table. Ed leans over my shoulder, his beard brushing my face, and tosses a plate at each person in turn, announcing the orders as he goes. “And last but not least,” he looks down at me, not with a twinkle in his eye, but a twinkle in his voice. “A gourmet burger for the little lady. And a
milk
to warsh it down.”

“I didn't ord—”

“Bone-appeteet!” he says, hobbling away with a maniacal laugh.

I poke at the burger, which could probably double as a hockey puck. Choking down half of it with the milk, I push my plate away. I'll eat in Nashville.

Carl announces a fifteen-minute warning; I grab my bag and follow a long hallway toward the back of Ed's Place. The restroom is a two-staller with a filthy sink, foggy mirror, and wallpaper of creative expletives. I deadbolt the door, hang my bag on a hook, and, careful not to touch
anything
, pee in record time. After washing my hands, I unzip my bag, and just as I'm about to add the vouchers to Kathy's coffee can, I hear it—a cough.

Just one. Quiet. Timid, almost. But definitely a cough.

Cash in hand, I peek underneath the stall divider. There, in the second stall—one penny loafer, one too-big sneaker.

What the hell . . . ?

Slowly, the shoes shift, and the door swings open. Poncho Man smiles at me, briefly glancing at the cash in my hand. “Hello, Mim.”

Still kneeling, I remain frozen, reduced to the role of Busty Blonde in my own slasher. “What are you doing in here?” I ask. His leg brushes my knee as he steps to the faucet and runs his hands under the water. Thinking back, I don't remember a flush.

“Oh, I find the ladies' room to be much more serene. You should see the men's room. Makes this dump look like the Ritz.” He wipes his hands on his poncho, then turns toward me and tilts his head. “I meant what I said, Mim. Your haircut is beautiful. And also, sort of—inevitable? Is that the right word?”

Go, Mary. Now.

I regain motion, stuff everything back in my bag, and start for the door. “I'm leaving.”

He steps in front of it, blocking me in. “Not yet.”

Breathe, Mary.
I push my bangs out of my eyes, push the panic down, push, push, push . . . “I'll scream,” I say.

“I'll tell on you.”

I flinch. “You'll what?”

“I overheard your little convo with Ed out there—you wouldn't drink Hills Brothers Original Blend if your life depended on it. Which means that coffee can I just saw”—he points to my backpack—“isn't yours. Ergo, what's
inside
probably isn't either.”

His words are ice. They hit my gut first, then spread in all directions, filling my ears, elbows, knees, toes—the extremities of Mim, once a balmy ninety-eight point six, now a glacial effigy. Until this moment, the uncomfortable nearness of Poncho Man had been held at bay by other passengers and locks on doors. Now, it's just us. There are no devices, no buffers. He stands there, taller than I remember, bulkier, blocking my way to the safety of my pack. I feel his eyes on me now, trailing from my hair, down my body, lingering in places they don't belong—and for the first time in a long time, I feel like a helpless girl.

He steps closer. “You are beautiful, you know.”

I'm shivering now, my bones and blood on full alarm—it's a primordial instinct, Predator versus Prey, passed down from a thousand generations of women who, like me, feared the inevitable. We'd seen the footage of the hyena and the gazelle, and it always ended the same.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

I close my good eye. In my mind, the bathroom dissolves into a reddish hue, the corners dimming like the vignette of an old art house film. The metamorphosis begins at Poncho Man's feet, his mismatched shoes bursting open at the toe, revealing short, sharp claws. His pants bulge at the knees and thighs, every pulsing muscle defined beneath the cheap fabric. His poncho stiffens, hardens, ripples into a spotted fur coat; matted and dirty, the blacks and oranges and browns of his mangy hide reflect the red light of the room, and behold! The metamorphosis of Poncho Man is complete, with one last addition: Fangs. First one, then another, sprouting forth like two young oaks in fertile soil.

“Nothing will happen,” he says, his voice thick. “Nothing you don't want.”

And in that tone, I understand—I
know
—I'm not his first. “Fuck you. Move.”

He reaches out, grips my arm just above the elbow. It's firm and painful. “Why would you say that to me?”

Scream, Mary.

“You're too good,” he whispers, leaning his head closer. I can smell his breath, every ounce as ashy and deceitful as I'd imagined. “I know you.”

A scream had been boiling in my stomach, and was about to take flight, until . . .

“I know your pain,” he said.

My pain
.

“I'd like to be friends, Mim.”

I am Mary Iris Malone, and I am not okay
.

“You want to be friends, don't you?”

I am a collection of oddities
 . . .

His grip is aggressive. “We could be more than friends, too.”

A circus of neurons and electrons
 . . .

His breath is warm.

Ready
 . . .

His lips are cold against mine.

Set
 . . .

His tongue—

Go
 . . .

Reaching down deep, my misplaced epiglottis locates a certain milk-soaked hockey puck; it gathers every ounce of the semi-digested beef and dairy, then, with pure force and accuracy, launches a vomit for the ages directly into Poncho Man's mouth.

He chokes, gags,
growls
 . . .

Spinning, I unlock the door and exit the bathroom, breathing in the freedom of the rarely savvy gazelle.

September 2—noon

Dear Isabel,

A quick note: I don't think a vivid imagination is all it's cracked up to be. I'm quite certain you have one, but if not, thank the gods of born-with gifts and move on. However, if you're cursed as I am with a love of storytelling and adventures in galaxies far, far away, and mythical creatures from fictional lands who are more real to you than actual people with blood and bones—which is to say, people who
exist
—
well, let me be the first to pass on my condolences.

Because life is rarely what you imagined it would be.

Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,
Storytelling Lackey