The Flying Troutmans (8 page)

We were quiet, watching dragonflies and braiding grass.

This is way better than being in Paris with that Gandhi guy, right? she said.

Logan stared off at the highway. I admired his tactful restraint. I liked the way he didn't
always
correct her, how he sometimes just turned away and let things go.

Driving the home stretch into Murdo. It was a tiny, innocuous speck of a thing on the map, but for us, at least for me, it loomed large suddenly like the shadow of King Kong, or like we were approaching the Kandahar city limits in the back of a U.S. tank with a giant American flag. It scared me. I had no plan, really. Well, I had a plan. I had an outcome planned. But I had no real plan that would logically get me to the plan's outcome, which was, of course, to find Cherkis and beg him to take care of his kids. I didn't want to. I didn't know how to. I didn't know what to say to them or how to comfort them. I wondered if Min believed in a random world or one with a divine purpose. There were so many things we hadn't talked about and now it all seemed too late. Sometimes she could pull the parenting thing off on her own, get things done, function, we'd laugh on the phone, I'd visit maybe once a year, it was fun, normal, but then…who knows what happened. Water through her fingers. Sand, air. It slipped away.

 

When I was eight years old I spent an entire week living among three wards of the biggest hospital in town. My father was having his gallbladder removed, my mother was having a balloon inserted somewhere into her body and Min was locked up in the psych ward. I would spend twenty minutes, silently, at each bedside, and then spend twenty minutes searching every vending machine for change. Then I'd spend twenty minutes reading trashy magazines in
whichever waiting area I felt like sitting in, and then I'd start all over again. It was really important to me that every thing I did in the hospital lasted no more and no less than twenty minutes. It was my twenty-minute survival plan. You can do anything for twenty minutes. You can survive. Maybe not underwater, but otherwise.

Did you know, said Thebes, that most but not all secret agents have blue eyes?

No, I said.

 

There was a pen museum in Murdo, apparently. I saw one of those beat-up signs on wheels by the side of the road. Someone had changed the museum's “slogan” to The Penis Mightier Than the S Word. I willed Thebes not to comment on it but she was busy constructing something less mighty in the back seat anyway and didn't notice. Someone who has a
pen museum
in a place like Murdo could very well have known Cherkis, who after all had a
crap museum
in Murdo, and how many whacked-out DIY curators can live in a town this size without knowing each other?

I followed the directions to a storefront on Main Street. Logan and Thebes were suddenly very alert, like we were poised to launch a sting op and bring it all down.

Right there, said Logan. He pointed at the building.

Thebes jumped out of the van before I could put it in park. She was carrying another one of her homemade novelty cheques, written out to Cherkis for a thousand dollars. Logan got a million, I thought. How does she decide, or does she just run out of space for zeros and then quit?

Thebes, I said, I don't think he's here any more. I'm just gonna talk to whoever
is
here and find out if they know where he
might
be.

Cool, baby, cool, said Thebes. The wind was howling and she was struggling to keep herself and the giant cheque from flying away. Logan had his security blanket ball with him and threw it once against the side of the van and said, Coming? We went into the pen museum together.

A middle-aged woman sat like Christ in the Last Supper at a long wooden table covered with stuff, mostly pens, yeah, and we all said hi.

Are you here to see the pens? she asked.

Um, well, yeah, I said. But I also—

So, that'll be, um…she was doing some mental math that for the final sum seemed a tad laborious…three dollars altogether. One each. What is that? she asked Thebes.

A cheque, said Thebes.

I gave the woman three bucks and the kids and I scanned the pens for about a minute until I could muster up the guts to pop the question. So, uh, excuse me, I said to the woman, these are righteous pens but would you happen to know or to have known a guy named Cherkis who lived around here years ago and also had a small museum/gallery thing? Outside of town maybe? Like, in a field? In an old house?

Yeah, of course I knew Cherkis, she said. Are you his wife?

I said no.

Girlfriend?

No, no.

Ex-girlfriend? she asked.

No, just an old friend from high school, I said, like back in Canada. We're travelling around, me and, uh, these guys, and I remembered that he used to live here and I thought maybe he still did and I'd pop in on him and say hello. Thebes sucked in some air, loudly. I thought about putting her in a headlock and clamping my hand over her mouth.

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.