'Pure? No, that wasn't it. But I started to think of the last fifteen years or so like some kind of grotesque Monopoly game. Francis Gary Powers gets shot down in his U-2. Lose one turn. Niggers dispersed by fire hoses in Selma. Go directly to jail. Freedom riders shotgunned in Mississippi, marches, rallies, Lester Maddox with his ax handle, Kennedy getting blown up in Dallas, Viet Nam, more marches, Kent State, student strikes, women's liberation, and all for what? So a bunch of heads can sit around stoned in a crummy apartment watching Bob Hope? Fuck that. So I decided to split.'
'What about Jeff?'
She shrugged. 'He has a scholarship. He's doing good. He says he's going to come out next summer, but I won't look for him until I see him. ' There was a peculiar disillusioned expression on her face that probably felt like hardy forebearance on the inside.
'Do you miss him?'
'Every night.'
'Why Vegas? Do you know someone out there?'
'No.'
'It seems like a funny place for an idealist.'
'Is that what you think I am?' She laughed and lit a cigarette. 'Maybe. But I don't think an ideal needs any particular setting. I want to see that city. It's so different from the rest of the country that it must be good. But I'm not going to gamble. I'm just going to get a job.'
'Then what?'
She blew out smoke and shrugged. They were passing a sign that said:
LANDY 5 MILES
'Try to get something together,' she said. 'I'm not going to put any dope in my head for a long time and I'm going to quit these.' She gestured her cigarette in the air, and it made an accidental circle, as if it knew a different truth. 'I'm going to stop pretending my life hasn't started yet. It has. It's twenty percent over. I've drunk the cream.'
'Look. There's the turnpike entrance.'
He pulled over to the side.
'What about you, man? What are you going to do?'
Carefully, he said: 'See what develops. Keep my options open.'
She said: 'You're not in such hot shape, if you don't mind me saying so. '
'No, I don't mind. '
'Here. Take this.' She was holding out a small aluminum packet between the first and second fingers of her right hand.
He took it and looked at it. The foil caught the bright morning sun and heliographed darts of light at his eyes. 'What is it?'
'Product four synthetic mescaline. The heaviest, cleanest chemical ever made.' She hesitated. 'Maybe you should just flush it down the john when you get home. It might fuck you up worse than you are. But it might help. I've heard of it.'
'Have you ever seen it?'
She smiled bitterly. 'No.'
'Will you do something for me? If you can?'
'If I can.'
'Call me on Christmas day.'
'Why?'
'You're like a book I haven't finished. I want to know how a little more of it comes out. Make it a collect call. Here, I'll write down the number.'
He was fumbling a pen out of his pocket when she said, 'No.'
He looked at her, puzzled and hurt. 'No?'
'I can get the number from directory assistance if I need it. But maybe it would be best not to.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. I like you, but it's like someone put a hurtin' on you. I can't explain. It's like you were going to do something really bonkers.'
'You think I'm a fruitcake,' he heard himself say. 'Well, fuck you.'
She got out of the car stiffly. He leaned over. 'Olivia-'
'Maybe that's not my name.'
'Maybe it is. Please call.'
'Be careful with that stuff,' she said, pointing at the little aluminum packet. 'You're space walking, too.'
'Good-bye. Be careful.'
