The Road Virus was heading north, all right, coming up Route 1
just as he had. The blond's left arm was still cocked out the
window, but it had rotated enough back toward its original position
so that Kinnell could no longer see the tattoo. But he knew it was
there, didn't he? Yes, you bet.
The blond kid looked like a Metallica fan who had escaped from a
mental asylum for the criminally insane.
'Jesus,' Kinnell whispered, and the word seemed to come from
someplace else, not from him. The strength suddenly ran out of his
body, ran out like water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom,
and he sat down heavily on the curb separating the parking lot
from the dog-walking zone. He suddenly understood that this was
the truth he'd missed in all his fiction, this was how people really
reacted when they came face-to-face with something which made
no rational sense. You felt as if you were bleeding to death, only
inside your head.
'No wonder the guy who painted it killed himself,' he croaked,
still staring at the picture, at the ferocious grin, at the eyes that
were both shrewd and stupid.
There was a note pinned to his shirt, Mrs. Diment had said. 'I can't
stand what's happening to me. ' Isn't that awful, Mr. Kinnell?
Yes, it was awful, all right.
Really awful.
He got up, gripping the picture by its top, then strode across the
dog-walking area. He kept his eyes trained strictly in front of him,
looking for canine land mines. He did not look down at the picture.
His legs felt trembly and untrustworthy, but they seemed to
support him all right. just ahead, close to the belt of trees at the rear
of the service area, was a pretty young thing in white shorts and a
red halter. She was walking a cocker spaniel. She began to smile at
Kinnell, then saw something in his face that straightened her lips
out in a hurry. She headed left, and fast. The cocker didn't want to
go that fast so she dragged it, coughing, in her wake.
The scrubby pines behind the service area sloped down to a boggy
area that stank of plant and animal decomposition. The carpet of
pine needles was a road litter fallout zone: burger wrappers, paper
soft drink cups, TCBY napkins, beer cans, empty wine-cooler
bottles, cigarette butts. He saw a used condom lying like a dead
snail next to a torn pair of panties with the word TUESDAY
stitched on them in cursive girly-girl script.
Now that he was here, he chanced another look down at the
picture. He steeled himself for further changes even for the
possibility that the painting would be in motion, like a movie in a
frame - but there was none. There didn't have to be, Kinnell
realized; the blond kid's face was enough. That stone-crazy grin.
Those pointed teeth. The face said, Hey, old man, guess what? I'm
done fucking with civilization. I'm a representative of the real
generation X, the next millennium is tight here behind the wheel of
this fine, high-steppin' mo-sheen.
