'But maybe some of us are more powerless than others. It's a white bomb, dig.' And his voice changes here, goes redneck and drawly 'It's our bomb. Moscow and Washington. Think about it, man. White people control this bomb.'
The idea delights him.
'You look down at Watts. You look up at Harlem. And you say, Fuck with our chicks, man, we drop the bomb. Better end the world than mix the races.'
He goes into a bopster's finger-snapping slouch.
'Because we'd rather kill everybody than share our women.'
Then the lights went out. Just like that. The spotlight, the bar lights, the exit signs-all out. A vague shape, Lenny's, could be seen moving sort of experimentally toward the large metal door that opened directly onto the street and the customers up front might have heard him muttering, 'Return to seat, return to seat.'
A rustle in the audience, a few heads turning, several people standing uncertainly. Were they thinking maybe this is it, a bomb, an airburst? Didn't the electromagnetic pulse from a test shot in the Pacific send massive currents surging through power lines in Honolulu, only recently, blowing out lights and setting off burglar alarms all over the island?
The lights came on. The spotlight shone on an empty stage. The field-stone wall had never looked more naked and fake. And there was Lenny, standing about a yard and a half from the exit. He came walking slowly stageward, mimicking a person sneaking back into a room, relieved and abashed, and they waited for him to say something that would pay off the long tense moment and shake them with laughter and he reached the stage and lifted the dangling mike and put it to his face and it began to screech and crackle and then the lights went out again and the afterimage of Lenny's tallowy face stuck to every retina in the house, half a scared smirk across his mouth, and the baby started crying.
When the lights came back on, a twenty-second lifetime later, the stage was empty, the metal door was ajar, the show was evidently over.
There were weeks went by when we barely slept. We were together every hour of the day and night for three or four weeks, much of it, most of it in her car, eating and sleeping there, having sex in her car, sleeping and waking up and looking around and it was still dark, or still light, depending, and finally we'd stop driving for one reason or another, logical or not, and life'd slow down enough so things could happen normally in rooms but only until it was time to go again and she'd rumble up in the 1950 Merc, chassis lowered and driveline slightly souped, and we were headed west again.
'Don't tell me your dreams,' I said.
'But you have to hear.'
'I don't want to hear.'
'Oh you bastard, you have to hear,' Amy said, 'because everything that happens has to happen to both of us.'
'Don't you know people don't want to hear other people's dreams?'
'Oh you bastard, what other people? Who are these other people?'
'Watch the road.'
'Every smallest thought we said we'd share.'
'Watch the road. Drive the car,' I told her.
And once I dropped her off in Santa Fe, where she had family friends, and kept the car myself and didn't play the radio or read the newspaper and she caught up with me a week later in a miners' bar in Bisbee, Arizona and we played a flirty game of liar's poker and climbed the high tight streets and felt a thing so powerful, and knew the other felt it, that we thought our faces might ignite.
'It was a mountain dream. A high clear place near a lake.'
'Don't you know dreams are only interesting to the dreamer?'
'Think you're so worldly-wise. You're awful smart for a foreigner.'
'Drive the car.'
'Who only learned English when he left New York.'
Amy was tall and competent and looked good in jeans. She knew how to do things and make things and even her good looks were competent, a straightforward sort of ableness, open and clear-eyed, with a smatter of fading freckles and a dirty-minded smile.
And once we were in Yankton, South Dakota, early on that summer, and the movie theater was just letting out, the Dakota it was called, with a bright tile facade and Audie Murphy on the marquee, and the young people of Yankton got in their cars and drove up and down the main drag and we drove with them, nearly falling asleep, and we went to drive-in movies and talked about life and we rode across prairies and talked about movies and we drove through car washes and read poetry aloud, one of us to the other, and soapy water slid down the windows.
Her car was black and hooded-looking and we thought we were phantoms of the road, djinns who could pee unseen in the country dust. She didn't want me to know her father had given her the car. A graduation gift. But this was a thing I knew because one of her brothers had told me and the other thing I knew was that she'd drop me cold when the trip was done.
'You know what's interesting about you? You say you want to share the smallest thought. But what's interesting about you,' I said, 'is that you're going to forget everything we said and everything we did and every thought we shared the minute.'
'No.'
'The minute.'
'No.'
'The minute we say goodbye. Because you know what you are? A practical hardheaded more or less calculating individual who is planning ten years ahead and knows every passing minute for what it is.'
'What is it?'
'A thing you drain every drop of juice from so you can forget it in the morning.'
And once we stopped at some stables and she tried to teach me to ride but I got up there and got down again and would not get back up and she rode off with the Indian who led the expeditions, into the cool hills.
She said, 'What's wrong with that?'
'I'm just talking.'
She said, 'Draining every minute. What's wrong with that?'
'I'm talking.'
'And I haven't told you everything. So don't accuse,' she said.
'You've told me everything twice.'
'You are such a bastard.'
'Tell me things you haven't told me. Go ahead. Shock me,' I said. 'You're not shocking me.'
She could make and fix things and she liked to talk about the Brookhiser family, the grandparents and pioneer women and gold-panners and all the far-flung offspring of the old rugged stock.
And once we stayed with her oldest brother, an architect, sleeping in separate rooms-she seemed to have brothers everywhere. This one lived near Yuma in a lopsided house he'd built himself, skewed for effect, out of railroad ties and stucco and stamped tin, and Amy was in an elevated state, looking sideways at the place.
We were partly out of our minds from driving and we talked at each other across half a major state, pretty much nonstop, and we had the chemistry of a whole long brutal marriage compressed into weeks, the twang in the air of a thing that stays unadjusted, and we also had the feeling it was wrong to sleep because we could be saying something awful and important.
And once we drove along a dirt road somewhere near Ruby, Arizona and saw four men on horseback driving a bull, a humped bull of amazing size, nearly unreal, and we stopped not only to watch and not only because we thought the animal might charge a moving car but out of a strange and pagan respect, an animal so awesome, a Brahma bull, and the cowboys waved and drove the bull down the red dirt road.
'I have these tantrums in my mind,' she said, 'where you'd hate me if I told you these raging throwing things
