liked him – which is a lot – I’d have to be moving on. I told him about meeting the DJ at Jim Bridger’s grave. Longshot understood. And because he did understand, because he honestly cared to, I told him the short version of my life.
When I had finished, he said, ‘I don’t think you’re crazy. You’re kinda intense and slippery and taken with some fancies. I’ve gotten out there myself, more than once to tell the truth, and I always got back.’
‘How?’ Imagine my eagerness.
‘Well, I have a kind of unusual method. Works good for me, but it’s on the order of fightin’ fire with fire. I get an ounce of blow and a fast car and drive straight to Kansas City, then turn around without stoppin’ and drive right back. Reams out the sludge.’
I tell you, that man is charming. And since I’d hoped he’d beg me to stay, preferably forever, I was a little depressed. But let me tell you, a little depression is no problem for a woman with nearly two hundred thousand dollars in her purse.
First, with Longshot’s help (he seems to know everybody), I spent five grand on a new identity. Clicked my picture and rolled my thumb, and an hour later I was Susanna Rapp.
I bought a brand-new cardinal Porsche. Seventy thousand. I was cheering up.
I felt good enough about myself then to buy clothes. Ten thousand dollars – but that includes luggage and shoes.
I bought Longshot a big silver belt buckle with two glazed plastic eyeballs glued to it. Engraved around the edges is the motto: ‘The eyes of Texas are upon you.’
Longshot said, ‘The best thing about being crazy is you can do crazy things.’
From Longshot I bought an ounce of cocaine and an ounce of weed and twenty Quaaludes – all for a grand. He claimed that since the drugs were for therapeutic purposes, not recreational, he was honor bound to sell at cost. When I asked point-blank if he was a drug dealer, he said with that easy grin, ‘Not really. I stock up for hard times when there’s quality available. Long shots wouldn’t be long shots if they always came in.’
His farewell kiss had true affection. He said his arms would always be open. As we said in junior high, ‘Is that cool, or what?’ He was wearing his ‘Eyes of Texas’ belt buckle when he waved good-bye.
I decided I couldn’t spend a thousand dollars on drugs without spending at least that much on Mia. She’d been sleeping ever since her nightmare in the barn. I tried to wake her up for a little mother- daughter shopping spree. When I couldn’t wake her, I almost panicked. But I could hear her heartbeat, slow but strong.
I tried to imagine what she was dreaming, what she was doing, but I couldn’t get inside her. I think she’s in a trance, maybe trying to imagine something herself. We have to imagine each other to reach each other, so maybe that’s why I feel blocked out. That’s okay. I have to trust her to know what’s best for herself.
But for that moment I thought she was dead, so scared my first instinct was to rush her to the hospital. That’s what I’ve got to be careful about – acting as if she were real. That’s when I get in trouble. Terror makes me forget. Pain makes me forget.
I bought Mia an amazingly soft, thick, pale-blue silk comforter big enough for a double bed. I wrapped it around her in the backseat, fluffed the two matching plush pillows to cushion her head.
I’m sitting in my Porsche at Uncle Bill’s Bugle Burger Drive-In, where I’ve just finished half a Bugle Burger and both a large and a medium Pepsi. As Longshot warned, cocaine discourages gluttony for anything but cocaine. Sure makes you thirsty, though. Better buy a case of mineral water before I hit the road.
My new Easter outfit, a back-zippered sheath with a slit skirt, is made of raw silk, the color of buffed cream, the lines clean and supple. My Easter bonnet is a wide-brimmed straw hat, airy and light, with a rainbow of silks braided around the crown, the unraveled ends trailing down my shoulders like a waterfall of color. I’m wearing these crazy platform shoes with a four-leaf clover cast into each of the three-inch clear-plastic heels. Keep luck rolling. I also bought a sleek black suit with a black hat and veil for the meeting with the DJ on Jim Bridger’s grave.
Now for a few toots and the long highway to Wyoming. I’ll have plenty of drugs left for the DJ. I’m already a little tired of them. That’s how I’ve always been – I adore them for a while, but then I get tired of the same point of view all the time.
On my road map, I–80 looks like the straightest shot to eastern Wyoming. But I’m intrigued by Highway 50, which is so barren on the map there’s plenty of room to note: ‘Highway 50, the Loneliest Highway in the World.’ That sounded like a tourist attraction for explorers of the psyche, something of a lonesome highway itself. From 50 I can cut north to Wyoming. A difference of hours. If the DJ is serious, he’ll wait. If he isn’t there, I’ll be so heartbroken crazy I’ll give Longshot’s cure a shot and fight fire with fire, wired to Kansas City and burning the return. I shall return. But now I’ve got to go.
