Read Online Happy Mutant Baby Pills by Jerry Stahl - Free Book Online Page B

bus was a little like prison, where every gesture had to be interpreted. Was that nod from the con with the cross and swastika on his neck meant to convey Jesus loves you or I’m going to hike your legs up and shank you in the shower while I fuck you ? (The latter, by the way, was something no one said to me the entire time I was behind bars. Though I could not, I will be the first to admit, stop dreading it.)
    In the slow strobe light of the highway it was impossible to tell if he was deep black or an albino. Just that there was something strange about that square head, and the big face so set and hard that the finger church and the light dancing off his aviators were the only signs of life. The rest was pure dead menace.
    My new almost-friend and heart’s desire caught me staring and pulled a loose, chewed-on cigarette from her jacket pocket. Flipped it in her mouth. I waited, with some kind of fascination, to see if she was actually going to light up. Then she took it out again, plucked a shred of tobacco off her pouty lower lip and put the cigarette back in her pocket. She started to say something. I assumed it would be about the prince of men I’d just been staring at. But each time I thought she was going to speak, she stopped herself.

NINE
    Was I the Creepy Stranger?
    Something irregular and beautiful was happening outside. Yellow lightning. Burning veins in the sky. It made me conscious of my own non-burning veins. They hadn’t been fed in a while. My seatmate, whose name, I realized, I still didn’t know—possibly because I hadn’t asked—raised an eyebrow at me, then faced the window. She seemed, on first view, the kind of young woman who didn’t care all that much about her appearance. After even a sneaky glance—all I’d allowed myself, out of some sudden flush of discretion—it seemed unlikely those breasts could have sprouted without surgical assistance. But what did I know? I was never one of those guys who drooled over giant bra-stuffers. The truth (possibly more mortifying) is that I was not one who went after any “type” in particular; no, my kind of girl, from teen-hood on, was any girl who liked me.
    It’s like, we were connected. But not. Had not even exchanged names.
    Was I the creepy stranger who wouldn’t shut up—or was I acknowledging a deep and unexpected soul connection? And when, exactly, had I started channeling Oprah?
    â€œYou saw Lurch, right?” she said. “The creep with the glasses?”
    â€œHard to miss.”
    For a second she didn’t say anything, then she did.
    â€œEver think somebody was trying to kill you?” She spoke without turning toward me, just as some hyped-up semi went flying by what felt like inches from our window. The truck had a high-pitched, unsteady whine that faded in its wake.
    â€œSomebody’s trying to kill you?” I said over the noise. “Does this have something to do with ‘Hang in There’? The kitten on the branch? Your iteration of it?”
    Now she did turn around. Fast and accusatory. “What? Are you giving me shit?”
    Oh man. I knew what she said. But maybe I didn’t. Or maybe she didn’t want to say it just then. Maybe all life, when you boiled it down, was a series of wrong assumptions. Mine anyway. I just didn’t want to be an asshole. Anymore. I’d been off drugs for what seemed like ages—at least a day and a half. Drugs made Lloyd feel like an asshole, and Lloyd needed more drugs to deal with that. Especially when Lloyd was trying to say no to drugs. When Lloyd had promised himself he wasn’t going to do drugs anymore. Which of course just made Lloyd— e-nough !
    If she hadn’t been there I would have banged the heel of my hand off my forehead. Screamed at myself to shut up or stop in much the same manner that famed TV reverend Peter Popoff smacks seekers’ foreheads and yells, “Heal!” when