evil spirits be
good
for business?” she countered. “Wait here.”
I sat with the fornicating koi at my back and the unfinished ice cream in my right hand. I had lost my appetite.
Through the windows of Burke Bailey’s, I could see Fungus Man at the counter. He studied the flavor menu, then placed an order.
Stormy herself didn’t serve him but hovered nearby, behind the counter, on some pretense.
I didn’t like her being in there with him. I sensed that she was in danger.
Although experience has taught me to trust my feelings, I did not go inside to stand guard near her. She had asked me to wait on the bench. I had no intention of crossing her. Like most men, I find it mortifying to be ass-kicked by a woman who doesn’t even weigh 110 pounds
after
Thanksgiving dinner.
If I’d had a lamp and a genie and one wish, I would have wished myself back to Tire World, to the serenity of that showroom with its aisles of soothingly round rubber forms.
I thought of poor Tom Jedd, waving good-bye with his severed arm, and I decided to finish my ice cream, after all. None of us ever knows when he’s approaching the end of his road. Maybe this was the last scoop of coconut cherry chocolate chunk that I’d ever have a chance to eat.
As I finished the final bite, Stormy returned and sat beside me again. “He’s ordered takeout. One quart of maple walnut and one quart of mandarin-orange chocolate.”
“Are the flavors significant?”
“That’s for you to decide. I’m just reporting in. He’s sure one megaweird sonofabitch. I wish you’d just forget about him.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You have a messiah complex, got to save the world.”
“I don’t have a messiah complex. I just have…this gift. It wouldn’t have been given to me if I wasn’t supposed to use it.”
“Maybe it’s not a gift. Maybe it’s a curse.”
“It’s a gift.” Tapping my head, I said, “I’ve still got the box it came in.”
Fungus Man stepped out of Burke Bailey’s. In addition to the two department-store bundles, he carried a quilted, insulated bag that contained the ice cream.
He looked right, looked left, and right again, as though not certain from which direction he had arrived here. His vague smile, which seemed to be as permanent as a tattoo, widened briefly, and he nodded as though in cheerful agreement with something that he’d said to himself.
When Fungus Man began to move, heading upstream toward the waterfall, two bodachs accompanied him. For the moment, the third remained in Burke Bailey’s.
Rising from the bench, I said, “I’ll see you for dinner, Goth Gidget.”
“Try to show up alive,” she said. “Because, remember,
I
can’t see the dead.”
I left her there, all pink and white and sultry, in the palmy tropics with the scent of amorous koi, and I followed the human mushroom to the main entrance of the mall and then out into sunshine almost sharp enough to peel the corneas off my eyes.
The griddle-hot blacktop seemed but one degree cooler than the molten tar pits that had sucked down dinosaurs in distant millennia. The air flash-dried my lips and brought to me that summer scent of desert towns that is a melange of superheated silica, cactus pollen, mesquite resin, the salts of long-dead seas, and exhaust fumes suspended in the motionless dry air like faint nebulae of mineral particles spiraling through rock crystal.
Fungus Man’s dusty Ford Explorer stood in the row behind mine and four spaces farther west. If my psychic magnetism had been any stronger, we would have been parked bumper to bumper.
He opened the tailgate of the SUV and put in the shopping bags. He had brought a Styrofoam cooler to protect the ice cream, and he snugged both quarts in that insulated hamper.
Earlier, I had forgotten to prop the reflective sun barrier against the windshield in the Mustang. It was folded and tucked between the passenger’s seat and the console. Consequently, the steering wheel had grown too
good
for business?” she countered. “Wait here.”
I sat with the fornicating koi at my back and the unfinished ice cream in my right hand. I had lost my appetite.
Through the windows of Burke Bailey’s, I could see Fungus Man at the counter. He studied the flavor menu, then placed an order.
Stormy herself didn’t serve him but hovered nearby, behind the counter, on some pretense.
I didn’t like her being in there with him. I sensed that she was in danger.
Although experience has taught me to trust my feelings, I did not go inside to stand guard near her. She had asked me to wait on the bench. I had no intention of crossing her. Like most men, I find it mortifying to be ass-kicked by a woman who doesn’t even weigh 110 pounds
after
Thanksgiving dinner.
If I’d had a lamp and a genie and one wish, I would have wished myself back to Tire World, to the serenity of that showroom with its aisles of soothingly round rubber forms.
I thought of poor Tom Jedd, waving good-bye with his severed arm, and I decided to finish my ice cream, after all. None of us ever knows when he’s approaching the end of his road. Maybe this was the last scoop of coconut cherry chocolate chunk that I’d ever have a chance to eat.
As I finished the final bite, Stormy returned and sat beside me again. “He’s ordered takeout. One quart of maple walnut and one quart of mandarin-orange chocolate.”
“Are the flavors significant?”
“That’s for you to decide. I’m just reporting in. He’s sure one megaweird sonofabitch. I wish you’d just forget about him.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You have a messiah complex, got to save the world.”
“I don’t have a messiah complex. I just have…this gift. It wouldn’t have been given to me if I wasn’t supposed to use it.”
“Maybe it’s not a gift. Maybe it’s a curse.”
“It’s a gift.” Tapping my head, I said, “I’ve still got the box it came in.”
Fungus Man stepped out of Burke Bailey’s. In addition to the two department-store bundles, he carried a quilted, insulated bag that contained the ice cream.
He looked right, looked left, and right again, as though not certain from which direction he had arrived here. His vague smile, which seemed to be as permanent as a tattoo, widened briefly, and he nodded as though in cheerful agreement with something that he’d said to himself.
When Fungus Man began to move, heading upstream toward the waterfall, two bodachs accompanied him. For the moment, the third remained in Burke Bailey’s.
Rising from the bench, I said, “I’ll see you for dinner, Goth Gidget.”
“Try to show up alive,” she said. “Because, remember,
I
can’t see the dead.”
I left her there, all pink and white and sultry, in the palmy tropics with the scent of amorous koi, and I followed the human mushroom to the main entrance of the mall and then out into sunshine almost sharp enough to peel the corneas off my eyes.
The griddle-hot blacktop seemed but one degree cooler than the molten tar pits that had sucked down dinosaurs in distant millennia. The air flash-dried my lips and brought to me that summer scent of desert towns that is a melange of superheated silica, cactus pollen, mesquite resin, the salts of long-dead seas, and exhaust fumes suspended in the motionless dry air like faint nebulae of mineral particles spiraling through rock crystal.
Fungus Man’s dusty Ford Explorer stood in the row behind mine and four spaces farther west. If my psychic magnetism had been any stronger, we would have been parked bumper to bumper.
He opened the tailgate of the SUV and put in the shopping bags. He had brought a Styrofoam cooler to protect the ice cream, and he snugged both quarts in that insulated hamper.
Earlier, I had forgotten to prop the reflective sun barrier against the windshield in the Mustang. It was folded and tucked between the passenger’s seat and the console. Consequently, the steering wheel had grown too
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