“So what? It doesn’t make any difference. Look at him. He’s not even here.”
“Poor baby. Still, that’s it for Shaman. He can’t do this twice. Mel is his feed hole. Shame’ll starve down there. You can take Mel back to Sandy. He’ll be a hero.”
“What hero? They’ll build a museum around him. Put him in a glass case. He doesn’t know what he is, Nora. There’s nobody in there.”
“That’s because of Shaman. He blew Mel’s mind, is all. It’s like the Sphinx before Tuthmosis: half-buried in the sand.”
“What mind?” Gypsy said. “I’ll bet he cut it off himself when he was a baby, like a trapped rabbit gnaws its foot off. Maybe it’s an impediment down on Earth to be what he is. That’s what made it so easy for Shaman to put a hole in.”
“Izzy tried to patch it. Look.”
They leaned into my face like oral surgeons. Gypsy waved his phony fingers in front of my eyes. I just felt numb. I didn’t want to respond to them yet. I wanted to keep thinking about things I’d seen at rest stops in the west, on Earth I mean.
“It’s a temporary,” Gypsy said.
“Yes. Sloppy work.”
“Goddamn Izzy Molson!” Gypsy said. “Hey, wait a minute! What’s that?” I felt Gypsy’s finger come straight in through my eye to nudge a spot near the filling.
Nora said, “Gone Joe. Guy in Mel’s mind. Looks like he’s trying to squeeze out.”
“Typical. Lot of damage in there, but it’s small stuff, non sequiturs, lacunae, causal gaps, the usual. It’ll heal. Izzy’s bung won’t last more than a few months though. You want to insert anything while we have the chance?”
“For heaven’s sake, no! This is a sovereign person, Gypsy.”
“The hell he is! He’s just an extremity, Abu al-Hawl’s blow hole or something. The Mel Bellow personality thing is just static, a TV ghost. Shaman’s feeding through him, Nora. The guy’s nothing but a junkie’s vein.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Shaman. . . . Look! He’s coming round. Get your hand out of there!”
I started to “come to.” I had been reluctant. You don’t try to land in a volcano. I had plenty of fuel left inside my mind, plenty of things to think about, vivid, fascinating. I didn’t have to join Gypsy and Nora in this impossible reality. But then I heard Nora defend me to him? “a sovereign person”?and things felt much safer.
I made my entrance: “Where are we? What’s going on? Why is it so black out there?” I pretended to be woozy at first, for the sake of continuity. Discontinuity is a terrible enemy of one’s sense of selfhood.
Gypsy looked at his wristwatch, if it was a watch, which hung half through his wrist, if it was a wrist. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’re about a hundred million miles out.”
Gone Joe said, “Run!”
“I don’t want to be here,” I said.
For some reason, this sent Gypsy into a rage. He stormed over to the bus tray station and overturned it, shattering dishes and launching silverware. “Sure. Let’s just turn around. Let’s take you back to Shaman. Maybe we should garnish you with parsley first. I think there’s some in the goddamned kitchen.”
“Careful, Gyp, or you’ll jar us off course,” Nora said, like a nanny admonishing a fractious toddler. “Have we reached the Magellanic Stream?”
“Not quite.” Gypsy stood stock still and glared at me. His fury had distilled itself into a poisonous timbre.
“Let’s do an epochй. We want to make sure Shaman can’t catch up. Go into the kitchen and use the automatic dishwasher.”
“But Nora . . .”
“An epochй, Gypsy. I’ll see if I can get the rabbit’s foot.”
“Ah!” Gypsy turned on his heel, on his fake heel, and shouldered through a padded, swinging door into the kitchen.
“You’re safe with us, Mel,” Nora said. “You know what Shaman would do to you on Earth. Izzy told you, didn’t he?”
“Izzy’ll be back in a year,” I said. “That’s what he told me. On his next vacation. He hasn’t got much seniority.”
I felt better with Gypsy gone. I looked around. Except for Gypsy’s mess and the fact that a few tables remained to be bused, everything looked fine. There was a map of U.S. Route 40 on the wall nearby, with colored lights at the rest stops and interchanges; ours glowed red. The condiments station had plenty of ketchups and mustards, though the relish was getting low; maybe a few more of those tiny paper cups would help, in case of a rush. There were kitschy oil paintings of long-horned steer and cacti over the empty tables. The one over ours had a campfire in the foreground with a circle of chiaroscuro bronco busters; one of the cowpokes had a guitar in his lap. Near the stack of salts and peppers at my elbow, there was a display explaining how you could get prints of the Western Landscape Series for your very own. Everything was fine. Everything was okay.