Ambience was up. Ambience was down. Ambience was up and down. She didn’t know why. Internal weather. Today’s forecast: more of the same. Stuff just happened. All that funky chemistry popping and fizzing through your vitals. Making you happy, making you sad. Is that all everything truly was? Everything? Really?
Big event of the day: we’re out of cat food.
She grabbed a wad of cash from the honey bag that Graveyard insisted be kept “hidden” in a corner of the bedroom closet under a smelly pile of his dirty clothes. For easy access, he claimed. She sniffed the money. It seemed to be still retaining that swoony, fresh vault odor. And in her hand, it looked good and felt good, too. But best of all, of course, was watching it leave your hand. You passed out these strange little scraps of paper, and what did you get in return? Your own desires, magically materialized and solidified into shiny things you could hold, look at, fondle, ride, eat, put on and take off, talk back to, caress, break, forget about, or even toss in the trash. Every transaction a little miracle. She still couldn’t seem to get over the sheer wonder of it all. Okay, she felt better now. Ready for the expedition to the corner deli. She practically skipped down the five flights of stairs and out into the surprise of a Mammoth City August. Who knew it could be so damn sweltering outside the refrigerated extravagance of her apartment, its pleasant autumn atmosphere created and controlled by the newly installed Air Process System by Tundra? She broke into a messy sweat after just a couple of blocks. If she’d known it was this jungly out on the street, she would have called. Had the cans of VarmintVittles delivered. She reached the corner, held her hand for one singular second on the front-door push strip of the HappyFarmSunnyPasturesBigCountry bodega, and then, for some reason or other, abruptly turned and went right on past. She didn’t know where she was going. She just followed her feet. Took a left at Short Alley, cut across Paling Lane, went on down to Stile Street, and then took another left at Roundabout Square. All these old-fashioned twisty streets with old-timey names made up of real letters, not numbers. Hadn’t taken her long to realize that her favorite parts of her favorite town were the twisty parts. People told her (the people who are usually described as friends and family) not to move to that horrid sewer. Ever. When she first blew into Mammoth City, about a hundred million years ago now, bursting with pop fantasies, dumb yearnings, and a fanny pack full of nutso hope, she was told repeatedly, don’t ever, on the street or in the subway, ever dare to look anyone directly in the eye. It’s like provoking the bull. But everywhere she went everybody was looking at everybody else. Real hard. So she joined the crowd. And no one seemed to mind. People liked being looked at. As did she. And most of the lookers appeared fairly reasonable and fairly satisfied. And people who looked reasonable and satisfied were people you probably need not fear. Or so she liked to believe. Plus she really loved the whole crazy cultural gumbo that made up her big, loud city. All these wonderful hungry souls, pushing and shoving against life, crawling and climbing all over each other. One big-top flavor mash-up. It made her feel connected. To what, she wasn’t sure. But she liked the feel. She knew, of course, that there were plenty of folks who hated what she liked. Too many originals for them, not enough copies. Too much of you know. All the dissonance made them feel angry. Too bad for them. Her city, the city she loved, was obviously a preview, for everyone, of the future, of, like it or not, the life to come on this spinning mudball, if there was ever to be a to-be.
When her feet finally stopped, she found herself in front of Pirates&Prostitutes, a wilderness outpost owned and operated by her other BFF, CarnyDoll. All product in the store related, in ways both obvious and arcane, to standard consumer fantasias of those two perennially popular occupations. All your pirate and prostitute needs conveniently located in one nearby outlet. Out of the back room CarnyDoll ran a side business selling marked-down knockoffs of the brainiacPhone8 for a tidy profit. She did what she had to do. Where’d she get the cells? Don’t ask. These were troubled times.
In her weaker moments Ambience wanted to be CarnyDoll. In her stronger moments, or whatever kind of moments those were, she kinda hated her. Mostly, though, she just liked her a lot.
CarnyDoll was wearing a T-shirt that said: PRAY FOR BEAUTY. She had just been unpacking her latest shipment: a box of black leather bustiers with nasty white leather skulls sewn across each cup. She held one up to her chest.
“For the ultimate slut,” she said. She laughed her husky, whiskey-soaked laugh. “We should sell a ton of these.”
She showed Ambience her latest acquisitions: thigh-high boots that laced up the back, white silk puffy shirts, miniature treasure chests crammed with magnum-size black condoms, eye patches you could see through, a lavishly illustrated coffee-table book entitled Whore Culture, recent street fragrances from the House of Sweet Delay—GutterBalm and the trending AlleyOops—and suede-lined shackles for the delicate masochist.
“I plan on getting His Nibs into these tonight,” said CarnyDoll. “And losing the key.”
She had already worked her way through two loser husbands and was now looking to ditch the latest loser boyfriend.
“He’s a real barnacle,” she said. “I feel I have to pry him off with a stick.”
“Where in God’s name do you find these dickheads?”
“Where you usually find ’em. In the dicking place.”
Ambience figured she had probably come over here to tell CarnyDoll about the recent and amazing improvement in her financial health. So she did. The Uncle Parsnips version.
“Nice,” said CarnyDoll.
“What?” said Ambience. “That’s all? That’s your total reaction? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The whole thing is kinda mind-blowing, don’tcha think?”
CarnyDoll shrugged. “People die,” she said. “None of ’em’s yet figured out a way to take it with ’em. Dough’s gotta go someplace. Looks like it was your turn.”
“You jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“But it’s money. Lots and lots of money. It’s a bunch of magic paper you never expected to have that you can trade for some fun you were never gonna have.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Well, you don’t look it.”
“Whaddya want me to do? Squeal and clap my hands?”
“You certainly don’t have to hop up and down, but a hug would have been nice.”
So CarnyDoll hugged her.
“Thanks,” said Ambience.
“Let’s say we shut this sucker down,” said CarnyDoll. She walked over to the front door. She turned the sign in the window to CLOSED. She locked the door.
“Every time I come over you shut the store,” said Ambience. “How good can that be for business?”
“Probably not very. But you know what? For me, personally, it’s pretty damn great.” She pulled a bottle of MistyBog and a couple of shot glasses out from under the counter and filled them both.
“I haven’t even eaten anything yet today,” said Ambience.
“All the better,” said CarnyDoll. She raised her glass. “Pennies from heaven,” she said. “For you and for me.” They clinked glasses. They had another shot. And another. And another. And after that, who cared?
“Know what we should do?” said CarnyDoll.
“What?”
“Get our palms read.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I never joke about the future.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You honestly believe in that old con?”
“Define believe.”
“So why should we do this again?”
“Cause we don’t believe in any of it, and we’re drunk?”
“This where I’m supposed to say, ‘Sounds good to me’?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Okay. ‘Sounds good to me.’”
They covered the five and a half blocks to Palms, Cards, and Balls in record time. When they were drunk, they walked faster. Though Ambience found herself struggling to keep up with CarnyDoll’s surprisingly ferocious pace.
“I don’t see how you can move so fast in those spikes,” she said. CarnyDoll liked to parade around in the high-altitude footwear generally favored by women in show business and/or street business. That’s how she styled.
“My dogs be barkin’ if they ain’t in ’em,” she said. She pressed the painted blue buzzer next to the painted red door. From inside they could hear a lot of screaming and crying. From numerous age groups. They waited.
“Maybe we should leave,” said Ambience.
CarnyDoll hit the buzzer again. After another minute or so, they heard a female voice from inside. “Coming at’cha,” it said, getting louder. “Coming at’cha.”
Then the sound of one lock being opened, a second lock being opened, a third lock being opened, and the door opening. It was Madame Doodah herself. All six impossible feet of her. She was dark and bony and looked exactly like someone who had crossed a big ocean under unspeakable conditions in order to one day pose in all her majestic grandeur in this specific narrow doorway before a couple of suitably impressed white girls. Around her head were wrapped five or six scarves of colors there were probably no proper names for. She had serious door-knocker earrings. She had a light mustache that appeared to have been actually penciled in. She spoke in an intermittently thick guttural accent of no recognizable origin. She was the whole package. Ambience was thrilled.
“Welcome,” Madame Doodah said, and to CarnyDoll, “Good to see you again.”
Ambience looked at CarnyDoll. CarnyDoll shrugged.
“Please, please, enter,” Madame Doodah said, ushering them into a cramped room with heavy purple velvet drapes covering every wall. “Excuse, please,” she said, plucking at the frayed lapel of the faded blue bathrobe she wore. Bits of crumpled tissue protruded from every pocket and every sleeve and from between her family-size lady lumps. “I feel better than I look,” she said.
“We can come back,” said Ambience.
“No, no, pay no mind,” said Madame Doodah. “All’s okay. Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a beat-up pair of metal folding chairs. They sat. Madame Doodah lowered herself into a massive mahogany throne, its high backboard decorated with a carved hodgepodge of indecipherable signs and symbols.
“Who’s first?” said Madame Doodah.
CarnyDoll plopped her arm down on the card table between them as if dropping a lamb shank onto a butcher’s block.
“So eager,” said Madame Doodah.
“I’ve got places to go.”
Madame Doodah took CarnyDoll’s hand and peered into the palm. She muttered. She sighed. She peered harder. Finally she leaned back and looked CarnyDoll in the face. “Same,” she said. “Same, same, same.” She brushed the hand away. “Nothing but same. Why do you keep coming back here?”
“I’m an optimist,” said CarnyDoll. “I keep hoping you’ll find something different.”
“What different? The lines never lie. You understand? Once the lines are written, they are written forever. Nothing I can do.”
“I’ve been doing hand exercises,” said CarnyDoll.
“Nothing.”
“I think I’ve been developing some new wrinkles. They’re faint, but I think there’s something there. Baby squiggles. Wanna see?”
Madame Doodah waved her off. “No babies. No squiggles.”
“You could at least take a look.”
“No need.”
“Your attitude doesn’t seem too professional to me.”
“I am top professional in Mammoth City area.”
“And this is how you retain clients? By ignoring and insulting them? What kind of businesswoman are you?”
“You keep coming back.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“Well.” Madame Doodah rolled her big bloodshot eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell people what they want to hear? What they’re paying to hear? Isn’t that how everyone makes money?”
“I’m not everyone. I am a prophetess.”
“And a damn poor one. In both senses of the word.”
“Tell a lie and you chip at the heart. Tell too many lies and you break your Ouija board. Where you are in the world you cannot find ever again. You truly want to be that lost?”
“A con artist with integrity. I admire that.”
“If you possess integrity, you cannot be a con artist.”
“Well, good luck in business with that attitude.”
“I am not in business. I am in navigation. You understand?”
“You wouldn’t even fudge the truth one tiny bit to make a quick buck?”
“No.”
“Not the teensiest, weensiest little fib?”
“No.”
“I can see why you live in a storefront.”
“I live where circumstances suit me best. I will not put my talent in danger.”
“What’s wrong with your palm?” said Ambience, slightly freaked by the exchange. A superstitious side of her friend she’d never seen before. The girl was a constant carnival.
“Ask her,” said CarnyDoll. “Apparently all my critical crap connects to all my other critical crap. And in all the wrong places. It’s like a road map to hell.”
“Hardly,” said Madame Doodah. “You exaggerate, I think.”
“What’d she tell you that was so awful?” said Ambience.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something about my Goody line being abnormally short to begin with and right before it ends it intersects with my Needy line and that can’t be good, can it? Also, my Want line steers totally clear of my Credit mound. So you can see where that leaves me. Somewhere around loveless, friendless, penniless.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Madame Doodah. “You have a very nice Liability line.”
“Thank you, Madame Sunbeam,” said CarnyDoll. “I don’t think I’m coming back here again.”
“Fine. Your choice. Now, may I read your sister?”
“She’s not my sister.”
“So you say,” said Madame Doodah. She turned to Ambience. “Now, let’s see what we have here. Give me your outer hand, darling.”
“Which one is that?”
“The one you write with.”
“My right.”
“Let’s see that one.”
She took Ambience’s right hand, pressed gently a couple of times into the pad of flesh beneath her thumb. “Oh,” she said. “Very pretty. Very nice.”
“What? My lines?”
“Your hand. It’s quite beautiful. So soft. The fingers so well shaped.”
“Thanks. I try to use them as little as possible.”
“But they shake so.”
“I guess I’m a bit nervous.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“You, I think.”
“How silly.”
“I think I’m afraid of what you’re going to tell me.”
“Oh, nonsense. What I say to you, you already know. You know that.”
“Okay.”
“You like boys, I see.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Several islands here on your Valentine line.”
“Is that good?”
“Let’s skip over those for the moment. You have a problem with money, yes?”
Ambience looked at CarnyDoll. “I don’t think so. I mean, I like money. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Maybe she’ll have to break up with it,” said CarnyDoll, giving her the bad boyfriend smirk.
“Not unheard of.”
“That’s a good one. How do you break up with money?”
“Abracadabra. You quit touching it.”
“What? Like, physically?”
Madame Doodah nodded.
“Why would you want to do that?” said CarnyDoll.
“Money is vile,” said Madame Doodah. “Full of the history. Old quarrels, old diseases, old curses.”
“I notice you don’t seem to have much of a problem handling the stuff.”
“I know the secrets. That old stink don’t stick to me.”
“How lucky for you. Where can I get a deodorant like that?”
“Not for sale.”
“Okay,” said CarnyDoll. “I’m done. Let’s get outta here.”
“But I haven’t even heard my fortune,” said Ambience.
“You really want to?” said CarnyDoll.
“How bad could it be?”
“Fine. Your funeral.”
Madame Doodah took up Ambience’s hand again and peered into its sweaty palm. “You will have a long and prosperous life,” she said.
“Okay,” said Ambience. “As long as it’s not accompanied by too much pain.”
“There are no promises in prophecy.”
“Too bad for me.”
“How much?” said CarnyDoll.
“Wait,” said Ambience. “That’s it? ‘A long and prosperous life?’ I could get that outta a fortune cookie.”
“You want cookie fortune,” said Madame Doodah, “you get cookie future. I give you honest future.”
“Really?” A bit surprised by how badly she wanted to believe her.
“What did I say? Madame Doodah tells no lies.”
“If I were you,” said CarnyDoll, “I’d settle for the ‘long and prosperous’ angle. Once she starts rooting around in your creases, no knowing what she’ll find. Now, how much was that again?”
“Special,” said Madame Doodah. “For you, today only. For both, one hundred dollars. No one gets such a price.”
“A hundred bucks to tell us I’m fucked and she’s going to Fantasy Island?”
“Many apologies. I didn’t invent the world.”
“Let me get it,” said Ambience.
“I’m the one who dragged you here,” said CarnyDoll.
“But I’m the one with the mad money. Why not spend what I’ve got till it’s gone? Or until I am. Whichever comes first.”
She counted out the bills and even left Madame Doodah a sizable tip—out of compulsive politeness, not because she wanted to. She was such a stump. She hated herself.
“Now what?” said Ambience, as they stood outside blinking into the unexpectedly bright exterior.
“Don’t know about you, but I, for one, could certainly use a drink,” said CarnyDoll. “Let’s try that shithole over there.” She pointed across the street to a joint called Juggernauts. CarnyDoll, leading the way, walked in and, without a pause, made a perfectly graceful U-turn and walked right back out again, Ambience close behind.
“What’s wrong?” said Ambience once they were safely outside.
“Jackholes,” said CarnyDoll. “Serious jackholes. Whole infestation of ’em. You notice? Clustered around the bar like a bunch of sickass flies.”
“Wanna try the Hideyhole?”
“Forget the drink,” said CarnyDoll. “How about the zoo? Go look at some real animals. When was the last time you were even there?”
“With my nephews about a century and a half ago.”
“Perfect. Let’s do it.”
They hopped the next train north to the Mammoth City Zoological Gardens. Ambience couldn’t believe the admission fee. More than double what it was the last time she’d visited, however many years ago that had been. The Age of Paying More and More for Less and Less. Of course, they had to first go to CarnyDoll’s favorite: the gabled and fabled Reptile House. And just in time for the midday feeding. They watched live mice being dropped into cages where they had a life expectancy of about thirty seconds. The spectacle left Ambience feeling raw and unfinished. Everything stuffing everything else into its big collective mouth. Gobble, gobble, gobble. What was that all about? She didn’t know.
They went to Monkey Mountain, Ambience’s choice. They watched the monkeys picking bugs out of one another’s fur and popping them into their mouths. They watched the monkeys watching you. They watched the monkeys masturbating. Right out in the wide-open air. Food for thought.
“Energetic little devils, aren’t they?” said Ambience.
“This is making me horny,” said CarnyDoll.
“You’re even sicker than I thought you were.”
“Tiny dicks, big loads. Look over there. That’s as much spunk as any of my boyfriends ever put out.”
“TMI.”
“You’re such a prude, Ambience. You don’t get into the juice, all of the juices, you’re just a looky-lou at the scene of the crime.”
“I ride the rides, girl. Don’t tell me. And I’ve screamed, I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve gotten sick.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Sure is fucked, ain’t it?”
“What?”
“Fucking.”
“Oh, that. I thought we were talking about spending the day at Whirly World.”
“Oh, you,” said CarnyDoll, playfully punching Ambience in the arm. “You’re such a punkster.”
“Think I’ve had about as much monkey love as I can take in one afternoon.”
“Me, too,” said CarnyDoll. “What say we hike on over to a FlavorCabana and get ourselves rehydrated pronto?”
So they did. They found one of the famous “energy stations” cannily positioned right next to the popular Elephant Park. CarnyDoll had a Papaya Plié, Ambience a Banana Disaster. They both felt instantly invigorated. The elephants looked bored. They looked like they were waiting for something momentous to happen. The girls left them waiting.
Outside the Freedom of Flight Aviary they stopped to watch the birds. All that fluttering color. A whole wild spectrum in motion. The display was exhilarating.
“Makes you wish we had wings, doesn’t it?” said some total stranger standing next to her. Very next to her. She hadn’t even noticed he was there. Quickly, she gave him the complete head-to-heels check. Oh, my. Here was a rush she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. And his face. So close to the genie face that usually appeared to her whenever she worked her Magic Button. Oh, my. He was big. He was broad. He radiated IQ. He was looking her in the eye. Steadily.
“You read my mind,” she said.
“Not so hard.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. All you have to do is pay attention.”
“That easy?”
“Sometimes it is.”
She wondered about Graveyard. Where was he? What was he doing? How was he feeling?
“You like zoos?”
“They’re okay.”
“My last girlfriend hated ’em. She said they reminded her of concentration camps.”
“Except a lot of these animals would probably be extinct without them.”
“That’s the big picture. My girlfriend liked to look real squinty at things extremely close and extremely small.”
“Sounds like that could probably be pretty exhausting.”
“Tell me about it. That’s why she’s no longer my girlfriend.”
“Smooth,” said Ambience.
“Not really. I just try to be honest.”
“Ambience,” she said, extending her hand.
“PowerPoint,” he said, extending his. They formally shook hands.
“Have we ever met before?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “And it was going so well, too.”
“No, no, it’s not a line. Really. It happened, didn’t it? Crossing paths, you and I. Something, somewhere.”
“Some guy told me that once. Of course, I didn’t believe him. Turned out we had. He had sat behind me in EarthSkills class at ColdStone High. I don’t know that I’d ever even looked at him once.”
“Bet he looked at you.”
“His loss.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I do tend to do that.”
“Diminishes the value of the product.”
“And I certainly wouldn’t want to end up in the damaged goods bin.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
He was looking into her eyes again. Searching, searching. For what? She had no answers. But what did that matter? Their bodies were talking to each other now. And he looked, well, silky. Probably his dick felt the same, too: silky. She kept looking at his hands. She had read once that the size of a guy’s penis was directly related to the length of—what was it, now? The ring finger or the middle finger? She couldn’t remember which. So she was checking out all his fingers. They were all of a goodly stature.
They looked at the birds for a while. The birds flew from tree to tree and back again. They perched on their roosts and talked to one another in weird sci-fi sounds.
“They’re so bright and graceful,” said PowerPoint. “It looks fake. So mediaesque.”
Suddenly he pulled out a metal flask from some sort of secret pocket somewhere. It appeared to be made of silver.
“Silver,” he said.
“I see,” she said. “Cool.”
“Scotch. My favorite. LaughFrogg.”
“You’re kidding, right? It’s my favorite, too.”
He took a hit. He passed the flask to her. She took a hit. And repeat.
“Doesn’t have that rotten, boggy flavor,” said Ambience.
“No. Not that rotten and boggy don’t have their places. I’ve had quite a few great whiskeys where I felt I was kneeling down and sucking the stuff right outta the ground.”
“You’re right,” she said. He was looking at her mouth. She was looking at his mouth. Next thing she knew her lips were on his and she felt as if the entire contents of the flask were suddenly roaring through her body in some delirious riptide. She felt as if she were standing on tiptoe when she wasn’t. What the hell was happening here?
“You kiss good,” he said.
“Not so bad yourself.”
“Let’s try that again.”
So they did.
Interesting. He reminded her of Graveyard. He reminded her of Trapezoid. Her first real boyfriend. Who once, after a long, sweaty, memorable night, proposed to her. In a cemetery, of all places. Actually, she thought that was pretty brilliant. She’d almost said yes. But she hadn’t. Her bad? Maybe, maybe not. Whatever. This guy, though, was making connections in all the right sockets.
She looked at CarnyDoll with a girly help-me face. No dice there. CarnyDoll was too busy macking on the other guy, whoever he was, to even notice. The friend. Of course there was a friend. Wasn’t there always? Goofy-looking dude with a melon head and bad skin but a body that might be interesting under the jeans and the INVEST IN ME tank top. CarnyDoll had obviously been on him in half an instant. Ambience knew what she was doing. The ol’ CarnyDoll seduction trick. Lock eyes, lock smiles. Then get on down into your cooch, the floral fruit of it, the sugary sweetness, the primal perfume. Pack all that into your gaze and beam directly into the troll-like male brain. Pussy power. He’ll fall into your lap like a poisoned bird off a branch. If you want a dead bird in your lap.
This PowerPoint’s lips were like Magic Fingers. Exploring all her secret spaces. In his arms she was just in his arms. She was just herself.
“Come here,” he said. Okay. She liked the command in his voice. He took her hand and she let him and he led her off into the bushes behind a FlavorCabana. Behind an overflowing Dumpster that reeked of fermenting oranges and week-old meat and all of yesterday. Guarded by fat iridescent flies as big and loud as bumblebees.
They made out for a while. He tasted like peppermint candy. Her whole body was vibrating. He wanted a mouth party. She could see it in his eyes. All big and burny. What did she want? She didn’t know. Sometimes she just couldn’t believe herself. He started unzipping his jeans.
“Isn’t this a little fast?” she said.
“Maybe not fast enough.”
All right, Ambience said to herself, what can we do with this? A situation. This situation. Know what? She could do whatever the fuck she wanted. She was rich. She got down on her knees and pulled down his pants. He was wearing Krazy Klown boxers. She pulled down the boxers. His fingers had told no lies. She took his dick into her mouth. He smelled like a stale sponge. She could feel his pulse on her tongue. She hadn’t been in this position since whenever. The emotions resurfacing were peculiar and complex. Reading them was like trying to decode the innards of some fresh-off-the-line electronic device she’d been introduced to in a signal corps class back in her intro-to-war days at good ol’ Ft. WhyMe: too many different colored wires connected to too many unidentifiable doohickeys. But now, just as it did then, her sense of pride and skilled confidence kicked in, as well as a mounting force of irresistible pleasure, and despite the fact that her knees were beginning to hurt (she was getting so old), she unashamedly bent to the job and worked it like a pro. For a moment or two, she actually forgot who she was. That was nice. When he started to cum, she pulled away and let him anoint the blacktop with his pudding.
“Thanks,” he said. He stuffed his pug stick back into his pants, zipped up, wiped his hand on his thigh, and, without another word, walked away.
WTF. WTF. WTF. Whatever happened to her stupid vow: won’t-get-fooled-again? Something was wrong with her, something definitely and deeply wrong. She really wanted to hurt someone or something real bad. The flies buzzed. The garbage stank. Slowly she stood, brushed the grit from her knees, and staggered out into the light. CarnyDoll was all alone, leaning against the rail surrounding the aviary.
“Where’s your buddy?” Ambience said.
“Aw, you know. He was a hump. Yours?”
“Ditto.”
“Ditto, ditto, and ditto,” said CarnyDoll.
“I suppose there are very few original assholes.”
“No. You gotta have even a fragment of a brain to pioneer in creepiness.”
On the long ride back into the city, Ambience filled CarnyDoll in on all the thrills not to be had behind a FlavorCabana.
“I’m sorry,” said CarnyDoll. “I’m crazy sorry.”
“S’all right. What was I expecting? Dinner and drinks?”
“Well, you always were an old-fashioned girl.”
They rode for minutes in silence. Wheels and wheels.
“Guys,” said CarnyDoll.
“I know,” said Ambience. “At least I tell myself I know.”
“No one put a gun to your head.”
“No, just a flesh one.”
“So you blew some cretin at the zoo, right? Happens to the best of us. Could’ve been better, could’ve been worse. Any buzz in it at all?”
“Maybe.” She paused. “I don’t know.”
“There. See? Not a total write-off.”
“Too bad there isn’t a tax deduction for asshole encounters.”
“If that were the case, no one would have to pay any taxes at all.”
“You know,” said Ambience, “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” said CarnyDoll.
They hugged. A genuine buzz this time. They got off at the same stop.
“Sorry,” said CarnyDoll again.
“Not your fault,” said Ambience.
“Give me a call.”
“I will.”
“We can’t let the assholes win.”
“No,” said Ambience, “but they’re real quick sprinters.”
“Then we just have to run faster.”
They hugged again. Ambience ambled on home. The afternoon’s highlights on a mad loop in her head. Despite herself a certain mood had settled over her. It was like being trapped inside one of her mother’s canning jars—cramped, airless, contents on full display.
And the day was not, as CarnyDoll had helpfully pointed out, a total loss, a date to be permanently expunged from Ambience’s Book of Days, but rather the occasion for a valuable teaching moment, which we’re all waiting for—the hard lesson that there is indeed something from which money, for all its considerable supernatural power, cannot protect you: yourself.