dissociate:
to separate in one’s thoughts.
My dad’s favorite boxer was Joe Louis. Maybe it was because Louis became a symbolic hero in 1938, when he fought the German champion, Schmeling. Louis beat Schmeling in just over two minutes, giving the whole country the idea that Hitler could also be beaten that easily. His second favorite was Rocky Marciano. Both Louis and Marciano were quick on their feet, something Dad was not. Dad was big, too tall to move the way a boxer needed to.
Dad knew all the great fights by heart, round by round, and the boxers’ life stories. He knew that when Marciano beat Louis, he cried in his dressing room, because Louis had been his hero. He knew that Louis died poor and Marciano died young, in a plane crash. Both boxers had been as kind and nonviolent in life as they had been violent in the ring. That was important to Dad. He couldn’t stand the boxers who beat their wives or picked fights outside the ring. Needless to say, he wasn’t a big fan of Mike Tyson. To Dad, boxing was a noble sport, one that should not be disgraced in private life.
The blue-line bus pulled up to the stop. I sure hoped it was air-conditioned. I’d never been in the South before, but I knew I wouldn’t be back if I could help it; it was like moving through hot soup.
When the doors opened, I hesitated. Maybe Chad was lying to Sandy about it being free. I only had one quarter. The bus driver examined me as I hopped on, but he didn’t complain when I moved to a seat without paying.
As we drove, I watched out the window, carefully. I figured I’d take the bus back to the mall after the picnic, but just in case, I wanted to keep my bearings.
The bus was cool, a relief. I had the beginning of a wicked headache. I didn’t know if it was hunger or if I was getting sick.
At the next stop, two women with giant shopping bags shoved in. I noticed that they both dropped coins into the slot. Maybe it was only us “retards” who didn’t have to pay.
One of the women was pregnant. I stood up to offer my seat.
“There are other seats,” she snapped, as if I had insulted her. I’d never experienced the effect of how you look on others. If I’d been my regular self, showered, in clean clothes with a real haircut, the lady probably would have thanked me for offering my seat.
“Did you check the sex of the baby?” I heard the woman’s friend ask from the seats they’d taken behind me.
“I didn’t want to, but Ricky insisted, and I didn’t want him to know and me to not know.”
“Well, it’s easier for the shower.”
“True, but I think there’s something sacrilegious about it. I mean, the whole of human history, people have had to guess, to intuit the sex of a baby. In Africa, certain tribes will slaughter a lion; if the entrails drip out to the north, it’s a girl, and if they drip out to the south, it’s a boy.”
“What if they drip east or west?”
“They don’t.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t.” She sounded irritated. “Geography, I guess.”
“I don’t think that story’s true. I mean … it’s not that easy to slaughter a lion. It’s not like a rabbit or a cow. A lion is very likely to slaughter you first. Besides, how could they come up with that many lions, anyway? I mean, lions aren’t a dime a dozen.”
“The National Geographic doesn’t lie.”
“Maybe you were reading The National Enquirer.”
“Oh, you’re impossible.”
“That’s what my husband tells me.” The woman laughed. I liked her a lot more than the pregnant one. “So what is it?”
“What is what?”
“The baby!”
“A boy.”
“Rick must be thrilled.”
“Well… he is, except he said something funny.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Too bad. If it was a girl, she’d get a free ride like you.’”
“Uh-oh.”
“It’s part of his antifeminist stuff, I think. Don’t you? I mean, he thinks pregnancy is a big scam, just because I quit my job.”
“What are you going to name him?”
“Rufus!”
“You’re kidding?”
“After this dog I had when I was a kid. Every morning, rain or shine, the dog would come and lick my face. And if I lost something, like a baby doll or a book, I would tell him and he would find it.”
“Twin Meadows,” the bus driver called out.
Two guys got off the bus ahead of me. One of them was limping. The other waddled along like a duck. I wondered what I was in for, but I followed them up the street until a wooden sign appeared: TWIN MEADOWS.
I had pictured green pastures flanking a nice pond, maybe, or endless fields of wildflowers. But the “meadows” were two patches of dried grass flanking a crumbling sidewalk. At the end of it was a massive brick house that looked like it could topple at any second. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the whole place.
I walked around the periphery of the fence. I didn’t want any problems; if I got in, I wanted to make sure I’d get out. But then I noticed that the gates at the back, by the parking lot, were open. At least for today, people could come and go.
Hanging on the fence was a set of green scrubs, like the kind doctors wear in hospitals. I picked up the scrubs and walked toward the parking lot.
As I got closer to the building, I could see a canopy and long tables: the picnic. There were several young men playing horseshoes on the grass. A couple of them looked like Sandy, like they had Down’s syndrome. There was a woman with a head the size of my fist carrying a red-tipped cane, and a man flapping his hands who reminded me of Joey. All of them were wearing the green scrubs.
I pulled the scrubs over my clothes. They were short, but otherwise they fit. Then I snuck through the parking lot and onto the lawn.
There were two or three people in white—nurses, I guessed. Others, in street clothes, were starting to arrive. I hadn’t needed the scrubs after all. I watched for Chad and Sandy. I figured I’d better beat it if they came.
A nurse walked over to the table and pulled the covers off the food. When she left, I moved to the table and grabbed a plate.
There was fried chicken, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, beets, sliced tomatoes, okra, rice pudding, and Jell-O. I piled food on my plate, poured a large iced tea, and snuck off to the farthest corner of the lawn.
I was shoveling the food in as fast as I could, when a girl on crutches struggled over. She was in green, and she spoke as if her tongue was swollen against her teeth, but at least she spoke. She had one up on me.
“You weren’t supposed to eat until all the visitors were here,” she scolded. “You’re not using good manners. I’m gonna tell.”
I made a pleading gesture.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t. Because you’re cute? I don’t care if you’re cute. I’m immune to boys. Boys are tough. They cause trouble. They don’t follow the rules.”
I offered her a piece of bread and butter.
“I don’t want your food. That’s dirty food. And you’re dirty.” She started to head off, but then she stopped, and pointed across the lawn. “Naakkkked.”
A naked man was running across the lawn, back and forth as if he were practicing for a race.
“Alan!” one of the nurses shouted. “Stop right there!”
But Alan didn’t stop. He kept running with complete abandon, his legs high, his arms pumping. And I knew by his size that he was naked because his clothes had disappeared—and I was wearing them.
One of the male nurses took chase. The two of them circled the picnic table. Then, as the nurse got closer, naked Alan made a dive for the table, his body sliding across the bowls of food, knocking them off the table. I was really glad I’d already eaten.
I shed the scrubs and dropped them on the chair, then dashed toward the parking lot. “He melted!” I heard my friend exclaim.
I was almost out of the parking lot when I had my best piece of luck. A Honda Accord was parked in the fire lane, the engine running, the windows down. I opened the door of the car, slid in, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and put the car in drive.
In a few minutes, I was back at the mall. I fumbled for the turn signal, changed lanes, and slid onto the highway. WASHINGTON D.C., a sign said. Thirty-six miles.
I was about six or seven hours from home. I felt like driving a hundred miles per hour just to get there faster. But I kept my desire in check and leveled at sixty-five. I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I was driving a stolen car.