Null Our Boor, or Taco Run

I first startarted bumming around with Scout a few months after the war ended and a few before that war ended which was never a war, really, and this was long before I realised that neither war really had a beginning or an end and that all of them just ran into eachother, willrun into each other til the end of time, but more about that later.  Scout had decided that night he was "just stahvin for a taco" and I had to reflect that sentiment.  We were both coming down and Scout was certain that he was the fitter of the two of us to drive, I could not object. He had only done "just a little speed and some mescaline." "Where'd you get mescaline?" "Where didn't I get mescaline." That's when I knew I would never get a straight answer out of him for anything, as if I ever wanted one. We left and very shortly I knew we wouldn't just be getting tacos. "I need to see the Medic," he said and gave me a cheeky bloody wink and while we were driving he told me about his awesome life: running, literally, from one girl to the next high, to the next girl to the next high, to a few men in between, mostly for the money. "I'm the fastest hand in Boston!" I believed him about that mostly business and I didn't question him further on it.  We arrived at Medic's place and before the engine stopped, Scout had bounded over the carhood and was screaming into the building's intercom, "I'M HYEAH TA BUY!" We were buzzed in. While dazed and lumbering halfway up the steps, he'd already reached his destination but immediately raced back down to intercept me, "Come on, old man, you're holding up the mission!" "Gwaawn, I'm not that much older than you!" "You are." "You just seem young cause you still act like a teenager."  The door opened. "Aw, gawddammit!" "C'est le plus plaisir de vous-rencontre, aussi. You've brought another friend, I see." "Saloooo!" I called out. A plain, unmasked face suddenly appeared and I was taken aback, we both were. "Quel est ce vieux visage que je vois devant moi?" "Pas vieux! Grand es-tu pour parler." "OK, enough of this. Where the fuck's Medic?" "He's taking care of a personal matter en Argentine."---I still can't tell you what was meant by that.---"Heavy, too?" "Naturalement." "Naturalement.--Ya got the stuff?" The exchange itself was in many ways a dance. Spy retreated and closed the door partially and returned exactly one second later. Each party raised his hand aloft for the other to inspect the process concluding in the jivest handshake that ever existed. "Feels light." "It's that or raise the rates." Scout gazed admiringly at the bag before putting it away. "So what are you two doing together?" "It's not like that." "The lady doth protest--" "It's not like that; I just needed to get out of the van." "You sold the van?" "It's not currently in my possession." "Quel dommage." "We're getting tacos, ya wanna come?" "You Americans and your food.  Merci, non. You two have a good time. A bientot." "Bon soir." "Yeah, whatever, pickle thief." We got back into his Gremlin, Scout wideeyed and crazy, mad, mad, mad for a taco and, to my chagrin, I was, too. But I was really desperate for a fag; I had half a pack left. "Hey, man. Not in my car; those things'll kill ya." I tried to say something about him being a shiela mama'sboy but instead I just passed out. I woke up to his lips on my ear asking, "How many ya want, wombatfucker?" I knew straightaway that I was unable to talk so I just held up three fingers, reconsidered, grabbed Scout's arm and held up the full hand. "OK, just make it 10. So, ya doing anything later?" "Fck uff, asshuhh." A familiar voice--if you want to call it that. "It's on you, Old Man---I got the other stuff." I fished out what felt like enough and gave it to him. Scout made the tyres squeal as he pulled up to the window; honestly I was just as impatient as he. He paid and relayed the bag to me and put on his most charming face possible. "You know I love you and I'll eat any taco you put in frontame." I heard the expected distasteful grunt and the windowdoors closed so hard that they should have shattered. We were on our way home as fast as we could. I looked at his face as he drove and I could tell he was readywilling and able to devour the world all himself: Yurlunger with its jaws unhinged about to throw it all up again. I was too gone to do anything or care. It was the only time in my life I felt entirely safe. "Ya like the ride?" I had to scrutinise his face carefully to be sure he was asking seriously and I could only see absolute pride. "It's very modern, and you've kept it beautifully." "I got it with my termination check. Modified. V8. Does 0 to 60 in almost nothing. The whole deal. Not only that but it's 'polite and efficient', HAW HAW. I ain't one a them motahhead cahfags but I love this cah!" And then I heard a real endoftheworld noise, the kind you feel in your nethers, and it sure felt like we were flying--those of us that weren't already, I mean. I held onto our tacos like a mother kangaroo; if I had a pouch, I would have used it. I tried to admonish him with a glare, all undercut by the sillygrin I could not get rid of. "What did you spend yours on?" I thought about her painfully. "Legal fees, mostly. It turns out we're meant to have feelings, now." We wordlessly exchanged sympathy and gratitude as we sped our way home. We arrived and tuckedin in silence as we always did. "Apres moi, le deluge" I announced and hurried to have a slash. Afterward I was ready to pass out where I could but Scout said with certainty "It's still early". It wasn't. "Ya like music?" "Er, there's this Swedish group: two blokes, two birds--" "I wasn't really asking." He had pulled out an album with the blackest jacket I'd ever seen, and walked it to his system--not a stereo but a system--a living, breathing animal that tookup the whole room. He spent two minutes cleaning it--the only time I've ever seen him do anything without the urgency of a bomb about to go off. He put on the needle and introduced it "This is the Velvet--" and all I could hear was that endoftheworld noise again. Once I settled down, I could feel a churning rhythm a piercing screech and some madman rantings and I knew I would never hear anything more American. I had to lie down because all I had the energy for was an attempt to tap my foot and enjoy this violation. Scout sat on the floor next to me but he didn't just sit, he went into lotus position and made it the easiest thing in the world. It isn't. He looked as relaxed as a fakir on a bed of nails and a lot of specialk. His face looked positively angelic and not a winged cherub as an Italian would paint--he looked like that all the time--I mean a sexless monster that had struck out whole civilisations in its formative years and would now like to try all the horrors mentioned in that song. He was Shiva: mindbody and soul. When I finally got used to those industrial sounds, it changed and became of all things more wild and raucous and this went on for what seemed an halfanhour and then it really was the end of the world. Scout nimbly stretched out to corpse along with me for a few seconds but then rolled over to put his lips on my ear. "Side one?" and I knew again, it wasn't really a question. I made a grunt he mistook for enthusiasm and he jumped up turned it over and spent as much care with this side. He put the needle on and laid next to me. He put his lips on my ear again and relayed to me the most imperative statesecret of all: "This one's about shootinup and jackinoff." "You ever done that?" "Shooting up?" "No, the other one." I laughed silently until I did myself an injury. "No I haven't tried it. Flashbacks of the syringegun. And I really can't afford it." "Scared o' needles?" "Yeah, we all should be. And I said I don't have enough money for a rockstar habit." We laid there hearing all about Lady Godiva, Waldo and Marcia, calling names and comingnows; his elbow stuck me in the ribs warning me of all the parts he liked the most. As soon as there was relative silence, I was dead to the world. I dreamt I was in a coffinlike box and being prodded periodically by an aluminium bat. I awoke on the couch with my thing screaming for a wank but primarily calling my attention was a smell of a twoweekdead tazmanian devil which took me no time at all to realise to my shame and alarm that it was myself. I adjusted myself with a great attempt at modesty, I shuffled to the bathroom, peeled of everything, turned on the water and stepped in. I made myself the cleanest I'd been in at least a decade. I soaped my hand and thought of her. It took longer than usual because of the shower and I missed my van the most at that point. I finished, stepped out, put my shades on, looked in the mirror and put a towel on. I gathered my clothes, and cautiously opened the door. BOOK TWO: Scout was halfway through preparing what looked to be a full English breakfast; every appendage of his almost literally a blur. With one hand, he took out a glass, poured a red glowing fluid in it and offered it to me, maintaining the fluid incessence of the rest of his body. "Homemade 'Bonk!' It took me six months to figger it out. I think I got pretty goddamn close." I held it to my nose and felt the rush of its effects immediately. Not wanting to experience again anything like the previous day so soon, I tried to find a discrete place to dispose of it. I couldn't find one. "Have a seat; I'm almost done here." As soon as my bum had touched the chair, there was a plate with the most beautiful arrangement of food I had ever seen and have yet to see since. I cut off some of the egg and put it in my mouth. I scrutinised the face across from me for any sign of talent other than bludgeoning or shooting blokes in the face. I couldn't find one. "I took an adult education class. It's cheap and it's a great place to meet girls." "I'll have to look into it." "Yeah. Hey, drink up, Old Man. You're gonna be driving all day." We had all been invited to Dell and Jane's Labour Day fete-weekend. After financial ruin, it was a perfect time for me to visit the States. Scout and I would be nonstop travelling for two days---I would do days, he would do nights. I looked at the glass, abandoned all hope and gulped down it contents. I felt all the coffee I had ever drunk in my life at once---I drink a lot of coffee. Instead of feeling absolute invincibility, I felt a faraway yet profound despair: the infinite gaiety I felt at that moment had to end. I shot straight to my feet but the rush of it all had me back on my arse. "It takes five minutes to get used to it." Those were the most tortuous five minutes of my life as I waited for my mind and body to catch up with eachother. An imaginary eggtimer went off in Scout's head. He sprang up, "Race you to the car, wombatfucker!" and we were off and, honesttochrist, I almost beat him. I started the car and made that most American noise. We caught eachother in the eye and each made our own wicked smirks. I looked down the street like I was looking out my trusted scope again. We were to pickup DeGroot from Logan and directly onward to Dell and Jane's commune of two. Scout gave directions but really I felt I was anticipating each of them. He turned on the radio. "we're in the mood for a--" He turned off the radio. "Music just sucks nowadays." "Yes." I tried to put Frida and Agnetha's beautiful voices in my head but entirely too much was dancing around in there; all I could do was drum out "Nina, Pretty Ballerina" on the steering wheel. We worked in perfect tandem, Scout and I. Every sound from his mouth I would mirror with the car. "Turn left, merge right, next exit." Once we made it to the airport, we breezed on to the terminal, finding a sublime spot in the whitezone. We waited. "How are we going to recognise him?" I asked. "He'll probably be the only one wearing a kilt. And by that I mean, he will be the only person wearing a kilt." And there he was looking as if he'd stepped out of an Aber-bloody-deen graduation: full clan regalia--and yes, his would be the only kilt in the world--a strappedon knife, tamoshanter and of course an eyepatch, with hipster glasses. "Man, those glasses make ya look like Malcolm X, or McEl-Shabazz. HAW!" Scout played the over-affectionate American and embraced him for a long time. When he was through, Tavish and I grasped hands, his was steady as a slab of peat, mine trembled like a startled bandicoot. I tried to balance myself by pressing my cheek to his like they would on the continent. "Yeh off yer 'ead?" I started laughing with in gasps. "God save us, not yer foockin homemade Bonk! again!" "Aye. HAW!" "He looks like he's gonna fookin die!" "He's an adult, he can handle it. And we need him to drive. And with your--" he pointed to his eyes. "I made a choice not to drive." "A choice to keep the bobbies from getting after you." DeGroot packed his things in the boot came around to look at the backseat and made the wise decision to lie down. I stepped in and started the car. Scout helped me with the seatbelt. Once we left the airport, Scout popped in an 8track of Johnny Horton. Scout sensed a feeling of incredulity. "It'll help us get into the Dell and Jane mindset; especially after we get on the 81." He gave Tavish and I each a broad Lady M grin, "We're gonna be eating at nothing but dive truck stops until we get there. I hope yaw'll are ready for that. I'm gonna show you Realamerica." In a mockery of assurance, he took my shoulder and blasted his stereo until we could all feel the bass. Tavish rolled into a comfortable position and passed out. After about ten songs, I saw through the BONK! haze a vision of Realamerica: sprawling history, drungo bravery, infinite roads, infinite fields, bogan royalty, fast music, fast cars and women of indeterminate speed. Our first stop was a place called Amish Mama. I thought the three of us would make quite a motley clusterbang but truly, we weren't even close. There were all kinds of aging hippies, grizzled truckers, stoned out college students, an Amish cadre, and one uncomfortable family. We found a booth; we looked at the menu. Everything had to have a cute name like Reubenspringa or Shunningly Good Cheese Curds. DeGroot had the "Community" Turkey Club. Scout had the "English" Fish and Chips and I had the "Bavarian Liturgical Tradition". DeGroot told us about his life after the war. "I'm at Aber-bloodeh-deen teaching literature." "You talk about Robert Burns all day?" "No. Well, yes, but no. We talk about structure and we deconstruct." "Which you know a thing or two about." "I fookin know everything about that. And I still hunt Nessie." "Oh, gwaawn!" "I believe in it as much as you, BUT once you're on the Loch at night, the monster becomes more real than rational thought, anything measurable, even yourself, even the terror you're feeling. It is nothing short of transcendence." "We call that a walkabout." "We call that walking home from the bar." We ate our lunches and when we finished, we took a pissbreak. I was ready to drive again when Scout pulled out two stacks of 8tracks "Hank or Loretta?" I turned the key and that descending guitar line slapped us in the face. DeGroot sang: "A-you've been makin yer brags around town that you've been a-lovin mah man. But the man I love when 'e picks up trash, 'e puts it in the garbage can..." This proved to be entertaining for the entire four hours I had to drive until the next stop at a Shoney's. "It's the only one we'll stop at," Scout promised. They managed to make the salad bar feel deepfried, but holychrist, did they know how to make a pie. I wept. DeGroot traded places with Scout so he could take a liedown in the back seat. "Just so you don't hear it from anyone else, Spy got with Pyro for cigarette money, or, you guys call em fags, right? HAW! Could ya put on some Zeppelin?" As soon as I did, he was deadtotheworld. "'Ow can such a spaz like 'im look so graceful sleeping?" I could only let out a sigh. Tavish and I quietly talked about yesterday's misadventures and my misadventures from last year. Four hours later Scout had soundlessly awakened and startled us both with the directive, "Pull over here." As a team, we filled up, wiped off the windshield and paid. I let out a perfectly tasteless noise as I stretched out in the backseat. The phrase "Heeeeey, good lookin!" caressed me as best as it could in every possible way. Tavish asked me if I needed a sleep aid. I took a gulp from the bottle, handed it back and I was gone. I dreamt of every Realamerican goodtime; I dreamt of every Realamerican heartache. As I woke up, Tavish was cradled upon Scout's shoulder. We pulled into a truckstop-restaurant "ALL DAY BREAKFAST!!!!!" It was then I realised that everywhere in America was an all day breakfast. Scout gently kissed Tavish on the forehead. "Aye, feckoff." We had a dozen eggs between us in every conceivable manner. We ate in silence like we were used to. Scout took the backseat again and said we were on the 40 but we weren't in Texas, yet. Scout was given some of Tavish's sleep aid. After an hour, we had gone through all the tapes and switched to the radio. We went from crackley blues station to crackley blues station all through Arkansas, all the way into Dallas. We stopped at a dive downtown--that was all of Dallas--for sandwiches. As we ate, Scout whispered in my ear, "Ya wanna see the Book Depository?" He knew he had said the worst thing anyone could say; anyone but him, that is. He was either trying to hold in a laugh or sob; I was making the same face. I wearily got into the driver's seat. "It'll be my turn again once we get to Waco." BOOK THREE: Scout turned at a blue mailbox with "CONAGHER/DOE" in neat red letters. I spied two children approaching fast to the car. One looked like what can only be described as a sevenyearold Dell, the other a fiveyearold Jane, female but more on that later. As soon as the car stopped, the two had Scout immobilised. We were led to the ranchhouse to "freshen up". I nearly passed out from the heavenly smells emanating from an unseen grill. Forty-some hours of fryoil, dust and good-ol' American progress went from my face and into the sink, and that most fertile substance refused to wash down entirely. The house was beautiful and tidy; still it looked like it was being taken care of by two men. Like Dell and Jane themselves, the house didn't appear to have left the fifties like everything else in this part of the country. It was the most beautiful sight of all, an entire world itching to start something incredible, failing that good, failing that new. Dell took us on a tour through every room, each strategically designed to satisfy every need for comfort the American human could have. Everything was modified to be "better than whut you kin git on the market." Everything was "Practical." He had a pistol at his hip that he periodically drew, spinning it on his finger. Scout reacted to this each time cursing under his breath. Jane was giving Tavish the same tour; they had each other by the hand. Dell then led Scout and me outside to the most beautiful toolshed ever built. As he opened the door, I came down with the worst case of priapism I'd ever had and I could tell Scout was feeling the same. "The only problem with the original Dispenser was that it had to be outside. This way, its full power is concentrated and"--he winked at me--"efficient. Heh-heh. I recommend taking your clothes off and make things more comfortable." "And you geet full effect. HAH!" A familiar voice emerged from the haze that we could not refuse. And embarrassment was no excuse for people so familiar. "It's safe enough to stay in here all day if y'all wanted, but mess is in 30." Heavy insisted on holding Scout and me to him like a mother and we were the children he couldn't have; he told us about his adventures in Argentina with Medic which I only caught in vague bits--half of it was in Russian or German. Something about assassinating one of those war criminals from the 40s. Or it might have been "assisting". Scout and I slept a bit as he went into some sonorous lyrical Russian passages. When the dinnerbell rang, he beat Scout out of the Dispensershed. At one end of the long table, Jane was showing off his roll juggling skills to DeGroot and the kids. Heavy and Medic kissed before sitting across from each other. Spy was next to Medic and playing with his knife, perhaps a little rustily. Pyro sat across from him after finishing with the grill. I sat next to Pyro with Scout across from me. Dell took the other end. Surely, there was a whole cow on the table and it was taken care of quite miraculously along with the usual token vegetables. Dell chatted onandon about how Scout's generation had "no idea how to make things. Now I can hardly blame you fer Nixon, or can I? Anyway, this whole trade with China business ain't gonna end well. What will we as a nation become if we no longer make things for ourselves, if we keep throwing our money away on shit that's made to break? This country's gonna be sapped by a crash so big there won't be a wrench big enough to even start to fix it. With any luck, I'll be sixfeetdown before that happens." We all retreated back to the house for drinks. The kids were sent to bed and Jane brought out a bottle of bourbon, the most precious one he had which he described as "prewar". He never said which one. Heavy carted out a "real Russian vodka not for American babymen," Spy proctored a cognac tasting and Tavish insisted we finish his scotch. All the while Dell kept drawing his pistol randomly as far as I could tell. Once none of us was capable of standing, Jane took his duty of assigning rooms. Heavy and Medic, of course, were together. Spy and Pyro shared a room. There was no moving the knackered DeGroot from his position on the couch. That left Scout and I to share the twin. "I mean, 'cause, you kids are together, aren'tcha?" Scout gave me what was meant to be a reassuring glance and pressed my side against his.. "Come on! Do ya even have ta ask?" Jane led us to our room and apologised for the bed which he described as "spooning room only". He left us alone and raced to his Truckie. The look I gave Scout surely signified only one thing, a face he'd surely seen before: I was questioning his strategy. "Trust me, you do not want to be on the couch." We silently agreed on an arsetoarse arrangement. After lightsout, I tried to fall asleep. "It is weird that he assumed we're a couple, isn't it?" "Considering how the others paired off, it'd be weird if we didn't." "But we never worked together like they did. I dashed out in front and you always stayed behind." I resisted the urge but my scope had its target prepped and ready. I jokingly grabbed one of his cheeks. "Is that how you want it?" He swatted me away, jokingly. "You couldn't afford me, wombatfucker." "I've got your number, ducky." "I'll scratch your eyes out." "Oh get her!" The two of us had a hearty laugh at that until we passed out. I was awakened by a noise that only a human could make but still could only be described as "inhuman". I waited listening carefully until I heard something about reloading a rocket launcher and another thing about a tool. I then heard the word "maggot" used in a way I never want to hear again. Then there were soft rumbling and crashing noises that grew louder and louder, little by little. It then sounded like Dell and Jane were going at it like it was the end of the world. There was no way to tell which was the bloke and which was the sheila, if that distinction could be made in any case, if that mattered to anyone at all at that time. This developed into a rhythm reminiscent of the battlefield which I found, in a way, comforting. I slipped into a most relaxed state and finally into dreamtime. I woke up again to a needle scratch which led to music. It was tense: strings here winds there and then a soprano. It was building to something incredible, I could tell. It was masking some light creaking. This built and built rhythmically faster and louder until eventually a hearty baritone called out what seemed involuntarily, "DO GROOOBA-A TI HRA-NI-TEL MOOOOOYYYYYY!" matching the soprano perfectly two octaves lower. She and her orchestra continued for some time. A gentler creaking continued with it with the occasional masculine gasp or sigh. Without all that noise it would have been the most beautiful sound ever created; she was making the sound of the most exquisite pain of all, the sound of true love. I couldn't help from passing out. I saw her in dreamtime, barely as a physical presence. She was a part in the blackest of hair, a hinge on a pair of glasses, a button where a blouse becomes a collar. She was every  meaningless conversation that suddenly meant everything as soon as it was over. She was nerves, loyalty, confidence, craftiness, sincerity and insincerity; each element seamlessly blending into the other. I woke up as the big spoon somehow with Scout's arm entwined in mine. My heart skipped a beat to imagine what he might have been thinking. I knew straightaway that it was ridiculous to have any worry. I closed my eyes until I felt him turn to face me. "It's alright. You kept my honor intact." He gave me a mocking peck. "HAW! I get the first showah!" He sprinted out of the room; I stretched and went to breakfast in my skivvies. Pyro and Jane were making eggs for everyone. Spy was chopping the vegetables. Pyro scooped from a giant pale pile and put a finger to my face. There was obvious excitement behind the bandana. "Tase is udda." I let my mouth envelop the finger and if I believed knees could buckle, mine certainly would have. "All veggies," I said. Heavy and Medic came from their room holding hands. Scout arrived in his sundaybest; we all were impelled to tease him. Dell burst in with the kids from "target practice." Tavish looked very tired and not very talkative. He had a lecture in a few days so we couldn't stay long. We ate and drank as much coffee as we could. Scout passed around his homemade BONK! to whomever would take it, including sneaking some to the kids. Exchanging goodbyes took a while and exchanging embraces took longer. Heavy managed to make a spinal correction that I didn't know I needed. Spy and I shook hands and looked in eachother's eyes longer than we had ever done before with anyone. When I got to Jane, I told him, "Keep your helmet on." BOOK FOUR: We stopped at nothing but Shoneys and Waffle Houses eating nothing but pie and waffles on the way back. As soon as I had maple syrup, I became an addict and had to use all my will to keep from downing each tiny beaker like a shot of Jameson's. We each rode sugar highs and crashes all the way back to Boston. We made a stop halfway through the trip to pick up some "Real American Bourbon" for Tavish and myself. When I wasn't driving or sleeping, I looked out the windows and watched the great national duvet, the corn fields turn all shades of yellow. We found every country station and Scout sang along to Hank and Faron, I took anyone named either Jimmy or Johnny but Tavish was the most impressive by knowing every word to "I've Been Everywhere". When we were in New England again, Scout pulled out the entire Julie Andrews milieu which was less of a musical whiplash than you'd think. In a way, all music is about desire for more, or at least something different. Scout drove like a madman going through Logan. Julie set the pace breezily soaring promising threatening to dance all night. I could see on Scout's face that it was his secret anthem. Mine is that "Loverly" number. Tavish's, at that moment, was "Get Me to the Church On Time". By a few small miracles, we did. Saying goodbye to Tavish was similar to a rebirthing therapy session although my handshake was considerably better. Back at Scout's apartment, I took a much needed shower. I think I passed out. I was barely dry when he made me put on my best for his Tuesday night ritual. The place was called Patriot Platters and according to Scout only smelled like a head shop. He was disappointed to discover the lack of new releases after labour day but a new Dolly was approaching to his delight. I wanted to get Scout a gift, but there was not one copy of Ring Ring to be found nor were there any singles. We tucked in a few tacos on the way back. A tactile layer of grease permeated throughout the area. Scout smiled at me indicating that the two of us had a new ritual. I smiled back. We came back to the apartment and I went directly to my couch stripping along the way. I dreamt of smiling and laughing from the shadows. I awoke to the rustling of cereal in a bag. "Ya remember when there useta be good prizes in cereal boxes?" From the look on his face, it appeared to be an affront to the American Way-of-Life. "Not as such, no." "Well, the shit they have in here these days is criminal." I tried some of it and it hurt my teeth at first, then its charm grew on me. We went to run a few errannds; first was to fill up his Gremlin. Then, he gave me a tour of Boston for a few hours. That afternoon, Scout took me to a Red Sox game. I have a passing familiarity with Cricket, and baseball does have its similarities but also thousands of differences. Most plain is the doubling of bases which makes the entire experience broader, taking up the amount of space appropriate for an American game. Cinematic is the word for the feeling. In this country the movie screens, with everything else, get wider and wider. And longer and longer. The game lasted 12 innings of quiet intensity. We were playing against the Orioles. "This is going to be an important game," Scout told me. Each action felt important. Each halfsecond before a "ball" or "strike" was called lasted forever and each halfsecond before "safe" or "out" was called lasted even longer. Each run--for either team--induced from the crowd an endoftheworld noise. Even in the nosebleeds, looking at Tiant's face made me wonder what mine looked like when I was on the job. We won 2-1. We went drinking that evening. The place was crowded and smokefilled. "A real Mickbar," Scout called it. Before I could order an Old Fashioned, Scout went ahead and ordered for the both of us. "Lawng Island and---" He gestured his thumb toward me and told the barkeep, "This is the guy." "Ah! Well, guh-die. Huh-huh." The smile I attempted probably could have been more genial, judging his reaction to it. He found a can with green and red text on it, pulled the tab carefully measured some into a shaker, next came gin and then ice. He gently turned the shaker around in his glowing pink hands. In the same fluid motion, he put on the strainer, pulled out a Mason jar and poured. "This queeah told me to call it a Snipah's Delight. You're supposta find it funny." I think I almost passed out from not being able to breathe for a solid minute. "Is your friend all right?" "Fucked if I know, I've nevah seen him like this." Finally I gasped and let out a series of high pitched sighs like an uzi. "HAW! I knew you'd like it!" "Fuck 'like it', I love it more than my van!" He left me to sip at it for a while until he came back with a "Score!" of grass. Scout had wisely chosen a place within walking distance from his apartment. We stumbled down the street singing the verse of "Cold, Cold Heart" that we could remember. We got high and he played me Transformer followed by Ziggy Stardust; he cranked up the bass on that one song so it shook us to our cores. That night, I dreamt that Scout and I were hustling eachother in a genderless paradise. That morning, I saw that my face had achieved a fair amount of growth and I decided to tend to it before leaving. I left a descent looking moustache. As soon as Scout saw it he said, "I think this is your perv zenith." "No worries; you're long past your bait plateau." He only smiled back at me. We went for coffee. He insisted I try a capuccino and laughed at how the foam stuck to my moustache. I'm still suspicious of it. We blasted "My Fair Lady" again as we drove to Logan. The both of us deftly followed Julie though the tonguetwister "Show Me". Rex's cool histrionic talksinging brought us down gently. We found the terminal and I looked upon the Gremlin with loving gratitude. It's a beautiful machine, I must admit. Scout insisted on helping me with my luggage. Once we had that sorted, we had an hour to kill for peoplewatching. I was about to allow ourselves a final embrace when he surprise attacked me on the right and clung to me like a koala. He whispered in my ear, "Wanna quick handie?" I gave him a gentle slap on the bum. "Maybe next time." We carefully broke our embrace. When I was ten feet from him he called out. "See ya at the Bicentennial, wombatfucker!" I smiled broadly as I waved. Once I was on the plane, I wondered when I would be able to put on some layers. Spring in Australia that year was expected to be especially loverly. BOOK FIVE: Before I could be in my home country, I had to transfer in LA. I've only seen the airport, but from what I can tell it is the worst shithole on the face of the earth. It was all hangers on and hangerons of hangers on. The only thing that could match the lack of a sense of purpose was the lack of a sense of style. The best looking of them all was in a ratty tshirt and frayed man-capris. Everyone was either coked up or coming down from being coked up. I gave the rest of my fags to a burnedout surfer wannabe. The opera house is now the thing that identifies Sydney from the plane. The following month, the Queen was there to open it and I was there to see it happen. She is absolutely stunning intheflesh, more than you can imagine. I spent that spring in a pension house in the city like someone in their twenties and watched the tourists come and go; to be completely honest, I felt like one, myself. In December, I went to visit her. Surprisingly, she was happy to see me, she embraced me, whisked me inside what used to be our house, hastily tore off her smirkin and merged her mouth to mine. She said the experience was "more enjoyable than expected," but was horrified when she pulled at it to discover it was real. It was for this that we only had a partial reconciliation at that time. She told me that "things would be better very soon." I had no choice but to believe her. Miss P. took me back the instant the Australian ban on bare upper lips was lifted; it is the most delightful feeling when we have my prickles against her smoothness as we kiss. We are the most normallooking couple in Adelaide. She was quite the clever girl and managed to ride out the Australium crash with almost everyone else---in her case, quite favourably. The only one who lost his shirt--that is, if he owned one--was Saxton himself. Our house is now modernised with every conceivable convenience with some tech borrowed off Dell. We are happy. We all are. I have back my van. Twice a year, I visit my Mum in Perth. This entails having to cross the Nullarbor. Not only is there nothing on the Nullarbor, there is a lot of it. Whenever I get dodgey in the head or just lonely in my van, I think of Scout. I think of Scout.