children; whatever you do don’t use a pistol. You’ll never get it done. The son-bitch will run howling all up and down the rafters with a slug right through his skull and you’ll never find him in the dark. I’m telling you. Don’t even think about using a handgun. If you can manage to catch the bastard, drop him in a burlap oat sack and tie it shut with baling wire. Don’t forget to use mulehide gloves and long sleeves or he’ll slash your white skinny ass to ribbons. Hang the sack to a stout beam and back off no more than five foot. Shoot the sack point-blank with a full choke twelve-gauge loaded with steel goose pellets and have a whole boxful on hand in case the bag keeps twitching. I’m telling you. Don’t even think about using a pistol.
Philip, South Dakota
(Highway 73)
He lost his head completely. I don’t know what set him off. Just started firing and firing and firing. In a circle. Gas pumps exploded. People fell. People ran for cover. I don’t know what set him off, tell the truth. They closed the Cenex—the feed store—Dairy Queen. All those little shops around there. They just folded up and went away after that. It’s like a ghost town now. I’ll take you down later if you want to see it. Shocking. Completely deserted. Weeds. Broken windows. Nobody. I don’t know what set him off. I really don’t.
Nephophobia
(Veterans Highway)
Fear of clouds? Why? Out of the whole panopoly of phobias, why that? There was a name for it. He looked it up. A title. Something reassuring about it being named. Someone’s had it before him. He thought. It’s already in the world. He thought. Someone else is or has been already possessed by clouds. Succumbed. In this way. “Nephophobia”—that was it. Possibly Greek? Clouds. Antiquity. Ticking away. All across the naked Alleghenies that day. Driving the twisted 64. The “Veterans Highway.” There they were. Extremely close. Hanging above the mountains. Piled up faces. Clouds misshapen. Faces in the heavens. Horrible. Bloated cheeks like those old cherub angel paintings. Medieval. Caravaggio. Gouged-out eyes. Gigantic demons from on high. This was goingto be a difficult trip. Just getting across. Just getting over to Stonewall Jackson’s old stronghold where he bled to death from “friendly fire.” (It’s not such a modern term.) Could he make it? There was no stopping now. No pulling over. He tried his best to not look up. Keep his mind on the road. What was left of it. Hug the rumble strip. But there they were—sucking his attention. Seducing him up into looking. And now they’d change—the eyes, the cheeks. Like flesh sloughing away. The heads sliding off. Joining other heads. A whole family. None of them looking related. But then they’d melt; one into the other. Becoming others. Ancestors, maybe. Could he make it across? Could he make it through this? Just stay between the lines. Grip the damn wheel and stay between the lines. It’s not that big a deal.
Victorville, California
(Highway 15)
Queens Motel, with a dull green plaster brontosaurus, all chipped and peeling from the desert sun, standing tall on its hind legs in front of a huge black satellite dish facing the Roy Rogers Mountains. I hadn’t realized they’d actually named some mountains after Roy. I’d never heard of the Roy Rogers Mountains and I grew up here. I grew up with Roy. He was one of the first television cowboy heroes I can remember watching. I watched Roy in the flesh too, riding Trigger down Colorado Boulevard in the Rose Parade alongside Dale Evans. I had no idea he got some mountains named after him. That must have happened long after I left. I wonder who decides that, anyway. Who decides to give mountains a name—or streets? They must do that by committee or something. I know a guy down in Texas who got his dad’s name put on a freeway outside Dallas because his dad owned the asphalt company that poured the road. Then there was a little side street in New York City
Philip, South Dakota
(Highway 73)
He lost his head completely. I don’t know what set him off. Just started firing and firing and firing. In a circle. Gas pumps exploded. People fell. People ran for cover. I don’t know what set him off, tell the truth. They closed the Cenex—the feed store—Dairy Queen. All those little shops around there. They just folded up and went away after that. It’s like a ghost town now. I’ll take you down later if you want to see it. Shocking. Completely deserted. Weeds. Broken windows. Nobody. I don’t know what set him off. I really don’t.
Nephophobia
(Veterans Highway)
Fear of clouds? Why? Out of the whole panopoly of phobias, why that? There was a name for it. He looked it up. A title. Something reassuring about it being named. Someone’s had it before him. He thought. It’s already in the world. He thought. Someone else is or has been already possessed by clouds. Succumbed. In this way. “Nephophobia”—that was it. Possibly Greek? Clouds. Antiquity. Ticking away. All across the naked Alleghenies that day. Driving the twisted 64. The “Veterans Highway.” There they were. Extremely close. Hanging above the mountains. Piled up faces. Clouds misshapen. Faces in the heavens. Horrible. Bloated cheeks like those old cherub angel paintings. Medieval. Caravaggio. Gouged-out eyes. Gigantic demons from on high. This was goingto be a difficult trip. Just getting across. Just getting over to Stonewall Jackson’s old stronghold where he bled to death from “friendly fire.” (It’s not such a modern term.) Could he make it? There was no stopping now. No pulling over. He tried his best to not look up. Keep his mind on the road. What was left of it. Hug the rumble strip. But there they were—sucking his attention. Seducing him up into looking. And now they’d change—the eyes, the cheeks. Like flesh sloughing away. The heads sliding off. Joining other heads. A whole family. None of them looking related. But then they’d melt; one into the other. Becoming others. Ancestors, maybe. Could he make it across? Could he make it through this? Just stay between the lines. Grip the damn wheel and stay between the lines. It’s not that big a deal.
Victorville, California
(Highway 15)
Queens Motel, with a dull green plaster brontosaurus, all chipped and peeling from the desert sun, standing tall on its hind legs in front of a huge black satellite dish facing the Roy Rogers Mountains. I hadn’t realized they’d actually named some mountains after Roy. I’d never heard of the Roy Rogers Mountains and I grew up here. I grew up with Roy. He was one of the first television cowboy heroes I can remember watching. I watched Roy in the flesh too, riding Trigger down Colorado Boulevard in the Rose Parade alongside Dale Evans. I had no idea he got some mountains named after him. That must have happened long after I left. I wonder who decides that, anyway. Who decides to give mountains a name—or streets? They must do that by committee or something. I know a guy down in Texas who got his dad’s name put on a freeway outside Dallas because his dad owned the asphalt company that poured the road. Then there was a little side street in New York City
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