trashed wind-sucking son they saw only at dinner because he needed that dinner to stay alive. Might as well wrap them up in mummyâs bandages too, because they were both walking disasters, his fatherâs nose like a skinned animal pinned to his face with the shiny metallic tackheads of his eyes, his mother a shapeless sack of organs with a howling withered skull stuck atop it. Come to think of it, she could have starred in Screaming Skull herself. And they nagged. Nagged and grunted. Pan looked into the professorâs eyes and then away again. âYeah,â was all he said.
âAny abuse? You use marijuana? Hard drugs? Booze? What about Free Love? Any social diseases? You vote in the last election?â
Pan fell into it. He warmed, grew effusive. He told the professor about scoring dope on South Street and cooking it up in whatever semi-clean receptacle that happened to be handy and wouldnât catch on fire, a spoon usually or one of those little cups they poach eggs in, an example of which heâd had and prized for about a week until it got lost, and he laid out both his arms like exhibits at the morgue to show the professor his tracks that were six months gone because the truth of the matter was heroin scared the shit out of him and he was never going to do anything other than maybe snort it ever again. Drew was dead. And Dead Mike, he was dead too. âBut Free Loveâoh, man, donât get me started. Thatâs what this is all aboutâthe chicks, you know what I mean?â That was when he realized Star was watching him, her knees pulled up to her chin and locked tight in the clasp of her arms, the firelight like hot grease on her face and that smirk she had, that smirk that was more of a put-down than anything she could ever say.
âWhat about VD?â the professor was saying, leaning in close with the microphone, his face hanging there at the end of his veiny blistered old manâs throat like a piñata, the gift-shop peace medallion dangling like a rip cord below that and his eyes like two wriggling leg-kicking toads, and PanâRonnieâfelt so embarrassed, so fucking mortified and put-upon, he actually jerked the microphone out of the professorâs hand and then, not knowing what to do with it, flung it into the fire in one smooth uncontested motion.
âWhat the hell you think youâre doing?â the professor wanted to know, and his old ladyâthe poetâsaid, âAmerican Primitive,â and laughed a long-gone laugh.
Ronnie was on his feet now, not much kicking power in a pair of huaraches, but enough to send the rest of the apparatusâthe big silver-and-gray box with the knobs and dials and slow-turning spools âinto the fire too, and the professor shouting and grabbing for themachine amidst the coals and the black and quiescent remains of the deer.
âYou crazy son of a bitch!â That was what the professor said, but it was nothing to Ronnie, he wasnât even listening. He heard Star laugh though, a hard harsh dart of a laugh that stuck right in him as he went off into the night, looking for something else altogether.
Later, much later, after sitting around a campfire with some people he didnât recognizeâor maybe he did recognize themâhe thought about going up to the back house and seeing what Sky Dog and the spades were up to, but then he thought he wouldnât. Better not press his luck. There were people who wanted him goneâand here Alfredoâs face loomed up out of a shallow grave in the back corner of his mind, followed in quick succession by Rebaâs and Verbieâsâand what happened the other night had split the place down the middle. Lester and Sky Dog and the rest had been voted out, and that meant they didnât show for meals and kept strictly to themselves, running the Lincoln down to the store for wine, cigarettes and processed cheese sandwiches every couple hours, but
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