hooking a strand of Merry’s lank hair back behind her ear as they stared into the terrarium at the terrapin it contained. There was no hint of head, no tip of tail, nary a limb in sight. Just a shell.
Like me , Merry thought.
“It looks like a turtle to me, Jimby.”
“Think more literary, less literal.”
Merry shook her head. “I’m a jock, remember? Not an English professor.”
“Please,” Jim scoffed. “The girl who read James Joyce between time trials? The one who quoted Keats and Shelley on the plane to lull her teammates to sleep—”
“Clearly a useful hobby—”
“Merry, the rest of us always admired how you spent your downtime studying when you could have been goofing off. You think Annika Schimmerman reads Kafka on her off-hours? Sure’s shit Mikaela Shiffren can’t quote War and Peace , but I bet you can.”
Merry could, but she couldn’t see the relevance.
“Fine. I’m halfway literate. But I’m still totally clueless here. I give up. What’s it mean?”
“Think Ancient Greeks.”
“The unturtled life is not worth living?” Merry examined the greenish beast. “He doesn’t look like a Plato to me.”
“ Hellooooo …Aesop?”
Merry drew a blank. Maybe it was all the cookie dough, or the crap reality TV, but her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “Aesop might make a cute name for it, but…”
“ Slow and steady wins the race ,” Jim said, throwing his hands out in a “ta-da” gesture.
“ Ba-dum-pssh ,” Merry said tonelessly. And then, to her great shame, her eyes had welled up.
She hadn’t cried since it happened. Champions didn’t cry. But Merry wasn’t a champ anymore. She was just a big, gawky cripple with cookie dough on her bathrobe and no conceivable future. Her voice broke. “Fuck, Jimby. What am I gonna do?”
“Oh, honey. It’ll get better.” He’d kissed her cheek and wrapped his arm around her. “ You’ll get better. And like this little guy, you’ve got plenty of hidden chutzpah under your shell. You’ll find your way, sooner or later.”
He’d sat there patiently and held Merry’s shaking, sobbing form, while on TV, they watched people with messier problems than hers slowly dismantle the defenses of a lifetime. And ever since, Jim had been a comforting presence, just as his gift, which they’d named Cleese after their favorite Python, had turned out to be.
Shit. Cleese. Merry looked around the cabin until she recalled where she’d put his travel terrarium. He had to be hungry by now.
Must. Get. Up. Must. Be. Responsible. Turtle. Mama.
Seven and a half minutes later, Merry had scraped herself off the floor, fed and cosseted her pet, and managed to find her strongest antibacterial soap.
Five long minutes after that, she made it to Dolly’s place to degunk. Twenty more and, freshly scrubbed, she crossed the thirty feet to her car, ready to find that Internet café.
Please, God, let them have burritos.
D eadheads, rejoice! I have news. Your spiritual leader, much like Elvis, lives on. I know, for I have this very day met Jerry himself. He lives out his life quietly, modestly, in a wisp of a New Mexico mountain town. He swears his name is Needlepoint Bob.
And he makes a mean latte.
* * *
Bob’s café was part fifties diner, part general store, and all tongue-in-cheek. Merry glanced at the sign stenciled in flaking paint above the low adobe lintel. “ Café Con Kvetch? ” she murmured incredulously. “This I gotta see.”
She ducked a net of draggling Christmas lights and headed inside what looked to be the only public building in Aguas Milagros that was actually open. “Town” was a generous description for the dusty streak of slightly less desolate high desert she’d nearly missed on her way in yesterday due to her need to blink once in a while. If she hadn’t spotted the single faded sign for Aguas Milagros at the last second, practically obscured by a clump of cottonwood trees that lined the two-lane access
Like me , Merry thought.
“It looks like a turtle to me, Jimby.”
“Think more literary, less literal.”
Merry shook her head. “I’m a jock, remember? Not an English professor.”
“Please,” Jim scoffed. “The girl who read James Joyce between time trials? The one who quoted Keats and Shelley on the plane to lull her teammates to sleep—”
“Clearly a useful hobby—”
“Merry, the rest of us always admired how you spent your downtime studying when you could have been goofing off. You think Annika Schimmerman reads Kafka on her off-hours? Sure’s shit Mikaela Shiffren can’t quote War and Peace , but I bet you can.”
Merry could, but she couldn’t see the relevance.
“Fine. I’m halfway literate. But I’m still totally clueless here. I give up. What’s it mean?”
“Think Ancient Greeks.”
“The unturtled life is not worth living?” Merry examined the greenish beast. “He doesn’t look like a Plato to me.”
“ Hellooooo …Aesop?”
Merry drew a blank. Maybe it was all the cookie dough, or the crap reality TV, but her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “Aesop might make a cute name for it, but…”
“ Slow and steady wins the race ,” Jim said, throwing his hands out in a “ta-da” gesture.
“ Ba-dum-pssh ,” Merry said tonelessly. And then, to her great shame, her eyes had welled up.
She hadn’t cried since it happened. Champions didn’t cry. But Merry wasn’t a champ anymore. She was just a big, gawky cripple with cookie dough on her bathrobe and no conceivable future. Her voice broke. “Fuck, Jimby. What am I gonna do?”
“Oh, honey. It’ll get better.” He’d kissed her cheek and wrapped his arm around her. “ You’ll get better. And like this little guy, you’ve got plenty of hidden chutzpah under your shell. You’ll find your way, sooner or later.”
He’d sat there patiently and held Merry’s shaking, sobbing form, while on TV, they watched people with messier problems than hers slowly dismantle the defenses of a lifetime. And ever since, Jim had been a comforting presence, just as his gift, which they’d named Cleese after their favorite Python, had turned out to be.
Shit. Cleese. Merry looked around the cabin until she recalled where she’d put his travel terrarium. He had to be hungry by now.
Must. Get. Up. Must. Be. Responsible. Turtle. Mama.
Seven and a half minutes later, Merry had scraped herself off the floor, fed and cosseted her pet, and managed to find her strongest antibacterial soap.
Five long minutes after that, she made it to Dolly’s place to degunk. Twenty more and, freshly scrubbed, she crossed the thirty feet to her car, ready to find that Internet café.
Please, God, let them have burritos.
D eadheads, rejoice! I have news. Your spiritual leader, much like Elvis, lives on. I know, for I have this very day met Jerry himself. He lives out his life quietly, modestly, in a wisp of a New Mexico mountain town. He swears his name is Needlepoint Bob.
And he makes a mean latte.
* * *
Bob’s café was part fifties diner, part general store, and all tongue-in-cheek. Merry glanced at the sign stenciled in flaking paint above the low adobe lintel. “ Café Con Kvetch? ” she murmured incredulously. “This I gotta see.”
She ducked a net of draggling Christmas lights and headed inside what looked to be the only public building in Aguas Milagros that was actually open. “Town” was a generous description for the dusty streak of slightly less desolate high desert she’d nearly missed on her way in yesterday due to her need to blink once in a while. If she hadn’t spotted the single faded sign for Aguas Milagros at the last second, practically obscured by a clump of cottonwood trees that lined the two-lane access
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