The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews Page A

said.
    We’re all gonna die! said Thebes.
    The truck drove along next to us and the guy in the passenger seat rolled his window down.
    Just so you guys know, said Thebes, I love you with all my heart and even if you two don’t have heaven-cred, I do, and I will put in a word with the Big Guy and tell—
    Thebes, I said, will you please shut up.
    I’ll meet you on the other side, my friends! she said.
    Here we go, said Logan. He pulled his hoodie way down over his face.
    Circle of life, said Thebes. She threw her arms into the air.
    That’s not even original, said Logan. That’s Bart Simpson—
    You don’t have to be original when your time is up, said Thebes. Word to yer mama.
    Hey, what’s up, I said to the guy. He was smiling. I smiled back.
    Nice flowers, he said, pointing to my head.
    Thanks, I said. We smiled some more. We could get this massacre over civilly at least.
    You’re dragging something, he said. Just wanted to let you know.
    They took off, flashed their taillights goodbye, and I pulled over to the shoulder once again. Logan jumped out.
    Fuck! He said. Fuck! We’d been dragging his headphones for miles. The wire had been stuck in the door. They were all dusty and torn up. He went over to them and knelt down and picked them up and held them, swearing softly, bereft and tender, but mad as hell. Then he raised his face to the heavens, to his malevolentmaker, and screamed, how could he live without his headphones! Why had this happened to him? What had he ever done?
    Thebes popped her head out of the van and said that if he wanted to have a funeral for them in the field, she could lead it, no charge, “Amazing Grace,” the works. I yanked her back inside and told her to leave him alone. She took a picture of him, boy grieving, with her disposable underwater camera. She and I gave him some time alone with his headphones.
    I see Troutman corpses piling up, she said. We have to stop in the next town and get him new ones. Key to our survival.
    Hey, she said. If Logan gets to get new headphones, could I get a crimping iron?
    I don’t know, I said. Maybe.
    A crimping iron is twenty-five bucks, she said, but if you just think about it for a minute you’ll soon realize that it’ll be worth every last penny.
    Let me think about it for one hour, I said. I’ll need you not to talk to me during that time.
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    I want to make it to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I told the kids when we were back on the road.
    It was smoking hot in the van and Logan took off his shirt and hoodie and climbed into the back and plunged his head into the cooler and then shook it. Water sprayed everywhere and Thebes screamed. Then she noticed a scar on his back.
    Where’d you get that? she asked. She moved her finger lightly over his skin. He stared out the window.
    Hey, she said, are you in a fight club?
    You mean like the movie? he said.
    Yeah, whatever, she said.
    You mean like that movie Fight Club ? he said.
    Yeah, or you know, a variation on the theme, she said.
    A variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club ? he said.
    Yeah! Like some local chapter, she said. You know? Starring Brad Pitt? Are you?
    Am I a member of a local chapter that is a variation on the theme of the movie Fight Club starring Brad Pitt? he said.
    I suggested to Thebes that she stop talking to Logan too, and write a story. Logan commended me on my first really excellent idea on the trip so far. Thebes didn’t know what to write about. Logan told her to write about a guy in a small village in South America or something like that, who is driven away because everyone thought that he had died and they were seeing his ghost and so now he lives down the road and is trying to prove that he’s alive so that he can go back and live in his village, which is all he wants out of life.
    So, said Logan, the problem is, how does he prove he’s alive?
    Thebes said she would rather rewrite the Ten Commandments on a