Going Bovine

Page 40

“It’s awesome. Once they made this guy shave his butt on national television—and the guy did it! Totally rocked the house.”
How long till the pain medication? I could count the minutes. Go to sleep and not wake up. I could stay here and wait for the inevitable.
Saving the world. That’s impossible. Insane.
Still.
A cure. I could be cured. That’s what she said. And some little atoms come awake inside me, swirling into a question I can’t shake: “Why the hell not?”
I could have a chance.
And a chance is better than nothing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wherein I Try to Convince the Dwarf to Leave Behind the Comforts of Recycled Toilet Paper in Order to Accompany Me on a Mission to Possibly, Maybe Save the World
Once my family thinks I’m asleep and they step out for dinner, I wake Gonzo.
“Hey, dude. What’s up?” He sits up and wipes the drool from the corner of his mouth. The newsprint from his video game manual has smeared over half his face from where he fell asleep on it. This is the guy Dulcie thinks I should take with me on the road? Holy crap.
“Um, look, I know this is going to sound completely crazy, but I had this, I don’t know exactly what you’d call it. A vision, maybe.”
“What kind of vision?” he asks, yawning.
“This angel spoke to me and—”
Gonzo stops mid-eye rub. “Hold up. How did you know she was an angel, amigo? What did she look like?”
“Uh … wings. Breastplate. Pink hair. Fishnets and combat boots.”
“Awesome! Punk-rock angel! You think God’s a metal-head?” Gonzo gives me a thrashing air-guitar solo while banging his head and flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth. It’s like watching a snake die slowly and painfully. “What’s angel girl’s name?”
“Dulcie. So—”
Gonzo frowns. “Doesn’t seem like an angel name to me. My mom’s really big on the saints, and I’ve never heard of a St. Dulcie. You sure you weren’t just dreaming, man?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, though I’ve never been less sure of anything. “She gave me this mission, Gonzo. The most important mission of our time.”
“Awesome. Lay it on me.”
“Well …” I tell him everything Dulcie said about Dr. X and his time traveling and the cure and the end of the world approaching if we don’t locate him and get him to close the wormhole.
Gonzo stares at me. “Dude, you sound like those geezers who hang around the bus station wearing tinfoil hats and pissing into empty soda cups.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I swear. She was here. She ate my pudding snack.” The spoon. Her lipstick. I run for the trash. “I can prove she was here. Hold on.”
The linoleum’s bitter cold against my feet. The postal workers in my brain finally come off break and send the message to my legs that it’s okay to walk, and I stumble over to the trash can. Nothing’s in there but my mom’s half-finished crossword puzzle.
“They must’ve taken it with the tray,” I say.
“Sure they did.” Gonzo holds up some fingers. “Let’s do a quick sanity check. How many fingers?”
I flip him the bird. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Harsh.”
“I’m not crazy, okay?” I say, even though what I’m saying has every hallmark of a stadium-sized crazy concert.
“Okay. So how do we find this miracle guy, this Dr. X?”
“She said we have to look for signs—billboards, tabloids, personals.”
Gonzo stares at me. “Seriously, what are they putting in your IV? Wack on tap? Even if we entertain the idea that a winged being in combat boots gave you a secret mission to find a doctor with a magical cure, how are you gonna go anywhere, dude? In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a hospital bed at St. Jude’s and sometimes you have trouble just getting to the bathroom. Did 1-800-Punk-Angel give you some pointers there?”
“She gave me this.” I show him the laminated wristband. Gonzo puts his face near and reads.
“An E-ticket?”
“It’s got some cosmic, stabilizing mojo to combat the prions.”
“Cool! Punker Angel gave you more health.”
“Yeah, exactly. But it’s only good for two weeks.”
Gonzo whistles. “Man. Bummer. Well, good luck, dude.”
“I’m supposed to take you with me,” I say very fast.