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shit contraption, whether you
designed it, invented it or squeezed it out of your ass, I don’t
care. This is my trip in my rig. Like Aldous Huxley once said, ‘All
animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others.’
I’m the more equal one on this tub. Ain’t that so?”
    Rick nods his head side to the side and
lowers his eyes. I made my point, but the discomfort level on board
the Good Ship Lollipop just got ratcheted up sixteen degrees. We’re
making the most of it by looking out the gondola at the
scenery—ragged mountains unfurling beneath us, high thin clouds
above, white cotton candy against the pale blue of high altitude
sky. Little veins below are the only signs that humans ever existed
here: veins that are the highways and small clusters of
houses—capillaries. No cars are moving.
    “Can’t we bring this thing down a bit lower?
I’d like to see what’s going on,” I say.
    “Is that an order?” says Rick, with a pissy
tone that reminds me of my first girlfriend, Sandy Grunski.
Gruntin’ Grunski everyone called her. Everyone but me. It is true
that she could grunt like nobody’s business when I was fucking her
but I would have visited the Ninth Circle of Hell once a week for a
year for one of her blowjobs. I guess listening to her opinions on
pop music and sitcoms was the trade off. Now I’m thinking that the
trip to hell might have been better.
    “It is,” I say. If he wants a master and
commander, I’m it.
     
    ***
     
    In a few hours we see Interstate 54 like a
bright ribbon twisting here and there through cactus and mesquite
and mugho pines. No cars, no busses, no trucks.
    “Let’s follow the road for a while. Maybe we
can see if anything’s happening. It goes through some small towns.
Gas stations. Truck stops. It can’t all be gone. Can it?” I
say.
    “It sure can,” says Rick. Turning to Tim, he
says, “So what’s with you, pal?”
    “Tim ain’t talking much this trip,” I
interject.
    “Cat got his tongue?” Rick smirks.
    “He’s had some trouble, is all. How about
watching where you’re going, OK?”
    “Aye, aye,” he responds. “I’m going to take
her down. There’s an Exxon station up ahead. We can fill the
propane tank and pick up some water. Maybe some chips and other
good healthy shit.”
    “OK,” I say. “Just be sure there’s nothing
around. I mean no bitches or anything.”
    Rick turns the gas jet off and we start
cruising down. But at this altitude the wind does funny things. As
I’m thinking this and about to tell Rick to bring it up a bit, a
downdraft hits us like a giant’s fist and we go freefall for I
don’t know how long. I’m holding on for dear life, MG is bounced on
his ass while Rick grabs the burner control and yanks it too hard.
We all bounce and Tim gets knocked over the gondola railing. As he
goes over, I see one hand white-knuckled on the rail. I crawl over
and, as the balloon steadies, I get up and reach over. Tim is
wide-eyed and about to let go. He’s kicking, trying to get his feet
up and over but the wind is twisting him and the balloon. I grab
his arm and reach over.
    “Grab my hand” I shout. “Come on, Tim, grab
it goddamn it!”
    He reaches up and gets hold of my forearm
while I grab his. But he starts slipping out of my grip.
    “Man, don’t let go,” Tim shouts.
    “I won’t. Just steady yourself. And stop
kicking. When I say three, I’m pulling you in. Three!” I yank on
his arms as hard as I can and drop back, his stomach bent over the
rail.
    “Now get your feet over. I ain’t lettin’
go!”
    “He topples into the gondola, sweating like
he spent four hours in a sauna.
    “Thanks,” he says.
    “Good to see you again,” I say.
    “I guess the cat let go of his tongue,” says
Rick. “Or is it pussy.”
    I can see that Rick is not going to make this
trip any better, the asshole.
     
     

CHAPTER 7
     
    It’s late in the afternoon and as we descend
the sun prematurely fades because we’re in the