“From the war?” said Joan, smiling surreally.
“A veterinarian. Dottie has an animal hospital not far from where your mother was attacked. We have a fairly large street population in Long Beach (we’re not proud of that), most of whom don’t have ready access to medical care for a multitude of reasons, not excluding budget cuts stemming directly from the wisdom of our current administration. To our chagrin”—he actually used the word—“many rely on Dottie for ‘outpatient’ care. She has a big heart and of course refers anything to us she doesn’t think she can handle.”
“My mother…my mother saw a vet?” said Joan, in disbelief.
Barbet let a smile creep to his lips as he and Joan locked eyes. Another ring of Hell, but what could you do?
“She wasn’t treated, but Dottie made sure she was warm and comfortable until the paramedics came. She gave her a compress to stop some of the bleeding, which again, was minimal. Probably prevented her from going further into shock. So the world does have good people in it.”
“The world is good,” said Joan. She meant to sound sarcastic but hadn’t the energy to give it that spin. “Well, cool. I mean, so long as Mom doesn’t say ‘Woof’ when I see her.”
The men grinned, glad to see that Joan was all right.
“Shall we go in?” asked the doctor.
SHE phoned to tell him what happened.
Chess sounded flat. He asked When and she said, A few days ago. (Joan didn’t think he’d get huffy about the time delay, and she was right on. He was probably relieved not to have been involved, and sounded too loaded to put on a show.) Her brother kept saying, I can’t fucking believe it, which, after the 1st few times, really got on her nerves. What was there not to fucking believe, dickwad? She found herself thinking less and less of him as a human being; each time Joan thought she might be motivated to share something real—her baby, their father, whatever — Chess revealed himself to be a narcissistic stoner she wanted nothing to do with.
He asked where Mom was now (Chesapeake Herlihy: Location Scout! Man of Action! The Decider!), and Joan said she’d been transferred to St John’s but was on her way to a “premier” care center called Golden Grove. Marj’s insurance had “really stepped up to the plate” and he needn’t worry—not that he would—Joan and Barbet (she threw her partner in just to make her brother feel his own useless appendagehood) had already checked out the “assisted living village,” which was far beyond anyone’s expectations, more like the Four Seasons than a rest home. She knew he would respond to that kind of shit; assisted living at the Four Seasons was Chester’s ultimate retirement fantasy.
He said he might not get a chance to see Mom before leaving. He was about to go “on a Vancouver scout.” He wasn’t actually finding the locations himself, but “overseeing the process, as producer.” God, you creep me out. She resisted the impulse to make a crack about his bogus lawsuit and trumped-up pain. His bogus life. Her good deed for the day.
It would be better if he didn’t see Marj anyway. Probably just make her nervous. Besides, she knew
LXXXVI.Chester
he wasn’t anxious to visit Mom after what had happened. Especially when he found out where they were putting her. He couldn’t believe it. Golden Grove: of all fucking places. That old devil karma, working against him.
Everything was conspiring to make Chess want to leave the country in a hurry. Some psychogroid had beat and violated his mother in a 76 station shitter. What the fuck. That’s what America was about: a horrorfilm rapeathon pileup. Listen to CNN: Wolf Blitzer talking about a commuter plane that went down and even though it was obvious he knew full well it was too early to get answers, the Wolfman was all necro’d out, breathy and methy and cockstiff for Death, husky-throated fratboy Peeper, a misery pimp hemming and hawing as he circle-jerked his pack of Nielsen jackals while they metaphorically peered through the submerged windows of a broken aircraft; he engaged on-retainer Talking Headless ghouls in redundant inane pointless dialogue, timekiller sexperts at dragging nonevents out for hours like Chess used to do when he snorted speed and flipped through porn rags. Jim Lehrer would probably have given it a minute’s worth but the Wolfman dragged Death and Time like a nigga tied to a bumper, police pursuit and arousal (speed-bumps relished for more pain), especially when it came to body recovery. They always got way hard whenever the moment came to say (coal miners/earthquakes/terrorist acts), The search and rescue has now become a recovery operation.
This morning, the headline shouted: LARGEST STUDY OF PRAYER TO DATE FINDS IT HAS NO POWER TO HEAL.
The Pentagon was blaming an antiquated computer system for the fact that it had hired collection agencies to go after stumpy, braindamaged, paralyzed soldiers for reimbursement of damaged “equipment” left on Iraqi battlefields.
Marj was probably going to get a bill for her reaming; he was afraid the search and rescue had now segued to recovery.
Wolf would be happy to hear it.
Fast food slow death nation.
LAXMI read about a zoo in Illinois that had a wake for the chief gorilla. All the apes filed by, sniffing and stroking the carcass, paying general respects. More dignity and nonbullshit nobility present than any human funeral he’d ever heard of.
THE more majorly free-floating pissed off he became, the more Laxmi tried to soothe. “It’s all about nonattachment!”—if you’re so nonattached, why still such fucked up emo re Suicide Mom and Molesting Dad? What am I doing. Why jump on Laxmi. Pull back, dude, pull back. You’ve been through too much. That stuff with your mom’s some sick, heavy shit. Pull back. The craziness with Marj, and Maurie…be glad your sis is handling it. Be very glad.
He did manage to find mystic comfort in letting the memory, if you could even call it that, of cubensis wash over him — compassionate teachings of the sacred shroom and Her imperial army. Tainted by more words from Laxmi and her avatars: one mustn’t get attached to anything, not taste, feel, touch. That’s gonna be tough. In India, the heat grew so strong that elephants sometimes drowned in the very ponds they jumped in to cool off. The great beasts, usually so careful about assessing water’s depth, got reckless because of their attachment to coolness and comfort, which proved fatal. So said Avatar of Unpronounceable Name.