Miriam Toews - The Flying Troutmans

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 piece of dark blue construction paper with her special gold glitter pen.

Then fucking do it already! I said. I immediately apologized.

It’s okay, said Thebes. Those are just words. Language isn’t real.

Yes it is, said Logan.

Not to me, said Thebes.

How can it not be real to you? I said. You use it every day.

Yeah, I know, said Thebes, but that’s all.

Okay, I said.

Like you know when it snows in May? said Thebes. How much that sucks?

Yeah, I said.

I don’t let my brain accept the word snow , said Thebes.

Hmm, I said. Okay, so…

I pretend it’s something else, she said.

The snow? said Logan.

Yeah, she said.

Like what? he said.

I don’t know, said Thebes. Like stuff somebody left behind.

Hey, said Logan, you forgot your stuff. It’s everywhere.

Yeah, I said, my dog’s shitting all over your stuff.

See, said Thebes, exactly. Hey, how’s this one?

What one? I said.

Be at Peace with Yourself in this Chaotic World, she said.

Is that one of your commandments? I asked. She said yeah.

Logan said it was too vague.

How about this, said Thebes. Do Not Let Hard Words Control Your Life.

I said yeah, that was a good one.

Logan said, What do you mean? Like harsh words? Or like difficult, complicated words.

Hard words, she said.

I think it should be clearer, said Logan. Write harsh or something. Or how about Do Not Let Hard Liquor Control Your Life.

Logan, just let Thebes make her own commandments, okay?

Fine.

Fine.

What about Be Kind to Dogs? asked Thebes.

What if a dog is attacking your best friend? said Logan. He was carving into the dash again.

Thebes, I said, just write your commandments down, every one you can think of.

She was quiet and then she started to say something. No, no, I said. Don’t. Don’t talk. I’m still thinking about that thing, that crimping iron, and you have to concentrate on your commandments. Let’s all be quiet. Let’s have a quiet contest.

Okay, she said, but just so you know? Glenn Gould could do his playing, his live performances, while reminding himself of people he had to call, the number of the cab he’d have to call later to get home, all that stuff, and none of it interfered with his playing.

Okay, I said. Boffo. I’m buying a tranquilizer gun in Cheyenne.

Hey, I whispered to Logan, how did you get that scar on your back? What happened?

Shhh, he said, quiet contest, remember?

Yeah, but, just—

Shhh…

This time Logan had carved the question Who needs actions when you’ve got words? K. Cobain. He had already changed the title of Thebes’s secondary reading material to Harry Pothead and the Philosopher’s Stone. Then he changed it to Happy Pothead …and then he changed it to Happy Pothead and Phil Is Stoned. I told him he’d have to buy Thebes a new book, but she doesn’t want a new one. She wants the old one with the messed-up cover and the equivalent worth in Archie comics. Logan is reading Twelve, a book about drugs and parties and death in Manhattan, and Heavier Than Heaven, the Kurt Cobain biography, which is all about pretty much the same stuff and where he must have gotten the quote he’d just carved into the dash. He’s got The Tin Drum and a George Saunders book and Maus and Howl and a book about Saturday Night Live all stuffed, along with his notebooks and sketchbooks, into a fake alligator-skin suitcase he bought at a Goodwill store for four dollars.

We drove through the heat. We didn’t talk for a long time. Who needs words when you’re having a quiet contest? I saw a fat guy walking slowly down the highway, hunched against the hot wind, with a faded marathon number pinned to his back. He looked tired. He was headed in the same direction as us. I wanted to talk to another adult.

I pulled up next to him and Logan rolled his window down and I leaned over and said hey.

Hey, said the guy. He barely looked at us.

We’re going to Cheyenne, I said. Are you in a race?

He said no, he had been, but not any more.

Oh, I said, are you lost?

No, he said, not exactly. I liked this guy. We could become best friends, I thought. I live in a town eighty miles from here, he said. I’m the caretaker of a church.

Do you want to ride with us for a while? I asked him.

Thebes and Logan looked at me, looked at him, looked at me.

No thank you, he said.

You’re gonna walk for eighty miles to get home? I asked him. He said he’d stop along the way. Where are you gonna stop? I asked him. He hadn’t decided yet.

I was desperate to talk to this guy. He kept trudging down the highway and our van crept along beside him. I don’t see any houses or anything around here at all, I said. He shrugged, nodded, yeah, no. So where are you going to stop? I asked him.

Points yonder, he said, and smiled.

Points yonder? I repeated. Nice. I smiled back. We kept our glacial pace and eased on down the road. C’mon, I said, hop in, just for a break. Aren’t you tired? I said. He said he was but still, no thank you.

Is it because we’re strangers? I asked him. He looked at us. He said he just wanted to walk if that was okay with me. Yeah, of course, I said, but how’d you get separated from the pack?

What pack? he said.

Your race! I said. I pointed at the number pinned to his back. Logan took a big breath and closed his eyes. The guy didn’t say anything, just shook his head. Are you sure you don’t want a ride, just for a few miles? I said. We won’t hurt you, I promise.

He smiled wearily and said yeah, he was sure.

Do you want a drink or something? A bottle of water? Or we’ve got juice! Thebes! I said.

Yo! she said, and whipped the lid off the cooler and grabbed a bottle of water. Here, she said. She handed the water to Logan, who handed the water to the guy, who took it and said thank you very much.

Well, do you race often? I asked him.

He said no, it had been a stupid idea. He hadn’t known what he was doing or what he was getting into. I loved this guy!

Listen, I said, why don’t you just…get in the van.

Nope, he said. He told us he’d be just fine, really, but thank you.

I said yeah, I know but—

Jesus, Hat, whispered Logan, give it up, man, fuck.

I thought: Kidnap this odd walking man, be lost and tired together, take care of the church, laugh at our old misguided ways (Oh yeah, what were we thinking? Marathons. Searching for fathers. Hilarious!), change my name from Troutman to something like Grey…

Mmm-hmm, I said, cool. Okay. I smiled at the guy. Good luck with, you know, the whole…this, I told him, and took off.

Shh, I said to the kids, who were poised to explode with commentary. At least Thebes was.

Were you gonna marry that guy or what? she said.

Logan had said earlier what he’d needed to say. Filled his daily talking quota.

Hey, do you want to play Zit? said Thebes.