Katherine Dunn - Geek Love

“We’re gonna shove that maggoty goat back into the little trailer!” Horst yelled at me as I passed him. It was too far to Dr. Phyllis’s van and I was too slow. Her door closed on Chick and he was inside, alone with her. Arty had the bulb control in his teeth and was wheeling merrily toward me when I grabbed his chair arms.

“What’d you do that for?” I puffed. “What’s she gonna do to Chick? Don’t leave him with her!”

“Push me home! He’s all right. Come on! Double it! Run!”

I grabbed the chair handles automatically and slogged toward his van, still craning my neck to look back at the blank closed side of Dr. P.’s white van. Horst and his helpers were torturing the decrepit brute back into the trailer. I stopped pushing. “Arty, what is she doing to Chick?”

His smooth-skinned head bobbed at the side of the chair. “Milk and cookies. Teaching him to play checkers. Move it! I have to piss so bad I can taste it.”

I threw myself forward, plodding, watching my feet stir the dust into the wheel ruts and noticing that the odd, thin light from the sky threw no shadows at all.

Mama was frantic. Papa was trying to tell her about the fat, bristly tick of a man who owned the horse and had tried to convince Al it was blood stock and would be a three-year-old in prime fettle as soon as it got some oats in its belly. Mama was whipping over every surface in the van looking for a note. A ransom note from the kidnappers or a farewell note from the runaway twins. “I left a note in my mother’s sugar canister when I ran away,” she muttered. Papa followed her, rambling on about the “used cayuse peddler” and finally noticed something amiss. Mama turned to him with clenched fists and a flaming face.

“Help me find them!”

“What the …??” Papa snatched at her wrist, turning her arm over, checking the number of injection tracks. I saw them toppling into anger.

“Papa, the twins are missing.”

“Ah, the flabby-gashed mother of god!” howled Papa as he sailed out the door trailing Mama. The wind slung the door wide with a flat whack and rushed into the van. I pushed the door closed behind me and took the two steps to Arty’s van. I turned the knob without knocking and slid inside. Silence. Carpet. The clean, rich room dim except for a yellow pool of lamplight where Arty lay calmly on a wine velvet divan with a book. He watched me wrestle his door closed.

“Do you know where they are?”

He shook his head. “But you can soak some towels and pack the windows and door frame for me. Help keep the dust out.” His eyes fell back to his book.

I wet towels in the tub, wrung them out, and punched them into the window frames. Through each window I could see the crew moving the vans and trailers, turning them end-on to the coming wind. There was movement in the windows of some of the other trailers as other hands tucked wet rags or papers against the cracks.

“Shall I go get Chick?”

Arty looked at the clock. “He’ll be coming here in a few minutes. He’ll make it before the dust comes down.”

“There he is.” I could see him through the window, holding hands with a red-haired girl as he ran to keep up with her long legs. They were ducking their heads, hunching into the wind, the red-haired girl with her free hand holding her high-rise hair, which blew up and back around her groping fingers.

“Did you ever wonder,” Arty asked, in his coolly speculative tone, “why he doesn’t fly? He should be able to.”

I yanked the door open as the pair hustled up the steps.

“Oly dear!” said the red-haired girl. “Crystal Lil wants you, honey! Chick found the twins. Come on.” I was staring at Chick, looking for bruises, psychic scars, electrodes planted behind his ears. Nothing. He was caught up in the excitement of the wind.

“Leave him with me!” Arty yelled from the divan. Chick’s eyes sprang eagerly past me, his face opening, pleased. He trotted in as I pulled the door shut.

The redhead grabbed my hand. Hurrying. The wind pushing so I felt my weight lifting away from me. The sky was a deep rust above us and the shouts of the crew around us were shredded to yelping bits that flipped past like no language at all. “Where?” I bellowed.

I thought she said, “The Schultzes!”

We blew past the generator truck, the refrigerator truck. I saw Horst shoving a wad of wet paper into the ventilator slot of the cat wagon and then the sand hit us. The red-haired girl screamed a short, high whistle interrupted by coughing, hers and mine. It was needles from behind, a million ant bites blistering the back of my neck, burning through my clothes. In front it was worse. A hot cloud of granulated suffocation filling nose, mouth, and eyes with dry powder that stuck to any moisture. It liked the roof of the mouth, the caves behind the nose, and especially the throat.

The refrigerator truck toppled onto its side behind us. We ran and the wind tried to make us fly.

The ten-toilet men-and-women Schultz was broadside to the wind. The same heaving gust that flattened the redhead and me toppled the Schultz off its trailer. On my belly in the dirt with my face buried in my arms, I felt the crash more than I heard it. Then a hand was pulling me up, and slipping my blouse up to cover my nose and mouth. The redhead rushed me along, her own blouse snugged to her face with the other hand. The fine dust sifted through the cloth but I could breathe a little. The wind ripped up my back, raking my hump, clawing at my bare head. My cap had blown away with my sunglasses. There was no sound — the blank roar of the wind-borne sand was seamless.

Hands hoisted me at the armpits and I fell, free and blind, but landed before I could yelp. Inside. Out of the wind. The redhead had found the door at one end of the Schultz and got me through it. I sat in the dark, painfully blinking sand out of my eyes with tears. The deep boom of the wind beat at the tin wall as I lay against it. A warm body lurched into me, collapsed beside me. A hand felt my head, my hump. The air was soft and thick with floating dust and the sick, sweet tang of chemicals and worse. The redhead’s warm voice breathed in my ear, “I’ll bet this crapper hasn’t been pumped since Tulsa.”

It wasn’t actually a Schultz-brand portable toilet. It was a Merry-Loo in a truck box with five booths on each side, self-contained cold-water supply for washbasins, MEN on the port side, WOMEN to starboard. Papa had picked it up cheap with its own truck trailer. It was built of thin fiberboard and was so light that a car or a small pickup could pull the whole rig.

“Yuck! I’m leaning on a slimy urinal!” The redhead scooted over, pushing me into the corner. My head banged on something hard and I reached to feel pipes and chilly porcelain, dripping. The sink. My eyes were flushing out sand and I began to see well enough to know that it really was dark in there.

“The twins and your mom are on the other side. We’re on the men’s side. If they’re still there … Lil! Lily!” she shouted.

“Mama!” I yelled, and then coughed with the red dust rasping deep in my pipes. The murk fuddled me. The room was on its side. The sink above me hung the wrong way. If I turned on the tap, the water wouldn’t fall into the basin, it would pour onto my head. We were crouched on a wall with the linoleum floor at our backs. What little light there was came in a brown-gravy mist through the plastic skylight in what was normally the roof but was now the far wall. The sand-heavy wind cast dark, rushing shadows across it. Just beyond the urinal that lay beside us, the booths began. The liquid seeping from the cracks reminded me that all the toilets were lying on their backs.

“They’re above us.” The redhead was standing up on shaky denim legs. “Wow! I’m a little woozy!” Fluid was dripping down from what was serving as the ceiling. “Look, that wall is popping!”