Читать книгу Welcome to Braggsville - - Страница 14

¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué?

Porque it was her idea to ride Medusa—Because! Because! Because! Nonetheless! Understandably!—it was her idea to ride Medusa; because when she whispered in your ear that foggy A.M. in that class that only you two share, that morning after—OR but days after—that party when YOU dressed in vintage polyester and pleather like the cast of the Rocky Horror Picture Show and paraded down Bancroft Ave á la East Bay Story, a new itch stitched YOUR ribs; because when she whispered, beeswax binding her riotous golden dreadlocks, bundled solid, squat enough to pinch you with envy, of course you thought FUCK calculus, FUCK history, FUCK ethnic studies, and not at all metaphorically; because when she whispered, voice riding up from her gut, wearing the sun like a saint, hair riding the air as she turned to you, you envisioned Legend of the Overfiend, bukkake, that fifth-grade slide on conception, now most immodest; nonetheless, YOU are forgiven because she routinely refers to herself in the third person by her First Peoples name or her Tibetan name or her Burner name; understandably forgiven by even the sardonic professor who, midmarker, raised only his left eyebrow when you pressed cracked lips to hand after Goldilocks whispered, Haven’t you ever wanted to ride Medusa?

Then THEY texted you. Couldn’t back out then, even if you wanted to—Because! Because! Because! Nonetheless! Understandably!—your heart exploded like a watermelon being eaten by an elephant.

And so YOU are at Six Flags in Vallejo. Va-yay-ho! Screams overhead; fluorescent math problems ride the sky. Vallejo was once the home of the Miwok, Suisunes, and the Patwin, a Wintun people, according to her. In 1850, the government drafted plans to build a new city within the city, a well-appointed capital district complete with a university and botanical garden, according to her. This gilt municipal zone was to be called Eureka, according to her. The irony is lost on you. The irony is not lost on you, but neither is it found. And you, Ferric, you say. A wink your reward. A tickle in your gut, shame, because that’s how it always is, Banks loan quickest to those who least need money. Celaka!! Fuucked up, you say. You don’t know what a ferret has to do with anything, but you’ll, Ferret it out, you promise, you’ll have that vayay-ho, that va-jello, that earthy gash, your own Eureka.

But first you tried to eat, Charlie and his Macho Nachos, Candice and her Paddle Handle Corn Dog (could the universe be more unfair?), Daron and his Smokehouse burger, and Louis and his Totally Kickin’ Chicken, which he pushed away after two bites, I’m throwing in the chopsticks. Was it nerves, or was it that centered on the picnic table marred with initials carved, etched, and drawn, and stained with mustard and food scraps, sat a fluttering stack of memorial brochures doctored by Candice—Adbusters-style complete with new photos—to extoll the virtues of the Six Flags Graveyard, and one box of ashes. The remains of Ishi, if asked.