The Concrete Veldt

ATTENTION!-5

I gripped the door handle fiercely—I had to grip something, and it was right there—as Clinton took the curve; the Charger leaning precariously, its tires chirping and squealing—like chicks falling from the nest.

“Jesus, what is it with you?”

He just smiled, gripping the wheel, focusing straight ahead. “I’m enjoying my last few hours on this earth—that is, if you don’t mind?” He gave me a harsh look. “Maybe you should do the same—instead of looking so goddamn serious about everything.” He fished around behind his seat; but didn’t seem to have any luck. “Hello? Earth to Preston. Can you beer me?”

I fetched him a Black Label as we careened down the road—popped its cap. “Look, I’m going to say it again: Don’t you think we should at least check it out?”

Clinton laughed as we skidded through an intersection—then floored it again. “Listen: You want to live with a bunch of old ladies and spend your life raising Dutch barns—fine. It’s no skin off me. But I’m voting with my feet and checking out of this s**t-show. This morning.” He swerved to avoid a cycad tree and almost lost control—but quickly recovered. “And I’m gonna do it in a blaze of glory.”

“Fine,” I said. “That’s fine.” I studied his face as he focused on the road. “So drop me off at the bridge and have at it—all right? I want to see what it’s about.”

And then we were sliding, or the a*s-end of the car was, skidding to a halt at the corner of W. 7th Avenue and S. Inland Empire Way—in f*****g Spokane, Washington—after the Apocalypse, after the time-storm. Then we were sitting there under the freeway overpass and staring at some art on a concrete column; the engine idling, rumbling and sputtering, the wind blowing hotly as AC/DC sang “Down p*****t Blues.”

“Explain it,” said Clinton, looking as though he’d just as soon kill me as look at me. “Tell me why you’d rather live—like that, like a prisoner, like a monk, than to just dash the cup to the ground and be free. Free of all this,” He indicated the cycads and the overgrown sidewalks—the moss-covered bridge, the carcass of a small dinosaur. “Free of them.” He indicated the sky.

I looked at the art on the overpass and thought about it—at its gay, vivid colors and depiction of a flying bird, which was coming in for a landing; and at the Sunset Boulevard Bridge—which had stood since 1913 and stood still: its arches suffused with purple, for the sun was rising in the east, its streetlamps glinting gold.

“It’s just that ... maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. This—this hopeless. This primal. Maybe we can tame it again, civilize it. Maybe we can do more than just survive all this,” I looked at him across the cab. “Maybe we can thrive.”

He started to speak but paused; unsure if I was having him on or not—gauging my sincerity. “And—what? You think ...”

“I don’t know what I think,” I said, and looked at the art—at the bird coming in for a landing and the gay, vibrant colors. At the graffiti which hadn’t the power to overwhelm it. “I know that’s still here—I know that. And I know ... that there’s others out there; others who want to help. I didn’t before, but ... now I do.” I watched as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; blew bluish-colored smoke out the window. “And ... and I guess that’s changed everything. You know I mean?”

And he just looked at me. And I looked back; hopeful, expectant.

He started tittering.

“I couldn’t get it up with Mercedes—can you believe that?” He leaned closer, snorting and puffing, snickering through his nose. “Not even when she went down. I mean, I was like, I guess I’m a shower not a grower, baby!” And he laughed.

I must have just looked at him. There beneath the overpass, near the Spokane River and the Sunset Boulevard Bridge, as the sky began to lighten and the pterodactyls began to chatter. There in our hometown—which hadn’t really changed so much (except for the cycads and the odd dinosaur).

There in the ‘Kan; the Lilac City, the Easy Valley, which hadn’t really changed at all.

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