Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 155

His foot comes down. “—of my life—”

The sand explodes in a mile-high fireball. There’s shouting. Orders. Chaos. Explosions. Gunfire. I toss the gun and run pushing out into the safety of the hall. Except that it’s not safe. Another door. More sand. But this is a beach, not a war zone.

“Can I help you?” Behind me is a shack. The Magic Screw Guy Boat Repair. The man at the counter holds out his hands as if to say, I don’t have all day, pal. His hat reads KEITH.

“I said, can I help you?”

“You already did,” I say, and dart for the next door.

I keep running, trying doors. In one, Eubie’s onstage in New Orleans drumming for Junior Webster; in another, he’s playing Junior’s albums and guiding college kids toward good music in his shop. The Copenhagen Interpretation plays a futuristic, Tomorrowland-worthy palace in a sky where three moons shine, and you know, the acoustics are really good. I see the busy streets of New Orleans and the quiet peace of the graveyards. I see people coming and going from the Wishing Tree, pinning their hopes to it so it’s always in bloom. In another, Gonzo and Justin ride a coaster together. When it plunges, they raise their arms and scream in happiness. I walk through all kinds of landscapes. Past. Present. Future. Alternatives. At first, I try hard to figure out what’s real and what’s not. But after a while, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Door after door after door. I open one and am surrounded by the sight of gases twirling, stars swirling. Something fires and the whole thing is set in motion. A universe is being born. It’s so cool. It’s a thing that should be shared. I wish Dulcie were here to see it.

“Cool, huh?” It’s the wizard. I know that without even looking.

“Yeah,” I say.

The room falls away and we’re in that corridor again, but it looks different. It’s still really white, but the ceiling is lower. It has spongy acoustic tiles. I hear the beep of the heart monitor, the whirr of a respirator.

“You’re out of doors, Cameron.”

Just like that, we’re back in the room by the desk. There’s nothing on it now but the Wizard of Reckoning holding the angel snow globe.

“Any last words?”

I shrug. “Only what I’ve already said.”

“Oh right. ‘To live is to love, to love is to live.’ That’s your great insight?”

“Yeah.”

He starts laughing. It’s really weird to watch yourself laugh. Like I never knew my mouth went up higher on one side. “Oh, Cameron! Dude. That is soooo lame.”

“Yeah.” I’m laughing, too, because really, the whole thing strikes me as hilarious all of a sudden.

“Come on, buddy. You’re not exiting stage left on that, are you? Give me something else—‘And don’t forget my soda, punk.’ Something.”

“Sorry,” I giggle. “That’s all I got.”

The me who’s the Wizard of Reckoning sets his mouth in a grim line. “That’s too bad. ’Cause you’re gonna die.”

I stop laughing. “Yeah. I know.”

“There’s nothing else.”

Nothing else.

“Meep-meep! That’s all for now, kids,” the wizard taunts.

Nothing else. Nothing.

“Time to say goodbye.”

Nothing else. Isn’t that what Junior said back in New Orleans? Man, that seems so long ago. You take this horn and someday, when you gotta, when there’s nothin’ else, you play it.

I try to run for my backpack and fall flat on my stomach. My legs have stopped working. So I crawl. Every inch is an exercise in will and pain.

“Oh, Cameron. Crawling? Dude, that’s an icky way to go out.”

Backpack. Just need to reach my backpack.

“Here comes the big bad coyote!”

Fingers are so stiff. Shit. Not now. Please not now. Fumble with the zipper.

“Owoooooeeeeee!” the wizard howls.

Zipper’s open. Reach in. Feel the cold metal. It’s in my hands.

“Hey. Whaddaya got there, buddy?”

“Just this.” I raise Junior Webster’s horn and blow for all I’m worth.

Nothing.

I hear nothing.

The Wizard of Reckoning chuckles, then stops. “Hey, I heard that. B-flat. Hey …” He’s starting to fold in on himself, everything disappearing, pulling in. Just before his face crumbles, he looks right at me. “Well, shit.”

All at once, the snow globes shatter. The water rises and I’m caught in it. It pushes me along, down that hallway, toward one last door. My face is reflected in the knob, all distorted. I open it wide and step in.