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our way west to Kansas, we camped at Alley Springs,
in the Missouri Ozarks near the Current River. Frank had flown out to
meet
us, to meet Gaddis, and to attend our reading
at Big Sleep Books. After the reading, a bunch of art majors from Washington
U. presented us with, by way of a parting gift, a bottle of Moet
Chandon White Star, an original oil painting, and about 35 whippets
of industrial-grade nitrous oxide. On our way out of town, we managed
to
get a case of champagne flutes, 99 red balloons,
a whippet dispenser, a pack of hot dogs, a bag
of marshmallows, and, for good measure, a bag of ice, a case of beer (we
wanted Budweiser just to immerse ourselves in Saint Louis culture,
but Frank reminded us of their deplorable labor practices, so we bought
Grolsch instead), and a first aid kit. William and I had the tents pitched
by dark, and Dirk started a fire while Frank gathered
wood. Pretty soon William was playing ukulele and we were roasting wieners.
It was good, and we were happy. Dirk opened the Moet Chandon. It was warm,
and the cork flew out on a gushing spume of sparkling champagne, the
pop
echoing against the mountainsides. We cheered, and toasted Saint Louis,
and had a fine meal. Then we brought out the whippets and started filling
balloons until the metal dispenser was so cold from the supercooled gas
that it threatened to stick to our hands.
Things started to go in and come out. We inhaled gas and commented to
each other in strange low voices, like tapes played at half-speed. We
laughed and laughed at the same things, at different things, at nothing.
There was darkness and I realized I was looking down upon myself from
a great distance. Then a point in the darkness began to open
into a wild echoing undulating noise. There was a prick of light and warmth
that was approaching me. Then the sound became crickets and cicadas and
the crackling of fire. The circle of light engulfed me and became the
world. I was lying on my back on the picnic table beside an overturned
beer. I could hear Frank mumbling about stages of consciousness.
Someone released a balloon from unconscious fingers and it shot off into
the night with a flatulent exhalation. And then as a trickle of sensation
began to irrigate my nervous system, I became aware of another presence.
I turned my head slowly away from the fire and there was a gigantic shambling thing, a monster of insane proportions, a bear standing beside the car. It was tearing open the bag of marshmallows with its teeth and rummaging around in the trunk. I heard the clanking of the box of metal canisters. The bear put another handful of food into its mouth. There was a piercing squeal of escaping gas and the bear turned to stone. And swayed. And fell over backwards.
Frank was still talking about stages of consciousness and William and
Dirk were both prone and motionless. The bear lay there and shuddered
and released a very slow moan. It had inhaled a breath of nitrous. It
had passed out. It would come to very soon. When it did, it might try
to eat us, and we were in no shape to fend off a bear. We had no weapons,
probably not even a jack in the trunk. I sat up and looked around desperately.
I grabbed the case of beer and the Swiss
Army knife. I crawled over to the bear. It smelled like a wet carpet.
It groaned. It lay on its back, eyes vacant, mouth open. Hoping to keep
it unconscious, I opened the Swiss Army knife’s bottle opener and
opened a beer and poured it into its mouth. And then another. And then
another. And then I dropped another whippet into the dispenser, tightened
it, filled a balloon, and then released the gas into the bear’s face.
William staggered to his feet and was stumbling to the underbrush when he saw me sitting there, smoking a cigarette, feeding drugs and alcohol to an inert bear. William and I looked at each other for a few seconds, and then William shook his head slowly, walked into the woods and threw up.
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