Mosquitoland: Chapters 14–25

I take a second to appreciate the fact that this man can't pronounce America but knows the word denigrate.

Hopping up the steps, I picture Arlene—a grande dame from the old school, mistress of geriatric panache, and my friend—clutching that wooden box for dear life.

The camera zooms in on my eyes as I drink in the enigmatic 17C.

The audience sits in silent wonder, a combination of hope, sadness, and wistful longing for romance stirring in their bellies.

But all my favorite movies have one thing in common: a singular moment in which you can feel the director telling his character's story as well as his own. It is beautiful, poignant, and appallingly rare.

Somehow, I end up under the very bridge I'd envisaged collapsing, watching my Greyhound speed by, northbound sans Mim.

We pass a derelict white building on the right. Off-white, really. The offest white there ever was.

As the hour passes, traffic thins to an occasional car or semi careening into the sinking sun.

I follow Walt, the peculiar wayfarer, uphill.

In light of his situation, my problems suddenly seem brazenly adolescent. Like a spoiled child crossing her arms and demanding some expensive new toy.

I see Mim: her face, pallid and feeble; her skin, pale and glistening; her bones, brittle and twiggy; an army of trees surrounding her.

Our relationship gained traction when Henry berated the movie for allowing Mr. Hammond to escape Isla Nublar alive.

However, I voiced my opinion that what the film lacked in the way of subtle nuances and erudite accuracy, it more than made up for in special effects, cinematography, and Jeff Goldblum goodness.

Lack of subtle nuances and erudite inaccuracies notwithstanding, Jurassic Park was ten times better on the big screen, and by the time it was over, Henry and I vowed never to criticize the film again.

This second voice has a strange guttural quality, as if the person is eating cake while talking.

His uncomfortable nearness is palpable.

Unfortunately, they're at the bottom of the bag, forcing me to acknowledge my many talismans of disappointment: one wooden box (wherefore art thou, Ahab?); one cell phone (thirty-nine missed calls); one bottle of Abilitol (if habit is king, I'm the joker); one terse letter (Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.); and last, but certainly not least, one Hills Bros. coffee can (behold! the Mistress of Burgling).

I can feign ignorance till I'm blue in the face, but I was there.

I have limited experience, but I know this: moments of connection with another human being are patently rare.

The kid has spent the last few minutes packing one of those hard, fifties-style suitcases full of canned hams, blankets, and God knows what else from that decrepit blue tent.

The shrubbery is dense but doesn't slow him one bit; he's weaving in and out of bushes and trees with surprising agility. By contrast, I follow behind like an errant sled, haphazard and zigzagged.

The wailing, whaling mess would pool around his bloated ankles, gather under the folding chair, then rise up and up, lifting the leviathan carcass off the roof, spinning him like a top, and tossing him off the edge...

We'd be swept up in the Blood Flood, too, Walt and I, carried away like Noah's Ark, or rather, like the animals of afterthought, left to fend for themselves in the apocalyptic precursor to the rainbow.

With more than a little help from her sidekicks, Our Heroine escapes the clutches of Shadow Kid unscathed, unfettered, and unmurdered.

Much to her chagrin, however, she now must deal with the inept Constable Randy, and though Our Heroine has done nothing wrong...

Much to her chagrin, however, she now must deal with the inept Constable Randy, and though Our Heroine has done nothing wrong...

I recalled one of my favorite childhood stories, Pierre by Maurice Sendak, about a lion who swallowed a naughty boy named Pierre. (Have you read this book? My God, it is deliciously macabre!)

And just like some angsty, one-sided breakup, my father explained to affable Dr. Makundi all the ways the good doctor had let us down.

Dr. Makundi sat on the other side of his rickety wooden desk, peering over the top of his glasses, listening to my father expound secondhand thoughts.

But then something happened—standing there on that roof, I remembered once, years ago, when Dad took me mini-golfing. During a few of the earlier holes, I’d noticed a last-second flick of the wrist, or a fleeting smirk, which led me to believe he was putting forth less than his best effort.

Closing my good eye, I will every ounce of stealth, speed, and moxie into the toes of my Goodwill shoes.

I am energized. I am galvanized. I am mobilized, oxidized, and fully realized.

With buoyed spirits, surging stealth, and the whitewater rapids of adrenaline, we follow my Velcro-laden friends into the foyer of the station: past the old lady in hysterics over her lost cat; past the debauched cowboy in leather chaps; past the gorgeous guy with a black eye—

Without looking up from his cube, Walt corroborates. "The new boy said ‘arm.’"

I become inexplicably interested in the analogue clock in the dashboard. It appears to be broken, as neither hand is moving. Interesting. Inexplicably so.

I vaguely recall him starting up the engine during my soliloquy.

I'm not above eating fries while being indignant.

At this, my brain splits into two very distinct factions: the first encourages me to gasp, to throw my hand over my mouth, to say No, not Uncle Phil! Beck, darling, say it ain't so!; the second sits in silence, unmoving, thoroughly disappointed.

I think about Ty Zarnstorff and all his little bully clones, united in their mutual disdain for kids who strayed from the pack.

Rather than join in the laughter, the unadulterated joy, as Beck did, my knee-jerk reaction to Walt's excitement was to calm him down.