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“Yeah. Guess so.”
We sit staring out at that vast ocean, Gonzo and I, just watching the sky colors drip into the sea like a giant percolator, making something sweet and strong, something to keep you going when all you’ve got left are fumes.
Maybe there’s a heaven, like they say, a place where everything we’ve ever done is noted and recorded, weighed on the big karma scales. Maybe not. Maybe this whole thing is just a giant experiment run by aliens who find our human hijinks amusing. Or maybe we’re an abandoned project started by a deity who checked out a long time ago, but we’re still hardwired to believe, to try to make meaning out of the seemingly random. Maybe we’re all part of the same unconscious stew, dreaming the same dreams, hoping the same hopes, needing the same connection, trying to find it, missing, trying again—each of us playing our parts in the others’ plot-lines, just one big ball of human yarn tangled up together. Maybe this is it.
Or maybe there’s something to what Junior said about those black holes singing. That B-flat? Maybe that’s the last sound we make when we join the universe, something to say, I was here. One last “Whoo-hoo!” before we’re pulled into the vast, dark unknown and shot out into some other galaxy, some other world, where we have the chance to do it differently. I don’t know. It’s something to think about, though.
“This is pretty f**ked up, dude,” Gonz says, giving me that big, lovable lopsided grin.
I know what he means, and I want to say something back, but I can’t find the words for how incredible this is any more than I can pin the sky in place. I’m happy to be right here, right now. And I know, even as I’m surrounded by this feeling, that it will take its arms away soon enough. Tears sting my eyes. I turn my head so Gonzo can’t see.
“Hey, new bumper sticker,” Gonzo announces. “This car powered by the Dwarf of Destiny!”
I wipe my face against my shoulder. “Everyone says you’re paranoid.”
“The Norse like to keep things Wyrd,” Balder chimes in.
“Good one,” Gonzo says, giggling.
“Free the snow globes!” I shout to the sky.
“Free-ee the snow globes, free-ee the snow globes …” Balder turns it into an opera riff, and we join in till we’re laughing too hard to continue.
We’ve left the moment. It’s gone. We’re somewhere else now, and that’s okay. We’ve still got that other moment with us somewhere, deep in our memory, seeping into our DNA. And when our cells get scattered, whenever that happens, this moment will still exist in them. Those cells might be the building block of something new. A planet or star or a sunflower, a baby. Maybe even a cockroach. Who knows? Whatever it is, it’ll be a part of us, this thing right here and now, and we’ll be a part of it.
And if it’s a cockroach? Well, that will be the happiest f**king cockroach on the planet. I can tell you that.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
In Which We Are Unprepared for the Unexpected
“I … I believe I see it!” Balder gasps. “There on the horizon, where the sun bleeds—it’s my ship. It’s Ringhorn!”
Gonz and I squint out at the ocean going golden-hot with fading sun. The glare’s bad, but I don’t see a ship. Balder runs along the shore speaking excitedly in Norse. “I must have my possessions,” he says, a note of worry in his voice. “I left them in the car.”
“Relax. I’ll get them. You just keep your eye on your ship,” I say, and hoof it to the parking lot. Two cops on bikes patrol the sand, blocking my way to the car. Crap.
I turn and run smack into a guy with a mustache, mirrored sunglasses, and a baseball cap. “Hi there! Can I take a minute of your time to talk to you about safety?” he asks.
“Uh, you know, right now’s not a good time—”
“It’s always a good time to be prepared for the unexpected.
How will you protect your loved ones in the event of the eventful?” he asks.
I’ve got my eyes on the cops. They’re biking away. Yes!
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Junior. Junior Webster.”
“Really? ’Cause I think you’re Cameron Smith and you’re in some deep trouble.” He grabs my wrist in an iron-tight grip. His baseball cap reads UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS. “This is Employee number four fifty-seven calling base,” he says into a walkie-talkie. “Terror suspect in custody. Got the other two in my sights. Request backup. Over.”
A muffled voice worthy of a drive-thru window answers him.
“Roger that. Let’s go get your friends,” he says, yanking my arm up and behind my back.
“Please,” I say, swallowing hard. “You’re making a big mistake. I’ve been trying to save the world—you guys included!”
