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There is no meaning but what we assign. We create our own reality. I can live with that.
“I said, ‘Catch me if you can.’”
With that, I leap up and run for the corridor, fast as a road-runner, and open the first door I see.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
In Which Coyote and Roadrunner Meet One Last Time
It’s quiet on the other side of that door. Daylight’s streaming in, landing in bright patches on familiar green-flowered wallpaper. I’m standing in our old kitchen watching the eight-year-old me at the table eating sugary cereal and reading a comic book. Mom walks by with her coffee. She looks young. And happy. She rubs a hand across my head, tousling my hair. I rub it back into messy place.
“Love you, crankmuffin,” she says.
“I’m not a crankmuffin. Don’t mess with my hair,” I grumble. It seems like a bratty thing to say, but Mom laughs.
“You are a crankmuffin, but you’re my crankmuffin.” She sits beside me with her paper, and there we are, reading and sipping and slurping. I want to tell her she’s a good mom. That I am her crankmuffin and I like it.
The Wizard of Reckoning steps out of the bathroom that’s off the kitchen. I don’t know how he got there. “Hey, dude,” he says, smirking. “Nice moment, huh? What was your thing about your hair, though? Kinda teen girl of you, if you don’t mind my saying.”
He twirls the blade like a threat and I dash back out the door and into that long white hallway where all the doors are like vibrating strings. I try the next door. I’m in Dad’s office. Dad’s at his desk, hunched over some papers. Raina’s pacing around the office. They’re not looking at each other. Raina’s telling Dad about some guy she met at a concert. She says he asked her out on a date, and Dad’s telling her she should go. She looks a little hurt. She says, “Maybe I will.” Dad says, “I think you should.” Then it’s quiet for a minute and Dad says, “Well, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.” Raina says, “Sure.” And that’s it. She’s gone. I don’t know if this is something that’s going to happen, something that’s happening now, or something that will never happen. It’s hard to tell.
“Cam-er-on! Where are you, you slippery little road-runner?” The wizard’s hot on my tail. I leap back into the corridor and through another door.
I’m in the studio audience of some TV show. Staci Johnson’s front and center on the soundstage, wearing a really hot dress, and I think, Whoa, I had her. Or maybe she had me. She reads from a teleprompter. “Tonight, on The Hostess … will Freedom best Jackie in the not-enough-menus challenge? Or will they both have to turn in their name tags when the reservation book goes missing … ?”
“Dude, she is pretty hot.” The wizard’s sitting a row over.
“Stop chasing me!” I shout.
He shrugs. I take off again, ducking in and out of doors. I run past the Small World ride.
“Oh my God!” a lady cries. “A little boy drowned! He just jumped overboard!”
Open the next door, and I’m in somebody’s backyard. Swing set. Toys. A little girl toddles over to a yard gnome, pounds its head with her pudgy hands. “Cameron, over here,” her mom calls, her arms open wide. It’s Jenna. Jenna’s a mom.
“Meep-meep!” The Wizard of Reckoning taunts, and I scramble back into that endless corridor. He pops out from behind a door in front of me. “Hot-cha!” he says, waving his spirit fingers.
“Stop doing that—it’s annoying!” I yell as I dive through a different door and find myself in a desert, a gun in my hands. I’m wearing camouflage.
“Move it, soldier. There’s a war on.” A guy barks, and slaps my back, and then we’re marching forward.
“Keith, tell that story again—the one about the Party House,” one of the soldiers calls out.
“Oh, man! You would not believe how fine Marisol is, I’m telling you,” the other soldier turns and says. His uniform reads PVT. KEITH WASHINGTON. “It was the rockingest day—”
“Hey,” I shout. “Wait—”
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.
