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“No, ma’am,” I say, flashing Gonzo an I-will-kill-you-if-you-speak look. “Just bring him a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“And coffee,” Gonzo adds.
“And coffee,” I say.
“I’ll put that order right in for you!” The waitress takes our menus and practically runs from the table. A bus boy drops off a cup of steaming java.
“How did you get the name Gonzo anyway? Were you born in St. Irony Hospital?” I ask once our waitress has gone to the coffee station where she’s telling the other waitress on duty about Gonzo. She pokes her head around to gawk at us.
“Dude, you have to be careful. They say they clean stuff, but they really don’t.” Gonzo empties three packets of sugar into his coffee and stirs it with the end of his fork.
“You know, Gonzo, that’s kind of the least of our worries,” I say.
“That’s what you say now. When you’re puking up your stomach lining in an hour, you’ll think differently.”
I push the saltines away. “Thanks for that visual.”
“For real, dude, my mom read a magazine article—investigative journalism—about what goes on in restaurant kitchens. You don’t want to know.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Maybe your mom should stop reading stupid crap that exists only to keep people in a state of constant fear.”
Gonzo’s expression darkens. “You talking shit about my mom? Maybe if your ’rents had been more on their game you wouldn’t have gotten a bad burger or whatever and ended up with holes in your brain.”
“Nice.”
“I’m just saying.”
We stare at each other over the mostly empty cracker bowl. “You know what? Let’s just not talk,” I say.
Gonzo shrugs. “Fine by me, pendejo.”
The waitress brings our food and I eat like a man possessed. We haven’t really had anything other than JellyJuice Bears, convenience-store hot dogs, and Corny Doodles since we left the hospital. I’m not usually one of those people who gets all rhapsodic about food, but this fish is amazing—like the first time I’ve ever tasted anything. Gonzo sniffs his grilled cheese sandwich repeatedly and takes tentative bites.
By the time we finish dessert and make our way on foot to the French Quarter, it’s nighttime. Now that my stomach is full and there’s so much excitement on tap, I forget to be annoyed with Gonzo, and I guess he’s over my shit, too. We just keep giving each other these goofy “Whoa! Check that out!” grins. It’s like another world down here—all these old houses with galleries where people sit and watch parades of tourists going by. The streets of New Orleans are like a collage—all kinds of people, things, and colors bumping up against each other, overlapping till they make something new. College kids stagger out of bars still holding hurricane glasses. A ponytailed girl leans against a garbage can, puking. Street musicians compete for attention: a guitarist in a top hat tries to outsing the lady violinist, and both of them are drowned out by the washtub band a few feet down.
“Dude, I can’t see a f**king thing,” Gonzo complains.
There’s an opening in the crowd. I squeeze through, pulling Gonzo along, and we position ourselves in the front. When the couple we’ve pushed aside starts to complain, I point to Gonzo. “His mom’s on one of the floats. I promised to bring him down,” I lie, and the woman, who’s drunk, gets all sentimental and starts singing nursery songs to Gonzo, which makes no sense, but if there’s anything I’m starting to learn about people it’s (a) that they are fundamentally suspicious and afraid of anyone who is “different,” and (b) that fear makes them do and say asinine things.
Gonzo scowls. “Is she kidding me with that?”
“Ride it out, little dude,” I say. “We’re here and you can see everything.”
Gonzo can’t argue with that, so we stand on the parade route, taking it all in. Revelers in tall, wack-a-doodle hats and neon-bright wigs dance and sing as the floats pass by. They shout for beads and the krewes on the floats answer their calls. I nearly get beaned by a handful of bright purple necklaces. I slip some over my neck and offer the rest to Gonzo, who shakes his head like I’m giving him Bubonic Plague in jewelry form.
“You don’t know where that’s been, man.”
Eubie was right—Mardi Gras is amazing. A guy in a skeleton costume, his face painted like a skull, dances down the street while acrobats in glittery harlequin outfits tumble and jump around waving long paper streamers. On a float painted like a flood, a drag queen in a sash that reads MISS LEVEE waves to the crowd and they go wild. A funeral band marches right past us. The musicians come first, playing trumpets and banging drums. Behind them, the people raise their hands and dance, whooping it up like it’s just another celebration. Farther down the line, the partiers roar their approval, signaling that the next float is a winner. It’s the most elaborate float we’ve seen, a good ten feet high with these huge gates in the middle, one white, the other gray with the faint outline of a horn on it. A tall dude in a feathered bird mask stands on the edge and spreads his arms wide.
“I am Morpheus, king of dreams,” he says, and the speakers carry his deep voice for blocks. “We all walk in a land of dreams. For what are we but atoms and hope, a handful of stardust and sinew. We are weary travelers trying to find our way home on a road that never ends. Am I a part of your dream? Or are you but a part of mine? Welcome my brother, Phantasos, for this is surely a phantasmagoria, a fantasy world, and we are all players.”
“Dude!” Gonzo yells over the din. “That is so seriously fawesome. I want to drive one of those to school! Whoo-hoo!” He’s grinning and dancing in place. “When I kick, this is exactly how I want to go out. Just pure party. You know?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, but there’s a catch in my chest while I watch those funeral dancers marching down the street. For the first time since we got off the bus, it strikes me how crazy this all is. How scary and uncertain. I’m at Mardi Gras, sandwiched between beer-soaked drunkards, with nothing more to go on than some vague, probably delusional belief that I’m where I should be. My legs get a weird tingly sensation, and I try not to panic.
Signs. Coincidences. The random.
Frantically, I search for clues. Is there a “Dr. X is Here” banner on one of these floats? A billboard with an arrow pointing the way? I rub a hand over the E-ticket wristband and hope that it will protect me from those rogue prions long enough to find Dr. X, wherever he might be.
