The Road Narrows As You Go (31 page)

I thought you got that already.

Got it. Lost it. Got it again. Cat and mouse, cat and mouse. You can't sit back and live forever, you've got to keep chasing.

Whatever. I tell you better watch your step. America is a society of individuals bottom-dogging each other to death. Biz practically sang these words to us as she waved goodbye.

We flew down the interstate all the way to San Jose and Jonjay never put more than three fingers on the wheel as he screamed through commuters and no one said a word the whole time for fear he'd lose his concentration and blow us all up. An hour later we met Frank Fleecen outside of Hexen Diamond Mistral's corporate office in San Jose.

Frank took one look at the lime-green Gremlin and said, Let's take my car.

Where's Sue? Wendy wanted to know.

She'll meet us at the tarmac.

Fleecen drove one of those gleaming broad-shouldered European automobiles used in state funerals bearing national flags and blacked-out windows and blank licence plates, never going faster than a walking pace. But capable of rocket speeds, and you know it. Absolutely black exterior like a censor bar, bulletproof, the width of a semi-truck—that was Frank's car.

We got cozy on the blond calfskin and right away Mark fixed himself a Tanqueray on ice from the wetbar. Why not? Then we took off and trying to drink a beverage was a mistake that got us all covered in gin.

If televised state funerals happened at the speeds Frank liked to go, everyone on earth would be dead. His top speed seemed to be double Jonjay's, regardless of legal limit. He took
turns
at Jonjay's top speed. Jonjay
didn't say a word. This automobile disobeyed the laws of physics, it was invisible to San Jose law authorities. At high speeds, Wendy's lime-green Gremlin liked to rattle and shake in a palsied way and sway from lane to lane. Fleecen's European absorbed all bumps and faults in the road. He pushed sixty, a hundred miles per hour, a hundred-fifty, two hundred—
lift off!—
everything became so calm and quiet. In fifth gear our ears popped and our stomachs levitated into our throats and we saw the trees and electrical poles at the side of the highway blur together into abstract tapestries of colour, and then, briefly, as Fleecen accelerated to yet a faster gear, sixth gear! the landscape couldn't decide if it wanted to pass us by or leap forward
ahead of us
the way tires of a car at high speed sometimes seem to spin in reverse, that was what the
landscape of California
was doing. Percussive waves of scenery.

Let's fucking showtime, Fleecen said with his neck craned up, and then, with a menacing smile into the rearview, he pushed the overdrive button on the steering wheel and we all grit our teeth to pieces the car was going so fast, silently hurtling at a meaner and meaner velocity down a pebbly two-lane macadam highway.

Unlike Jonjay's bat-in-the-belfry-style fingering of the steering wheel, Frank's hands were at the precise ten and two position on his woodgrain, as driving instructors advise. Jonjay maintained a casual demeanour at his top speed while Fleecen stayed professional from the moment he started the engine.

At this speed if I make even a fraction of a wrong move on the steering wheel we're all dead, Frank told everyone matter-of-factly as he gunned it.

Our eyelids were flapping like curtains and our lips were pulled back. Wendy was clutching the armrest as if it was an electrified fence. Riding shotgun, Jonjay watched with brute indifference, stunningly casual as the road ahead got sucked under the wheels at this hazardous clip. His arms were crossed over his chest, his bare feet up on the dashboard, and he seemed to be almost asleep.

Frank said, I love driving. Driving reminds me of my world of high finance, a never-ending marathon at a cheetah sprint with a hundred thousand competitors fighting to beat that arbitrary fraction of time it takes for everyone else on the market to act on information. Who is going to make the next green light and who is going to get left back at the red.

Rachael was pale as a sheet of paper. Dripping with sweat. She was ready to throw up. Mark looked ready to throttle someone. He put his head between his knees and massaged his face with his hands, crying.

Driving is not a race, Wendy said.

Yes it is, said Frank and Jonjay in unison.

Driving is how people get around, she said. You're not competing against innocent people, you're getting from point A to point B hoping not to get killed. You're the worst drivers I've ever known. Oh my god. Driving is not a
metaphor
for something. Driving is
driving
. You've got passengers. Quit wanking. Driving is a stupid way to get out your frustrations. No one wants to die because of your egos. Promise me next time you get behind the wheel you'll drive for the sake of driving and cut out the rebel artist and the Wall Street speed demon crap. Otherwise I'm going to boycott. That was ridiculous. I can't count how many corner gas stations you guys cut through in order to dodge a red light. As if you're bank robbers or something.

Browbeaten into silence, Fleecen punched in a code to open a fifteen-foot-high gate that took us onto a ferruled dirtpack road going up and down sweeping hills of grapes and berries and plain pine, then he finally made a reverse parkjob into a stainless steel carport that looked out onto a private airstrip and a small domed hangar. We got there around ten in the morning.

A personal jet the same colour as the car idled on the runway, rippling waves of engine heat. A pilot stood at the open doorhatch in a shortsleeved dress shirt. He tapped his captain's cap in a salute to us. Twin engines screamed at high pitch. The wheels were parked in the shallow mirage of the sky.

Look, I'm sorry I scared you, Frank said on the walk to the jet. I guess you're right. I was driving like it
was
the bonds market. I don't need to do that. But I thought I saw a car following us, so I wanted to ditch him.

Wendy said, Whatever, just quit the macho bullshit. She asked if there were any raw eggs on board. I've always want to fry an egg on a desert rock, she said.

Let's ask my chef. Frank guided her up the stairs onto his declassified Gulfstream IV, which, like his cellular phone, was a prototype.

Of all the perks of being the investment banker, this might be the first one I want, Wendy told him.

Wow-wee, said Mark and made his way straight for the wetbar. Best I ever get's tickets to the punk show I did a poster for.

Already inside the Gulfstream was Justine Witlaw, sipping from a martini and talking to a skinny red-headed man in a cotton suit in the chair across from her. Frank kissed Justine on both cheeks then coldly introduced the man to us as Quinn Kravis, the arb.

The what? said Wendy.

Kravis, this is the cartoonist Wendy Ashbubble and her assistants, Twyla and Mark, and this is the artist Jonjay. Kravis shook everyone's hands. Frank squinted at him, and without a smile, looked past him to his other guest, Piper Shepherd. However disinterested in him Frank was, it must still be noted Kravis was well dressed for a trip to the desert, matching hat, blue tie and blue deck shoes to match the sky, no socks. To match his hair his face was pink and savagely pitted by what must have been sebaceous acne throughout his teens. Even the rims of his ears were pitted—when he smiled even his gums were pitted. Kravis had thin arms and wrists, but wasn't exactly overweight in the middle, more keg chested than full barrelled. However, the impression was that if he ever stopped working out, his muscles would dissolve into buttery flab.

Kravis sounded ill when he laughed, a man retching. Ha ha. When you said on the phone where you were going, I couldn't help invite myself along. Ha ha
heh
. I wanted to see Death Valley since I was a kid. Perfect place to catch up. Out of the way of prying eyes, right? Ha ha
heh
.

Wendy, may I introduce you to Piper Shepherd, president of Shepherd Media.

Frank was interrupted by a gradeschool principal or a woman dressed as one, a brunette with bouncy mousse swoops in a bland blouse, who emerged from behind a door as we heard the flush of an airlock vacuum—sealed toilet. What could be so interesting about that plain and uneventful face, the sky-blue golf shirt under the palest imaginable pink cotton sweater, a pair of creased white polyester slacks cinched at the waist by a braided belt, and on her feet, leather flats? A woman for whom there was no sonnet. Sue Fleecen welcomed us aboard.

I saw your reading at Justine's, Wendy said sympathetically. Cool story about the dean.

Thanks. Ten revisions and six years to finish. Two years and seven rejections before I found a journal who would take it. A cheque for two hundred dollars. You can see why Frank thinks I'm crazy. We'll have lunch in the air but can I fix you something to drink first? Sue Fleecen showed us the inflight wetbar.

I'm still feeling kind of sinusy from the flight here, Wendy said and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Flight? Oh, Frank's driving, Sue said. Yes, I know, it's like he thinks he's horseback hunting a woolly mammoth or something. I'm thrilled I got to come along for this, though. I never get to go on adventures. Frank won't let me.

This the first time in years I've let her out of the attic where I keep her chained, said Frank as he poured a finger of vodka into a glass and handed it to Kravis.

He likes to test me in public with literary trivia, said Sue, but the truth is, Frank hasn't read a novel since high school.

Hello, Sue, Jonjay said.

Hello, Jonjay, nice to see you again, Sue said and eyed his dufflebag. I see you brought your pencils. I'm thrilled to be involved in your art project.

A child with white hair and a wrinkly liverspotted face came through a door that led to the bustling galley, from the sounds of it.

That kishka is going to kill me, oh my god, the kid said in a gravelly voice, sucking on his thumb. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Have you tasted it yet?

Frank put a hand on the small of Wendy's back and said, Come, I want you to meet my close friend Piper Shepherd. Piper, allow me to introduce you to your top-selling cartoonist, the artist behind
Strays
, Wendy Ashbubble, and these are two of her assistants—

Wendy Ashbubble, wow, this meeting has been too long in the making, hasn't it? Piper embraced Wendy without waiting to learn our names. I've been meaning to schedule this face-to-face for years. Look at you. They said
lovely
but I didn't realize how lovely. Nothing like I imagined. Are you ready for this heat? Desert heat is unruly.

The middle-aged media baron had the mannerisms of a precocious boy. He was small like songwriter Paul Williams, no taller than any of the felted cast of
The Muppet Show
. He wore windshield-sized eyeglasses and his thinning white hair was combed over.

I love your strip, yes I do, said Piper. It's honest and straightforward and well conceived and funny. Funny most important of all.

Last but not least, Wendy said.

That's right. It's not technically perfect but in a good way. The mistakes are of the charming sort. Reminds me of
Krazy Kat
. Are you familiar with that old strip? Used to read it in the paper as a boy.

I pray to George Herriman every night.

Sipping a whisky, Piper said, Me, too, I
love
the funny pages. I grew up on strips. My favourite as a kid was
Dick Tracy
. Chester Gould, now there's real talent, not these journalists nowadays looking for the next Deep Throat. Dick Tracy took crime by the neck and wrung out the truth— those were true stories in black and white. The news is never black and white but I fear most reporters think it is, and none of them have Tracy's eye. Nobody remembers more than a handful of headlines in a paper. A newspaper's true legacy is in the comic strips it heralds. That's what people remember, that's why I started my own syndicate. Not just for the profits, but that, too, ha ha.

It's a great job, said Wendy. Being a cartoonist, it's what I wanted since I was a kid.

Now look at you, riding in private jets, Piper said. Ever been in one of these before?

No, I haven't.

They're actually a smooth ride for such a small aircraft. Frank is modest. I probably make half what he does and own my own Boeing 747, same class as Air Force One. Cost me more than I care to admit, ha ha ahem.

Wendy caught Kravis staring intently at the other two women not Frank's wife, and overheard him ask us for our numbers. Justine gave him the card for her gallery.
And what's your number?
he asked Rachael.

I'm a lesbian, Rachael told him.

Kravis clapped his hands. Sounds kinky, he said. Count me in.

The cabin was laid out as a rumpus room with varnished woodgrain and porthole windows. The Gulfstream's seats were long leather sofas and individual chairs that rotated all around and reclined flat as a single bed. Tables pulled up and dropped down for inflight conferences. A chef on board made us an extravagant lunch and two pilots in the cockpit waited for the thumbs-up to take off.

I love to pilot this beauty, Frank said.

No, please, no, cried Wendy and Sue at the same time.

But today I'll let my boys take the helm so I can sit back here with you and enjoy. The Gulfstream IV is the American eagle of business-class aviation, and fun as hell to fly, Frank told us. It's manufactured and built with the individual in mind. It's not a 747 but it flies like one. Like your own pair of wings. You could say that every Gulfstream IV has its own tarmac the way every eagle has its own aerie. They don't come cheap.

The flight to Death Valley took us all of forty-five minutes. In that short time we enjoyed a kosher lunch made by Frank's personal chef. Kravis was told not to touch the plump young blond flight attendants serving the food, whose English was adorably accented, here from Beersheba on a kind of reverse kibbutz to intern with Frank, their American relative via a distant half-cousin (the favours are endless, he whispered to Wendy at one point in the meal so that she all of a sudden felt guilty). On offer this afternoon was a plentiful selection of smoked lox and gravlax on bagels with capers, rye bread, and much too much smoked chicken farfalle and beef brisket, that we somehow managed to polish off anyway. Dill pickles galore. We stocked up the rest of the space on our silver trays with ripesmelling bowls of gefilte and horseradish, a side of steaming matzo ball soup, not even feeling a drop of guilt about taking two links of beef and turkey kishka, bursting out of their tight skins, to go beside a plate of triple-marinated veal medallions in mushroom ragout, potato pavé and potato kugel, noodle pineapple kugel, and Frank insisted we try Chef Lowenstein's special amba, a wild spicy kind of ketchup.