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There are other, darker symptoms to the Pestilent Maize. The long-term carrier develops a vague, spawning sensation. Like you get this overwhelming desire to return to the house where you grew up. Mate with the next-door neighbor lady who used to sunbathe on her deck. You used to watch her through the hole in the fence, hoping you’d get a glimpse of her adjusting her bikini.
And so one morning Jimmy decides to go on a road trip. He starts up the RV. It’s been awhile since he’s run the engine. There are a few coughs at first, but otherwise everything seems just fine. The RV runs on ethanol. That’s all you can get these days. Jimmy’s old man used to throw a fit about biofuels. Always some conspiracy or other. Said they put the code in the corn and then the corn in the gas and when the gas burned, the code infected the air. The day Jimmy’s mom died, his old man doused himself at the state capitol and set himself ablaze. It was an empty protest. Didn’t even make the local news.
Jimmy revs the engine and puts it in gear. Pulls out of the driveway. There’s nothing left for him here. Across the street a man is standing in his underwear and a T-shirt. Seems perplexed. He surveys the driveway for a newspaper that will never arrive.
The Chum rides shotgun. He’s grown modest all of a sudden. He’s wearing one of Jimmy’s athletic socks as a sort of makeshift toga. Smells like stinky feet. Jimmy drops his mother’s dahlias out of the window every so often, as a trail for the Resource chick to find. If she is inclined to track them down.
The Chum and Jimmy don’t speak. They know each other so well that all the old stories can be told in silence. They drive through the night. The Chum manages to find Jimmy’s old backyard. It’s one of those trips that’s impossible to make, and yet they somehow manage it. The Chum makes a compass out of a paper clip and an old Band-Aid he tore off his big toe. He puts it on the dashboard, and it guides Jimmy home.
Jimmy just drives around for hours. Searching for lost time. Trying to locate a childhood feeling that lessens with each passing day. Prowling down every cul-de-sac. Jimmy thinks he finds the right subdivision. Decent neighborhood. Once was. Is that your old swing set?
About David Hancock
