Happy Mutant Baby Pills by Jerry Stahl

roughly sideways—my hand landed in something wet—and reached down to unlock the cuffs. Before I could ask why, he slammed the door and disappeared. I sat still for a second. The car smelled like Lysol and Armani for Men. (Pastor Bobb’s scent of choice.) I realized there was someone else in the car. Behind the wheel. A sleek, bullet-headed African-American fellow, his right cheekbone sporting a crescent scar. (He resembled Paul Robinette, the handsome, high-cheekboned black assistant DA in the early days of Law & Order . Then I saw his name tag and the coin dropped. This was Detective Dustin. This was Jay’s Dusty. The mythical Dusty, in the flesh, with a wedding ring and a stare that burrowed into the back of your head. “You still here?” he said.
    â€œWhat? Am I supposed to—”
    â€œShut up, Lloyd. You know how this works. Tell us who set up the caper, we’ll let you go right now.”
    He actually said the word “caper.”
    â€œNobody set it up,” I said. “I walked into the pharmacy and got a stupid idea on my own.”
    â€œYou sure about that? I know all about you and your pal Pastor Bobb. None of your buddies, back at Christian Swinglers or whatever, had anything to do with this?”
    â€œIt’s Swingles. And I don’t have any buddies there.”
    For the first time, Detective Dustin’s gaze softened. (It was like watching an L & O rerun, except I was in it.) He gave the faintest of nods and spoke without moving his lips, like a ventriloquist. “You passed. Door’s unlocked. Get out. Go to Greyhound, Will Call. There’s a ticket waiting. Don’t make any stops and nobody’s gonna stop you.”
    As I stepped out, I was pretty sure I saw a shimmer, the noon sun bouncing off binoculars in a building directly across from the pharmacy. I could feel the blessing of Pastor Bobb upon me. Or maybe it was the five Percocet I dry-gulped before getting in the car. ( Artificial sense of well-being, occasional hypermania .) Sometimes the side effects are the only ones you want.

SIX
    Riding the Dog
    When’s the last time you traveled by long-distance bus? Or sat in a Greyhound station? It’s not just the home of homeless and runaways anymore. Now it’s a family place. The way homeless shelters have become family fun zones. Without the fun.
    I had two hours before my bus. There were years when I was two hours late for everything, in the worst days of the worst days. But now I’m the early guy. Which is either vaguely pathetic or commendably responsible, depending. (The more out of control you feel, the more normal you try to act.) I had a yen for Necco Wafers. I don’t know why. Retro candies were fashionable. Or maybe, in Greyhound-world, they weren’t retro. Either way, I didn’t feel like feeding the pay TVs bolted to the chairs in the waiting room. So I just walked around. And saw a row of Necco Wafers at the snack stand, a row of them right beside some Beemans gum and a stack of Chunkys. I got a Chunky as well, because, even though I’d been on a rigorous protocol for my liver and parasites for some time, I did not foresee being able to stay on it now. I’d managed, through my brief stint at Christian Swingles, to keep up with the juicing, and to administer my coffee enemas. (More room for heroin!) But now, with a three-day ride on Greyhound, I didn’t foresee any quality enema time—not to mention the prospect of pouring bus-stop java into a hot water bottle and tubing it into my lower intestine in a back-of-the-bus toilet did not strike me as either wise or de-toxy. If I attempted it and the door swung open, I could probably be arrested by Homeland Security for lewd and malicious interstate anal probing. (I didn’t actually drink coffee anymore, but I won’t lie, the caffeine buzz after bottom-hosing a hot water bottle full of fair-trade joe is not to be sneezed at. It left me