a king or queen or president or anything. I want to give it a try.»
«I think Antarctica's presliced into pieces from the South Pole outward,» said Nylla, «and a different country regulates each slice. So maybe not there. Maybe you can get citizenship in a country that's so useless it's almost the same thing as being stateless. Some country that only exists when the tide's out.»
«Nylla,» Ivan interrupted, «you're only feeding his bullshit idea.»
«It's not bullshit, Ivan,» John said.
«How about Pitcairn Island?» Nylla suggested. «One square mile in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, the most remote inhabited place on earth.»
«My wife the
Jeopardy
champion.»
«England owns it,» said John. «I checked.»
Ivan asked listlessly, «How about one of those African countries held together with Scotch tape and Popsicle sticks?»
«I'm considering them, too.»
«John-O — if you renounce your U.S. citizenship, you'll have no protection. With citizenship, the U.S. government can step in and help you wherever you go. And besides, you'll always have your Social Security number no matter what else happens.»
«Not if I renounce my citizenship. I
do
know that.»
Ivan was sulky: «Just try renting a car with no credit card and a passport from Upper Volta.»
«It's called Benin now,» said Nylla.
Ivan glowered her way: «Please phrase your answer in the form of a question.»
«Ivan, you're getting distracted. You're missing the spirit of the thing. I won't be
wanting
to rent cars anymore. I'll be completely
gone.
»
«You're really pushing me with this new hobo kick, John-O. Sleeping in rain culverts and stealing fresh clothes from laundry lines is going to wear thin awful quickly.»
«Ivan, let me pitch it to you: This is the
road
we're talking about — the romance of the
road.
Strange new friends. Adventures every ten minutes. Waking up each morning feeling like a wild animal. No crappy rules or smothering obligations.»
Ivan was appalled. «The road is
over,
John-O. It never even
was.
You're thinking like a kid behind a Starbucks counter sneaking peeks at his Kerouac paperback and writing
“That's so true!”
in the margins. And if nothing else, Doris is freaked out by this totally.»
«You told my
mother
?»
«Of course.»
John paused. «Another drink, Ivan?»
As he looked for ice cubes in the kitchen's two deep freezes, John considered Ivan and Nylla. He heard them talking back in the living room. They were now discussing carpeting: prices per square yard,
World Book Encyclopedia
—style. «I want the good type,» said Ivan, «the kind that looks like pearl barley packed together. Really smooth.»
«But if the wool's too smooth, it looks like Orlon. It needs character. A bit of sheep dung mixed into it maybe.»
«We're going to have Beverly Hills's first Hanta virus carpet?»
«Sheep don't get Hanta virus. Just rodents, I think. And raccoons.»
John listened in and ached to have somebody to discuss rugs and raccoons with. He felt intact but worthless, like a chocolate rabbit selling for 75 percent off the month after Easter. But it went beyond that, too. He felt contaminated, that his blood stream carried microscopic loneliness viruses, like miniscule fish hooks, just waiting to inflect somebody dumb enough to attempt intimacy with him.
His mind wandered. There had to be hope — and there was. He remembered the woman in his hospital vision had made him feel that somewhere on the alien Death Star of his heart lay a small, vulnerable entry point into which he could deploy a rocket, blow himself up and rebuild from the shards that remained.
In the second freezer John found the ice cubes clumped frozen together inside a sky blue plastic bag. He opened up the bag and tried to pry a few cubes away from the lump. Daydreaming, he wondered if he could ever be unselfconsciously chatty and loose with someone. If Ivan=Nylla, then John=
blank.
Maybe his mother Doris's years of prayers had begun to
«I think Antarctica's presliced into pieces from the South Pole outward,» said Nylla, «and a different country regulates each slice. So maybe not there. Maybe you can get citizenship in a country that's so useless it's almost the same thing as being stateless. Some country that only exists when the tide's out.»
«Nylla,» Ivan interrupted, «you're only feeding his bullshit idea.»
«It's not bullshit, Ivan,» John said.
«How about Pitcairn Island?» Nylla suggested. «One square mile in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, the most remote inhabited place on earth.»
«My wife the
Jeopardy
champion.»
«England owns it,» said John. «I checked.»
Ivan asked listlessly, «How about one of those African countries held together with Scotch tape and Popsicle sticks?»
«I'm considering them, too.»
«John-O — if you renounce your U.S. citizenship, you'll have no protection. With citizenship, the U.S. government can step in and help you wherever you go. And besides, you'll always have your Social Security number no matter what else happens.»
«Not if I renounce my citizenship. I
do
know that.»
Ivan was sulky: «Just try renting a car with no credit card and a passport from Upper Volta.»
«It's called Benin now,» said Nylla.
Ivan glowered her way: «Please phrase your answer in the form of a question.»
«Ivan, you're getting distracted. You're missing the spirit of the thing. I won't be
wanting
to rent cars anymore. I'll be completely
gone.
»
«You're really pushing me with this new hobo kick, John-O. Sleeping in rain culverts and stealing fresh clothes from laundry lines is going to wear thin awful quickly.»
«Ivan, let me pitch it to you: This is the
road
we're talking about — the romance of the
road.
Strange new friends. Adventures every ten minutes. Waking up each morning feeling like a wild animal. No crappy rules or smothering obligations.»
Ivan was appalled. «The road is
over,
John-O. It never even
was.
You're thinking like a kid behind a Starbucks counter sneaking peeks at his Kerouac paperback and writing
“That's so true!”
in the margins. And if nothing else, Doris is freaked out by this totally.»
«You told my
mother
?»
«Of course.»
John paused. «Another drink, Ivan?»
As he looked for ice cubes in the kitchen's two deep freezes, John considered Ivan and Nylla. He heard them talking back in the living room. They were now discussing carpeting: prices per square yard,
World Book Encyclopedia
—style. «I want the good type,» said Ivan, «the kind that looks like pearl barley packed together. Really smooth.»
«But if the wool's too smooth, it looks like Orlon. It needs character. A bit of sheep dung mixed into it maybe.»
«We're going to have Beverly Hills's first Hanta virus carpet?»
«Sheep don't get Hanta virus. Just rodents, I think. And raccoons.»
John listened in and ached to have somebody to discuss rugs and raccoons with. He felt intact but worthless, like a chocolate rabbit selling for 75 percent off the month after Easter. But it went beyond that, too. He felt contaminated, that his blood stream carried microscopic loneliness viruses, like miniscule fish hooks, just waiting to inflect somebody dumb enough to attempt intimacy with him.
His mind wandered. There had to be hope — and there was. He remembered the woman in his hospital vision had made him feel that somewhere on the alien Death Star of his heart lay a small, vulnerable entry point into which he could deploy a rocket, blow himself up and rebuild from the shards that remained.
In the second freezer John found the ice cubes clumped frozen together inside a sky blue plastic bag. He opened up the bag and tried to pry a few cubes away from the lump. Daydreaming, he wondered if he could ever be unselfconsciously chatty and loose with someone. If Ivan=Nylla, then John=
blank.
Maybe his mother Doris's years of prayers had begun to
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