Total Immunity by Robert Ward Page B

missiles through human bodies . . . oh, man, he couldn’t use those dreams anymore, no thank you) . . . that wasn’t the way life should be. It should be like this . . .
    Walking away from dead school to have an adventure on the streets and boardwalks, to find other adventurers like himself who would understand his need to get to the heart of the real world, to fathom everything at once, as he remembered some poet saying . . .
    Or maybe it was Jack Kerouac in
On the Road,
which he had already read three times, and certain parts, ten or twelve . . .
    That was what he needed, wanted, and . . .
    â€œHey, dude, you got any pot?”
    Kevin turned around and saw a kid with blue hair, which looked like it had been chopped off with an ax. He wore camouflage pants, Doc Martens, and a sleeveless black T-shirt, which revealed scrawny, pale white arms.
    â€œYou deaf, man?”
    â€œNo way,” Kevin said. “But no, I ain’t got any.”
    (And he felt silly saying “ain’t,” trying to sound street black, which was so pretentious and dumb, but he kind of wanted to impress the kid, couldn’t help himself . . .)
    â€œGot any money?” Blue-hair said.
    â€œA few bucks,” Kevin said.
    â€œI know where we can get some. Rainey’s place just down on the canal.”
    Kevin had not only never smoked pot, he had never seen it. The very idea of an FBI agent’s son taking drugs was almost inconceivable. Totally taboo, utterly wrong.
    And thus, suddenly, now, this second, irresistible.
    Why should he not experience everything? Wasn’t he a free man now? On his own? Out there at the crossroads.
    He smiled and looked at the blue-haired kid.
    â€œKevin. Who are you?”
    â€œFlyboy,” the kid said. “How much money you got?”
    â€œFifteen dollars,” Kevin said. That was a lie. He actually had almost fifty dollars in his pockets, money he had been stealing from Julie’s purse for the last month.
    â€œThat’ll get us a couple of joints,” Flyboy said. “C’mon, man.”
    They headed down the boardwalk past a flame-throwing clown who was scorching the air in front of the Sidewalk Café, and just beyond him on the beach there was a sand sculptor who was making what looked like a giant giraffe out of sand. People gathered around, enjoying the sun.
    â€œYou live down here, K?” Flyboy said.
    â€œNo,” Kevin said. “I crash over in the marina. Live with my big brother.”
    As he said it — invented it — Kevin started to believe it.
    â€œHow about you?”
    â€œI stay here and there,” Flyboy said. “No home too long. Man, you stay somewhere too long, they might come creeping up on ya.”
    â€œYeah,” Kevin said. “That’s how I feel. I might drift on down to Mexico in a couple of months.”
    â€œCool,” Flyboy said. “Before you make that little jaunt, let me know. I know people down there.”
    â€œCool,” Kevin said. He felt such a wonderful sense of freedom. Talking about living with his brother, cruising on down to Mexico, made him feel that such things were possible. A whole new way to live, a life of freedom, danger, adventures.
    His old man wouldn’t approve, but what did he know?
    All he saw were scumbags, and germs. He didn’t understand people like Flyboy (and himself?) who were free, who didn’t worry about the straight world.
    They wandered up and down the streets, and ended up off Dell, and suddenly there was one of the canals. It was beautiful, but had this strange odor coming off it.
    â€œWow, what’s that smell?” Kevin said.
    â€œYou don’t know?” Flyboy said. “That’s the ducks. They land here and shit here . . . gets pretty bad sometimes.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Kevin said. Trying to act like he had known that, but somehow forgotten it. “Hey, is this where we get the pot?”
    â€œYep, just