Vernon God Little Read Free Page A

interest in fixing things, parade around the center of town, then spread outwards in a dying wave. Healthy girls skip around the middle in whiter-than-white panties, then regions of shorts and cotton prints radiate out to the edges, where tangled babes hang in saggy purple underwear. Just a broken ole muffler shop on the outskirts; no more sprinklers, no more lawns.
    â€˜Lord,’ says Pam, ‘tell me why I can just taste a
Chik ’n’ Mix
.’
    Fucken yeah, right. Even in winter the Mercury stinks of fried chicken, never mind today when it’s like a demon’s womb. Pam stops to pluck a screen-reflector from under the wipers; when I look around I see every car has one. Seb Harris rides through the haze at the end of the street, distributing them from his bike. Pam opens the thing out and squints at the writing: ‘Harris’s Store,’ it reads, ‘More, More, More!’
    â€˜Lookit that,’ she says. ‘We just saved us the price of a
Chik ’n’ Mix
.’
    Deep fucken trouble keeps my euphoria at bay. Pam just molds into the car. Her soul’s already knotted over the choice of side-order, you can tell. She’ll end up getting coleslaw anyway, on account of Mom says it’s healthy. It’s vegetables, see. Me, I need something healthier today. Like the afternoon bus out of town.
    A siren wails past us at the corner of Geppert Street. Don’t ask me why, they can’t save any children now. Pam will miss this corner anyway – it’s fucken traditional, look, there she goes. Now she’ll have to cut back two blocks, and she’ll say, ‘Lord, nothing stays put in this town.’ Reporters and camera people roam the streets in packs. I keep my head down, and scan the floor for fire ants. ‘Far aints,’ Pam calls them. Fuck knows what other fauna climbs aboard in the century it takes her to get in and out of the fucken car.
Wild Fucken Kingdom
, I swear.
    Today everybody at the
Barn
wears black, except for the Nikes on their feet. I identify the different models while they box up the chicken. Town’s like a club, see. You recognize fellow members by their shoes. They won’t even sell certain shoes to outsiders, it’s a fact. I watch these black forms scurry around with different-colored feet and, just like when anything weird screens through the Mercury window, Glen Campbell starts to sing ‘Galveston
’
from Pam’s ole stereo. It’s a law of nature. Pam only has this one cassette, see –
The Best of Glen Campbell
. It jammed in the slot the first time she played it, and just kept on playing. Fate. Pam sings along with thesame part of the song every time, the part about the girl. I think she once had a boyfriend from Wharton, which is closer to Galveston than here. No songs about Wharton I guess.
    â€˜Vern, eat the bottom pieces before they get soggy.’
    â€˜Then the top pieces will be on the bottom.’
    â€˜Oh Lord.’ She lunges for the tub, but doesn’t get past the refresher wipes before we turn into Liberty Drive. She must’ve forgot about Liberty Drive today.
    Look at all the girls crying by the school.
    Galveston, oh Galveston . . .
    Another luxury wagon parks up ahead, with even more flowers, even more girls. It maneuvers slowly around the stains on the road. Strangers with cameras move back to fit it all in.
    I still hear your sea waves crashing . . .
    Behind the girls, behind the flowers are the mothers, and behind the mothers are the counselors; senior brownies at a petting zoo.
    While I watch the cannons flashing . . .
    Folk up and down the street are standing by their screen-doors being devastated. Mom’s so-called friend Leona was already devastated last week, when Penney’s delivered the wrong color kitchen drapes. Typical of her to go off half-cocked.
    â€˜Oh my Lord, Vernie, oh God – all those tiny crosses . . .’ I feel Palmyra’s hand on my