LATER than usual one summer morning in 1984, Zoyd Wheeler drifted awake in sunlight through a creeping fig1 that hung in the window, with a squadron of blue jays stomping2 around on the roof. In his dream these had been carrier pigeons from someplace far across the ocean, landing and taking off again one by one, each bearing a message for him, but none of whom, light pulsing in their wings, he could ever quite get to in time. He understood it to be another deep nudge from forces unseen, almost surely connected with the letter that had come along with his latest mental-disability check, reminding him that unless he did something publicly crazy before a date now less than a week away, he would no longer qualify for benefits. He groaned3 out of bed. Somewhere down the hill hammers and saws were busy and country music was playing out of somebody's truck radio. Zoyd was out of smokes.
On the table in the kitchen, next to the Count Chocula box, which turned out to be empty, he found a note from Prairie. "Dad, they changed my shift again, so I rode in with Thapsia. You got a call from Channel 86, they said urgent, I said, you try waking him up sometime. Love anyway, Prairie."
"Froot Loops again I guess," he muttered at the note. With enough Nestle's Quik on top, they weren't all that bad, and various ashtrays4 yielded half a dozen smokable butts5. After taking as much time as he could in the bathroom, he finally got around to locating the phone and calling the local TV station to recite to them this year's press release. But — "You'd better check again, Mr. Wheeler. Word we have is that you've been rescheduled." "Check with who, I'm the one's doin' it, ain't I?" "We're all supposed to be at the Cucumber Lounge." "Well I won't, I'll be up at the Log Jam in Del Norte." What was the matter with these people? Zoyd had been planning this for weeks.
Desmond was out on the porch, hanging around his dish, which was always empty because of the blue jays who came screaming down out of the redwoods and carried off the food in it piece by piece. After a while this dog-food diet had begun to give the birds an attitude, some being known to chase cars and pickups for miles down the road and bite anybody who didn't like it. As Zoyd came out, Desmond gave him an inquiring look. "Just dig yourself," shaking his head at the chocolate crumbs7 on the dog's face, "I know she fed you, Desmond, and I know what she fed you too." Desmond followed him as far as the firewood, tail going back and forth8 to show no hard feelings, and watched Zoyd backing all the way down to the lane before he turned and got on with his day.
Zoyd headed down to Vineland Mall and rolled around the lot there for a while, smoking up half a joint9 he'd found in his pocket, before parking the rig and going into More Is Less, a discount store for larger-size women, where he bought a party dress in a number of colors that would look good on television, paying with a check both he and the saleslady shared a premonition would end up taped to this very cash register after failing to clear, and proceeded to the men's room of the Breez-Thru gas station, where he shifted into the dress and with a small hairbrush tried to rat what was on his head and face into a snarl11 he hoped would register as insane-looking enough for the mental-health folks. Back at the pump he put in five dollars' worth of gas, went in the back seat, got a quart of oil out of the case he kept there, found his spout12, punched it in the can, put most of the oil in his engine, except for a little he saved to mix in the can with some gas, and poured this into the tank of an elegant little imported-looking chain saw, about the size of a Mini-Mac, which he then stashed13 in a canvas beach bag. Prairie's friend Slide came wandering out of the office to have a look.
"Uh-oh, is it that time again already?"
"This year it snuck up on me, hate to think I'm gettin' too old for this."
"Know the feeling," Slide nodded.
"You're fifteen, Slide."
"And seen it all. Whose front window you doin' it to this year?"
"Nobody's. I'm givin' that all up, window jumping's in my past, this year I'm gonna just take this little chain saw into the Log Jam and see what develops from there."
"Um, maybe not, Mr. Wheeler, you been up there lately?"
"Oh I know there's some heavy-duty hombres, badasses, spend all day narrowly escaping death by tree, not too much patience with anything out of the ordinary, but I've got the element of surprise. Don't I?"
"You'll see," weary Slide advised.
He sure would, but only after spending more time out on 101 than his already fragile sense of humor could take, owing to a convoy15 of out-of-state Winnebagos on some leisurely16 tour of the redwoods, in among whom, on the two-lane stretches, he was obliged to gear down and put up with a lot of attention, not all friendly. "Gimme a break," he yelled over the engine noise, "it's, uh, a Calvin Klein original!"
"Calvin doesn't cut nothin' bigger than a 14," a girl younger than his daughter screamed at him out her window, "and you ought to be locked up."
It was well into lunchtime when he got to the Log Jam, and he was disappointed to find nobody at all from the media, just a collection of upscale machinery18 parked in the lot, itself newly blacktopped. These were to be the first of several rude updates. Trying to think cheerful thoughts — like assuming the television crews were only late — Zoyd collected the bag with the saw in it, checked his hair one more time, and went storming into the Log Jam, where right away he noticed that everything, from the cooking to the clientele, smelled different.
Uh-oh. Wasn't there supposed to be some loggers' bar around here someplace? Everybody knew it was high times for the stiffs in the woods — though not for those in the mills, with the Japanese buying up unprocessed logs as fast as the forests could be clear-cut — but even so, the scene in here was peculiar19. Dangerous men with coarsened attitudes, especially toward death, were perched around lightly on designer barstools, sipping21 kiwi mimosas. The jukebox once famous for hundreds of freeway exits up and down the coast for its gigantic country-and-western collection, including half a dozen covers of "So Lonesome I Could Cry," was reformatted to light classical and New Age music that gently peeped at the edges of audibility, slowing, lulling22 this roomful of choppers and choker setters who now all looked like models in Father's Day ads. One of the larger of these, being among the first to notice Zoyd, had chosen to deal with the situation. He wore sunglasses with stylish23 frames, a Turnbull & Asser shirt in some pastel plaid, three-figure-price-tag jeans by Mme. Gris, and après-logging shoes of a subdued24, but incontestably biue, suede25.
"Well good afternoon pretty lady and how fine you're looking, I'm sure in another setting and mood we'd all like to know you as a person with your many fine points and so on like that, but from your fashion message I can tell that you are a sensitive type person who'll appreciate the problem we have here in terms of orientational26 vibes, if you follow —"
The already confused Zoyd, whose survival instincts may not have been working all the way up to spec, decided27 to produce the chain saw from his bag. "Buster," he called plaintively28 to the owner behind the bar, "where's the media?" The implement29 attracted immediate30 attention from everyone in the room, not all of it technical curiosity. It was a tailor-made lady's chain saw, "tough enough for timber," as the commercials said, "but petite enough for a purse." The guide bar, handle grips, and housing were faced in genuine mother-of-pearl, and spelled out in rhinestones31 on the bar, surrounded by sawteeth ready to buzz, was the name of the young woman he'd borrowed it from, which onlookers32 took to be Zoyd's drag name, CHERYL.
"Easy there cowgirl, now things're just fine," the logger stepping back as Zoyd, he hoped demurely33, yanked at a silk cord on a dainty starter pulley, and the lady's pearl-handled chain saw spun34 into action.
"Listen to that li'l honey purr."
"Zoyd, what th' heck you doin' this all the way up here for," Buster deciding it was time to intervene, "no channel's gonna send no crew this far out of town, why are you not down in Eureka or Arcata someplace?"
The logger stared. "This person is known to you?"
"Played together in the old Six Rivers Conference," Buster all smiles, "those were the days, huh Zoyd?"
"Can't hear you," hollered Zoyd, trying to maintain a quickly fading image of dangerousness. He throttled35 the nacreous pretty saw reluctantly back first to a ladylike bass36 line and then to silence. Into the echo, "See you did some redecorating."
"If you would've come around last month, you 'n' 'at little saw, could've helped us gut37 the place."
"Sorry, Buster, guess I did come to the wrong bar, I sure can't saw any of this stuff, not with the money you must've put in ... only reason I'm up here is is 'at the gentrification of South Spooner, Two Street, and other more familiar hellraisin' locales has upped the ante way outa my bracket, these are all folks now who like to sue, and for big bucks38, with hotshot PI lawyers up from the City, I so much as blot40 my nose on one of their designer napkins I'm in deep shit anymore."
"Well, we're no longer as low-rent as people remember us here either Zoyd, in fact since George Lucas and all his crew came and went there's been a real change of consciousness."
"Yep, I noticed . . . say, you want to draw me a, just a lady's-size beer there . . . you know I still haven't even got around to that picture?"
They were talking about Return of the Jedi (1983), parts of which had been filmed in the area and in Buster's view changed life there forever. He put his massive elbows on about the only thing in here that hadn't been replaced, the original bar, carved back at the turn of the century from one giant redwood log. "But underneath41, we're still just country fellas."
"From the looks of your parking lot, the country must be Germany."
"You and me Zoyd, we're like Bigfoot. Times go on, we never change, now, you're no bar fighter, I can see the thirst for new experiences, but a man's better off sticking to a specialty42, your own basically being transfenestration."
"Mm yes, I could tell," commented another logger, his voice almost inaudible, sidling in and laying a hand on Zoyd's leg.
"Besides which," continued Buster, imperturbable43, though his eyes were now fixed44 on the hand on the leg, "it's become your MO, diving through windows, you start in with other stuff at this late date, forcing the state to replace what's in your computer file with something else, this is not gunno endear you to them, 'Aha, rebellious45 ain't he?' they'll say, and soon you'll find those checks are gettin' slower, even lost, in the mail and say there Lemay! my good man and good sport, let's have a look at the palm of that hand up here on the bar a minute? 'Cz I'm gonna read your fortune for you, how about that," guiding by strange jovial48 magnetism49 a logger's hand that would just as happily have been a fist up off of the leg of by now mentally paralyzed Zoyd, or as the (it seemed) smitten50 Lemay kept calling him, Cheryl. "You will have a long life," Buster looking Lemay in the face, not the hand, "because of your common sense and grasp on reality. Five bucks."
"Huh?"
"Well — maybe just buy us a round, then. Zoyd here does look a little strange right now, but he's out on governmental business."
"I knew it!" cried Lemay. "Undercover agent!"
"Oh. Well. . . that sounds like interesting work too. ..."
Just then the phone rang, and it was for Zoyd. His partner, Van Meter, was calling from the Cucumber Lounge, a notorious Vineland County roadhouse, in high agitation52. "Got six mobile TV units waiting, network up from the City, plus paramedics and a snack truck, all wonderin' where you are."
"Here. You just called me, remember?"
"Aha. Good point. But you were supposed to be jumping through the front window at the Cuke today."
"No! I called everybody and told 'm it was up here. What happened?"
"Somebody said it got rescheduled."
"Shit. I knew someday this act would get bigger than me."
"Better come on back," said Van Meter.
Zoyd hung up, put the saw back in the bag, finished his beer, and made his exit, blowing broad show-biz kisses and reminding everybody to watch the evening news.
*
The Cucumber Lounge property extended back from the disreputable neon roadhouse itself into a few acres of virgin53 redwood grove54. Dwarfed55 and overshadowed by the towering dim red trees were two dozen motel cabins, with woodstoves, porches, barbecues, waterbeds, and cable TV. During the brief North Coast summers they were for tourists and travelers, but through the rainy remainder of the year, occupants tended to be local, and paying by the week. The woodstoves were good for boiling, frying, even some baking, and some of the cabins had butane burners as well, so that along with woodsmoke and the austere56 fragrance57 of the trees, there was an all-day neighborhood smell of cooking in the air.
The lot Zoyd tried to find a parking space in had never been paved, and the local weather had been writing gullies across it for years. Today it was enjoying a visit from the media, plus a task force of cop vehicles, state and county, flashing their lights and playing the "Jeopardy58" theme on their sirens. Mobile units, lights, cable, crews everywhere, even a couple of Bay Area stations. Zoyd began to feel nervous. "Maybe I should've found something cheap at Buster's to saw on anyway," he muttered. He finally had to pull around back and park in one of Van Meter's spaces. His old bass player and troublemaking59 companion had been living here for years, in what he still described as a commune, with an astounding60 number of current and ex-old ladies, ex-old ladies' boyfriends, children of parent combinations present and absent, plus miscellaneous folks in out of the night. Zoyd had watched television shows about Japan, showing places such as Tokyo where people got into incredibly crowded situations but, because over the course of history they'd all learned to act civil, everybody got along fine despite the congestion61. So when Van Meter, a lifetime searcher for meaning, moved into this Cucumber Lounge bungalow62, Zoyd had hoped for some Japanese-style serenity63 as a side effect, but no such luck. Instead of a quiescent64 solution to all the overpop, the "commune" chose an energetic one — bickering65. Unrelenting and high-decibel, it was bickering raised to the level of ceremony, bickering that soon generated its own house newsletter, the Blind-Side Gazette, bickering that could be heard even out on the freeway by the drivers of hurtling eighteen-wheelers, some of whom thought it was radio malfunction66, others unquiet ghosts.
Here came Van Meter now, around the corner of the Cuke, wearing his trademark67 face, Wounded Righteousness. "Are you ready? We'll be losin' the light, fog's gonna come in any minute, what were you doin' all the hell the way up to the Log Jam?"
"No, Van Meter — why is everybody here instead?"
They went in the back way, Van Meter furrowing68 and unfur-rowing his forehead. "Guess I can tell you now you're here, is there's this old buddy69 of yours, just showed up?"
Zoyd went sweaty and had one of those gotta-shit throbs70 of fear. Was it ESP, was he only reacting to something in his friend's voice? Somehow he knew who it would be. Here when he needed all his concentration for getting through another window, instead he had to worry about this visitor from out of the olden days. Sure enough, it turned out to be Zoyd's longtime pursuer, DEA field agent Hector Zu?iga, back once again, the erratic71 federal comet who brought, each visit in to Zoyd's orbit, new forms of bad luck and baleful influence. This time, though, it had been a while, long enough that Zoyd had begun to hope the man might've found other meat and be gone for good. Dream on, Zoyd. Hector stood over by the toilets pretending to play a Zaxxon machine, but in reality waiting to be reintroduced, this honor apparently72 falling to the manager of the Cuke, Ralph Wayvone, Jr., a remittance73 man from San Francisco, where his father was a figure of some substance, having grown successful in business areas where transactions are overwhelmingly in the form of cash. Today Ralph Jr. was all dolled up in a Cerruti suit, white shirt with cuff74 links, touch-them-you-die double-soled shoes from someplace offshore75, the works. Like everybody else around here, he looked unusually anxious.
"Say Ralph, lighten up, it's me's gotta do all the work."
"Ahhh ... my sister's wedding next weekend, the band just canceled, I'm the social coordinator76, supposed to find a replacement77, right? You know of anybody?"
"Yeah, maybe. . . you better not fuck up this one Ralph, you know what'll happen."
"Always kidding, huh. Here, let me show you the window you'll be using. Can I have them get you a drink or anything? Oh by the way Zoyd, here's an old friend of yours, come all this way to wish you luck."
"Uh-huh." He and Hector exchanged the briefest of thumb-grips.
"Love your outfit78, Wheeler."
Zoyd reached, bomb-squad careful, to pat Hector's stomach. "Look like you been 'moving the mustache' there a little, old amigo."
"Bigger, not softer, ése. And speaking of lunch, how about tomorrow at Vineland Lanes?"
"Can't do it, tryin' to make the rent and I'm already late."
"It's im-por-tan'," Hector making a little melody out of it. "Think of it this way. If I can prove to you, that I'm as bad of a desperado as I ever was, will you allow me to spring for your lunch?"
"As bad as . .." As what? Why did Zoyd keep going, time after time, for these oily Hectorial setups? The best it had ever turned out for him was uncomfortable. "Hector, we're too old for this."
"After all the smiles, and all the tears —"
"All right, stop, it's a deal — you be bad, I come to lunch, but please, I have to jump through this window right now? is it OK, can I have just a few seconds —"
Production staff murmured into walkie-talkies, technicians could be seen through the fateful window, waving light meters and checking sound levels outside as Zoyd, breathing steady, silently repeated a mantra that Van Meter, claiming it'd cost him $ioo, had toward the end of his yoga phase last year hustled80 Zoyd into buying for a twenty that Zoyd hadn't really enjoyed discretionary use of. At last all was set. Van Meter flashed Mr. Spock's Vulcan hand salute82. "Ready when you are, Z Dubya!"
Zoyd eyeballed himself in the mirror behind the bar, gave his hair a shake, turned, poised83, then screaming ran empty-minded at the window and went crashing through. He knew the instant he hit that something was funny. There was hardly any impact, and it all felt and sounded different, no spring or resonance84, no volume, only a sort of fine, dulled splintering.
After obligingly charging at each of the news cameras while making insane faces, and after the police had finished their paperwork, Zoyd caught sight of Hector squatting85 in front of the destroyed window, among the glittering debris86, holding a bright jagged polygon87 of plate glass. "Time for the bad," he called, grinning in a nasty way long familiar to Zoyd. "Are you ready?" Like a snake he lunged his head forward and took a giant bite out of the glass. Holyshit, Zoyd frozen, he's lost it — no, actually now, instead Hector was chewing away, crunching88 and slobbering, with the same evil grin, going "Mmm-mm!" and "?Qué rico, qué sabroso!" Van Meter went running after a departing paramedic truck hollering "Corpsman!" but Zoyd had tumbled, he was no media innocent, he read TV Guide and had just remembered an article about stunt89 windows made of clear sheet candy, which would break but not cut. That's why this one had felt so funny — young Wayvone had taken out the normal window and put in one of these sugar types. "Euchred again, Hector, thanks."
But Hector had already vanished into a large gray sedan with government plates. News-crew stragglers were picking up a few last location shots of the Cuke and its famous rotating sign, which Ralph Jr. was happy to light up early, a huge green neon cucumber with blinking warts90, cocked at an angle that approached, within a degree or two, a certain vulgarity. Did Zoyd have to show up next day at the bowling91 alley92? Technically93, no. But in the feder-ale's eyes there'd been a glint that Zoyd could still see, behind the one-way auto94 glass, even as the nightly fog rolled up over the great berm and on toward 101 and Hector was driven away into it. Zoyd could feel another hustle81 on the way. Hector had been trying over and over for years to develop him as a resource, and so far — technically — Zoyd had hung on to his virginity. But the li'l fucker would not quit. He kept coming back, each time with a new and more demented plan, and Zoyd knew that one day, just to have some peace, he'd say forget it, and go over. Question was, would it be this time, or one of the next few times? Should he wait for another spin? It was like being on "Wheel of Fortune,"
only here there were no genial95 vibes from any Pat Sajak to find comfort in, no tanned and beautiful Vanna White at the corner of his vision to cheer on the Wheel, to wish him well, to flip96 over one by one letters of a message he knew he didn't want to read anyway.
ZOYD made it home in time to view himself on the Tube, though he had to wait till Prairie finished watching the 4:30 Movie, Pia Zadora in The Clara Bow Story. She fingered the material of the lurid97 print dress. "Crazy about this, Dad. Fresh, rilly. Can I have it when you're done? Use it to cover my futon."
"Hey, do you ever date logger types, fallers, choker setters, that sort of fellow?"
"Zoy-oyd. . . ."
"Don't get offended, is it's only that a couple of these guys slipped me their phone number, see? along with bills in different denominations98?"
"What for?"
He did a take, squinted99 closely at his daughter. Was this a trick question here? "Let's see, 1984, that'd make you . . . fourteen?"
"Nice going, like to try for the car?"
"Nothin' personal, jeez." Zoyd had been removing the large and colorful dress. The girl shied away in mock alarm, covering her mouth and making her eyes round. He was wearing ancient surfer baggies underneath, and a dilapidated Hussong's T-shirt. "Here you go, it's all yours, mind if I check myself out on the news?"
They sat together on the floor in front of the Tube, with a chair-high bag of Chee-tos and a sixpack of grapefruit soda100 from the health-food store, watching baseball highlights, commercials, and weather — no rain again — till it was time for the kissoff story. "Well," chuckled102 news anchor Skip Tromblay, "an annual Vine-land event was repeated today, as local laughing-academy outpatient Zoyd Wheeler performed his now familiar yearly leap through another area plate-glass window. This time the lucky establishment was the infamous103 Cucumber Lounge, seen here in its usual location, just off Highway 101. Alerted by a mystery caller, TV 86 Hot Shot News crews were there to record Wheeler's deed, which last year was almost featured on 'Good Morning America.' "
"Lookin' good, Dad." On the Tube, Zoyd came blasting out the window, along with the dubbed-in sounds now of real glass breaking. Police cruisers and fire equipment contributed cheery chrome elements. Zoyd watched himself hit the hardpan, roll, come up, and charge the camera, screaming and baring his teeth. Footage of the pro10 forma booking and release wasn't included, but in Tubal form he was pleased to see that the dress, Day-Glo orange, near-ultraviolet purple, some acid green, and a little magenta104 in a retro-Hawaiian parrots-and-hula-girls print, came across as a real attention-getter. Over on one of the San Francisco channels, the videotape was being repeated in slow motion, the million crystal trajectories105 smooth as fountain-drops, Zoyd in midair with time to rotate into a number of positions he didn't remember being in, many of which, freeze-framed, could have won photo awards someplace. Next came highlights of his previous attempts, at each step into the past the color and other production values getting worse, and after that a panel including a physics professor, a psychiatrist106, and a track-and-field coach live and remote from the Olympics down in L.A. discussing the evolution over the years of Zoyd's technique, pointing out the useful distinction between the defenestrative personality, which prefers jumping out of windows, and the transfenestrative, which tends to jump through, each reflecting an entirely107 different psychic108 subtext, at about which point Zoyd and Prairie began to drift away.
"Give you a nine point five, Dad, your personal best — too bad the VCR's busted109, we could've taped it."
"I'm workin' on it."
She looked at him evenly. "We really need a new one."
"All I need's the money, Trooper, I can't even keep enough groceries in this place."
"Oh, no. I know what that means. Fat talk! What am I supposed to do? Isn't me that's leaving all these cakes and pies and stuff layin' around, candy bars in the freezer, Nestle's Quik instead of sugar, eeoo! What chance have I got?"
"Hey, all's I was talkin' about was money, kid. Who's been makin' you crazy with fat talk?"
The girl's head on its long smooth neck and vertebrae gave a small precision turn and tilt110, as if slipping into an adjustment that would allow her to talk with her father. "Oh . . . maybe one or two remarks lately from the Big I."
"Oh great, yes, the well-known punker diet expert — named himself after what again, some robot?"
"After Isaiah Two Four, a verse in the Bible," shaking her head I-give-up slowly, "which your friends his hippie-freak parents laid on him in 1967, about converting from war to peace, beating spears into pruning111 hooks, other idiot peacenik stuff?"
"Well both of you just better watch 'at shit, 'd it ever occur to you maybe oP R2D2's just cheap, and doesn't want to buy you any more food than he has to? What's he doing? What does he let you eat?"
"Love is strange, Dad, maybe you forgot that."
"I know love is strange, known it since 1956, including all those guitar breaks. You're in love with this individual, well, maybe you forget, I already know him, I can remember all you guys trick or treatin' not so long ago and let me tell you, any kid who shows up at the door as 'Jason' from Friday the 13th [1980], please, take it from an old mental case, he's in some trouble."
Prairie sighed. "Everybody was Jason that year. He's a classic now, like a Frankenstein, and so what, I don't see how you could have any kind of a problem with that. Isaiah has always admired you, you know."
"What?"
"For jumping through all those windows. He's studied every inch of all your videotapes. Says you were nearly speared a couple of times."
"Nearly, ah. . . ."
"Glass falls straight down out of the window frame," she explained, "in these big sharp spears? heavy enough to go right through ya? Isaiah says all his friends have remarked on how awesomely112 cool you always look, how unaware114 of the danger."
White and nauseated115, he was still able to peer dubiously116 out of one eye. No point telling her about the fake window today, she looked so sincere, even, unnaturally117, admiring, good time to just dummy118 up. But was it true, was it possible, had he been that close to death or major surgery each previous fun-filled time? How, then, unless he could count on sugar windows from here on in, could he expect to bring in any more revenue this way? Heck — he should have been working for a Joey Chitwood-type thrill show all this time and making some real money.
". . . and I think you and Isaiah could even do some business," Prairie had evidently been saying, " 'cause I know he'd be willing, and all you'd have to do's keep an open mind."
Zoyd didn't know what she was talking about, but forced himself to think chirpy. "Long as he don't open it for me," having then to dodge119 the athletic120 shoe, luckily without her foot in it, that came whizzing past his ear.
"You are judging him by his haircut, his haircut alone," shaking her finger, trying for something between neighborhood scold and soap-opera Chief of Psychiatric. "You've turned into exactly the same kind of father that used to hassle you, back when you were a teen hippie freak."
"Sure I was at least as heavy duty of a menace to the public as your boyfriend is today, but never did any of us in my generation show up late at night at somebody's door in no hockey mask, carryin' around all these lethal121 blades, even somethin' looked like a pruning hook? and you're telling me we can do business? What business, summer-camp renovation122?" He started throwing Chee-tos at her, scattering123 vividly124 orange crumbs all over.
"He's got a good idea, if only you'd listen, Pop."
"Pop this." Zoyd ate a Chee-to he'd been planning to throw. "Of course I can listen, I hope I can still do that, what kind of uptight125 father do you take me for, why, he might even turn out to be a fine young man despite all the evidence, look at Moon-doggie, for example, in Gidget [1959], after all...."
"Isaiah!" hollered the girl, "let's move it mah man, no telling how long he's even gonna be in this good of a mood," and out of another dimension, where he'd been waiting in orbit, emerged Isaiah Two Four, who today, Zoyd noticed, had his long Mohawk colored a vibrant126 acid green, except at the tips, where some magenta shade was airbrushed on. Now these happened to be Zoyd's two all-time favorite colors, and Prairie, who had given him enough T-shirts and ashtrays in the quaint127 sixties combo, knew it. Was this some weird128 effort to be nice?
Isaiah, in their greeting, wanted to slap and dap, having always somehow believed that Zoyd had seen combat in Vietnam. Some of this was bush-vet and jailyard moves Zoyd recognized, some was private choreography he couldn't keep up with, though he tried, Isaiah throughout humming Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze129." "Hey, so, Mr. Wheeler," Isaiah at last, "how you doing?"
"What's this 'Mr. Wheeler,' what happened to 'You lunch meat, 'sucker'?" this line having climaxed130 their last get-together131, when, from a temperate132 discussion of musical differences, feelings had swiftly escalated133 into the rejection134, on quite a broad scale, of most of one another's values.
"Well then, sir," replied the NBA-sized violence enthusiast135 who might or might not be fucking his daughter, "I must've meant 'lunch meat' only in terms of our joint strange fate as mortal sandwich, equally exposed to the jaws136 of destiny, and from that perspective what's it matter, rilly, that you don't care for the musical statements of Septic Tank or Fascist137 Toejam?" jiveassing so obvious that Zoyd had no choice but to thaw138.
"By the same token, I could easily overlook as trivial your spirited advocacy of the Uzi as a means of resolving many of our social problems."
"That's gracious of you, sir."
"Eats, you guys," Prairie coming in with a gallon of guacamole and a giant-size sack of tortilla chips, Zoyd wondering if soon there ought not to appear as well, aha there it was — a cold six-pack of Dos Equis, ah right! Popping one open, beaming, he observed once again in his daughter the sly, not yet professionally developed gift of staging a hustle, something she must surely have got from him, and he felt himself begin to glow, unless it was the guacamole, in which she'd gone a little heavy tonight on the commercial salsa.
Zoyd's reference to the Uzi submachine gun, "Badass of the Desert," as it is known in its native Israel, had been appropriate. Isaiah's business idea was to set up first one, eventually a chain, of violence centers, each on the scale, perhaps, of a small theme park, including automatic-weapon firing ranges, paramilitary fantasy adventures, gift shops and food courts, and video game rooms for the kids, for Isaiah envisioned a family clientele. Also part of the concept were a standardized139 floor plan and logo, for franchising140 purposes. Isaiah sat at the cable-spool table, making diagrams with tortilla chips and pitching his dreams — "Third World Thrills," a jungle obstacle course where you got to swing on ropes, fall into the water, blast away at surprise pop-up targets shaped like indigenous141 guerrilla elements . . . "Scum of the City," which would allow the visitor to wipe from the world images of assorted142 urban undesirables143, including Pimps, Perverts144, Dope Dealers145, and Muggers, all carefully multiracial so as to offend everybody, in an environment of dark alleys147, lurid neon, and piped-in saxophone music . . . and for the aggro connoisseur148, "Hit List," in which you could customize a lineup of videotapes of the personalities149 in public life you hated most, shown one apiece on the screens of old used TV sets bought up at junkyard prices and sent past you by conveyor belt, like ducks at the carnival150, so your pleasure at blowing away these jabbering151, posturing152 likenesses would be enhanced by all the imploding153 picture tubes. . . .
Zoyd was barely ahead of the white water here, nearly taken under by the surge of demographics and earnings154 projections155 the kid was coming up with. Dazedly156 he realized that at some point his mouth had fallen open and remained so, he didn't know for how long. He shut it too abruptly157 and clipped his tongue, just as Isaiah arrived at the line, "And it won't cost you a penny."
"Uh-huh. How much will it cost me?"
Isaiah gave him the five-figure California orthodontia, plus full eye contact. Zoyd need only stand ready to cosign for a loan —
Zoyd allowed himself a lengthy158 and mirthless chuckle101. "And who'll be doing the lending?" expecting some address in a distant state, obtained from a matchbook cover. Turned out to be the Bank of Vineland Itself. "You didt'n, uh, threaten 'em, nothin' like 'at?" Zoyd needling the long-shadowed youth.
Isaiah just shrugged159 and went on, "In consideration, you get all the construction and landscaping work."
"Wait a minute, why don't your parents cosign?"
"Oh. ... I guess 'cause they've always been into, you know, nonviolence?" There was something wistful in the way he said this. It wasn't just that his folks were vegetarians160, they also discriminated162 among vegetables, excluding from their diet everything red, for example, the color of anger. Most bread, having been made by killing163 yeasts164, was taboo165. Zoyd, no shrink, nonetheless wondered if the kid wasn't doing unto Prairie what was being done unto him at home, in terms of food craziness.
"And . . . your folks don't know about this yet?"
"Sort of wanted it to be a surprise?"
Zoyd cackled. "Parents love surprises," and he caught Prairie giving him a weird look, like, Oh yeah? here, try this —
Instead, "We were all gonna go camping out for a few days, OK? Basically the band and a couple of other girls?"
Isaiah played with a local heavy-metal band called Billy Barf and the Vomitones, who'd been having trouble lately rinding work.
"Go see Ralph Wayvone, Jr., over at the Cuke," Zoyd advised, "his sister's getting married down the City next weekend, the band suddenly ain't gonna show, and he sounds a little desperate for a replacement."
"Uh ... well maybe I'll do it now, can I use your phone?"
"Think it's in the bathroom, last time I looked."
Alone, he and Prairie happened to get eye contact. She'd never been a squirmer, not even as a baby. Finally she said, "So?"
"He's a OK fella, but no bank's gonna let me cosign no loan, come on."
"You're a local businessman."
"They'll call it gypsy roofer, and I owe too much money all over the place anyhow."
"They love it when you owe money."
"Not like I owe it, Prairie — if the whole project went belly-up, they'd take the house." A point that may even have begun to get through, when Isaiah came running out of the bathroom yelling, "We got the gig! We got it! Awesome113! I can't believe it!"
"Me either," Zoyd muttered. "You're going to a full-scale Italian wedding and do what? 'Fascist Toejam's Greatest Hits'?"
"It could need some reconceptualizing," Isaiah admitted. "I, like, implied we were Italian, for one thing."
"Well you might want to learn a few of the tunes166, but you'll settle in, try not to worry," chortling to himself as Prairie and Isaiah went out the door, yes always glad to help out, my boy, a crime-family gig, whatever, no no, don't bother to thank me. . . . Zoyd had played a few mob weddings in his career, nothing the kid couldn't handle, and besides the eats would more than make up for any awkward episodes, so it wasn't as if he were running a mean trick on his daughter's boyfriend, whom he was still not 100 percent crazy about, or anything like that. And as a problem to be addressed, Isaiah was more like a vacation from deeper difficulties, chief among which, all of a sudden, was the recrudescence of Hector Zu?iga in Zoyd's life, a topic, as he lit a joint and settled in front of the soundless Tube, that his thoughts unavoidably found their way back to.
IT was a romance over the years at least as persistent167 as Sylvester and Tweety's. Although Hector may from time to time have wished some cartoon annihilation for Zoyd, he'd understood from early in their acquaintance that Zoyd was the chasee he'd be least likely ever to bag. Not that he credited Zoyd with anything like moral integrity in resisting him. He put it down instead to stubbornness, plus drug abuse, ongoing168 mental problems, and a timidity, maybe only a lack of imagination, about the correct scale of any deal in life, drug or nondrug. And though not as obsessed169 these days about turning Zoyd — they'd had that crisis long ago — Hector still, for no reason he could name, liked to keep on popping in every now and then, preferably unannounced. He showed up first in Zoyd's life shortly after Reagan was elected governor of California. Zoyd was living down south then, sharing a house in Gordita Beach with elements of a surf band he'd been playing keyboard in since junior high, the Corvairs, along with friends more and less transient. The house was so old that all of its termite170 clauses and code violations171 had been waived172, on the theory that the next moderate act of nature would finish it off. But having been put up back during an era of overdesign, it proved to be sturdier than it looked, with its old stucco eaten at to reveal generations of paint jobs in different beach-town pastels, corroded173 by salt and petrochemical fogs that flowed in the summers onshore up the sand slopes, on up past Sepulveda, often across the then undeveloped fields, to wrap the San Diego Freeway too. Down here, a long screened porch faced out over flights of rooftops descending174 to the beach. Access from the street was by way of a Dutch door, whose open top half, that long-ago evening, had come to frame Hector under a ragged175 leather hat with a wide brim, peering through sunglasses, the darkening Pacific in pale-topped crawl below. Out on the street, wedged into most of the front seat of a motor-pool Plymouth, waited Hector's partner in those days, the seriously oversize field agent Melrose Fife. Zoyd, whose luck it happened to've been to answer Hector's knock, stood trying to understand what this individual with the outlaw176 hat and cop sideburns was talking about.
After a bit, Corvairs lead guitar and vocalist Scott Oof wandered in from the kitchen to join them, leaning on the doorjamb playing with his hair. "Maybe later," Hector greeted him, "you could explain this all to your friend here, 'cause I don't know if I've been gittín through. ..."
"?Qué?" replied Scott wittily177. "No hablo inglés."
"Whoa." Hector's front-door smile tightened178 up. "Maybe I should get my pardner up here for this. See him, out there in the car? You can't really tell till he stands up, but he is so big, that nobody ever wants to get him out of the car, 'cause once he's out, you dig, he ain't alwayss that easy to git back in?"
"Don't mind Scott," Zoyd hastily, "he's a surfer — so long, Scott — he had a little run-in a few years ago with some, uh, young gentlemen of Mexican origin, so sometimes —"
"In the parking lot at the Taco Bell in Hermosa, yes a memorable179 series of evenings, much celebrated180 in the folklore181 of my people" — this being in the early days of a Ricardo Montalban impersonation that would over the years grow more refined.
"You've come to take revenge?"
"Please. For-give me," Hector producing from an inside pocket, access to which now also afforded a leisurely view of a service .38 in an armpit rig, his federal commission in a fancy tooled flip-open leather case.
"Nobody here's into nothing federal," Zoyd didn't think.
Van Meter, back in those days sporting a profile that mandated182 at least a stop-and-frisk, ran in frowning. "What's wrong with Scott? he just split out the back."
"What I'm really here about," Hector had been explaining, "is the matter of drugs."
"Thank God!" screamed Van Meter, "it's been weeks, we thought we'd never score again! oh yes, it's a miracle—" Zoyd kicking him frantically183 — "who sent you, are you the dude that knows Leon?"
The federale showed his teeth, amused. "Subject you refer to is temporarily in custody184, though sure to be back before very long in his accustomed spot beneath the Gordita Pier185."
"Aaaaaa ...," went Van Meter.
"No, no my man but that is precisely186 the sort of corroborating187 detail that we value so highly," snapping, like a magician, a crisp five-dollar bill, half a lid of Mexican commercial in those days, from behind Van Meter's ear. Zoyd rolled his eyes as the bass player grabbed at the money. "And there's always plenty more in our imprest fund for good-quality product. For make-believe bullshit, of course, we pay nothing, and in time we grow annoyed."
That fatal five-spot was not the last Purchase-of-Information disbursement188 in the neighborhood. In those years there were so many federal narcs in the area that if you were busted in the South Bay you actually stood less chance of its being the local Man than some fed. All the beach towns, plus Torrance, Hawthorne, and greater Walteria, were in on some grandiose189 pilot project bankrolled with inexhaustible taxpayer190 millions, appropriate chunks191 of which were finding their way to antidrug entities192 up and down every level of governance. Zoyd, to be sure, made a point of never pocketing any of Hector's PI money personally, though he was content to go on eating the groceries, burning the gas, and smoking the pot others obtained with it. Now and then he would get fooled on some minor193 dope purchase, sweet basil in a heat-sealed bag, a small vial of Bisquick (yep, he'd murmur79, still making stupid mistakes and how about yourself?) and he'd feel really tempted194, sometimes for days, to turn the dealer146 in to Hector. But there were always good reasons not to — it would happen that one was a cool person who needed the money, another a distant cousin from the Middle West, or a homicidal maniac195 who would take revenge, so forth. Each time Zoyd failed to inform on these people, Hector grew furious. "You think you're protectín them? They just gonna fuck you over again." The edge in his voice was frustration196, everything about this Gordita assignment was just really fucking frustrating197, all these identical-looking beach pads beginning to blend together, resulting in more than enough mistaken addresses, early-morning raids upon the innocent, failures to apprehend198 fugitives199 who might have only fled across an alley or down a flight of public steps. The arrangements of hillside levels, alleyways, corners, and rooftops created a Casbah topography that was easy to get lost in quickly, terrain200 where the skills of the bushwhacker became worth more than any resoluteness201 of character, an architectural version of the uncertainty202, the illusion, that must have overtaken his career for him ever to've been assigned there in the first place.
"Situations back then," Zoyd hammered it on in, these many years later, "relationships, sure got tangled203 up in that house, with more and also less temporary love partners and sex companions, jealousy204 and revenge always goin' on, plus substance dealers and their go-betweens, and narcs who thought they were undercover trying to pop them, couple-three politicals fleein' from different jurisdictions205, good deal of comin' and goin' 's what it was, not to mention you actin' like it was your own personal snitch Safeway, just drop in, we're open 24 hours."
They were sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant at Vineland Lanes, Zoyd after a lot of lost sleep having decided to show up after all. He ordered the Health Food Enchilada Special and Hector had the soup of the day, cream of zucchini, and the vegetarian161 tostada, which upon its arrival he began to take apart piece by piece and reassemble as something else Zoyd could not identify but which seemed to hold meaning for Hector.
"Lookit that, lookit your food, Hector, what have you done?"
"At least I'm not droppín it all over the place, includín my shirt, like I was out in some parkin lot." Yes, a certain emphasis there for sure, and this after their having shared, maybe not many, but still a parking lot or two, even some adventures therein. Zoyd guessed that at some point since their last get-together Hector, as if against a storm approaching over his life's horizon, had begun to bring everything indoors. Stuck out in the field at GS-13 for years because of his attitude, he had sworn — Zoyd thought — he'd go out the gate early before he'd ever be some cagatintas, a bureaucrat206 who shits ink. But he must have cut some deal, maybe it got too cold for him — time to say goodbye to all those eyeswept parking lots back out under the elements and the laws of chance, and hello GS-14, leaving the world outside the office to folks earlier in their careers, who could appreciate it more. Too bad. For Zoyd, a creature of attitude himself, this long defiance207 had been Hector's most persuasive208 selling point.
What the federal computers this morning had not brought to Hector's attention was that the alleys today were scheduled for junior regional semifinals. Kids were in town from all over the northern counties to compete on these intricately mortised masterpiece alleys, dating back to the high tide of the logging business in these parts, when the big houses framed all in redwood had gone up and legendary209 carpenters had appeared descending from rain-slick stagecoaches210, geniuses with wood who could build you anything from a bowling alley to a Carpenter Gothic outhouse. Balls struck pins, pins struck wood, echoes of collision came thundering in from next door along with herds211 of kids in different bowling jackets, each carrying at least one ball in a bag plus precarious212 stacks of sodas213 and food, each squeaking215 open the screen door between lanes and restaurant, letting it squeak214 shut into the next kid, who'd squeak it open again. Didn't take many of these repetitions to have an effect on Zoyd's lunch companion, whose eyes were flicking216 back and forth as he hummed a tune47 that not till sixteen bars in did Zoyd recognize as "Meet the Flintstones," from the well-known TV cartoon show. Hector finished the tune and looked sourly at Zoyd. "Any of these yours?"
Here it was. OK, "What are you sayin', Hector?"
"You know what I'm sayín, asshole."
Zoyd couldn't see a thing in his eyes. "Who you been talking to?"
"Your wife."
Zoyd began stabbing and restabbing his enchiladas with a fork while Hector waited him out. "Uh, well how's she doing?"
Hector's eyes were moist, and popping out some. "Not too good, li'l buddy."
"Tryin' to tell me what, she's in trouble?"
"You catch on fast for an ol' doper, now try this one, you ever heard of defunding? Maybe you noticed on the news, on the Tube, all these stories about Reaganomics, a-an' cutbacks in the federal budget and stuff?"
"She was on some program? Now she's off it?" They were talking about his ex-wife, Frenesi, years and miles in the past. Why, besides the free lunch, was Zoyd sitting here listening to this? Hector, leaning forward bright-eyed, had begun to show signs of enjoying himself. "Where is she?"
"Well, we had her under Witness Protection."
Not hearing the stress on had right away, "Oh bullshit, Hector, that's for Mob folks trying to be ex-Mob 'thout havin' to die first, since when are you usin' that Mafia meat locker217 for politicals, thought you just took 'em put 'em in the booby hatch like they do over there in Russia."
"Well, technically it was a different budget line, but still run by the U.S. Marshals, same as with the Mob type of witness."
Man could crush him with just a short tap dance over the computer keys — why was Hector being so unnaturally amiable218? All that could possibly be restraining the tough old doorkicker was kindness, unfortunately a trait he was born so short on that nobody living or dead had ever observed it anywhere near him.
"So — she's in with all these Mob snitches, the money disappears, but you still have her file, you can punch her up when you need her —"
"Wrong. Her file is destroyed." The word hung in the wood space, between percussive219 attacks from next door.
"Why? Thought you guys never destroyed a file, 'th all 'ese little fund, defund, refund220 games —"
"We don't know why. But it's no game in Washington — chále ése — this ain't tweakín around no more with no short-term maneuvers221 here, this is a real revolution, not that little fantasy hand-job you people was into, is it's a groundswell, Zoyd, the wave of History, and you can catch it, or scratch it." He eyed Zoyd with a smug look which in view of what he'd been doing to his tostada, over, by now, most of the tabletop, lacked authenticity222. "The man who once shot the old Hermosa Pier durín a lightnín storm," Hector shaking his head. "Listen, K mart this week has full-length mirrors on sale, and I'm nobody's charm-school professor, but I'd urge you to get one. Might want to start upgradín your image, li'l buddy."
"Wait a minute, you don't know why her file was destroyed?"
"Is why we're gonna need your help. The money's good."
"Oh, shit. Yah, hah, hah, hah, you lost her's what happened, some idiot back there wiped out the computer file, right? Now you don't even know where she is, and you think I do."
"Not exactly. We think now she's headín back here."
"She wa'n' spoze to Hector, that was never part of the deal. I wondered how long it was gonna take — twelve, thirteen years, not bad, you mind if I call the Guinness Book Hot Line with this, it has to be a world record for fascist regimes keepin' their word."
"Still simmerín away with those same old feelings, I see — figured you'd be mellower223 by now, maybe some reconciliation224 with reality, I dunno."
"When the State withers225 away, Hector."
"Caray, you sixties people, it's amazing. Ah love ya! Go anywhere, it don't matter — hey, Mongolia! Go way out into smalltown Outer Mongolia, ése, there's gonna be some local person about your age come runnín up, two fingers in a V, hollerín, 'What's yer sign, man?' or singín 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' note for note."
"Satellites, everybody hears everything, space is really something, what else?"
The dope cop permitted himself an Eastwood-style mouth-muscle nuance226. "Don't be disingenuous227, I know you still believe in all that shit. All o' you are still children inside, livín your real life back then. Still waitín for that magic payoff. But no prob, I can live with that. .. and it ain't like you're lazy or afraid to work, either. .. impossible to tell with you, Zoyd. Never could figure out how innocent you thought you were. Sometimes you looked just like a hippie bum228 musician, for months at a shot, as if you never turned a buck39 any other way. Rill puzzlín."
"Hector! Bite yer tongue! You tellin' me I — I wasn't innocent, me behavin' like a saint through it all?"
"You behaved about like everybody else, pardner, sorry."
"That bad."
"I won't aks you to grow up, but just sometime, please, aks yourself, OK, 'Who was saved?' That's all, rill easy, 'Who was saved?' "
"Beg pardon?"
"One OD'd on the line at Tommy's waitín for a burger, one got into some words in a parkin lot with the wrong gentleman, one took a tumble in a faraway land, so on, more 'n half of 'em currently on the run, and you so far around the bend you don't even see it, that's what became of your happy household, you'd've done better up against the SWAT team. Just in the privacy of your thotz, Zoyd. As a exercise, li'l kinda Zen meditation229. 'Who was saved?' "
"You, Hector."
"Ay se va, go on, break your old compinche's heart. Here I thought you knew everything, it turns out you don't know shit." Grinning — a stretched and terrible face. It was the closest Hector got to feeling sorry for himself, this suggestion he liked to put out that among the fallen, he had fallen further than most, not in distance alone but also in the quality of descent, having begun long ago concentrated and graceful230 as a sky diver but — the tos-tada procedure was minor evidence — he growing less professional the longer he fell, while his skills as a field man depreciated231. He had come, with these falling years, simply to rely on going in, trying to neutralize232 whoever was there with a repertoire233 of assault that still ran from stupefy to obliterate234, and if they were waiting for him one time and got in the first move, ay muere, too bad. Hector sadly knew this wasn't anywhere near the samurai condition of always being on that perfect edge prepared to die, a feeling he'd known only a few times in his life, long ago. Nowadays, with his old fighting talents lapsed235, what looked like simple impulse or will might as easily have been advanced self-hatred. Zoyd, the big idealist, liked to believe that Hector remembered everybody he'd ever shot at, hit, missed, booked, questioned, rousted, double-crossed — that each face was filed in his conscience, and the only way he could live with such a history was to take these chances with his own bad ass14, upping the ante as he moved into his late midcareer. This theory at least had kept Zoyd from lying around hatching plots to assassinate236 Hector, as others had been known to waste hours of potentially productive lives doing. Hector was the kind of desperado whose ideal assassin was himself — he could choose the best method, time, and place and would always have the best motives237 for it of anyone.
"So, let me guess, I'm spoze to be some early-warning alarm, some invisible beam she can walk through and break, so you get a few minutes' edge but meanwhile I'm the one gets interrupted, or come to think of it, broken, somethin' like that?"
"Not at all. You can go on with your life, such as it is. Nobody runnín you, you don't call in, we don't call unless we need you. All's you got to do's be there, in place — be yourself, as your music teacher probably used to tell you."
Late hit, Zoyd thought, not like him, what's wrong with the li'l fella today, with this edge on everything? "Well sounds like a breeze, and you mean I get paid for it too?"
"Special Employee scale, maybe even a bonus."
"Used to be a twenty, as I recall, limp and warm from some agent's wallet his kid gave him for Christmas. . . ."
"Sure — you'll find today it can be well into the low three figures, Zoyd."
"Wait a minute — bonus? What for?"
"Whatever."
"Can I have a uniform, a badge, a piece?"
"You gonna do it?"
"Bullshit Hector, you givin' me a choice?"
The federale shrugged. "It's a free country. The Lord, as they call him around my office, created all of us, even you, with free will. I think it's weird you don't even want to find out about her."
"You're one sentimental238 hombre, you meddlin' ol' Cupid ya. Well maybe you can relate to this — it took me a long time even to get to where I am on the whole subject o' her, now you want to post me right back down into it again, but guess what, I don't want to go back 'n' waller in all 'at."
"How about your kid, then?"
"Yes, Hector. What about her? I really need to hear some more federal advice right now about how I should be bringin' up my own kid, we know already how much all you Reaganite folks care about the family unit, just from how much you're always in fuckin' around with it."
"Maybe this ain't gonna work after all."
"It does seem," Zoyd careful, "like that you're spending a lot on one long-ago federal case everybody's forgotten."
"You should see how much. Maybe it goes beyond your ex-old lady, li'l buddy."
"Far, far beyond?"
"I used to worry about you, Zoyd, but I see I can rest easy now the Vaseline of youth has been cleared from your life's lens by the mild detergent239 solution of time, in its passing. .. ." Hector sat slumped240 in zomoskepsis, or the contemplation of his soup. "I should charge you my consultancy fee, but I already checked your shoes, so I'll give you this for free." Was he reading strange soup messages? "Your ex-old lady, up till they terminated her budget line, was livín in a underground of the State, not like th' old Weatherpeople or nothín, OK? but a certain kind of world that civilians241 up on the surface, out in the sun thinkín 'em happy thotz, got no idea it's even there...." Hector was usually too cool to be much of a lapel-grabber, but something in his voice now, had Zoyd been wearing a jacket, might have warned of an attempt. "Nothín like that shit on the Tube, nothín at all... and cold ... colder than you ever want to find out about. . . ."
"That case, I got no problem staying out of the way, 'specially20 anybody she's been runnin' with, and good luck yourself, pal46."
"I don't need that from you, Zoyd, you're just as fucked as you ever were, and you picked up a mean streak242 too."
"Nothin' meaner than a old hippie that's gone sour, Hector, lot of it around."
"You pussies243 set yourselves up for it," Hector advised, "don't be complainín this far down the line, it's only business, and we're both gonna make out, all's you do's sit tight while I do the work."
"Hope you don't need a yes or no right away."
"Time is of the essence, you're not the only one I'm tryín to coordinate244 here." Shook his head sadly. "We been out cruisín different boulevards for years now, did you send one Christmas card, or ask about Debbi, or the kids, or what's been happenín to my consciousness? Maybe I'm Mormon now, how would you know? Maybe Debbi talked me into goín on a retreat one weekend and it changed my life. And maybe you should even be thinkín about your spirit, Zoyd."
"My—"
"Takes a little discipline's all, wouldn't kill you."
"I'm sorry, Hector, how are Debbi and the kids?"
"Zoyd, if only you hadn't been such a asshole all your life, just skippín along through the wildflowers, so forth, thinkín you were so special, that you didt'n have to do what everybody else did. ..."
"Maybe I don't. You think I do?"
"Hey, all right fuckhead, try this — you are goín to have to die? Yeah-heh-heh, remember that? Death! after all them yearss of nonconformist shit, you're gonna end up just like everybody else anyway! ?Ja, ja! So what was it for? All 'at livín in the hippie dirt, drivín around some piece of garbage ain't even in the blue book no more, passín up some really serious bucks't you could've spent not just on y'rself and your kid but on all your beloved bro and sister hippie fools who could've used it as much as you?"
A waitress approached with the check. Both men — Hector by reflex and Zoyd then startled into it — sprang toward her and collided, and the girl, alarmed, backed away, dropping the document, which then got batted around by the three parties until at last fluttering into a revolving245 condiment246 tray, where it ended up half submerged in a big fluffy247 mound248 of mayonnaise gone translucent249 at the edges.
"Check's in the mayo," Zoyd had time to note, when all at once, out past the street door, came a convergence of sirens, purposeful shouting, then heavy boots, all in step, thumping250 their direction.
"?Madre de Dios!" an oddly panicked, high-pitched Hector was up and running for the kitchen — luckily, Zoyd noted251, having left a twenty on the table — now with a platoon of folks come crashing in after him, what was this, all wearing identical camo jumpsuits and crash helmets with the word NEVER stenciled252 on. Two stayed by the door, two more went over to check the bowling alley, the rest went running on after Hector into the kitchen, where there was already a lot of screaming and clanging.
Dude in a white lab coat over Pendleton shirt and jeans now came strolling in between the two doorpeople, heading for Zoyd, who beamed insincerely, "Never saw him before."
"Zoyd Wheeler! Hi, caught you on the news last night, fabulous253, didn't know you and Hector were acquainted, listen, he hasn't been quite himself, signed in with us for some therapy, and now, frankly254.. . ."
"He broke out."
"We'll catch up eventually. But if you have any further contact, you'll give us a call, hmmm?"
"Who are you?"
"Oh. Sorry." He handed Zoyd a card that read, "Dr. Dennis Deeply, M.S.W., Ph.D. / National Endowment for Video Education and Rehabilitation," someplace down north of Santa Barbara, a struck circle around a TV set, above the Latin motto Ex luce ad sanitatem, with a printed phone number crossed out and another ballpointed in. "That's our local number, we're staying at the Vineland Palace till we catch Hector."
"Nice per diem. You guys're federal?"
"Bisectoral, really, private and public, grants, contracts, basically we study and treat Tubal abuse and other video-related disorders255."
"A dryin'-out place for Tubefreeks? You mean .. . Hector...." And Zoyd remembered him humming that Flintstone theme to calm himself down, and all those "li'l buddy"s, which as they both knew was what the Skipper always liked to call Gilligan, raising possibilities Zoyd didn't want to think about.
Dr. Deeply shrugged eloquently256. "One of the most intractable cases any of us has seen. He's already in the literature. Known in our field as the Brady Buncher, after his deep although not exclusive attachment257 to that series."
"Oh, yeah, that was ol' Marcia, right, and then the middle one's name was —" till Zoyd noticed the piercing look he was getting.
"Maybe," said Dr. Deeply, "you should give us a call anyway."
"I didn't say I could remember all their names!" Zoyd yelled after him, but he was already halfway258 out the door, soon to be joined by the others and then, presently, gone, and without having caught Hector, either.
Hector, who it now seemed was some sort of escaped lunatic, was still at large.
ZOYD hit Phantom259 Ridge260 Road about an hour later than he wanted because of Elvissa up the hill's blown head gasket, which brought her down at 6:oo A.M. to borrow his rig, for which it had taken Zoyd then a while to scout261 up a replacement. This turned out to be a Datsun Li'l Hustler pickup6, belonging to his neighbor Trent, with a camper shell whose unusual design gave the vehicle some cornering problems. "Long as you don't try it with the tank anywhere between empty and full," Trent suggested, he thought helpfully. But it was actually the camper shell, covered all over with cedar262 shakes in some doper's idea of imbrication and topped by a pointed17 shake roof with a stovepipe coming out, that seemed to be the problem. Zoyd very carefully hooked a right and was soon climbing switchbacks up a ridge of as yet unlogged second-growth redwoods, on whose other side l
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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ashtrays
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| 烟灰缸( ashtray的名词复数 ) | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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stashed
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| v.贮藏( stash的过去式和过去分词 )；隐藏；藏匿；藏起 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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orientational
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| adj.定向的，定位的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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rhinestones
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| n.莱茵石，人造钻石( rhinestone的名词复数 ) | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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42
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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43
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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47
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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48
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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49
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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50
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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51
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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52
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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53
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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54
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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55
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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57
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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58
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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59
troublemaking
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| n.捣乱的行为 | |
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60
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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61
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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62
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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63
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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64
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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65
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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66
malfunction
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| vi.发生功能故障，发生故障，显示机能失常 | |
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67
trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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68
furrowing
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的现在分词 ) | |
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69
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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70
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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71
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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72
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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74
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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75
offshore
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| adj.海面的，吹向海面的；adv.向海面 | |
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76
coordinator
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| n.协调人 | |
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77
replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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78
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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79
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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80
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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82
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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83
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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84
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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85
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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86
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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87
polygon
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| n.多边形；多角形 | |
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88
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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89
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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90
warts
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| n.疣( wart的名词复数 )；肉赘；树瘤；缺点 | |
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91
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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92
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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93
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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94
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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96
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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97
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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98
denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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99
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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100
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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101
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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102
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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104
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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105
trajectories
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| n.弹道( trajectory的名词复数 )；轨道；轨线；常角轨道 | |
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106
psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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107
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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108
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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109
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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111
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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112
awesomely
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| 赫然 | |
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113
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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114
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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115
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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117
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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118
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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119
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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120
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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121
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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122
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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123
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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124
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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125
uptight
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| adj.焦虑不安的，紧张的 | |
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126
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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127
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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128
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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129
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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130
climaxed
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| vt.& vi.达到顶点（climax的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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131
get-together
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| n.(使)聚集；(使)集合 | |
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132
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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133
escalated
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| v.（使）逐步升级( escalate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）逐步扩大；（使）更高；（使）更大 | |
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134
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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135
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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136
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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137
fascist
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| adj.法西斯主义的；法西斯党的；n.法西斯主义者，法西斯分子 | |
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138
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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139
standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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140
franchising
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| v.给…以特许权，出售特许权( franchise的现在分词 ) | |
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141
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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142
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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143
undesirables
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| 不受欢迎的人，不良分子( undesirable的名词复数 ) | |
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144
perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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145
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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146
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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147
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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148
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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149
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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150
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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151
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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152
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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153
imploding
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| v.（使）向心聚爆( implode的现在分词 ) | |
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154
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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155
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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156
dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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157
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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158
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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159
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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160
vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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161
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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162
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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163
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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164
yeasts
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| 酵母( yeast的名词复数 )； 酵母菌； 发面饼； 发酵粉 | |
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165
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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166
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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167
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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168
ongoing
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| adj.进行中的，前进的 | |
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169
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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170
termite
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| n.白蚁 | |
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171
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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172
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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173
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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174
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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175
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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176
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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177
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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178
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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179
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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180
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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181
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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182
mandated
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| adj. 委托统治的 | |
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183
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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184
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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185
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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186
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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187
corroborating
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的现在分词 ) | |
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188
disbursement
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| n.支付，付款 | |
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189
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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190
taxpayer
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| n.纳税人 | |
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191
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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192
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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193
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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194
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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195
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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196
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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197
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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198
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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199
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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200
terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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201
resoluteness
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202
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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203
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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204
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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205
jurisdictions
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| 司法权( jurisdiction的名词复数 )； 裁判权； 管辖区域； 管辖范围 | |
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206
bureaucrat
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| n. 官僚作风的人，官僚，官僚政治论者 | |
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207
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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208
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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209
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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210
stagecoaches
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| n.驿马车( stagecoach的名词复数 ) | |
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211
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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212
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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213
sodas
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| n.苏打( soda的名词复数 )；碱；苏打水；汽水 | |
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214
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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215
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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216
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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217
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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218
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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219
percussive
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| adj.敲击的 | |
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220
refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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221
maneuvers
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| n.策略，谋略，花招( maneuver的名词复数 ) | |
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222
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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223
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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224
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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225
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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226
nuance
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| n.(意义、意见、颜色)细微差别 | |
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227
disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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228
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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229
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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230
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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231
depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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232
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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233
repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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234
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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235
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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236
assassinate
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| vt.暗杀，行刺，中伤 | |
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237
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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238
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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239
detergent
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| n.洗涤剂；adj.有洗净力的 | |
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240
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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241
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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242
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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243
pussies
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| n.（粗俚） 女阴( pussy的名词复数 )；（总称）（作为性对象的）女人；（主要北美使用，非正式）软弱的；小猫咪 | |
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244
coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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245
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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246
condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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247
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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248
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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249
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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250
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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251
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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252
stenciled
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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254
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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255
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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256
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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257
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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258
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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259
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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260
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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261
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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262
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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