Free Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins Page B

distracted and prone to slope, the baboon did get them clean. Even Baby Thor had duties: emptying dustpans and fetching materials. With painting and decorating to follow, the project was destined to take weeks.
    At first, Amanda was too occupied to pay much attention to John Paul's detachment; he's an introverted and private man, she thought, and he needs time alone in his head. But the bride, after all, was a female animal and when Ziller's contemplative mood held over into a second day and a third, she began to suspect the worst, wondering if he had turned remorseful about having married her. Eventually, she approached him with her fears, which he dispelled somewhat by balling her on the spot (dust rags beneath her bottom, her head on a mop). Then he confessed that he had been worrying about Plucky Purcell. Not a word had been heard from the Mad Pluck since that memorable morning-after near Sacramento.
    “He doesn't strike me as an excessively reliable sort,” consoled Amanda. “He's probably followed the charmer's pipes down some remote path of eroticism and simply forgotten all about us.” She then admitted that while she was not immune to Purcell's roguish charms, she found him something of a hypocrite: he seems aggressively preoccupied with the wickedness of the American economy, yet he is employed as a logger. And if one is going to pollute one's consciousness with hate, fear and blame, one might as well acknowledge that no single facet of the economic power structure, except for the oil ogre, has so brutally and insensitively pillaged America's natural resources as has the lumber industry. According to Amanda. So there.
    Thus, it became incumbent upon Ziller to offer in behalf of L. Westminster “Plucky” Purcell some
    BIOGRAPHICAL DATA I
    A career as a public servant became necessary for the youngest Purcell son when other avenues of accomplishment were closed to him as a result of particular indiscretions. Not that he wasn't allowed a second chance. To wit: The United States Navy felt that Plucky had the makings of an officer and a gentleman despite the notoriety that surrounded his Mexican vacation. Despite his silly grin. He was accepted for pilot's training and was graduated from the Pensacola air school, third in his class. Next came advanced training in jets; swifter, more complicated crafts which he flew with his by now customary aplomb. But fate lay in wait for Plucky in the shape of raisin bread.
    What irritated Ensign Purcell most gruffly about the navy was the hour which it deemed imperative for its junior pilots to quit their beds. “We are, through the good taste of Congress, legally gentlemen,” he argued, “and there are hours, specifically those between midnight and noon, when no proper gentleman would permit himself to be disturbed.” Still, Purcell did his duty, arising at five thirty each morning (despite having caroused through most of the soft Florida night) and attending to his toilet prior to visiting the officer's mess for breakfast. Now the mess officer (being, of course, in charge of the officers' mess) had decided, for reasons known only in his most secret and greasy heart, to serve toasted raisin bread each morning. No other kind of bread or biscuit did he provide his guests. Just raisin bread. Toasted. Ensign Purcell complained about this daily, pointing out that only a pervert or a geek would enjoy sweet gummy raisins mucking about in his mouthful of egg, though he said this none too loudly, for all around him the cream of American manhood was chomping away with gusto.
    Whatever had initially motivated the mess officer (and it could have been, in fairness, an innocent ploy), sadistic tendencies soon revealed themselves. Mess Officer gleefully ignored Purcell's protests and kept the raisin toast popping.
    Came the hour for satisfaction. From the Ship's Service, Purcell purchased a giant family-size tube of Colgate toothpaste. By the light of his desk lamp, he slit the bottom of