Free The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel by John Vorhaus Page B

your father goes ten different kinds of devious just so he can
not
ask you for help.”
    “You don’t know my old man.”
    “Neither do you!” She raised her voice on this, drawing shushes and dark looks from the reverent fans of stand-up art seated nearby. Ichided myself for being a dickweed.
Loyalty, Radar. It’s Allie who’s important, not Woody. So he got in the wind. So what? Maybe he won’t come back around. If he does, that’ll just prove you’re right and she’s wrong. And if he doesn’t? Then getting to know him is a missed opportunity you never knew you had. Now shut up and watch the show
.
    (A frail, pale woman stands onstage, arms outstretched. From her arms hang various lengths of hollow bamboo, which clack somewhat musically as she sways to her inner rhythm. She is a human wind chime. The crowd loves it.)
    “Know what I think it is?” said Allie. “I think it’s subject-object confusion. You’re so used to playing everything three levels deep, you assume everyone else is, too.” I started to protest, but Allie overrode me. “I’m not saying he’s not capable of it. I’m just saying Occam’s razor.” She took my hands. “I’m sorry he left a bad taste in your mouth, sweetie. But he
left
. Let it go if you can.” And with her hands in mine, I found that I could. I took a deep breath and banished Woody from my mental map.
Farewell, jackalope. So long, Aqualung
.
    (Vic and Zoe take the stage, each mummified in tulle of striped bright crimson and green, a disharmonic color combination that vibrates sickly, very hard to look at. They stand in silence for a moment, then Zoe opens her mouth and drones an ugly, warbly, flat monotone, “Waaahhh,” until her breath runs out and the sound dies in broken, croaking syllables. Vic, meanwhile, is spraying two different types of air freshener, bayberry and piña colada, and their clashing syrupy smells fill the room. To add a grace note, I suppose, he takes out a urinal cake and smashes it to smithereens with his fist. Zoe repeats her afflicted-cat wail twice more, and in the welcome silence that follows, Vic makes an armpit fart, which inspires weak, uncertain laughter in the audience. He glares at the laughers, making clear the seriousness of his intent. Then he and Zoe start coughing at each other, drawing closer and closer until they’re virtually coughing into each other’s mouth, and this goes on for some time. It’s pretty uncomfortable to watch, which, knowing Vic and his commitment to outrageon, is thewhole idea. Next he takes off his shoes and clips his toenails. Then Zoe flosses her teeth, and Vic licks the floss clean. For a grand finale, they make some deformed balloon animals, like the zoo at Chernobyl, and squeak them horribly. Then Vic intones, “Domestic Violence,” and they leave the stage to unabashed applause.)
    (Emperor’s nudity goes unremarked.)
    We joined Vic and Zoe later in the front room of the bar, where I shouted a round of Red Man Ale * and congratulated them on a job, well, done.
    “This is just the beginning, Radar,” Vic said, his eyes bright with excitement. “We have a space!”
    “A space?” asked Allie. Was she thinking of the one between his ears? Probably that was just me.
    Vic put his arm around Zoe. “It’s her father’s. He was mounting a show for these artists who got arrested.”
    “Selling Jimson weed,” said Zoe, as if that explained everything. “They couldn’t make bail.”
    “So now it’s empty and we get to use it. We’re going to blow minds. I’ve got half a yard of concrete, a crate of paintballs, some old neon signs, this giant-ass block of obsidian, a spool of copper wire, an acetylene torch, and a lateen sail from a dhow.” I was wondering how these things could possibly permute into anything even vaguely approximating art when Vic added, “Plus, I’ve got a line on a crocodile.”
    “The art community in this town has gotten way too stuffy,” said Zoe. “Vic’s really