Demon Box

“Well, you ain’t no tumbleweed anymore,” my mother said. She was bringing another pot of coffee out to us. “He’s working up to buying that used motorhome down the street is what it really is—so I can drive him to the Pendleton Roundup.”

“Maybe he wants to go to Mexico again,” I said. Buddy and I had rented a Winnebago some years before and taken him on a hectic ride over the border. I had wanted him to come on at least one of those unchartered trips that he used to warn me against. He came back claiming that the only thing he’d got out of it was jumping beans and running shits. I winked at my mother. “Maybe he wants to go into the jungle and look for diamonds, like Willy Loman.”

“Uh-huh,” Daddy grunted. The sudden sweep of the papers had tilted his head; he was pushing it straight with his hand. “Maybe he don’t, too.”

“Another cup of mud?” my mother asked to change the subject.

I shook my head. “One cup of that stuff is plenty; I’ve got to work tonight.”

“How you coming with it?” my dad wanted to know.

“Slow,” I said. “It’s tough to get the machine up to speed.”

“Especially when you ain’t run the thing in a dozen years.” He had his head steady enough to get me with his old, stiff-thumb-in-the-ribs look. “If you expect to have that movie out in time to benefit from my opinions, you better crank ‘er up to speed pretty damn quick!”

It was the look that flashed a second later, after the stiffening went out, that got me. I finished my coffee and stood up. “That’s where I’m headed out to right now,” I said. “To crank ‘er up.”

“Better not head too far out,” he growled, reaching for another section of the paper. “I’m liable not to wait for you to get back.”

Mom met me at my car. “They have him on tap for another one of those spinals Saturday,” she said. “He hates the nasty things, and they scare the dickens out of me.”

“Spinals aren’t dangerous, Mom: I’ve seen dozens of them.”

“Ever think that might be why he wants you to be around, you knothead!”

“Take it easy, Mom, I’ll be around,” I promised. “Thanks for the mud.”

So when Dr. Mortimer called the following Thursday to invite me to join him at the annual convention of psychiatric superintendents, I told him I’d better stay home and keep at our project.

“But it’s in Florida this year!” he explained through the phone. “At the Disney World Hotel! The movie people will pick up your tab.”

Again I declined. I didn’t mention my father. “I’m a little stuck with the script,” I explained.

“They said they thought a trip like this might help unstick you. This year’s entertainment is The Bellevue Revue. I saw them two years ago in Atlantic City. Positively hilarious. I bet you could pick up some fresh angles from those Looney Toons. Also, the keynote speaker? They’ve dug up the author of that beatnik bible, Now Be Thou. You’ve perhaps heard of him? Dr. Klaus Woofner?”

I said yes I had, and that I’d be interested to hear what he was talking about these days—“But not right now.”

“They’ve got you a ticket waiting at the Portland airport: United to Orlando at three thirty.” Mortimer sounded as excited as a kid. “A free trip to Disney World, you lucky dog—think of it!” I told him I would; I had a good twenty-four hours to make up my mind. “I’ll phone you tomorrow morning and let you know what I decide.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a load of laughs,” he urged. “Honestly try to make it.”

I said I was sure, too, and that I honestly would, though I had no intention whatsoever of driving a hundred and fifty miles to Portland, then flying all the way to Florida, not even to hear old Woofner huff and puff.

The next morning I didn’t feel quite as firm about it. The night had cranked me backwards and left me feeling uncertain. I had shitcanned most of my old draft and made a fresh start, and the new stuff was already looking old. A little break away from it looked more and more inviting. On the other hand, a drive to Portland in my wishy-washy condition would be a task. By the time it was getting late enough that I had to make the call to Mortimer, one way or the other, I was in the middle of a quandary. I decided that I had best consult the I Ching for an answer; the oracle has helped me clear up more than one wishy-washy quandary. I had just carried the book to the breakfast table when the dogs announced the arrival of a car. Betsy opened the door for a well-dressed young man with a monotone voice.

“Good morning, Mrs. Deboree. I’m Dr. Joseph Gola. Dr. Mortimer sent me down from the hospital to pick up your husband.”

“Pick up my husband?”

“And drive him back to Portland. Dr. Mortimer was afraid there could be a problem getting gas.”

That weekend was the peak of the Arab oil embargo. Governor McCall had motorists buying gas on odd or even days, according to the last digit on their license plates, and there were still reports of craziness at the pumps.

“The patients call me Joe,” he introduced himself. “Joe Go.”