Demon Box

“Down with dilettantes who mouth dopey slogans and muddy the flow of change! May the lot of you be slit butthole to bellybutton by the diamond edge of ACHALA Lord of Hot Wisdom, whose face is bloody fangs, who wears a garland of severed heads, who turns Rage to Accomplishment, who is clad in gunpowder and glaciers and lava, who saves honest tormented spirits from filth-eating fascist pig ghosts! In His name I curse you: NAMAH SAMANTHA VAJRANAM CHANGA!”

It sounded like some militant soprano Gary Snyder tongue-lashing a strip miners’ meeting. I joined the others in the hall to see what it was that could sound so pissed-off and poetic all at once.

“MAHROSHANA SHATA YA HUM TRAKA HAM MAM!”

It was a girl, still years and inches short of legal age or full growth, bony and bone-colored, skin, hair, eyes, clothes, and all. There was a checkerboard pattern up her front from the crash with the Cyclone fence, but no cuts, no purple bruises. The only color in the whole composition was a green swatch down the side of her close-cropped head, probably from the scuffle on the lawn. She fingered the air before her a moment, like a cave lizard, then lunged.

“Give me my fucking stick you faggot!”

“No you don’t, Lissy.” The biggest-butted aide held it high out of her reach. “This could be a weapon in hostile hands.’”

I saw that the spear had originally been the kind of lightweight staff used by the Vision Impaired. The white paint was all but gone from the battered aluminum, and it had been thonged from tip to handle with feathers and beads, like an Indian spear. Just in front of the handle was lashed the staffs main mojo—a rubber squeeze-toy head of Donald Duck, his angry open bill forward and his rubber sailor cap within thumb’s reach. This was how she had been able to swing the thing and quack it at the same time.

“Give it give it give it!” she screeched.

“I won’t won’t won’t!” the aide mocked, parading ahead like a fat-assed drum major with a baton. The girl took squinting aim at the plump target and kicked; she missed as wide as she had missed the gate. She would have fallen if the matron hadn’t been gripping her arms.

“What about my glasses then? Am I going to deathray somebody with my fucking glasses? I’m fucking legally blind, you stupid shits! If I don’t get my glasses immediately every turd of you is gonna fry! My whole fucking family are lawyers.”

This threat hit home harder than all the other curses together. The parade stopped cold to talk it over. The aide who had gone in search of higher authorities came panting back with the news that the ward seemed empty of doctor and nurse alike. After a whispered debate they decided to relinquish the specs. The state trooper removed them from a manila envelope and handed them to her. The matrons loosened their grip so she could put them on. The lenses were like shot glasses. As soon as they were settled on her nose she swung around snarling. Out of that whole hallful of gaping specters she focused on me.

“What are you gawping at, Baldy? You never seen somebody on a bum trip before?”

I wanted to tell her as a matter of fact I had—been on some myself—but the ward door clashed open again and in bustled Joe, the nurse, and Dr. Mortimer. The nurse was carrying a two-way radio. She saw the congestion in her halls and waded right in without breaking stride, swishing it clear with the antenna. She stopped in front of the girl.

“Back so soon, Miss Urchardt? You must have missed us.”

“I missed the elegant facilities, Miss Beal,” the girl declared. “Wall-to-wall walls. Bathtubs you could get drowned in.” A lot of the sharp sting had gone out of her tongue, though.

“Then let’s not hesitate to enjoy one. Dr. Mortimer? Would you phone Miss Urchardt’s father while I admit her? The rest of you, go about your business.”

At his office Dr. Mortimer passed the task right on to his secretary and hurried Joe and me toward the ramp door. We could hear the phone start ringing before he got it closed. He leaned back in.

“That’s probably the senator now, Joannie,” he called. “If he wishes to speak to his daughter, tell him she’s in the Admissions Bath. If he wishes to speak to me, tell him he’ll have to call Orlando, care of the Disney World Hotel. Ask for Goofy.”

Then locked the door behind us. He giggled all the echoing lope down the ramp. “Ask for Goofy, Senator; ask for Goofy.”

With the help of a ticket agent, a later longer flight finally got us through the night to the sticky Florida sunshine. The rent-a-car cost us double, because of the fuel shortage, we were told, but the room for three at Disney’s monstrous pyramid cost us only about half the regular rate, and for the same reason. The gum-chewing peach behind the desk told us we were lucky, that triples was took months in advance, usually.