Every Anxious Wave by Daviau Mo

Author:Daviau, Mo [Daviau, Mo]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781466875869
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

10

WAYNE WAS STILL in his pre-Columbian Utopia and I was still in Chicago, barkeeping. Freed from her obligations to the physics department at Northwestern, Lena spent almost every waking hour trying to get Wayne back, barking at me to bring her chocolate, pad thai, and tampons. (Yes, I walked down to the Jewel and bought ’em. Tampons. No problemo, because I’m a man in love.) She smiled at me warmly when we sat opposite each other, eating pad thai on my couch. Eating tofu pad thai with Lena in my living room, straight from the Styrofoam takeout box, Lena reaching over and stealing my lime wedge without asking, Lena demanding that I spoon my small hill of pad thai crushed peanuts onto her pad thai because she likes them more than I do, smearing a tamarind-orange kiss across my mouth when she is done with her pad thai, me agreeing with her that we should have pad thai takeout again the following night because it’s so yummy, and barely talking is the closest I have ever come to family dinner.

Lena was my family, and I drank up the familiarity of her simply existing in close quarters. I loved watching her shoveling noodles into her mouth, plucking fallen bits of bean sprout off the shelf of her breasts. She was living and breathing next to me, and to me, that was magical.

Lena labored. I wondered if I could convince her to destroy the portal she had made in her toilet if she succeeded in bringing Wayne back. Once Wayne was back, I was destroying mine, even though that meant never seeing another rock show in the past, ever again.

Lena didn’t want to. She worried that she wouldn’t have money to eat (“Pad thai is eight ninety-five plus tip, Karl!”), and I’d remind her that the wormhole had already brought in mad bank, and that I would buy us an Airstream trailer to live in. (“I may love you, Karl, but I’ve smelled your farts, and I doubt an Airstream trailer has sufficient ventilation to allow our relationship to blossom in such tight quarters.”) We could be like an old-timey medicine show and take time travel on the road, she said, with dollar signs in her eyes. Just add our scientific magic to the nearest rest stop toilet, hit Send, and watch the money flow in. “His and hers Airstreams,” she said. Then she added, “I want a Mini Cooper.”

What roads we would follow if we became time travel snake oil salespersons, we did not know. She’d be Clyde Barrow and I’d be Bonnie Parker. We’d shoot our way across the West. I would serve my Clyde B. with foot rubs and pad thai and holding in my farts, and she would spin mad science like the wizard she is, tossing high-dollar patrons backwards in time, leaving piles of gold doubloons at our feet, which we would then take to our Airstream trailers to toss on the bed and make love upon. Perhaps we’d stow away on a steamer ship bound for the New World.

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