HELP! A Bear Is Eating Me! - Mykle Hansen [30]
Once I saw myself free I’ll crawl as best I can under the car to the front bumper undercarriage, where I keep a hidden spare key in a little magnetic box. Oh yes … did I mention that I am prepared? Then I’ll crawl out and around to the drivers’ side door and haul myself in. Then I will turn on the electric seat warmers and reward myself for my excellent bravery and fine guts by eating the Cliff Bar that waits for me on the dashboard, and maybe snorting some of the crystal meth that’s in the glovebox. Just to stay sharp. If I can just get in the car, get the gun, then I know I’ll make it. Once I’ve got the gun. Edna, Baumer and Mister Bear will get theirs, by shotgun or by steel belted radial.
Shit. I’m going to have to change the tire as well. But I can do that. Marv Pushkin can do it. Marv Pushkin can do anything, because the universe loves Marv Pushkin. I always win. But it’s going to be hard. I’m going to need a superhuman dose of drugs. I’ve got three OxySufnix left and four or five other pills, I really couldn’t tell you what they are but I’m sure they’re good or I wouldn’t have paid that spotty-faced Canadian air guitarist fifty American dollars for them in that alleyway in Vancouver. Here goes, I’m taking them all right now and washing them down with my very last swig of Diet Pepsi. I’ll give them an hour or so to kick in, and then: Marv Gets Busy.
Morning of the fourth day. Image Team is striking camp about now, scraping egg off the Coleman stove, scattering the beer cans and de-boning the tents, setting fire to the inflatable couch. If Frank and Edna walked here from there, how far could it be? A mile? No more than two. Will they pass this way on their drive home?
Home. When I close my eyes I see the road to freedom, the highway out to Anchorage, the pancake houses and bait shops, the trees and gravel and buckling asphalt. The mile signs speed past and shrink down the horizon in the rear view mirror like shit down a toilet. Get me to the ferry building, put me on the gigantic man-made steel boat and motor me away from this medieval third-world state. I want to hear those ferry engines roar, I want to see them frappé the ocean, chopping up sea life with their man-made splendor, I want to sit in the snack bar and watch the coastline glide away from me while I enjoy crisp, salty Lay’s potato chips from a foil-impregnated disposable plastic pouch covered with beautiful, seductive advertisements. I want to eat the kind of pre-hunted, pre-killed, pre-skinned, pre-cooked, non-dangerous food that won’t become stale or lose crispiness or bite off your legs. The bag shall be covered with joyous paeans to the remarkable flavors and textures within, serving to heighten the exquisite experience of consumption. A list of the chemical additives, a splendid display of UPC zebra stripes, and a website address will also be provided, so that if necessary my Lay’s potato chips may provide hours of reading pleasure. I will eat, savor, enjoy and consume every last crispy yellow divot of potato, save for a few greasy crumbs at the very bottom of the bag which I won’t bother to eat because I’m rich! Rich enough to buy another sack, ten sacks, every sack of potato chips on the boat! I could eat potato chips every day for breakfast lunch and dinner and it would never put a dent in Northwest Chemical