—and with everything I had remaining I drew back my right leg and snap-kicked out as hard as I could, catching Christopher, coming in, square between the legs.
Another punch to the mouth from him.
I slid down to the asphalt.
Christopher drew back for another punch but that's when his brain and body shouted Got something you need to know about and the pain between his legs registered and he groaned as his hand clutched his groin and the whole tight, skinny mass of him slammed down across from me, the two of us side by side not two feet apart, gasping, groaning, covered in sweat, covered in road grime, covered in blood. We stared at each other, neither one able to move much, but that didn't stop Christopher, he struck out at my face again, catching only the edge of my jaw but it hurt enough, so I hit back, right in his eye, and we both wobbled, groaning, before he tried again, but there wasn't as much behind it this time, it was more of a slap, as was my response, and the whole thing quickly degenerated into two grown men sitting on the side of highway with all four hands flailing in the air and only occasionally connecting: "Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake" on goofballs. As if simultaneously realizing we were having what my mom would have called "a girlie fight", we suddenly stopped and looked at one another.
Then Christopher slapped me. Once. Very hard.
I slapped him right back. Once. Harder.
He turned around, facing the grassy incline off the emergency lane, crossing his arms over his chest.
I also turned around but did not cross my arms; it seemed the wrong aesthetic choice.
A minute passed. Then another one. The whole time we just sat there, softly groaning and touching our wounds and listening to the sounds of the morning traffic whizzing past. I wasn't worried about anyone stopping. We were invisible.
I leaned back my head against the trailer, gulped in some air, then turned to look at Christopher.
His eyes were closed and he was softly but steadily banging the back of his skull against the trailer.
"Well," I finally said. "That was certainly… baroque."
"I don't like being laughed at."
"I wasn't laughing at you or your story, Christopher—but thanks for thinking that I would at this point."
"And I was supposed to know that how, exactly? By the way—did I skip a groove or did you almost threaten to shoot me?"
"Almost, not quite."
"Ah." He wiped some blood from his lower lips, looked at it, wiped it on his sleeve, then sniffed and said: "May I have my gun back, please?"
"Well, since you said 'please'…" I patted myself down, then realized what I was doing. "I seem to have dropped it."
We both looked toward the front end of the bus where the gun lay next to one of the tires.
"Somebody really needs to go and get that thing before someone notices."
"Yeah," agreed Christopher. "That would be… ouch!… that would be the thing a smart person would do."
So we sat there. Vladimir and Estragon as they waited for Godot had nothing on us.
"What did you think you'd accomplish by shooting holes in the roof and floor?" asked Christopher.
"I was trying to get your attention."
"Ah."
I rubbed my jaw, wiped some of the muck from my face, then snorted back a big and very painful wad of blood and snot. "You need to take your medicine, Christopher."
He pulled his legs back, groaning. "I know."
"Is that what's in that pill bottle you keep taking out of your pocket and looking at?'
"Yes."
"I figured. How long has it been since you last took a dose?"
"About four minutes—I took it while you were still having your little… Looney Tunes episode back there in the bus."
"How long had it been before that?"
He shrugged. "Four, maybe five days." He rubbed his eyes. "The thing is, you have to keep a consistent level of the stuff in your system at all times, right? If you stop, then what's in there only stays active for about seventy-two hours before it starts to fizzle out." He sighed, then looked at me. "I took a double dose—that's what I'm supposed to do if this happens and I get… get…"
"…bugfuck crazy?"
"…yeah. I'm gonna be kind of tired for a few hours, so you'll have to drive."
"Oh, after that French Connection re-enactment, I'd be driving anyway."
He saw the look on my face. "How bad was I?—wait, don't answer. I already know. Would it do any good to apologize?"
"How fast does that stuff work, anyway? I can't go another round."
"If I need a double dose, I take the ones that dissolve in the mouth. They're twice as strong as the regular pills. They start to work within five to ten minutes, see?" He held out his hands; they were trembling, but only very slightly. After an explosion like his, most peoples' hands would be shaking like hell. "In another hour or so, I'll be back to my old self, more or less… whatever that is."
"That might be nice."
"Famous last words."
"Could we not do this stumblebum routine again?"
He nodded, then said: "All in favor."
We both held up our hands. I couldn't speak for him, but even that much physical effort hurt too damn much for me.
"We really should get the gun," I said. "Somebody's going to notice it."
"But we're… we're protected by the bus."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you Pete Townshend—the magic bus protects us all." I started pulling myself to my feet.
I failed.
Miserably.
"Your turn," I said.
Christopher pulled himself to his feet, almost lost his balance and fell, but caught himself against the side of the trailer in time. "Jesus, Mark—you take martial arts or something? That was… ouch!… damn that was a nasty kick."
"Blind shithouse luck." I lifted my arm. "Help me up."
He did, and the two of us lurched slowly toward the front of the bus, hanging onto each other for balance. When we reached the tire beside which lay the gun, we stopped and looked down.
"I'm not gonna try it," he said.
"We could just leave it here."
"Right. A murder weapon with both of our fingerprints all over it. That may be the most ingenious thing I've ever heard. Thank God we picked you, if we hadn't been careful we might have grabbed someone stupid."
"Get in, I'll get it."
Christopher did not so much climb into the bus as he did flop like a fish onto the floor of a boat, then pulled himself over into the driver's seat. He bumped his swollen nuts on the gearshift once and made a girlie noise. It was very entertaining.
But not half so entertaining as when I bent over to pick up the gun and fell face-first onto the road. I was lying flat, covered in road dirt and the remains of a milkshake that had been tossed out by someone else before we got here, but at least I had the gun.
From inside, Christopher called: "I think Mecca's in the other direction."
"Not helping."
"It wasn't intended to. My balls really hurt, Mark."
"Tell it to my nose."
"We need to get moving."
"Famous last words—hold your horses." I grabbed the edge of the door and pulled myself around and then up, tossing the gun in onto my seat, then grabbed the inside door handle and used it to for balance. All in all it only took about a minute to get back inside. Not that bad, considering….
"That was very graceful," said Christopher.
"Your praise means all to me." I slammed the door and sunk into my seat, wondering why my ass suddenly hurt, then realized I was sitting on the gun, which I somehow managed to pull from underneath me without ever once lifting myself up. "I think this is yours." I handed him the gun. "By the way—not that I don't trust you or anything, but—would you mind checking to make sure you didn't lose your pills."