5/10/08: Road trip
ELECTRIC LIONS
By John Mark Eberhart
You were driving, my friend, when we
came round the curve and saw the lions.
Yes, I said lions, running in the road --
a two-lane blacktop running out of some
backwater between Hutch and Dodge City.
Six lions and seven lionesses, running that road;
behind them, two old cherry-tops, cop cars from
that town; like that town, they'd seen better days.
They saw us, and time stopped -- or at least
the lions, the lionesses and the cops stopped,
all of them, stopped as if stopping on so many
dimes on that cracked and weathered road.
And the back door of one of those old cruisers
opened, and a man got out -- a man in a lion
suit, but not just any man or any lion suit.
“Oh my God, Ray,” I said to you, “I thought he
was dead; in fact, I know it; he died nine years
ago!” “Be quiet, Jack; you don’t know it’s him;
just wait a minute, will you?” And so we waited
a minute, and sure enough he ambled over to us
in that suit, while the lions lay down in the road
and the police got out of their cars and wandered
around, stroking the beasts' heads and talking
that squawky police talk on their walkie-talkies,
just to pass the time, you know. He motioned
for me to roll down my window, and I did,
and when he leaned down and smiled at us
out of that painted face, you gasped. He just
smiled and said “Hello, boys; it’s been a long time.”
You managed to say, “But Bert; you died in ’67,
remember?” And Bert said, “Oh, come on, you
simpletons; did you really think it was only a movie?”
And he looked at me and said, “I’m here for you, Jack.”
And I felt water rushing through me and I said, “No,
Bert; please, not yet.” And he said, “Not that, you idiot;
you’ve got three more years yet. Time enough to live
through all this silly Bicentennial crap (nice bow-tie,
by the way; you look RIDICULOUS!) and enjoy being
old till that bad ticker kills you.” “What about me?”
you said quietly, though I could tell you weren’t
much interested in the answer; you always were
the strongest of us all. And Bert said, “Hell, Ray;
you’ve got two more decades.” He turned back to me.
“No, Jack, I’m here for you, but only to give you this.”
And from around his neck he took that medal and
draped it gently over me. “I don’t need it anymore.
But you do. Getting a heart is a mixed blessing, isn’t it?
You’ve been sick at heart ever since ... she ... died.”
And I said, “You can say her name, you know. Judy."
“There, see?” Bert said. “It’s working already. Hey,
I’ve got to go; they’re waiting on me. We’re just
out on this road stretching our legs a little.” I had
forgotten all about the lions. I looked at them, and
I swear that medal around my neck began to glow,
and so did they, the lions; they glowed electric in the
tawny Kansas light. He walked back to the car and
got in, and the whole pride of them, cops, lions and
Bert, turned and headed west again, around the bend.
I looked down at my hands, and they were silver.
I looked at you and you heaved another gasp, looking
back at me, and when you did a little piece of straw
puffed out into the air. And if, at that moment,
I’d had skin instead of metal, it would’ve prickled.
And then it was all over, and we were just two old
men again. “Jack, what just happened?” you asked,
and I knew you didn’t remember any of it at all.
And without another word to me, you put the car
into gear and we drove on. And after half an hour,
when we should’ve been getting the hell into Dodge,
I woke up from a doze and saw the horizon ahead.
And the sky -- summer Kansas sky -- was emerald.
