The Complete Drive-In

5

We found a wide gap in a wall, a mousehole, and we drove through that. There were trees in there, but they were prop trees, the sort that looked real front on, but at their backs were little stands that held them up.

We passed towns made the same way. Towns we knew. It was Interstate I-45, or so said the road signs, and the towns were the right towns, but they weren’t real. There were even people standing about, at the sides of the road, but they too were false, with little stands at their backs. False cars. False dogs and cats.

Everything a plywood and cardboard lie.

We drove on, and the little towns fell away and gave place to more woods. The woods grew darker and we could see huge sets of glowing eyes out there.

“Man, what could that be?” Steve asked.

“I don’t think we want to know,” Reba said.

We hadn’t gone much farther when suddenly a set of the eyes rushed forward.

A mouse.

A big fucking mouse. Bigger than a horse. It darted for the Impala.

Grace gave the Impala the gas. I glanced back through the rear windshield. The mouse stood on its hind legs and waved its paws in the air in frustration. As it tracked back into the woods, I noted there was a windup key in its ass.

“It isn’t even real,” I said.

“Neither are we,” Reba said, and she began to cry.

At one point, we saw beside the road a whole row of tin soldiers. They had rotating keys at their backs. They were dancing together, and it was funky stuff, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.

“Who winds them?” Steve said.

“That would be the motherfucker we’re looking for,” Grace said.

We drove in dark silence for a long time, and I know that each of us was thinking of our lives, wondering if any of it was truly our lives, or if we had even lived the drive-in lives, let alone the before-the-drive-in lives. Just driving along, thinking all this, feeling hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny, remembering sweet moments and sad, thinking, did any of this shit happen or did all our ideas and memories run through chips and wires hidden in our bloodstreams. And is the blood in us blood, or Karo syrup, or is there such a thing as blood, or even humans, and which or what are we, and did this mean someone other than George Lucas made up Star Wars?

Sometime during our drive, the lights were cut off by someone or something. They just snapped off. We turned on the car lights and proceeded. We pointed the car at a silver glow we could see on the horizon, on down that pseudo I-45.

We drove until we came to an end of the highway and all the props, and still we drove on, across a flat expanse of nothing, almost as bleak as the highway into Amarillo, Texas, if there is an Amarillo, Texas or a highway in that direction, if there is a direction. My God, was there north, east, west, or south?

It made the chips and wires and such in the goddamn plasti-flesh skull ache, is what it did.

Not long after me thinking all of this, wondering where this highway ended up, the Impala ran out of gas. We got out and walked toward the glow on the horizon.

We walked and came upon… tools. Giant screwdrivers and pliers, and there were wires and tubes and dials tossed about. We weaved in between them, kept going toward that glow.

The goal the glow, baby. The glow the goal.

Finally, we arrived at the only place we could arrive.

The End of It All.

There was just the table edge. Nowhere else to go but back, and that wasn’t appealing. The dim light in the distance was not so distant now. It was a huge television, nothing on it but a white glow and an Indian head test pattern. We could hear it hum. And in the TV’s projected light, we could see a great room. On the white-sheeted bed was an elderly man, and there were metal stands by his bed, and they held bottles of liquid, and tubes ran from the bottles into him. They were affixed to his arms and head. Around him were machines with lights and dials on them. To the right of the room was an open window, and moonlight seeped in quietly to rest on the sill like drift-down glitter. To the left of us, sitting on the table was a toy, a rubber band windup plane and a checkerboard with a box of checkers next to it.

There were shelves in the room, and they were covered, or perhaps the word is littered, with all manner of old toys and books.

“By now,” Steve said, “I’ve seen everything but a pig doing the hula while wearing a tutu and a top hat with a cork in his ass, but, I got to admit, my little old brain, or computer chip, whatever, is doing the dipsy-doodle on this here shit.”

“I’ll second that,” Reba said.

“Thirds,” Grace said.

“Oh, hell, count me in too,” I said.

“I don’t know if you have noticed,” Grace said, “but what we’re on, isn’t quite as wide as it was. And now that I can see better about the room, I spy a chair, a couch, and guess what, we’re on a table.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” Steve said.

“I see a lot of test tubes,” Reba said. I can see them over there, near the bed… Goddamn, look at that.”

We looked where she was pointing. The TV set. The set crackled like Rice Krispies, and lines appeared and met in the middle, and out of the lines came an image, and the image moved across the room toward us.

It was a young, thin, pimply man with unruly hair and glasses thick as goggles. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt with a pencil and pen pack sticking out of the pocket. The pants were a little too short, and you could see his white socks with little blue clocks on them. He wore brown loafers.

As he moved across the dark expanse of the room on a beam of light, he said, “Hi. My name is Billy.”

The beam from the TV brought him down on the edge of the table, and there he stood, looking as solid as us.

“A lot of people call me Little Billy, or used to. I am your creator.”