was wedged in my windpipe. Izzy was
butterfly-bandaging Shamanвs hole. Or
plugging it. Or welding it. Or sewing it
closed.
"This is just a temporary," he said.
I coughed up my name. "Iвm Mel Bellow!" I
said, astonished, I who had been the sun,
the sky, Ganeshaвs shakti, wind-blown
sand.
"We know who the hell you are," Izzy said.
"You left home the day after the US pulled
out of Vietnam and President McCarthy
ended the draft, May 6, 1970, right?
Happens to be one of my bench marks. No
more sitting by the mailbox chewing on
your lottery number, right, Mel? Slam goes
the door. Up goes the thumb. Izzovision,
case youвre wondering."
"Izzy, be civil. He is traumatized,"
Sarvaduhka clucked.
"Sure," said Izzy. Now I could see he was
sweating, exhausted, still straddling me
on all fours. His sweat fell into my eyes
and made me blink. I knew which one of us
I was! He said, "Iвm Izzy. This guy here
is Mr. Sarvaduhka, the motel mogul. Weвre
pleased to make your acquaintance. Now
letвs haul ass back into the vehicle,
because we got a lot of miles to cover
before we hit the launch site, and the
Duke is hot for nooky."
6. Certain Responsibilities Accrue
"My name is Izzy Molson," he told me over
watery coffee from a machine at a rest
stop outside Amarillo. Sarvaduhka was
looking at magazines. "Some people think
Iвm psychic, other people think Iвm
psycho, but Iвm here to tell you that Iвm
just an ordinary Joe with his ear to the
ground. Iвm currently employed at the
Gibson plant in Lockport, New York,
