Chapter 3

I

Torrid heat. My eyes felt like blisters and I couldn't shake the sensation that we were moving backwards in time. My body had grown heavy and sluggish, and I'd been fighting a nosebleed for the past half hour, which left an odd metallic taste in my mouth. It was as if I were swimming in mercury.

And then there was the cat. An arrogant, agile Siamese, arrived of an instant.

It was new.

There hadn't been anyone new for almost a year, so I considered this a disturbing development. The current assignment was stressful, granted, but no more so than usual. Or so I told myself.

What could it mean?

II

I shot a glance over at Kesey, slouched in the seat next to mine, long, greasy hair flopping up and over the headrest like a raggedy cartoon pirate's flag. His eyes were screwed shut in concentration and he seemed to be humming monotonously to himself.

He was gone, gone, gone. I decided I could risk it.

I leaned in slightly to the cat grooming himself on the dash.

"And just who are you supposed to be?"

"That's Neal," Kesey offered, never opening his eyes. "Neal Cassady. He's my… familiar. My own private muse… amusingly. Not a Tabby, but a tab, if you will – a tab of pure inspiration, and not a little insinuation, if you catch my drift.

"He's not your typical cat, though. Dig? Not your typical cat at all… He's sleek and hungry; quick as a gasp; reckless and randy as heat lightning… "

"Just tell him I'm beautiful, baby, and let it go at that. You talk like you're kissing your sister!"

A talking cat? And not one of mine?

"This is your cat?" I started, but Neal was not amused.

"A cat belongs to no one but himself, daddy-o," Neal hissed. "A lone wolf only wishes he were his own man, and a bird in the hand is worth a fish on land, but a Siamese is a whole damn kingdom in one delicious dish. 'Purr' stands for 'Perrr-fect,' baby, and I'll be your host for the evening. Got anything to eat?"

III

"Interesting thing, though," Kesey mused, "is no one's ever noticed him before. As such."

"Noticed who?" I asked, thinking quickly. But that just made Kesey giggle.

The cat looked at me quizzically.

"What about this lot, then? They with you, sweetheart?"

He nodded dismissively toward the back seat.

I almost lost control of the car.

"You're stoned, Kesey! You're babbling and crazy and I have no idea what you're on about."

"Look who's talking."

That was Bennie. The traitor.

But in his defense, I'd pretty much been ignoring the whole crew since Kesey got on board, and it was a long, hot ride with nothing much to look at but each other.

"Who are you talking to, then?" Asked the cat.

"Nobody! No one! You're the one doing all the talking!"

But I'd slipped up again, speaking to the cat instead of Kesey. He was getting to me. Breaking me down.

"One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives." A Clemmons bon mot, from the back seat. Now the others were getting into the act.

I was surrounded.

"One should never deny his friends, my darling, especially if they reside only in his head," Neal purred. "For what if they were to leave you? Do you imagine you have the strength to stand alone in the world? Now, that would be crazy, man!"

"Things are getting a little too crazy around here, you ask me."

"Don't fret, friend! Relax. Don't sweat what you can't be-get. A man's first duty is to chaos." Neal.

"Oui, monsieur – spécialement if the 'man' happens to be an alley cat." Poorly Drawn Napoleon.

Neal's fey eyes narrowed to slits.

"I can count among my ancestors the consorts of Pharaohs, mon frère. But in the morning, you'll still be French!"

"But does the truth really require a pedigree?" Baudrillard.

"Certainly not. But I do think, perhaps, that the truth for a cat may not equal the truth for a man." Newton's Hat.

"All things being equal, I don't see the difference." Poincaré as a Boy.

"Well, no. I suppose there would be none, all things being equal.

"Which of course, they are not." Newton's Hat.

"Not, not, not!" said Neal. "All cats are individualists! To be equal is to be the same, dig? And nothing could be more odious to a cat than to be like another cat. Except possibly to be like a dog. Or French."

"Yes, you cats are quite the anarchists – except when you are hungry." Poorly Drawn Napoleon.

"One cannot be an anarchist. To belong to a set, one must first define it. And to define a thing, is to formalize it. But to formalize anarchy is antithetical. Anarchy is against form, against order." Baudrillard.

"Nihilists, then?"

"I do not believe in Nihilism." Kierkegaard Bubblegum Card.

"Nobody can!"

"It is an elegant system, though, is it not? The proof is its own refutation."

"Certainly saves the nay Sayers a lot of work, I should say."

"It would, if the nay Sayers were not, themselves, Nihilists."

"You don't say?!"

"I do not believe in Nihilism."

"Nobody can!"

IV

"You say a man's first duty is to chaos. Is not man's first duty to God? Or do you mean to imply that God is chaos?" Kierkegaard Bubblegum Card.

"It is my pleasure to serve, for I serve only Pleasure. Yes. If an "ist" I must be, then a sensualist be me, my sweets. Lust… is merely the natural extension of God's continuing creation in the world. We who strive for chaos trust that God's plan will be revealed in the aftermath of our… devotions.

"For Pleasure is not a jealous God. No! But rather you might say She is thrilled by the competition."

"If it please, Your Honors, I would like a word…"

Uh, oh. This was going to be trouble.

It was Tomás de Torquemada's Dog.

V

Things had gone from bad to worse. My hallucinations were completely out of control, threatening who knew what mischief on Kesey's cat.

I pulled over.

On some level I still knew that Kesey and I must be arguing through our visions, demented and ranting in the wasteland. But as the desert boiled our lunatic brains, our tempers were heating, as well.

There was no telling where this might lead.


VI

Torquemada's Dog.

"Neal Cassady: Anarchist. Sensualist. Cat. You stand accused of heresy and blasphemy. How do you plead?"

"Generally from my knees. Which would be a better joke, if cats could kneel. But at least I can Neal. Which is no mean feat, in itself.

"And just what is the difference between heresy and blasphemy, anyway?"

"It is the difference between breaking man's law concerning God, or breaking God's law concerning man."

"So the plaintiff must be either a God who fancies himself a man, or a man who fancies himself a God…

"…and which then are you, Señor Lobo?"

"Neither, to be sure, Señor Loco. I am but a humble servant representing God's will."

"My Lord's will and testament? So this is the Divine Probate Court – and you the Divine Attorney?"

"Jest, if you will. But it is a much more comfortable seat than Attorney for the Damned."

"I am a scoundrel and a liar, admittedly. But no, sir, I am no lawyer!"

Laughter all around.

"Amazing, isn't it? How much the word 'lawyer' sounds like 'liar?' Especially here in the South." Clemmons' Moustache.

Merriment.

"Indeed."

"Here, here!"

"Gentlemen – might we proceed?"

"But how can we proceed? I'm afraid the defendant has no competent representation." Newton's Hat.

"If competence is a prerequisite, then I fear the entire gallery must recuse itself-" Clemmons' Moustache.

"-excluding Your Honor, naturally." The moustache twitched as if to bow to Torquemada's Dog.

"Yes. Naturally." Neal.

The gallery erupted in fits of mirth.

"Order. ORDER! Gentlemen. Please. Might we continue?"

"I will speak for the defense, if I may." Baudrillard.

"You, sir?"

"I do believe I understand the argument:

"Ahem...

"If all of creation is of God, then creativity itself must be holy, and serves God's will by definition.

"But all creativity is also subversive. To make something new is to demonstrate that the universe was incomplete in its absence. Which is impossible, of course, assuming a perfect God, unless the new creation was always a part of God's plan. All acts of creation, then, are merely reflections of God's original creation, and subversion, itself, merely a play at reproducing the canvas of chaos on which God first painted the world.

"Subversion, then, must also be holy, and heresy and blasphemy forms of piety equal only to sexual congress in sanctity."

"Outrageous! Do you truly intend to argue that wanton fornication and lawlessness are forms of worship?"

"'Wanton fornication,' as you call it, is God's chosen method for creating life, is it not?"

"You damn your client – and your-self – with every word!"

"Would you take the word of a priest over that of a poet in matters of the heart?" Neal.

"The heart? I thought we were discussing divine creation…"

"Indeed – and who better to explain the creation of all mankind than a man who can't describe firsthand the creation of even one?" Clemmons' Moustache.

Laughter.

"Enough! The facts are clear. The accused hasn't even mounted a defense…"

"Probably the only thing he hasn't mounted, from the sounds of it." Poorly Drawn Napoleon. More laughter.

"You make my case for me! The prosecution… rests."

"I object!" Neal.

"On what grounds?"

"The Prosecution's chief witness is a liar."

"But he has offered no testimony but your own." Newton's Hat.

"And a less trustworthy braggart, I cannot imagine." Neal.

The gallery erupted.

"This is a farce, Your Honors. This entire trial has been nothing but a fishing expedition!"

"A farce! A farce!"

"Yup!"

"Sustained!"

"A farce!"

"A sustained farce!"

"Yup, yup, yup, yup!"

"A fishing expedition!"

"And I sure do enjoy a good fish!"

"Yup, Yup!"

"Yup!"

"A fish."

"Yup!"

VII

I strained to lift my throbbing head. Bulging eyes and gawping maws flopped all about. I struggled for understanding, then realized, with the last quivering vestiges of sanity, that God's Attorney and the entire gallery of Gentleman Philosophers had turned suddenly into a school of carp.

Neal leaped.

Hungry as he was, he bit Torquemada's Dog(fish) head clean off, and then proceeded to devour the entire philosophers' court.

Blood and viscera rained down.

VIII

"The Gods are as the fishes of the sea," yawned the bloated, happy cat, when he had finished.

"Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. But teach a man to fish… and somewhere, you've just created a fisherman's widow. Ha!"

The cat began to purr, immensely pleased with himself.

Suddenly, glancing up, Neal happened to spot himself in the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of his reflection in his own eyes.

And in the last of the day's fading light he shimmered, flickered, and croaked out one final punch line:

"Derrida was a fishwife."

Then the schizophrenic's hallucination of an acid dream of Neal Cassady as a cat collapsed under the weight of his own infinite recursion.