One Door From Heaven

sir."
        Even as Gabby presses the Mountaineer still faster, faster, he disregards the land ahead, as though confident that he can perceive oncoming catastrophe through a sixth sense, and he focuses on Curtis with disconcerting intensity. "With gov'ment maniacs blowin' up the world behind us, what in the name of the beheaded baptist are you talkin' movies for"?"
        " 'Cause they're your grandfather's movies, sir."
        "My grandpa's movies? Criminy spit an' call it wine, an' give me two bottles! What are you babblin' about? My grandpa was a mercantile porch-squatter, sellin' Bibles an' useless 'cyclopedias if you was crazy enough to open your door to him."
        "But if your grandpa was a porch-squatter, then what about Roy Rogers?" Curtis pleads.
        Gabby's wiry beard, eyebrows, and ear hairs bristle with either exasperation or static electricity generated by a combination of high speed and dry desert air. "Roy Rogers?" He's shouting again. He holds the steering wheel with one hand and pounds it with the other. "What in the blue blazes does a fancy-boots, picture-show, singin', dead cowboy got to do with you or me, or the price of beans?"
        Curtis doesn't know the price of beans or why the price is of sudden importance to the caretaker at this particular time, but he knows that they are going far too fast-and still gaining speed. The more perturbed that Gabby becomes, the heavier his foot grows on the accelerator, and everything that Curtis says perturbs him further. The floor of the valley is remarkably flat, but at this reckless velocity, even the smallest runnel or bump rattles the Mountaineer. If they encounter a deep rut or a rock, or one of those sun-bleached cow skulls that so often show up in Western movies, the best Detroit engineering won't save them, and the SUV will roll like, well, like Judas strapped to a log and tumbled down the mill chute to Hell.
        Curtis is afraid to say anything, but Gabby appears to be ready to thump the steering wheel again if he doesn't say something. So without any desire to argue, intending only to express an alternative opinion, and by engaging in some pleasant conversation to reduce the caretaker's agitation and also the speed of the Mountaineer, he says, "No offense, sir, but Roy Rogers's boots didn't seem to me to be all that fancy."
        Gabby glances at the road ahead, which is a relief to Curtis, but immediately he looks at Curtis once more, and yet again the SUV accelerates. "Boy, you 'member way to hell back there at the pump, when I asked was you stupid or somethin'?"
        "Yes, sir, I 'member."
        "An' you 'member what you said?"
        "Yes, sir, I said I guessed I was somethin'."
        "Ever any fool was to ask you that question again, boy, you'd be better advised to tell 'em stupid!" Pounding the steering wheel again, he's off on another rant. "Shove a bottle rocket in my butt an' call me Yankee Doodle! Here I put myself at war with the whole egg-suckin' gov'ment, with their bombs an' tanks an' tax collectors, all 'cause you claim they done killed your folks, an' now I see you're liable to say anythin' what makes no more sense than chicken gabble, and maybe the gov'ment never done killed your folks at all."
        Appalled to discover this misunderstanding, fighting back tears, Curtis hastens to correct the caretaker: "Sir, I never done said the government done killed my folks."
        Flabbergasted and outraged, Gabby roars, "Cut off my co-jones an' call me a princess, but don't you ever tell me that ain't what you claimed!"
        "Sir, I claimed it was the worse scalawags what done killed my folks, not the government."
        "Ain't no worse scalawags than the gov'ment!"
        "Oh, big-time worse, sir."
        Old Yeller fidgets in Curtis's lap. She whimpers nervously, and icy sweat drips rapidly from her black nose onto his hands, and he senses that she wants to relieve herself. Through their special boy-dog bond, he encourages her to keep control of her bladder, but now he's reminded that their relationship is dog-boy as well as boy-dog, that it can work both ways if he isn't careful, and her need to pee is rapidly becoming his need to pee. He can too easily imagine the catastrophe that would ensue if he and the dog both peed in Gabby's new Mercury, causing the caretaker to have a stroke and lose control of the vehicle at high speed.
        For the first time since the truck-stop