John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

16 Feed Your Head!

16 Feed Your Head! For the first time in months, you wake up in the cool morning air of Wichita. And you are sore—terribly, painfully sore. Staring into the sun—into the bright light of a new day—you are reclining in Gina’s backyard. On the chaise lounge to which, once upon a time, she had brought so much glory. The chaise lounge where you slept last night, restless and beset. And, as usual, dreamless. You lift your body out of the chaise lounge’s wooden clutches. You can hear the sound of Gina’s neighbors stirring, and you realize that you had better leave—pronto!—before you attract any undue attention. Before you sound any unnecessary alarms. You are wandering the streets of Wichita. You will become a wanderer, you think to yourself whimsically. A wandering Quaker. Spreading the good word—and trying your darnedest, as always, to stamp out the bad ones. A few blocks away, a mailbox catches your eye. “Wilson” it reads. “Bonjour!” proclaims the welcome mat lying in wait before the front door. Madame Wilson! Who else, really, could it be? You ring the buzzer, giddy with anticipation. Desperate to see a friendly face. To see some evidence of your erstwhile Wichita existence made real. Feed Your Head! 131 The door opens to a tallish brunette, graying slightly around the temples. A pair of stylish green bifocals perched lazily upon her nose. A friendly face, if ever there was one. Finally. “Well, if it isn’t JD!” she exclaims with a hint of good cheer rising in her voice. So far, so good. “You’re not here to shoot up the place, are you?” she adds, adopting a mischievous tone. Y o u a r e d r i n k i n g a caffè latte with Madame Wilson on her back porch. It occurs to you that it may be the first nourishment, of any kind, that you’ve had in days. You are famished, yet you are also experiencing a sense of contentment that has become foreign to you. That doesn’t seem quite real. “So, who is Daryl,” she asks, “and what is with the costume?” Je m’appelle Daryl, et je sers la glace à Baskin-Robbins, où je suis aussi le concierge de nuit. “Ah, très bien!” she says. “Your French is still in fine form.” She pauses for a moment. “You have developed a nasty habit, you know, of running off my best students.” Peering over the edge of her eyeglasses , Madame Wilson fixes her stare on you. You finally blurt it out. You cannot help yourself. You simply must know. What happened to Dakota Fish? you ask. You can hardly breathe as you wait for her answer—her verdict, even—on the results of your crime spree. Your great loss of self-control. Your great loss of faith. “Hehastransferredtoanotherschool,”shereplies.“InOklahoma— near his reservation.” So he’s not dead? “Of course not,” she answers. “Why would he be dead? He’s so young—like you. He was just homesick—and uncertain, to be sure, about his religion. Who can blame him, no?” Were your bullets—straying and splaying across the dorm 132 J o h n D o e N o . 2 a n d t h e D r e a m l a n d M o t e l room—the catalysts for Dakota Fish’s escape? you ponder to yourself . For his journey of self-renewal? And what about Gina? you ask Madame Wilson, your voice shuddering and quaking as you struggle to say the words. “She’s gone to live with her mother—in Hannibal, Missouri,” says Madame Wilson. “You shouldn’t be surprised,” she adds. You are confused. What, pray tell, could that possibly mean? “Alotofyoungwomenleavethelife,”MadameWilsoncontinues. “They want to get on with things, have boyfriends, fall in love. They become disenchanted, so they—how do you say it?—they delve into promiscuity. They drop out of school. This is nothing new under the sun. There are scholarly studies on the subject—written by men, mostly, which is rather perverted, if you think about it.” You should read more, you think to yourself. You suddenly feel so uninformed. “Thatiswhathappenedwithyoutwo,no?”sheadds.“Shedangled it in front of you, and you took it. Or it was forced upon you—it doesn’t matter which. The result remains the same...