Page 122 of The End of the World As We Know It

“Just color me Frodo!” he said. “Carrying the finger to the great wizard Garcia.”

He tried to play “Truckin’,” but it was harder than it sounded. And the dead bodies in the open grass put him in a sour mood.

“God, this is all a lot more like Alice Cooper than it is Jerry Garcia. This is like that song…” He fiddled, strumming with the severed finger. “I… love…”

Then he laughed. The pun of it. The Alice Cooper song was called “I Love the Dead.” And Lev loved the Dead. And, oh boy, he couldn’t stop laughing and he didn’t want to. And he thought he heard a crow call from the woods ahead, but when he looked up he saw it was a man, watching him right back.

Lev started, dropped the finger, quickly and clumsily picked it back up, then stood, facing the first living person he’d seen since Denny died in the living room of their shared apartment in Boise.

“Music,” the man said. He sounded old. “Rock and roll?”

Dirty, old, white hair, a tattered tank top, shorts.

“Well, it’s a lot more than rock and roll,” Lev said.

The potential for a scene like this had crossed his mind on the long walk. Encountering strangers. And the small chances of that someone being kind.

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” the man said. “Go on, then.”

Lev only stood. Felt like an outlaw in the Old West. A duel. Was this man sick?

“Are you sick?”

“No, sir. Lovesick, perhaps. Lonesome. But it ain’t Captain Trips that ails me.”

Lev reddened. Sick or not, this man might not be kind.

“Why do you call it that?” he asked.

The old man eyed Lev like he’d just realized something about him.

“What do you mean?” he said. “That’s what they call it, isn’t it?”

“Do you do everything everybody else does?”

“Excuse me? Look, I just heard some music. I was—”

“He’s the wisest, kindest musician the world has ever known. You can hear it in every lyric. Every note. Even the song choices reveal his wisdom. You really think it’s right to name the end of the world after him?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m following,” the man said. “In fact, I’m sure I’m not.”

“Jerry Garcia,” Lev said. He’d taken a couple steps closer to the man, and the man had backed up those same couple steps. “Captain Trips ishisnickname. What were you, born yesterday?”

The old man eyed the dead bodies in the field, looked to the empty sky.

“Well, sometimes it feels that way, yes.”

“Ha. Well, it’s wrong. It’s the wrong thing to do. And if we’re going to show any civility around here, we need to start with thatname.”

Did the old man eye the dead finger in Lev’s hand? Lev closed his hand around it either way.

“I’m not sure you’re focused on the right things,” the old man said.

“Oh, really?”

“There’s a lot more to be worried about than what people are calling this thing.”

“Well, I suppose it’s just words to you. Just words to everyone. And isn’t that just like you all. It’s the very reason you never got his music. You don’t thinkwords matter.”