Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins Page B

electrical forces are crackling and flaring, and amorphous particles (directly related, remember, to the composition of the bean-can label) are spinning simultaneously forward, backward, sideways, and forever at speeds so uncalculable that expressions such as “arrival,” “departure,” “duration,” and “have a nice day” become meaningless. It is on those levels that “magic” occurs.
    The magic performed by Conch Shell and Painted Stick consisted of focusing their own force fields to raise ever so slightly the velocity of the others’ electron recoil, to widen by a fraction of a degree the scattering angles of their photons. A quantum jump start, if you will. They had always been capable of movement. Now, after hours of energy exchange, controlled power surges, and meticulous synchronizations, they were able to move at rates detectible to human measure, at rates that allowed them to depart the cave as absolutely, if (from an anthropomorphic perspective) not quite as efficiently, as Boomer Petway and Ellen Cherry Charles.
    SO, CAN O’ BEANS stood then on the rim of the little arroyo, watching the stars drop, one by one, into view, like baked beans spilling over the side of a camp plate, and reflecting upon the day’s adventures and upon the relative freedom that the relative increase in relative locomotion had granted.
    The bean can was exhilarated, to be sure, yet its initial experience with the animate brand of mobility succeeded in enlarging its appreciation of its former condition of arrest. There was a lot to be said for stillness (relative stillness), Can o’ Beans conceded, a statics characterized not so much by an absence of ability to move as by a serene balance of forces. It is because inanimate objects, in their stillness, turn back upon themselves that they are exactly identical with themselves. The frantic confusions of the organic realm wash over them. The universe moves around them. The Divine lines up with them. Their solidity may be spiritual as well as physical. In the immobile whirls the infinite.
    A gentle nudge from Conch Shell’s spire punctured the bean can’s musings. “We must depart now,” Conch Shell said. “Painted Stick has taken his fix on the guide star.”
    “Hey!” yelled Dirty Sock. “Round ’em up and head ’em out!” He was certainly enjoying himself.
    Spoon popped up tentatively over the gully edge. She was nervous but under control.
    Very well , thought Can o’ Beans. On to Jerusalem . The Holy City might sizzle with contention, quaver with explosions, and buzz with bullets, but at least the chances of his/her being opened and consumed were appreciably less than in Ellen Cherry’s cupboard. Jerusalem, for the moment, was the capital of a Jewish state, and while the actual amount of pork in a bean can’s contents was minimal, as everyone knows, it was sufficient to hold the most ravenous rabbi at bay.
    Thus, it was with general good humor and optimism that the band of objects set off into the American night. Before the sun would next strike their various surfaces, however, they would face a terrible ordeal.
     
     
     
    Under cover of darkness, they scooted, toddled, and bounced along, slowly but steadily gaining altitude as they followed the creek into the foothills. Although unaccustomed to the rigors of locomotion, Spoon, Dirty Sock, and Can o’ Beans held up reasonably well. Nevertheless, when the group paused for a rest about midnight, the three were more than thankful to set themselves down.
    “Damn, good buddies!” said Dirty Sock. “This locomotin’ is neat. But I tell ya, I’m feeling pretty spaced out.”
    “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Sock,” Can o’ Beans counseled, “but you really ought not to use that slang.”
    The stocking was stung. “What’s the damn matter with it?” he asked.
    “Well,” said Can o’ Beans, a bit hesitantly, “imprecise speech is one of the major causes of mental illness in human