Vineland by Thomas Pynchon

But if you were me, wouldn’t you do the same?”
    He hated questions like that. He wasn’t her. She could make him feel so old and tainted. “Maybe what you really want’s just to get out of the house.”
    â€œUh-huh?”
    Fair enough. “Well good timing, ’cause it looks like there is no house, this li’l Smurfmobile here’s it.”
    â€œDid you know this was gonna happen? Someday? You did, didt’n you.”
    Zoyd hrrumphed. “Well—there was supposed to be a deal.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œYou were still a baby.”
    â€œYeah so is that why you never got married again, was that part of your deal, that I was never supposed to have a mom—”
    â€œWhoa, there, Trooper, who was I gonna hook up with, who were all ’ese ladies kickin’ in my door all the time? Thapsia? Elvissa? Don’t matter? Just so’s you can say you have some mom?”
    â€œBut all you ever date is this, sorry but rilly B material, in terms of family skills, girls you pick up when they’re out on eating binges at the Arctic Circle Drive-In, girls from these weird after-hours clubs whose whole wardrobe is like totally black, girls who inject cough syrup with biker boyfriends named Aahhrrgghh—in fact lots of them girls I see in
school
every day? Know what I think?” She’d rolled out of her lower bunk to stand and look him in the face, level. “Is that, deal or no deal, you must have always loved my mom, so much that if it couldt’n be her, it wouldt’n be anybody.”
    No, that hadn’t been part of the deal. The clarity of her gaze made him feel fraudulent and lost. About all he could manage was “Wow. You think I really am crazy, don’t ya?”
    â€œNo, no—” quickly, her head dropping just for the moment, “Dad, that’s exactly the way I feel too, that . . . she’s the only one for me.” Then shaking back her hair, looking up again, stubborn, sure, out of Frenesi’s blue eyes. The moment may have called for him to embrace her, but her remarks, by now familiar, about the role of jailbait in his emotional life warned him that this time he’d better refrain, even now when he most needed some kind of hug himself—only nod instead and try to look competent, call her Trooper, maybe sock her on the shoulder for morale . . . but have to lie there nevertheless, a foot and a half overhead, and let her find and follow her own way to sleep.
    In the morning, full of marsh birds, cigarette smoke, and television audio, down the two sand grooves of the access road came the Billy Barf and the Vomitones Official Van, with elaborate nukehappy cyberdeath graphics all over the outside and a ring of welded-together miniature iron skulls for a steering wheel, at which sat Isaiah Two Four. Other dimmer faces bloomed behind the tinted bubble windows. Zoyd had no clear idea of what Prairie might be going into, felt helpless, didn’t even know if he’d missed something last night and she was really going away for good. They’d agreed to keep in touch through Sasha Gates, Zoyd’s ex-mother-in-law, who lived down in L.A.
    â€œStay out of that joint, ol’ pothead,” Prairie said.
    â€œKeep ’em legs together,” he replied, “teen bimbo.” Somebody put a Fascist Toejam cassette, 300 watts of sonic apocalypse, on to the van stereo, Isaiah gallantly handed Prairie up into the lurid fuchsia padding of this rolling orgy room, where she became indistinct among an unreadable pattern of Vomitones and their girlfriends, and quickly, in an arc unexpectedly graceful, they had all turned outward, tached up, engaged, and like a time machine departing for the future, forever too soon for Zoyd, boomed away up the thin, cloudpressed lane.
    Â 

B UT just before she left, Zoyd had slipped Prairie a strange Japanese business card, or as some would call it, amulet,