Journey to an 800 Number Read Online Free PDF Page B

freaks?” I asked.
    I thought she would immediately say no, but she didn’t. She thought a minute and said, “I don’t think so. It will depend on the facts.”
    “What facts?”
    “The facts of the case, of course.”
    “Could you please explain what you mean by that?”
    “A freak is a freak despite what he does. An eccentric may do outlandish things, but he has a choice. I don’t collect eccentrics. They interest me, but I don’t collect them.”
    “Maybe someone has been doing something eccentric for so long that he can’t help himself doing it. Maybe it’s no longer a question of choice. Maybe it’s a question of compulsion. Like maybe someone has a compulsion to collect freaks and can’t help herself anymore.”
    “Not the same thing.”
    Father and Lilly were coming toward us, and Sabrina said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She left me there with a hundred things more I wanted to say but with time for only a polite good-night. Father said good-night, too.
    “Did you have a nice visit with Sabrina?” Father asked.
    “She’s better company than Ahmed.” Father raised his eyebrows but did not look hurt.
    “Did you have a nice visit with Lilly?”
    “That woman sure knows how to laugh,” Father said. “She must have pronounced her name a hundred times. Nobody knew how to pronounce it. She just made a joke of having to repeat it.”
    “You would think that if she’s a travel agent, atleast one other travel agent would have known her,” I said.
    “Maybe she’s new to the business,” Father said.
    “Maybe she is.”
    “Are you very hungry?” Father asked.
    “Not very.”
    “Me neither. What say we just pop into Sonesta’s and have a bowl of chili?”
    “I’d prefer something even less than that,” I said. The travel agents had taken the edge off my appetite, and it had not cost us a cent.
    The next morning Father and I got up at five a.m. and put on boots and rain slickers and went to a car wash halfway between Dallas and Fort Worth. It was one of those do-it-yourself places where they supply power hoses and vacuums. Before we could take Ahmed to the Convention Center, we had to hose him down.
    We pulled the truck into one stall, and we jumped out of the cab and put the planks down so that Ahmed could be led into another stall. Camels spit when they’re mad. Ahmed spit. We tethered him to a post. Camels kick when they’re mad. Ahmed kicked. I don’t think there is any animal alive, including the rhinoceros, that has less class than a camel.
    Father said, “Don’t vacuum him. There’ll be too much hair clogging up the machine and it will burn the motor out.”
    We hosed Ahmed down, and as much as you can tell from the look of a camel, I guess he liked it. He always looked sleepy. Father was cooing to Ahmed, ready to lead him out of the stall, when a carload of kids pulled into a booth two down from ours. The first one to notice Ahmed told the others, and they came over to our booth six abreast.
    “Hey, Pop,” one said to Father, “how many miles to a gallon?”
    You could tell that Father had been asked the question before. He said, “Can get speeds up to ten miles an hour for only a gallon of feed. Under ideal conditions.”
    “No pit stops or shit stops, eh?” the kid said, walking toward us.
    Another one of them started toward Ahmed; that one reached out his hand and said, “Is your nose ticklish?”
    Father said, “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.” The boy kept on coming, and Ahmed spit. It landed with a plop on top of his sneaker. It was a king-sized hawker that dripped down the toe of his shoe. The kid looked down and said, “You better clean that off, old man. Nobody’s camel is allowed to spit on me.”
    Father reached into his pocket for his hanky, and I pushed him back. “I’ll clean it off, Father,” I said. And I did. I turned the hose on, and sprayed the spit from the fellow’s shoe. It also wet his pants legs. It also wet his shirt, and the shoes,