sk.everythingseventual-第19章

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　　Ludicrous　or　not；　it　nagged　him。　The　way　thinking　a　stove　burner　might　still　be　on　sometimes　nagged　him　when　he　was　home；　nagged　until　he　finally　got　up　and　checked　and　found　it　cold。　Only　this　was　worse。　Because　he　loved　the　stuff　in　the　notebook。　Amassing　graffiti…thinking　about　graffiti…had　been　his　real　work　these　last　years；　not　selling　price…code　readers　or　frozen　dinners　that　were　really　not　much　more　than　Swansons　or　Freezer　Queens　in　fancy　microwavable　dishes。　The　daffy　exuberance　of　'Helen　Keller　fucked　her　feller！'　for　instance。　Yet　the　notebook　might　be　a　real　embarrassment　once　he　was　dead。　It　would　be　like　accidentally　hanging　yourself　in　the　closet　because　you　were　experimenting　with　a　new　way　of　jacking　off　and　got　found　that　way　with　your　shorts　under　your　feet　and　shit　on　your　ankles。　Some　of　the　stuff　in　his　notebook　might　show　up　in　the　newspaper；　along　with　his　picture。　Once　upon　a　time　he　would　have　scoffed　at　the　idea；　but　in　these　days；　when　even　Bible　Belt　newspapers　routinely　speculated　about　a　mole　on　the　President's　penis；　the　notion　was　hard　to　dismiss。
　　Burn　it；　then？　No；　he'd　set　off　the　goddamned　smoke　detector。
　　Put　it　behind　the　picture　on　the　wall？　The　picture　of　the　little　boy　with　the　fishing　pole　and　the　straw　hat？
　　Alfie　considered　this；　then　nodded　slowly。　Not　a　bad　idea　at　all。　The　Spiral　notebook　might　stay　there　for　years。　Then；　someday　in　the　distant　future；　it　would　drop　out。　Someone…perhaps　a　lodger；　more　likely　a　maid…would　pick　it　up；　curious。　Would　flip　through　it。　What　would　that　person's　reaction　be？　Shock？　Amusement？　Plain　old　head…scratching　puzzlement？　Alfie　rather　hoped　for　this　last。　Because　things　in　the　notebook　were　puzzling。　'Elvis　killed　Big　Pussy；'　someone　in　Hackberry；　Texas；　had　written。　'Serenity　is　being　square；'　someone　in　Rapid　City；　South　Dakota；　had　opined。　And　below　that；　someone　had　written；　'No；　stupid；　serenity=（va）2＋b；　if　v=serenity；　a=satisfaction；　and　b=sexual　patibility。'
　　Behind　the　picture；　then。
　　Alfie　was　halfway　across　the　room　when　he　remembered　the　pills　in　his　coat　pocket。　And　there　were　more　in　the　glove　partment　of　the　car；　different　kinds　but　for　the　same　thing。　They　were　prescription　drugs；　but　not　the　sort　the　doctor　gave　you　if　you　were　feeling　。　。　。　well　。　。　。　sunny。　So　the　cops　would　search　this　room　thoroughly　for　other　kinds　of　drugs　and　when　they　lifted　the　picture　away　from　the　wall　the　notebook　would　drop　out　onto　the　green　rug。　The　things　in　it　would　look　even　worse；　even　crazier；　because　of　the　pains　he　had　taken　to　hide　it。
　　And　they'd　read　the　last　thing　as　a　suicide　note；　simply　because　it　was　the　last　thing。　No　matter　where　he　left　the　book；　that　would　happen。　Sure　as　shit　sticks　to　the　ass　of　America；　as　some　East　Texas　turnpike　poet　had　once　written。
　　'If　they　find　it；'　he　said；　and　just　like　that　the　answer　came　to　him。
　　
　　The　snow　had　thickened；　the　wind　had　grown　even　stronger；　and　the　spark　lights　across　the　field　were　gone。　Alfie　stood　beside　his　snow…covered　car　at　the　edge　of　the　parking　lot　with　his　coat　billowing　out　in　front　of　him。　At　the　farm；　they'd　all　be　watching　TV　by　now。　The　whole　fam'　damly。　Assuming　the　satellite　dish　hadn't　blown　off　the　barn　roof；　that　was。　Back　at　his　place；　his　wife　and　daughter　would　be　arriving　home　from　Carlene's　basketball　game。　Maura　and　Carlene　lived　in　a　world　that　had　little　to　do　with　the　interstates；　or　fast…food　boxes　blowing　down　the　breakdown　lanes　and　the　sound　of　semis　passing　you　at　seventy　and　eighty　and　even　ninety　miles　an　hour　like　a　Doppler　whine。　He　wasn't　plaining　about　it　（or　hoped　he　wasn't）；　he　was　just　pointing　it　out。　'Nobody　here　even　if　there　is；'　someone　in　Chalk　Level；　Missouri；　had　written　on　a　shithouse　wall；　and　sometimes　in　those　rest…area　bathrooms　there　was　blood；　mostly　just　a　little；　but　once　he　had　seen　a　grimy　basin　under　a　scratched　steel　mirror　half　filled　with　it。　Did　anyone　notice？　Did　anyone　report　such　things？
　　In　some　rest　areas　the　weather　report　fell　constantly　from　overhead　speakers；　and　to　Alfie　the　voice　giving　it　sounded　haunted；　the　voice　of　a　ghost　running　through　the　vocal　cords　of　a　corpse。　In　Candy；　Kansas；　on　Route　283；　in　Ness　County；　someone　had　written；　'Behold；　I　stand　at　the　door　and　knock；'　to　which　someone　else　had　added；　'If　your　not　from　Pudlishers　Cleering　House　go　away　you　Bad　Boy。'
　　Alfie　stood　at　the　edge　of　the　pavement；　gasping　a　little　because　the　air　was　so　cold　and　full　of　snow。　In　his　left　hand　he　held　the　Spiral　notebook；　bent　almost　double。　There　was　no　need　to　destroy　it；　after　all。　He　would　simply　throw　it　into　Farmer　John's　east　field；　here　on　the　west　side　of　Lincoln。　The　wind　would　help　him。　The　notebook　might　carry　twenty　feet　on　the　fly；　and　the　wind　could　tumble　it　even　farther　before　it　finally　fetched　up　against　the　side　of　the　furrow　and　was　covered。　It　would　lie　there　buried　all　winter；　long　after　his　body　had　been　shipped　home。　In　the　spring；　Farmer　John　would　e　out　this　way　on　his　tractor；　the　cab　filled　with　the　music　of　Patty　Loveless　or　George　Jones　or　maybe　even　Clint　Black；　and　he　would　plow　the　Spiral　notebook　under　without　seeing　it　and　it　would　disappear　into　the　scheme　of　things。　Always　supposing　there　was　one。　'Relax；　it's　all　just　the　rinse　cycle；'　someone　had　written　beside　a　pay　phone　on　I…35　not　far　from　Cameron；　Missouri。
　　Alfie　drew　the　book　back　to　throw　it；　then　lowered　his　arm。　He　hated　to　let　it　go；　that　was　the　truth　of　it。　That　was　the　bottom　line　everyone　was　always　talking　about。　But　things　were　bad；　now。　He　raised　his　arm　again　and　then　lowered　it　again。　In　his　distress　and　indecision　he　began　to　cry　without　being　aware　of　it。　The　wind　rushed　around　him；　on　its　way　to　wherever。　He　couldn't　go　on　living　the　way　he　had　been　living；　he　knew　that　much。　Not　one　more　day。　And　a　shot　in　the　mouth　would　be　easier　than　any　living　change；　he　knew　that；　too。　Far　easier　than　struggling　to　write　a　book　few　people　（if　any　at　all）　were　likely　to　read。　He　raised　his　arm　again；　cocked　the　hand　with　the　notebook　in　it　back　to　his　ear　like　a　pitcher　preparing　to　throw　a　fastball；　then　stood　like　that。　An　idea　had　occurred　to　him。　He　would　count　to　sixty。　If　the　spark　lights　of　the　farmhouse　reappeared　at　any　time　during　that　count；　he　would　try　to　write　the　book。
　　To　write　a　book　like　that；　he　thought；　you'd　have　to　begin　by　talking　about　how　it　was　to　measure　distance　in　green　mile　markers；　and　the　very　width　of　the　land；　and　how　the　wind　sounded　when　you　got　out　of　your　car　at　one　of　those　rest　areas　in　Oklahoma　or　North　Dakota。　How　it　sounded　almost　like　words。　You'd　have　to　explicate　the　silence；　and　how　the　bathrooms　always　smelled　of　piss　and　the　great　hollow　farts　of　departed　travellers；　and　how　in　that　silence　the　voices　on　the　walls　began　to　speak。　The　voices　of　those　who　had　written　and　then　moved　on。　The　telling　would　hurt；　but　if　the　wind　dropped　and　the　spark　lights　of　the　farm　came　back；　he'd　do　it　anyway。
　　If　they　didn't　he'd　throw　the　notebook　into　the　field；　go　back　into　Room　190　（just　hang　a　left　at　the　Snax　machine）；　and　shoot　himself；　as　planned。
　　Either　way。　Either　way。
　　Alfie　stood　there　counting　to　sixty　inside　his　head；　waiting　to　see　if　the　wind　would　drop。
　　
　　
　　I　like　to　drive；　and　I'm　particularly　addicted　to　those　long　interstate　barrels　where　you　see　nothing　but　prairies　to　either　side　and　a　cinderblock　rest　area　every　forty　miles　or　so。　Rest…area　bathrooms　are　always　full　of　graffiti；　some　of　it　extremely　weird。　I　started　to　collect　these　dispatches　from　nowhere；　keeping　them　in　a　pocket　notebook；　got　others　off　the　Internet　（there　are　two　or　three　websites　dedicated　to　them）；　and　finally　found　the　story　in　which　they　belonged。　This　is　it。　I　don't　know　if　it's　good　or　not；　but　I　cared　very　much　for　the　lonely　man　at　its　center　and　really　hope　things　turned　out　okay　for　him。　In　the　first　draft　things　did；　but　Bill　Buford　of　The　New　Yorker　suggested　a　more　ambiguous　ending。　He　was　probably　right；　but　we　could　all　say　a　prayer　for　the　Alfie　Zimmers　of　the　world。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　DEATH　OF
　　　JACK　HAMILTON
　　
　　
　　Want　you　to　get　one　thing　straight　from　the　start：　wasn't