sk.everythingseventual-第50节

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　　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　wasn't　sleeping　in。　Fuck；　no。　That　dog　was　a　firm　believer　in　rooty…tooty；　do　your　duty。　It　saw　me　ing　through　the　picket…fence　and　went　charging　to　the　end　of　its　rope　as　hard　as　ever；　maybe　even　harder；　as　if　some　part　of　its　dim　little　doggy　brain　knew　it　was　Saturday　and　I　had　no　business　being　there。　It　hit　the　end　of　the　rope；　boi…yoi…yoinng；　and　went　right　over　backward。　It　was　up　again　in　a　second；　though；　standing　at　the　end　of　its　rope　and　barking　in　its　choky　I'm…strangling…but…I…don't…care　way。　I　suppose　Mrs。　Bukowski　was　used　to　that　sound；　maybe　even　liked　it；　but　I've　wondered　since　how　the　neighbors　stood　it。
　　I　paid　no　attention　that　day。　I　was　too　excited　to　be　scared。　I　fished　the　chalk　out　of　my　pocket　and　dropped　down　on　one　knee。　For　one　second　I　thought　the　whole　works　had　gone　out　of　my　head；　and　that　was　bad。　I　felt　despair　and　sadness　trying　to　fill　me　up　and　I　thought；　No；　don't　let　it；　don't　let　it；　Dinky；　fight　it。　Write　anything；　even　if　it's　only　FUCK　MRS。　BUKOWSKI'S　DOG。
　　But　I　didn't　write　that。　I　drew　this　shape；　I　think　it　was　a　sankofite；　instead。　Some　weird　shape；　but　the　right　shape；　because　it　unlocked　everything　else。　My　head　flooded　with　stuff。　It　was　wonderful；　but　at　the　same　time　it　was　really　scary　because　there　was　so　fucking　much　of　it。　For　the　next　five　minutes　or　so　I　knelt　there　on　the　sidewalk；　sweating　like　a　pig　and　writing　like　a　mad　fiend。　I　wrote　words　I'd　never　heard　and　drew　shapes　I'd　never　seen…shapes　nobody　had　ever　seen：　not　just　sankofites　but　japps　and　fouders　and　mirks。　I　wrote　and　drew　until　I　was　pink　dust　halfway　to　my　right　elbow　and　Ma's　piece　of　chalk　was　nothing　but　a　little　pebble　between　my　thumb　and　fin…ger。　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　didn't　die　like　the　flies；　it　barked　at　me　the　whole　time；　and　it　probably　drew　back　and　ran　out　the　length　of　its　rope　leash　another　time　or　two；　but　I　didn't　notice。　I　was　in　this　total　frenzy。　I　could　never　describe　it　to　you　in　a　million　years；　but　I　bet　it's　how　great　musicians　like　Mozart　and　Eric　Clapton　feel　when　they're　writing　their　music；　or　how　painters　feel　when　they're　getting　their　best　work　on　canvas。　If　someone　had　e　along；　I　would　have　ignored　him。　Shit；　if　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　had　finally　broken　its　rope；　jumped　the　fence；　and　clamped　down　on　my　ass；　I　probably　would　have　ignored　that。
　　It　was　eventual；　man。　It　was　so　fucking　eventual　I　can't　even　tell　you。
　　No　one　did　e；　although　a　few　cars　went　by　and　maybe　the　people　in　them　wondered　what　that　kid　was　doing；　what　he　was　drawing　on　the　sidewalk；　and　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　went　on　barking。　At　the　end；　I　realized　I　had　to　make　it　stronger；　and　the　way　to　do　that　was　to　make　it　just　for　the　dog。　I　didn't　know　its　name；　so　I　printed　BOXER　with　the　last　of　the　chalk；　drew　a　circle　around　it；　then　made　an　arrow　at　the　bottom　of　the　circle；　pointing　to　the　rest。　I　felt　dizzy　and　my　head　was　throbbing；　the　way　it　does　when　you've　just　finished　taking　a　super…hard　test；　or　if　you　spend　too　long　watching　TV。　I　felt　like　I　was　going　to　be　sick　。　。　。　but　I　still　also　felt　totally　eventual。
　　I　looked　at　the　dog…it　was　still　just　as　lively　as　ever；　barking　and　kind　of　prancing　on　its　back　legs　when　it　ran　out　of　slack…but　that　didn't　bother　me。　I　went　back　home　feeling　easy　in　my　mind。　I　knew　Mrs。　Bukowski's　dog　was　toast。　The　same　way；　I　bet；　that　a　good　painter　knows　when　he's　painted　a　good　picture；　or　a　good　writer　knows　when　he's　written　a　good　story。　When　it's　right；　I　think　you　just　know。　It　sits　there　in　your　head　and　hums。
　　Three　days　later　the　dog　was　eating　the　old　dirt　sandwich。　I　got　the　story　from　the　best　possible　source　when　it　es　to　mean　asshole　dogs：　the　neighborhood　mailman。　Mr。　Shermerhorn；　his　name　was。　Mr。　Shermerhorn　said　Mrs。　Bukowski's　boxer　for　some　reason　started　running　around　the　tree　he　was　tied　to；　and　when　he　got　to　the　end　of　his　rope　（ha…ha；　end　of　his　rope）；　he　couldn't　get　back。　Mrs。　Bukowski　was　out　shopping　somewhere；　so　she　was　no　help。　When　she　got　home；　she　found　her　dog　lying　at　the　base　of　the　tree　in　her　side　yard；　choked　to　death。
　　The　writing　on　the　sidewalk　stayed　there　for　about　a　week；　then　it　rained　hard　and　afterward　there　was　just　a　pink　blur。　But　until　it　rained；　it　stayed　pretty　sharp。　And　while　it　was　sharp；　no　one　walked　on　it。　I　saw　this　for　myself。　People…kids　walking　to　school；　ladies　walking　downtown；　Mr。　Shermerhorn；　the　mailman…would　just　kind　of　veer　around　it。　They　didn't　even　seem　to　know　they　were　doing　it。　And　nobody　ever　talked　about　it；　either；　like　'What's　up　with　this　weird　shit　on　the　sidewalk？'　or　'What　do　you　suppose　you　call　something　that　looks　like　that？'　（A　fouder；　dimbulb。）　It　was　as　if　they　didn't　even　see　it　was　there。　Except　part　of　them　must　have。　Why　else　would　they　have　walked　around　it？
　　
　　X
　　
　　I　didn't　tell　Mr。　Sharpton　all　that；　but　I　told　him　what　he　wanted　to　know　about　Skipper。　I　had　decided　I　could　trust　him。　Maybe　that　secret　part　of　me　knew　I　could　trust　him；　but　I　don't　think　so。　I　think　it　was　just　the　way　he　put　his　hand　on　my　arm；　like　your　Dad　would。　Not　that　I　have　a　Dad；　but　I　can　imagine。
　　Plus；　it　was　like　he　said…even　if　he　was　a　cop　and　arrested　me；　what　judge　and　jury　would　believe　Skipper　Brannigan　had　driven　his　car　off　the　road　because　of　a　letter　I　sent　him？　Especially　one　full　of　nonsense　words　and　symbols　made　up　by　a　pizza　delivery…boy　who　had　flunked　high　school　geometry。　Twice。
　　When　I　was　done；　there　was　silence　between　us　for　a　long　time。　At　last　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　'He　deserved　it。　You　know　that；　don't　you？'
　　And　for　some　reason　that　did　it。　The　dam　burst　and　I　cried　like　a　baby。　I　must　have　cried　for　fifteen　minutes　or　more。　Mr。　Sharpton　put　his　arm　around　me　and　pulled　me　against　his　chest　and　I　watered　the　lapel　of　his　suit。　If　someone　had　driven　by　and　seen　us　that　way；　they　would　have　thought　we　were　a　couple　of　queers　for　sure；　but　nobody　did。　There　was　just　him　and　me　under　the　yellow　mercury…vapor　lamps；　there　by　the　Kart　Korral。　Yippy…ti…yi…yo；　get　along　little　shopping　cart；　Pug　used　to　sing；　for　yew　know　Supr　Savr　will　be　yer　new　home。　We'd　laugh　till　we　cried。
　　At　last　I　was　able　to　turn　off　the　waterworks。　Mr。　Sharpton　handed　me　a　hanky　and　I　wiped　my　eyes　with　it。　'How　did　you　know？'　I　asked。　My　voice　sounded　all　deep　and　weird；　like　a　foghorn。
　　'Once　you　were　spotted；　all　it　took　was　a　little　rudimentary　detective　work。'
　　'Yeah；　but　how　was　I　spotted？'
　　'We　have　certain　people…a　dozen　or　so　in　all…who　look　for　fellows　and　gals　like　you；'　he　said。　'They　can　actually　see　fellows　and　gals　like　you；　Dink；　the　way　certain　satellites　in　space　can　see　nuclear　piles　and　power…plants。　You　folks　show　up　yellow。　Like　matchflames　is　how　this　one　spotter　described　it　to　me。'　He　shook　his　head　and　gave　a　wry　little　smile。　'I'd　like　to　see　something　like　that　just　once　in　my　life。　Or　be　able　to　do　what　you　do。　Of　course；　I'd　also　like　to　be　given　a　day…just　one　would　be　fine…when　I　could　paint　like　Picasso　or　write　like　Faulkner。'
　　I　gaped　at　him。　'Is　that　true？　There　are　people　who　can　see…'
　　'Yes。　They're　our　bloodhounds。　They　crisscross　the　country…and　all　the　other　countries…looking　for　that　bright　yellow　glow。　Looking　for　matchheads　in　the　darkness。　This　particular　young　woman　was　on　Route　90；　actually　headed　for　Pittsburgh　to　catch　a　plane　home…to　grab　a　little　R…and…R…when　she　saw　you。　Or　sensed　you。　Or　whatever　it　is　they　do。　The　finders　don't　really　know　themselves；　any　more　than　you　really　know　what　you　did　to　Skipper。　Do　you？'
　　'What…'
　　He　raised　a　hand。　'I　told　you　that　you　wouldn't　get　all　the　answers　you'd　like…this　is　something　you'll　have　to　decide　on　the　basis　of　what　you　feel；　not　on　what　you　know…but　I　can　tell　you　a　couple　of　things。　To　begin　with；　Dink；　I　work　for　an　outfit　called　the　Trans　Corporation。　Our　job　is　getting　rid　of　the　world's　Skipper　Brannigans…the　big　ones；　the　ones　who　do　it　on　a　grand　scale。　We　have　pany　headquarters　in　Chicago　and　a　training　center　in　Peoria　。　。　。　where　you'll　spend　a　week；　if　you　agree　to　my　proposal。'
　　I　didn't　say　anything　then；　but　I　knew　already　I　was　going　to　say　yes　to　his　proposal。　Whatever　it　was；　I　was　going　to　say　yes。
　　'You're　a　tranny；　my　young　friend。　Better　get　used　to　the　idea。'
　　'What　is　it？'
　　'A　trait。　There　are　folks　in　our　organization　who　think　of　what　you　have　。　。　。　what　you　can　do　。　。　。　as　a　talent　or　an　ability　or　even　a　kind　of　glitch；　but　they're　wrong。　Talent　and　ability　are　born　of　trait。　Trait　is　general；　talent　and　ability　are　specific。'
　　'You'll　have　to　simplify　that。　I'm　a　high…school　dropout；　remember。'
　　'I　know；'　he　said。　'I　also　know　that　you　didn't　drop　out　because　you　were　stupid；　you　dropped　out　because　you　didn't　fit。　In　that　way；　you　are　like　every　other　tranny　I've　ever　met。'　He　laughed　in　the　sharp　way　people　do　when　they're　not　really　amused。　'All　twenty…one　of　them。　Now　listen　to　me；　and　don't　play　dumb。　Creativity　is　like　a　hand　at　the　end　of　your　arm。　But　a　hand　has　many　fingers；　doesn't　it？'
　　'Well；　at　least　five。'
　　'Think　of　those　fingers　as　abilities。　A　creative　person　may　write；　paint；　sculpt；　or　think　up　math　formulae；　he　or　s