sk.everythingseventual-第56节

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　can　you　get？　I　tell　myself　I'm　just　a　kid；　the　same　age　as　the　kids　who　crewed　those　B…25s　I　sometimes　think　about；　that　kids　are　allowed　to　be　dumb。　But　I　wonder　if　that's　true　when　lives　are　at　stake。
　　And；　of　course；　I'm　still　doing　it。
　　Yes。
　　I　thought　at　first　that　I　wouldn't　be　able　to；　no　more　than　the　kids　in　Mary　Poppins　could　keep　floating　around　the　house　when　they　lost　their　happy　thoughts　。　。　。　but　I　could。　And　once　I　sat　down　in　front　of　the　puter　screen　and　that　river　of　fire　started　to　flow；　I　was　lost。　You　see　（at　least　I　think　you　do）；　this　is　what　I　was　put　on　Planet　Earth　for。　Can　I　be　blamed　for　doing　the　thing　that　finishes　me　off；　that　pletes　me？
　　Answer：　yes。　Absolutely。
　　But　I　can't　stop。　Sometimes　I　tell　myself　that　I've　gone　on　because　if　I　do　stop…maybe　even　for　a　day…they'll　know　I've　caught　on；　and　the　cleaners　will　make　an　unscheduled　stop。　Except　what　they'll　clean　up　this　time　will　be　me。　But　that's　not　why。　I　do　it　because　I'm　just　another　addict；　same　as　a　guy　smoking　crack　in　an　alley　or　some　chick　taking　a　spike　in　her　arm。　I　do　it　because　of　the　hateful　fucking　rush；　I　do　it　because　when　I'm　working　in　DINKY'S　NOTEBOOK；　everything's　eventual。　It's　like　being　caught　in　a　candy　trap。　And　it's　all　the　fault　of　that　dork　who　came　out　of　News　Plus　with　his　fucking　Dispatch　open。　If　not　for　him；　I'd　still　see　nothing　but　cloud…hazy　buildings　in　the　crosshairs。　No　people；　just　targets。
　　You　are　the　bombsight；　Skipper　said　in　my　dream。　You　are　the　bomb…sight；　Dinkster。
　　That's　true。　I　know　it　is。　Horrible　but　true。　I'm　just　another　tool；　just　the　lens　the　real　bombardier　looks　through。　Just　the　button　he　pushes。
　　What　bombardier；　you　ask？
　　Oh　e　on；　get　real。
　　I　thought　of　calling　him；　how's　that　for　crazy？　Or　maybe　it's　not。　'Call　me　anytime；　Dink；　even　three　in　the　morning。'　That's　what　the　man　said；　and　I'm　pretty　sure　that's　what　the　man　meant…about　that；　at　least；　Mr。　Sharpton　wasn't　lying。
　　I　thought　of　calling　him　and　saying；　'You　want　to　know　what　hurts　the　most；　Mr。　Sharpton？　That　thing　you　said　about　how　I　could　make　the　world　a　better　place　by　getting　rid　of　people　like　Skipper。　The　truth　is；　you're　the　guys　like　Skipper。'
　　Sure。　And　I'm　the　shopping　cart　they　chase　people　with；　laughing　and　barking　and　making　race…car　sounds。　I　work　cheap；　too　。　。　。　at　bargain…basement　rates。　So　far　I've　killed　over　two　hundred　people；　and　what　did　it　cost　TransCorp？　A　little　house　in　a　third…rate　Ohio　town；　seventy　bucks　a　week；　and　a　Honda　automobile。　Plus　cable　TV。　Don't　want　to　forget　that。
　　I　stood　there　for　awhile；　looking　at　the　telephone；　then　put　it　down　again。　Couldn't　say　any　of　that。　It　would　be　the　same　as　putting　a　Baggie　over　my　head　and　then　slitting　my　wrists。
　　So　what　am　I　going　to　do？
　　Oh　God；　what　am　I　going　to　do？
　　
　　XX
　　
　　It's　been　two　weeks　since　I　last　took　this　notebook　out　from　under　the　basement　tile　and　wrote　in　it。　Twice　I've　heard　the　mail…slot　clack　on　Thursdays；　during　As　the　World　Turns；　and　gone　out　into　the　hall　to　get　my　money。　I've　gone　to　four　movies；　all　in　the　afternoon。　Twice　I've　ground　up　money　in　the　kitchen　pig；　and　thrown　my　loose　change　down　the　storm…drain；　hiding　what　I　was　doing　behind　the　blue　plastic　recycling　basket　when　I　put　it　down　on　the　curb。　One　day　I　went　down　to　News　Plus；　thinking　I'd　get　a　copy　of　Variations　or　Forum；　but　there　was　a　headline　on　the　front　of　the　Dispatch　that　once　again　took　away　any　sexy　feelings　I　might　have　had。　POPE　DIES　OF　HEART　ATTACK　ON　PEACE　MISSION；　it　said。
　　Did　I　do　it？　Nah；　the　story　said　he　died　in　Asia；　and　I've　been　sticking　to　the　American　Northwest　these　last　few　weeks。　But　I　could　have　been　the　one。　If　I'd　been　nosing　around　in　Pakistan　last　week；　I　very　likely　would　have　been　the　one。
　　Two　weeks　of　living　in　a　nightmare。
　　Then；　this　morning；　there　was　something　in　the　mail。　Not　a　letter；　I've　only　gotten　three　or　four　of　those　（all　from　Pug；　and　now　he's　stopped　writing；　and　I　miss　him　so　much）；　but　a　Kmart　advertising　circular。　It　flopped　open　just　as　I　was　putting　it　into　the　trash；　and　something　fluttered　out。　A　note；　printed　in　block　letters。　DO　YOU　WANT　OUT？　it　read。　IF　YES；　SEND　MESSAGE　'DON'T　STAND　SO　CLOSE　TO　ME'　IS　BEST　POLICE　SONG。
　　My　heart　was　beating　hard　and　fast；　the　way　it　did　on　the　day　I　came　into　my　house　and　saw　the　Rembrandt　print　over　the　sofa　where　the　velvet　clowns　had　been。
　　Below　the　message；　someone　had　drawn　a　fouder。　It　was　harmless　just　sitting　there　all　by　itself；　but　looking　at　it　still　made　all　the　spit　in　my　mouth　dry　up。　It　was　a　real　message；　the　fouder　proved　it；　but　who　had　it　e　from？　And　how　did　the　sender　know　about　me？
　　I　went　into　the　study；　walking　slowly　with　my　head　down；　thinking。　A　message　tucked　into　an　advertising　circular。　Hand…printed　and　tucked　into　an　advertising　circular。　That　meant　someone　close。　Someone　in　town。
　　I　turned　on　my　puter　and　modem。　I　called　the　Columbia　City　Public　Library；　where　you　can　surf　cheap　。　。　。　and　in　relative　anonymity。　Anything　I　sent　would　go　through　TransCorp　in　Chicago；　but　that　wasn't　going　to　matter。　They　weren't　going　to　suspect　a　thing。　Not　if　I　was　careful。
　　And；　of　course；　if　there　was　anybody　there。
　　There　was。　My　puter　connected　with　the　library's　puter；　and　a　menu　flashed　on　my　screen。　For　just　a　moment；　something　else　flashed　on　my　screen；　as　well。
　　A　smim。
　　In　the　lower　righthand　corner。　Just　a　flicker。
　　I　sent　the　message　about　the　best　Police　song　and　added　a　little　touch　of　my　own　down　in　The　Dead　Folks'　Nook：　a　sankofite。
　　I　could　write　more…things　have　started　to　happen；　and　I　believe　that　soon　they'll　be　happening　fast…but　I　don't　think　it　would　be　safe。　Up　to　now；　I've　just　talked　about　myself。　If　I　went　any　further；　I'd　have　to　talk　about　other　people。　But　there　are　two　more　things　I　want　to　say。
　　First；　that　I'm　sorry　for　what　I've　done…for　what　I　did　to　Skipper；　even。　I'd　take　it　back　if　I　could。　I　didn't　know　what　I　was　doing。　I　know　that's　a　piss…poor　excuse；　but　it's　the　only　one　I　have。
　　Second；　I've　got　it　in　mind　to　write　one　more　special　letter　。　。　。　the　most　special　of　all。
　　I　have　Mr。　Sharpton's　e…mail　address。　And　I　have　something　even　better：　a　memory　of　how　he　stroked　his　lucky　tie　as　we　sat　in　his　big　expensive　Mercedes。　The　loving　way　he　ran　his　palm　over　those　silk　swords。　So；　you　see；　I　know　just　enough　about　him。　I　know　just　what　to　add　to　his　letter；　how　to　make　it　eventual。　I　can　close　my　eyes　and　see　one　word　floating　there　in　the　darkness　behind　my　lids…floating　there　like　black　fire；　deadly　as　an　arrow　fired　into　the　brain；　and　it's　the　only　word　that　matters：
　　EXCALIBUR。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　L。T。'S　THEORY　OF　PETS
　　
　　
　　I　guess　if　I　have　a　favorite　in　this　collection　of　stories；　'L。T。'　would　be　it。　The　origin　of　the　story；　so　far　as　I　can　remember；　was　a　'Dear　Abby'　column　where　Abby　opined　that　a　pet　is　just　about　the　worst　sort　of　present　one　can　give　anyone。　It　makes　the　assumption　that　the　pet　and　the　recipient　will　hit　it　off；　for　one　thing；　it　assumes　that　feeding　an　animal　twice　a　day　and　cleaning　up　its　messes　（both　indoors　and　out）　was　the　very　thing　you　had　been　pining　to　do。　So　far　as　I　can　remember；　she　called　the　giving　of　pets　'an　exercise　in　arrogance。'　I　think　that's　laying　it　on　a　bit　thick。　My　wife　gave　me　a　dog　for　my　fortieth　birthday；　and　Marlowe…a　Corgi　who's　now　fourteen　and　has　only　one　eye…has　been　an　honored　part　of　the　family　ever　since。　During　five　of　those　years　we　also　had　a　rather　crazed　Siamese　cat　named　Pearl。　It　was　while　watching　Marlowe　and　Pearl　interact…which　they　did　with　a　kind　of　cautious　respect…that　I　first　started　thinking　about　a　story　where　the　pets　in　a　marriage　would　imprint　not　upon　the　nominal　owner　of　each；　but　on　the　other。　I　had　a　marvelous　time　working　on　it；　and　whenever　I'm　called　upon　to　read　a　story　out　loud；　this　is　the　one　I　choose；　always　assuming　I　have　the　required　fifty　minutes　it　takes。　It　makes　people　laugh；　and　I　like　that。　What　I　like　even　more　is　the　unexpected　shift　in　tone；　away　from　humor　and　toward　sadness　and　honor；　which　occurs　near　the　end。　When　it　es；　the　reader's　defenses　are　down　and　the　story's　emotional　payoff　is　a　little　higher。　For　me；　that　emotional　payoff　is　what　it's　all　about。　I　want　to　make　you　laugh　or　cry　when　you　read　a　story　。　。　。　or　do　both　at　the　same　time。　I　want　your　heart；　in　other　words。　If　you　want　to　learn　something；　go　to　school。
　　
　　
　　My　friend　L。T。　hardly　ever　talks　about　how　his　wife　disappeared；　or　how　she's　probably　dead；　just　another　victim　of　the　Axe　Man；　but　he　likes　to　tell　the　story　of　how　she　walked　out　on　him。　He　does　it　with　just　the　right　roll　of　the　eyes；　as　if　to　say；　'She　fooled　me；　boys…right；　good；　and　proper！'　He'll　sometimes　tell　the　story　to　a　bunch　of　men　sitting　on　one　of　the　loading　docks　behind　the　plant　and　eating　their　lunches；　him　eating　his　lunch；　too；　the　one　he　fixed　for　himself…no　Lulubelle　back　at　home　to　do　it　for　him　these　days。　They　usually　laugh　when　he　tells　the　story；　which　always　ends　with　L。T。's　Theory　of　Pets。　Hell；　I　usually　laugh。　It's　a　funny　story；　even　if　you　do　know　how　it　turned　out。