sk.everythingseventual-第18部分

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u　considered　it；　was　odd。　Not　iambs　but　some　odd　triplet　formula　with　the　stress　on　the　third：　'Here　I　sit；　cheeks　a…flexin'；　giving　birth　to　another　Texan。'　Okay；　it　broke　down　a　little　at　the　end；　but　that　somehow　added　to　its　memorability；　gave　it　that　final　mnemonic　twist　of　the　tail。　He　had　thought　on　many　occasions　that　he　could　go　back　to　school；　take　some　courses；　get　all　that　feet…and…meter　stuff　down　pat。　Know　what　he　was　talking　about　instead　of　running　on　a　tightrope　of　intuition。　All　he　really　remembered　clearly　from　school　was　iambic　pentameter：　'To　be　or　not　to　be；　that　is　the　question。'　He　had　seen　that　in　a　men's　room　on　I…70；　actually；　to　which　someone　had　added；　'The　real　question　is　who　your　father　was；　dipstick。'
　　These　triplets；　now。　What　were　they　called？　Was　that　trochaic？　He　didn't　know。　The　fact　that　he　could　find　out　no　longer　seemed　important；　but　he　could　find　out；　yes。　It　was　something　people　taught；　it　was　no　big　secret。
　　Or　take　this　variation；　which　Alfie　had　also　seen　all　over　the　country：　'Here　I　sit；　on　the　pooper；　giving　birth　to　a　Maine　state　trooper。'　It　was　always　Maine；　no　matter　where　you　were　it　was　always　Maine　State　Trooper；　and　why？　Because　no　other　state　would　scan。　Maine　was　the　only　one　of　the　fifty　whose　name　consisted　of　a　single　syllable。　Yet　again；　it　was　in　triplets：　'Here　I　sit；　on　the　pooper。'
　　He　had　thought　of　writing　a　book。　Just　a　little　one。　The　first　title　to　occur　to　him　had　been　'Don't　Look　Up　Here；　You're　Pissing　on　Your　Shoes；'　but　you　couldn't　call　a　book　that。　Not　and　reasonably　hope　someone　would　put　it　out　for　sale　in　a　store；　anyway。　And；　besides；　that　was　light。　Frothy。　He　had　bee　convinced　over　the　years　that　something　was　going　on　here；　and　it　wasn't　frothy。　The　title　he　had　finally　decided　on　was　an　adaptation　of　something　he'd　seen　in　a　rest…area　toilet　stall　outside　Fort　Scott；　Kansas；　on　Highway　54。　'I　Killed　Ted　Bundy：　The　Secret　Transit　Code　of　America's　Highways。'　By　Alfred　Zimmer。　That　sounded　mysterious　and　ominous；　almost　scholarly。　But　he　hadn't　done　it。　And　although　he　had　seen　'If　I　supply　the　yarn；　will　she　make　me　one'　added　to　'My　mother　made　me　a　whore'　all　over　the　country；　he　had　never　expounded　（at　least　in　writing）　on　the　startling　lack　of　sympathy；　the　'just　deal　with　it'　sensibility；　of　the　response。　Or　what　about　'Mammon　is　the　King　of　New　Jersey'？　How　did　one　explain　why　New　Jersey　made　it　funny　and　the　name　of　some　other　state　probably　wouldn't？　Even　to　try　seemed　almost　arrogant。　He　was　just　a　little　man；　after　all；　with　a　little　man's　job。　He　sold　things。　A　line　of　frozen　dinners；　currently。
　　And　now；　of　course　。　。　。　now　。　。　。
　　Alfie　took　another　deep　drag　on　his　cigarette；　mashed　it　out；　and　called　home。　He　didn't　expect　to　get　Maura　and　didn't。　It　was　his　own　recorded　voice　that　answered　him；　ending　with　the　number　of　his　cell…phone。　A　lot　of　good　that　would　do；　the　cell…phone　was　in　the　trunk　of　the　Chevrolet；　broken。　He　had　never　had　good　luck　with　gadgets。
　　After　the　beep　he　said；　'Hi；　it's　me。　I'm　in　Lincoln。　It's　snowing。　Remember　the　casserole　you　were　going　to　take　over　to　my　mother。　She'll　be　expecting　it。　And　she　asked　for　the　Red　Ball　coupons。　I　know　you　think　she's　crazy　on　that　subject；　but　humor　her；　okay？　She's　old。　Tell　Carlene　Daddy　says　hi。'　He　paused；　then　for　the　first　time　in　about　five　years　added；　'I　love　you。'
　　He　hung　up；　thought　about　another　cigarette…no　worries　about　lung　cancer；　not　now…and　decided　against　it。　He　put　the　notebook；　open　to　the　last　page；　beside　the　telephone。　He　picked　up　the　gun　and　rolled　out　the　cylinder。　Fully　loaded。　He　snapped　the　cylinder　back　in　with　a　flick　of　his　wrist；　then　slipped　the　short　barrel　into　his　mouth。　It　tasted　of　oil　and　metal。　He　thought；　Here　I　SIT；　about　to　COOL　it；　my　plan　to　EAT　a　fuckin'　BOOL…it。　He　grinned　around　the　barrel。　That　was　terrible。　He　never　would　have　written　that　down　in　his　book。
　　Then　another　thought　occurred　to　him　and　he　put　the　gun　back　in　its　trench　on　the　pillow；　drew　the　phone　to　him　again；　and　once　more　dialled　home。　He　waited　for　his　voice　to　recite　the　useless　cell…phone　number；　then　said；　'Me　again。　Don't　forget　Rambo's　appointment　at　the　vet　day　after　tomorrow；　okay？　Also　the　sea…jerky　strips　at　night。　They　really　do　help　his　hips。　Bye。'
　　He　hung　up　and　raised　the　gun　again。　Before　he　could　put　the　barrel　in　his　mouth；　his　eye　fell　on　the　notebook。　He　frowned　and　put　the　gun　down。　The　book　was　open　to　the　last　four　entries。　The　first　thing　anyone　responding　to　the　shot　would　see　would　be　his　dead　body；　sprawled　across　the　bed　closest　to　the　bathroom；　his　head　hanging　down　and　bleeding　on　the　nubbly　green　rug。　The　second　thing；　however；　would　be　the　Spiral　notebook；　open　to　the　final　written　page。
　　Alfie　imagined　some　cop；　some　Nebraska　state　trooper　who　would　never　be　written　about　on　any　bathroom　wall　due　to　the　disciplines　of　scansion；　reading　those　final　entries；　perhaps　turning　the　battered　old　notebook　toward　him　with　the　tip　of　his　own　pen。　He　would　read　the　first　three　entries…'Trojan　Gum；'　'Poopie　doopie；'　'Save　Russian　Jews'…and　dismiss　them　as　insanity。　He　would　read　the　last　line；　'All　that　you　love　will　be　carried　away；'　and　decide　that　the　dead　guy　had　regained　a　little　rationality　at　the　end；　just　enough　to　write　a　halfway　sensible　suicide　note。
　　Alfie　didn't　like　the　idea　of　people　thinking　he　was　crazy　（further　examination　of　the　book；　which　contained　such　information　as　'Medger　Evers　is　alive　and　well　in　Disneyland；'　would　only　confirm　that　impression）。　He　was　not　crazy；　and　the　things　he　had　written　here　over　the　years　weren't　crazy；　either。　He　was　convinced　of　it。　And　if　he　was　wrong；　if　these　were　the　rantings　of　lunatics；　they　needed　to　be　examined　even　more　closely。　That　thing　about　don't　look　up　here；　you're　pissing　on　your　shoes；　for　instance；　was　that　humor？　Or　a　growl　of　rage？
　　He　considered　using　the　john　to　get　rid　of　the　notebook；　then　shook　his　head。　He'd　end　up　on　his　knees　with　his　shirtsleeves　rolled　back；　fishing　around　in　there；　trying　to　get　the　damn　thing　back　out。　While　the　fan　rattled　and　the　fluorescent　buzzed。　And　although　immersion　might　blur　some　of　the　ink；　it　wouldn't　blur　all　of　it。　Not　enough。　Besides；　the　notebook　had　been　with　him　so　long；　riding　in　his　pocket　across　so　many　flat　and　empty　Midwest　miles。　He　hated　the　idea　of　just　flushing　it　away。
　　The　last　page；　then？　Surely　one　page；　balled　up；　would　go　down。　But　that　would　leave　the　rest　for　them　（there　was　always　a　them）　to　discover；　all　that　clear　evidence　of　an　unsound　mind。　They'd　say；　'Lucky　he　didn't　decide　to　visit　a　schoolyard　with　an　AK…47。　Take　a　bunch　of　little　kids　with　him。'　And　it　would　follow　Maura　like　a　tin　can　tied　to　a　dog's　tail。　'Did　you　hear　about　her　husband？'　they'd　ask　each　other　in　the　supermarket。　'Killed　himself　in　a　motel。　Left　a　book　full　of　crazy　stuff。　Lucky　he　didn't　kill　her。'　Well；　he　could　afford　to　be　a　little　hard　about　that。　Maura　was　an　adult；　after　all。　Carlene；　on　the　other　hand　。　。　。　Carlene　was　。　。　。
　　Alfie　looked　at　his　watch。　At　her　j。…v。　basketball　game；　that's　where　Carlene　was　right　now。　Her　teammates　would　say　most　of　the　same　things　the　supermarket　ladies　would　say；　only　within　earshot　and　acpanied　by　those　chilling　seventh…grade　giggles。　Eyes　full　of　glee　and　horror。　Was　that　fair？　No；　of　course　not；　but　there　was　nothing　fair　about　what　had　happened　to　him；　either。　Sometimes　when　you　were　cruising　along　the　highway；　you　saw　big　curls　of　rubber　that　had　unwound　from　the　recap　tires　some　of　the　independent　truckers　used。　That　was　what　he　felt　like　now：　thrown　tread。　The　pills　made　it　worse。　They　cleared　your　mind　just　enough　for　you　to　see　what　a　colossal　jam　you　were　in。
　　'But　I'm　not　crazy；'　he　said。　'That　doesn't　make　me　crazy。'　No。　Crazy　might　actually　be　better。
　　Alfie　picked　up　the　notebook；　flipped　it　closed　much　as　he　had　flipped　the　cylinder　back　into　the　。38；　and　sat　there　tapping　it　against　his　leg。　This　was　ludicrous。
　　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。　Onl