sk.everythingseventual-第54部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　I　got　up；　put　on　my　coat　（it　was　early　spring　then；　and　cold　at　night…it　seems　to　me　that　it's　always　cold　at　night　in　western　Pennsylvania）；　started　out　the　door；　then　went　back　and　left　a　note　for　Ma。　'Went　out　to　see　a　couple　of　guys；'　I　wrote。　'Will　be　back　by　midnight。'　I　intended　to　be　back　well　before　midnight；　but　that　note　seemed　like　a　good　idea。　I　wouldn't　let　myself　think　too　closely　about　why　it　seemed　like　a　good　idea；　not　then；　but　I　can　own　up　to　it　now：　if　something　happened　to　me；　something　bad；　I　wanted　to　make　sure　Ma　would　call　the　police。
　　
　　VIII
　　
　　There　are　two　kinds　of　scared…at　least　that's　my　theory。　There's　TV…scared；　and　there's　real…scared。　I　think　we　go　through　most　of　our　lives　only　getting　TV…scared。　Like　when　we're　waiting　for　our　blood…tests　to　e　back　from　the　doctor　or　when　we're　walking　home　from　the　library　in　the　dark　and　thinking　about　bad　guys　in　the　bushes。　We　don't　get　real…scared　about　shit　like　that；　because　we　know　in　our　heart　of　hearts　that　the　blood…tests　will　e　back　clean　and　there　won't　be　any　bad　guys　in　the　bushes。　Why？　Because　stuff　like　that　only　happens　to　the　people　on　TV。
　　When　I　saw　that　big　gray　Mercedes；　the　only　car　in　about　an　acre　of　empty　parking　lot；　I　got　real…scared　for　the　first　time　since　the　thing　in　the　box…room　with　Skipper　Brannigan。　That　time　was　the　closest　we　ever　came　to　really　getting　into　it。
　　Mr。　Sharpton's　ride　was　sitting　under　the　light　of　the　lot's　yellow　mercury…vapor　lamps；　a　big　old　Krautmobile；　at　least　a　450　and　probably　a　500；　the　kind　of　car　that　costs　a　hundred　and　twenty　grand　these　days。　Sitting　there　next　to　the　Kart　Korral　（now　almost　empty　for　the　night；　all　the　carts　except　for　one　poor　old　three…wheeled　cripple　safely　locked　up　inside）　with　its　parking　lights　on　and　white　exhaust　drifting　up　into　the　air。　Engine　rumbling　like　a　sleepy　cat。
　　I　drove　toward　it；　my　heart　pumping　slow　but　hard　and　a　taste　like　pennies　in　my　throat。　I　wanted　to　just　mat　the　accelerator　of　my　Ford　（which　in　those　days　always　smelled　like　a　pepperoni　pizza）　and　get　the　hell　out　of　there；　but　I　couldn't　get　rid　of　the　idea　that　the　guy　knew　about　Skipper。　I　could　tell　myself　there　was　nothing　to　know；　that　Charles　'Skipper'　Brannigan　had　either　had　an　accident　or　mitted　suicide；　the　cops　weren't　sure　which　（they　couldn't　have　known　him　very　well；　if　they　had；　they　would　have　thrown　the　idea　of　suicide　right　out　the　window…guys　like　Skipper　don't　off　themselves；　not　at　the　age　of　twenty…three　they　don't）；　but　that　didn't　stop　the　voice　from　yammering　away　that　I　was　in　trouble；　someone　had　figured　it　out；　someone　had　gotten　hold　of　the　letter　and　figured　it　out。
　　That　voice　didn't　have　logic　on　its　side；　but　it　didn't　need　to。　It　had　good　lungs　and　just　outscreamed　logic。　I　parked　beside　the　idling　Mercedes　and　rolled　my　window　down。　At　the　same　time；　the　driver's…side　window　of　the　Mercedes　rolled　down。　We　looked　at　each　other；　me　and　Mr。　Sharpton；　like　a　couple　of　old　friends　meeting　at　the　Hi…Hat　Drive…In。
　　I　don't　remember　much　about　him　now。　That's　weird；　considering　all　the　time　I've　spent　thinking　about　him　since；　but　it's　the　truth。　Only　that　he　was　thin；　and　that　he　was　wearing　a　suit。　A　good　one；　I　think；　although　judging　stuff　like　that's　not　my　strong　point。　Still；　the　suit　eased　me　a　little。　I　guess　that；　unconsciously；　I　had　this　idea　that　a　suit　means　business；　and　jeans　and　a　tee…shirt　means　fuckery。
　　'Hello；　Dink；'　he　says。　'I'm　Mr。　Sharpton。　e　on　in　here　and　sit　down。'
　　'Why　don't　we　just　stay　the　way　we　are？'　I　asked。　'We　can　talk　to　each　other　through　these　windows。　People　do　it　all　the　time。'
　　He　only　looked　at　me　and　said　nothing。　After　a　few　seconds　of　that；　I　turned　off　the　Ford　and　got　out。　I　don't　know　exactly　why；　but　I　did。　I　was　more　scared　than　ever；　I　can　tell　you　that。　Real…scared。　Real　as　real　as　real。　Maybe　that　was　why　he　could　get　me　to　do　what　he　wanted。
　　I　stood　between　Mr。　Sharpton's　car　and　mine　for　a　minute；　looking　at　the　Kart　Korral　and　thinking　about　Skipper。　He　was　tall；　with　this　wavy　blond　hair　he　bed　straight　back　from　his　forehead。　He　had　pimples；　and　these　red　lips；　like　a　girl　wearing　lipstick。　'Hey　Dinky；　let's　see　your　dinky；'　he'd　say。　Or　'Hey　Dinky；　you　want　to　suck　my　dinky？'　You　know；　witty　shit　like　that。　Sometimes；　when　we　were　rounding　up　the　carts；　he'd　chase　me　with　one；　nipping　at　my　heels　with　it　and　going　'Rmmmm！　Rmmmmm！　Rmmmmm！'　like　a　fucking　race…car。　A　couple　of　times　he　knocked　me　over。　At　dinner…break；　if　I　had　my　food　on　my　lap；　he'd　bump　into　me　good　and　hard；　see　if　he　could　knock　something　onto　the　floor。　You　know　the　kind　of　stuff　I'm　talking　about；　I'm　sure。　It　was　like　he'd　never　gotten　over　those　ideas　of　what's　funny　to　bored　kids　sitting　in　the　back　row　of　study　hall。
　　I　had　a　ponytail　at　work；　you　had　to　wear　your　hair　in　a　ponytail　if　you　had　it　long；　supermarket　rules；　and　sometimes　Skipper　would　e　up　behind　me；　grab　the　rubber　band　I　used；　and　yank　it　out。　Sometimes　it　would　snarl　in　my　hair　and　pull　it。　Sometimes　it　would　break　and　snap　against　my　neck。　It　got　so　I'd　stick　two　or　three　extra　rubber　bands　in　my　pants　pocket　before　I　left　for　work。　I'd　try　not　to　think　about　why　I　was　doing　it；　what　I　was　putting　up　with。　If　I　did；　I'd　probably　start　hating　myself。
　　Once　I　turned　around　on　my　heels　when　he　did　that；　and　he　must　have　seen　something　on　my　face；　because　his　teasing　smile　went　away　and　another　one　came　up　where　it　had　been。　The　teasing　smile　didn't　show　his　teeth；　but　the　new　one　did。　Out　in　the　box…room；　this　was；　where　the　north　wall　is　always　cold　because　it　backs　up　against　the　meat…locker。　He　raised　his　hands　and　made　them　into　fists。　The　other　guys　sat　around　with　their　lunches；　looking　at　us；　and　I　knew　none　of　them　would　help。　Not　even　Pug；　who　stands　about　five…feet…four　anyway　and　weighs　about　a　hundred　and　ten　pounds。　Skipper　would　have　eaten　him　like　candy；　and　Pug　knew　it。
　　'e　on；　assface；'　Skipper　said；　smiling　that　smile。　The　broken　rubber　band　he'd　stripped　out　of　my　hair　was　dangling　between　two　of　his　knuckles；　hanging　down　like　a　little　red　lizard's　tongue。　'e　on；　you　want　to　fight　me？　e　on；　sure。　I'll　fight　you。'
　　What　I　wanted　was　to　ask　why　it　had　to　be　me　he　settled　on；　why　it　was　me　who　somehow　rubbed　his　fur　wrong；　why　it　had　to　be　any　guy。　But　he　wouldn't　have　had　an　answer。　Guys　like　Skipper　never　do。　They　just　want　to　knock　your　teeth　out。　So　instead；　I　just　sat　back　down　and　picked　up　my　sandwich　again。　If　I　tried　to　fight　Skipper；　he'd　likely　put　me　in　the　hospital。　I　started　to　eat；　although　I　wasn't　hungry　anymore。　He　looked　at　me　a　second　or　two　longer；　and　I　thought　he　might　go　after　me；　anyway；　but　then　he　unrolled　his　fists。　The　broken　rubber　band　dropped　onto　the　floor　beside　a　smashed　lettuce…crate。　'You　waste；'　Skipper　said。　'You　fucking　longhair　hippie　waste。'　Then　he　walked　away。　It　was　only　a　few　days　later　that　he　mashed　my　fingers　between　two　of　the　carts　in　the　Korral；　and　a　few　days　after　that　Skipper　was　lying　on　satin　in　the　Methodist　Church　with　the　organ　playing。　He　brought　it　on　himself；　though。　At　least　that's　what　I　thought　then。
　　'A　little　trip　down　Memory　Lane？'　Mr。　Sharpton　asked；　and　that　jerked　me　back　to　the　present。　I　was　standing　between　his　car　and　mine；　standing　by　the　Kart　Korral　where　Skipper　would　never　mash　anyone　else's　fingers。
　　'I　don't　know　what　you're　talking　about。'
　　'And　it　doesn't　matter。　Hop　in　here；　Dink；　and　let's　have　a　little　talk。'
　　I　opened　the　door　of　the　Mercedes　and　got　in。　Man；　that　smell。　It's　leather；　but　not　just　leather。　You　know　how；　in　Monopoly；　there's　a　Get…Out…of…Jail…Free　card？　When　you're　rich　enough　to　afford　a　car　that　smells　like　Mr。　Sharpton's　gray　Mercedes；　you　must　have　a　Get…Out…of…Everything…Free　card。
　　I　took　a　deep　breath；　held　it；　then　let　it　out　and　said；　'This　is　eventual。'
　　Mr。　Sharpton　laughed；　his　clean…shaven　cheeks　gleaming　in　the　dashboard　lights。　He　didn't　ask　what　I　meant；　he　knew。　'Everything's　eventual；　Dink；'　he　said。　'Or　can　be；　for　the　right　person。'
　　'You　think　so？'
　　'Know　so。'　Not　a　shred　of　doubt　in　his　voice。
　　'I　like　your　tie；'　I　said。