Part 34 (1/2)
We got out to the street. It was cold. It was supposed to be warm today. At least, that's what the weatherman had said this morning.
Mr. Watson stopped at his Fire Department car, which was parked at a hydrant. He had a ticket under the winds.h.i.+eld wiper. ”Sorry about the bad news, kid. Maybe things will turn around, and in six months we'll all be back at work.”
He stuck out his hand and I shook it. It was strong but not overbearing, like he could pick me up and put me on his shoulders if he felt like it. Like he was going to do that at any instant. I instantly felt a huge surge of confidence. ”Yeah, maybe so.”
”I think it will. Sit tight. Hey, I hear that diner around the corner -the one run by the Brazilian couple-has a great lunch deal.”
That was a great idea. I didn't want to go back inside and it was close enough to lunchtime. I was hungry, wasn't I?I was. ”Yeah, I think I'll go by there.”
”Good idea. You do that. Take care of yourself, kid,”he said, and for a moment he sounded almost sad. He got into his city car, plucking the ticket off the winds.h.i.+eld, and disappeared into the traffic.
I'd been to the Brazilian place a couple of times, and as soon as I pa.s.sed through the front door I remembered their meat dishes were pretty good, but not much else was. I thought about turning around but what the h.e.l.l, I was already there. I took a seat at the counter and my neighbor looked at me and then jumped. ”Holy c.r.a.p!Nick! I was just thinking about you!”
It was Denny. I could not believe it and then I did.
For a solid two seconds, maybe even three-which is a long time for this kind of mistake-I was confident he was my client. Mr. Watson was right, it was all going to turn around. I relaxed, sat back and got ready for the moment when I would tell him about my dream.
Denny did not notice. He was still all enthused to see me. ”You were a great worker, you know that?I don't think I ever told you, and I never realized it until later, but you were one of the best workers I ever had. I owe you an apology for all the s.h.i.+t you must have put up with.”
Despite myself I laughed. He seemed really, genuinely happy to see me. Which was nothing like the scowling, surly b.a.s.t.a.r.d he'd been. He looked better, too; his skin was clearer, and he looked me in the eye with nothing but pleasure at seeing me.
”That's nice of you, Denny. How're things?”
”Oh, pretty good. Pretty great, actually. I met this girl, Lucky, and I got sober. I don't think you knew that. I'm an alcoholic.”
He looked at me candidly, with a touch of sad self-deprecation. I did not know this about him, and was surprised.
”I'm sober now two years and almost seven months.”
”Wow. Denny that's great. Really. I'm really happy for you.”
Denny looked at his watch. The plate in front of him was empty. I suddenly realized he wasn't in his painter's whites.
”You're not painting anymore?”
”Oh, I still have the business but no, I got people to do the work. Hey, I'm sure you're not interested, but if you want work I got a spot for you. Your own truck. If it works out, maybe a crew. Lucky is setting up a health package and stuff and maybe I could offer that soon.”
Denny was like a different person, it was all kind of hard to believe. I suddenly thought that must have been some kind of woman he met.
He was holding his card out to me. It was crisp and expensive-looking. He used to peel them off a paint-soaked stack that lived in the bottom of a bag. He would hand you this dirty, half-ripped piece of c.r.a.p with a faded rainbow logo and you just knew he was a loser. This card was the exact opposite.
I looked at the card without reaching for it. Denny got a softer look, as though he suddenly realized maybe he was being too hard for the circ.u.mstances, like he often used to be. I noticed this and smiled. He wasn't sure what to do with that and proffered the card again.
I'm not the kind that believes we are faced with the inevitable every day, but at times the future is, genuinely, unavoidable, and you have to be a fool to try to get out of its way.
The pool expands, the pool contracts.
I took the card.
Story by C. E. Guimont Ill.u.s.tration by Adam Koford
HE HAD NOT READ HIS SLIP OF PAPER. It was folded in an envelope in his left pocket. In his right pocket were several books of matches, and he was wearing a backpack. He pushed his way through the scrubby pine trees on the west border of the barrens.
”This isn't how it works, you know. The machine is playing word games.”
He hopped across a clear stream, feet sinking into the sandy bank on the other side, wetness seeping over the soles of his sneakers. Water was bad. He needed dry brush.
”The universe doesn't work by word games. You have to think with words to play word games.”
He kicked at a snake, daring it to bite, but it disappeared into the undergrowth.
”You can't just say what's going to happen ahead of time. That's not how physical law works. That's narrative. And when reality is twisted to fit narrative, that's not natural. That's someone making stories happen.”
A few strands of spiderweb brushed his cheek and eyelash, and he swatted at the air around his face. He was climbing higher. He spotted a cl.u.s.ter of dry-looking bushes in the fading light, and took one of the kerosene bottles from his backpack.
”We have tales about this. The Oracle makes a prediction, and it comes true in an ironic way. Every legend has them. But that's how you tell the legends apart from reality. In reality, the magic doesn't work.”
He unscrewed the cap on the kerosene bottle and started splas.h.i.+ng the liquid over the dead leaves. He continued until the bottle was empty and the brush was thoroughly soaked.
”There are paradoxes, too. Playing word games only frees you from them for so long. You're messing with things, somehow, keeping people dying the right way no matter what we do. If we watch long enough we'll see your hand move. I'm not stupid. You can't just change things like this.”
The breeze was strong and westerly, and there was plenty of brush downwind. He struck a match, stared for a moment, and then dropped it among the fuel-soaked leaves.
”Physics works by saying that if you set things up like so, this is what will happen. Curses say that no matter how you set things up, this is what will happen. And curses don't work. They never have. That's not how our universe goes. They're in all of our stories, but that's 'cause we're people, and we can figure out a way to make them adapt to each new situation. It takes a mind to do that.”
The grove was ablaze. He turned from the heat and walked away.
”It takes a mind,” he repeated as he went, ”and yet those people are all dead, just as their papers predicted. So where does that leave us?”
There was no answer. He reached the car. It was a Chevy Nova with no gla.s.s in the back window. He had bought it for $300, cash.
”I never expected an answer. I never thought the priest or the rabbi or the monk knew any more than I did. I was at peace with an uncaring universe. So what the h.e.l.l is this all about? For the first time, a chance at some answers, and you're playing games?”
He pulled out onto the freeway, and settled the speedometer at seventy. Any faster and he might get pulled over. In any event, the car wouldn't go any faster.
”Are you even paying attention? Am I just talking to myself? Maybe you're on autopilot. Maybe you haven't noticed me yet.”
He drove silently for an hour, then got off at a random exit.
”You can't just announce that it's all been a game and then expect me to keep playing. I spend my life waiting for some f.u.c.king answers and then you wave this in front of me. I'm not going to sit around and pa.s.sively watch how it all plays out and laugh at your cleverness. I want to talk to you. I want to know who the h.e.l.l you are.”
He pa.s.sed an all-night Wal-Mart parking lot, drove on for half a mile, and turned right onto a dirt road. He followed it for a bit, then turned off the road and maneuvered the car between the trees down into a small ravine, where the wheels stuck in the mud. He turned off the car, took his backpack, and walked toward the Wal-Mart.
”So who are you, anyway? Are you what waits on the other side, with the papers guiding us to you? Or are you a petty, stupid animal like us, a level above but just as lost, playing games? Do you know your own destiny, your own end? Does the same reaper who collects our souls wait, somewhere, for you? What does it say on YOUR piece of paper?”