sk.misery-第22部分

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　told　me　you　were　planning　to　review　one　of　my　books　in　the　daily　Times；　my　knees　used　to　knock　together　…　you　gave　me　some　good　ones；　Chris　old　buddy；　but　you　also　torpedoed　me　more　than　once；　as　you　well　know。　Anyway；　I　just　wanted　to　tell　you　to　go　ahead　and　do　your　worst　…　I've　discovered　a　whole　new　critical　mode；　my　friend。　We　might　call　it　the　Colorado　Barbecue　and　Floor…Bucket　school　of　thought。　It　makes　the　stuff　you　guys　do　look　about　as　scary　as　a　ride　on　the　Central　Park　carousel。〃　This　is　all　very　amusing；　Paul；　writing　critics　little　billets…doux　in　one's　head　is　always　good　for　a　giggle；　but　you　really　ought　to　find　yourself　a　pot　and　get　it　boiling；　don't　you　think？
　Yes。　Yes　indeed。
　The　typewriter　sat　there；　smirking　at　him。
　〃I　hate　you；〃　Paul　said　morosely；　and　looked　out　the　window。
　
　
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　The　snow…storm　to　which　Paul　had　awakened　the　day　after　his　expedition　to　the　bathroom　had　gone　on　for　two　days　…　there　had　been　at　least　eighteen　inches　of　new　fall；　and　heavy　drifting。　By　the　time　the　sun　finally　peered　through　the　clouds　again；　Annie's　Cherokee　was　nothing　but　a　vague　hump　in　the　driveway。
　Now；　however；　the　sun　was　out　again　and　the　sky　was　brilliant　once　more。　That　sun　had　heat　as　well　as　brilliance　…　he　could　feel　it　on　his　face　and　hands　as　he　sat　here。　The　icicles　along　the　barn　were　dripping　again。　He　thought　briefly　of　his　car　in　the　snow；　and　then　picked　up　a　piece　of　paper　and　rolled　it　into　the　Royal。　He　typed　the　words　MISERY'S　RETUR　in　the　upper　left…hand　er；　the　number　I　in　the　upper　right。　He　banged　the　carriage…return　lever　four　or　five　times；　centered　the　carriage；　and　typed　CHAPTER　I。　He　hit　the　keys　harder　than　necessary；　so　she　would　be　sure　to　hear　he　was　typing　something；　at　least。
　Now　there　was　all　this　white　space　below　CHAPTER　I；　looking　like　a　snowbank　into　which　he　could　fall　and　die；　smothered　in　frost。
　Africa。
　As　long　as　they　played　fair。
　That　bird　came　from　Africa。
　There　was　a　parachute　under　his　seat。
　Africa。
　Now　I　must　rinse。
　He　was　drifting　off　and　knew　he　shouldn't　…　if　she　came　in　here　and　caught　him　cooping　instead　of　writing　she　would　be　mad　…　but　he　let　himself　drift　anyway。　He　was　not　just　dozing；　he　was；　in　an　odd　way；　thinking。　Looking。　Searching。
　Searching　for　what；　Paulie？
　But　that　was　obvious。　The　plane　was　in　a　power…dive。　He　was　searching　for　the　parachute　under　the　seat。　Okay？　Fair　enough？
　Fair　enough。　When　he　found　the　parachute　under　the　seat；　it　was　fair。　Maybe　not　all　that　realistic；　but　fair。
　For　a　couple　of　summers　his　mother　had　sent　him　to　day…camp　at　the　Malden　munity　Center。　And　they　had　played　this　game　。　。　。　they　sat　in　a　circle；　and　the　game　was　like　Annie's　chapter…plays；　and　he　almost　always　won　。　。　。　What　was　that　game　called？
　He　could　see　fifteen　or　twenty　little　boys　and　girls　sitting　in　a　circle　in　one　shady　corner　of　a　playground；　all　of　them　wearing　Malden　munity　Center　tee…shirts；　all　listening　intently　as　the　counsellor　explained　how　the　game　was　played。　Can　You？；　the　name　of　that　game　was　Can　You？；　and　it　really　was　just　like　the　Republic　cliff…hangers；　the　game　you　played　then　was　Can　You？；　Paulie；　and　that's　the　name　of　the　game　now；　isn't　it？
　Yes；　he　supposed　it　was。
　In　Can　You？　the　counsellor　would　start　a　story　about　this　guy　named　Careless　Corrigan。　Careless　was　lost　in　the　trackless　jungles　of　South　America。　Suddenly　he　looks　around　and　sees　there　are　lions　behind　him　。　。　。　lions　on　either　side　of　him　。　。　。　and　by…God　lions　ahead　of　him。
　Careless　Corrigan　is　surrounded　by　lions　。　。　。　and　they　a　starting　to　move　in。　It's　only　five　in　the　afternoon；　but　that　is　no　problem　for　these　kitties；　as　far　as　South　American　lions　are　concerned；　that　dinner…at…eight　shit　is　for　goofballs。
　The　counsellor　had　had　a　stopwatch；　and　Paul　Sheldon's　dozing　mind　saw　it　with　brilliant　clarity；　although　he　had　last　held　its　honest　silver　weight　in　his　hand　more　than　thirty　years　ago。　He　could　see　the　fine　copperplate　of　the　numbers　the　smaller　needle　at　the　bottom　which　recorded　tenths　of　seconds；　he　could　see　the　brand　name　printed　in　tiny　letters：　ANNEX。
　The　counsellor　would　look　around　the　circle　and　pick　one　of　the　day…campers。　〃Daniel；〃　he　would　say。　〃Can　you？〃　The　moment　Can　you？　was　out　of　his　mouth；　the　counsellor　would　click　the　stopwatch　into　motion。
　Daniel　then　had　exactly　ten　seconds　to　go　on　with　the　story。　If　he　did　not　begin　to　speak　during　those　ten　seconds；　he　had　to　leave　the　circle。　But　if　he　got　Careless　away　from　the　lions；　the　counsellor　would　look　at　the　circle　again　and　ask　the　game's　other　question；　one　that　recalled　his　current　situation　clearly　to　mind　again。　This　question　was　Did　he？
　The　rules　for　this　part　of　the　game　were　Annie's　exactly。　Realism　was　not　necessary；　fairness　was。　Daniel　could　say；　for　instance：　〃Luckily；　Careless　had　his　Winchester　with　him　and　plenty　of　ammo。　So　he　shot　three　of　the　lions　and　the　rest　ran　away。〃　In　a　case　like　that；　Daniel　did。　He　got　the　stopwatch　and　went　on　with　the　story；　ending　his　segment　with　Careless　up　to　his　hips　in　a　pool　of　quicksand　or　something；　and　then　he　would　ask　someone　else　if　he　or　she　could；　and　bang　down　the　button　on　the　stopwatch。
　But　ten　seconds　wasn't　long〃　and　it　was　easy　to　get　jammed　up　。　。　。　easy　to　cheat。　The　next　kid　might　well　say　something　like　〃Just　then　this　great　big　bird　…　an　Andean　vulture；　I　think　…　flew　down。　Careless　grabbed　its　neck　and　made　it　pull　him　out　of　that　quicksand。〃　When　the　counsellor　asked　Did　she？；　you　raised　your　hand　if　you　thought　she　had；　left　it　down　if　you　thought　she　had　blown　it。　In　the　case　of　the　Andean　vulture；　the　kid　would　almost　surely　have　been　invited　to　leave　the　circle。
　Can　you；　Paul？
　Yeah。　That's　how　I　survive。　That's　how　e　I'm　able　to　maintain　homes　in　both　New　York　and　L。A。　and　more　rolling　iron　than　there　is　in　some　used…car　lots。　Because　I　can；　and　it's　not　something　to　apologize　for；　goddammit。　There　are　lots　of　guys　out　there　who　write　a　better　prose　line　than　I　do　and　who　have　a　better　understanding　of　what　people　are　really　like　and　what　humanity　is　supposed　to　mean　…　hell　I　know　that。　But　when　the　counsellor　asks　Did　he？　about　those　guys；　sometimes　only　a　few　people　raise　their　hands。　But　they　raise　their　hands　for　me　。　。　。　or　for　Misery　。　。　。　and　in　the　end　I　guess　they're　both　the　same。　Can　I？　Yeah。　You　bet　I　can。　There's　a　million　things　in　this　world　I　can't　do。　Couldn't　hit　a　curve　ball；　even　back　in　high　school。　Can't　fix　a　leaky　faucet。　Can't　roller…skate　or　make　an　F…chord　on　the　guitar　that　sounds　like　anything　but　shit。　I　have　tried　twice　to　be　married　and　couldn't　do　it　either　time。　But　if　you　want　me　to　take　you　away；　to　scare　you　or　involve　you　or　make　you　cry　or　grin；　yeah。　I　can。　I　can　bring　it　to　you　and　keep　bringing　it　until　you　holler　uncle。　I　am　able。　I　CAN。
　The　typewriter's　insolent　gunslinger…voice　whispered　into　this　deepening　dream。
　What　we　got　here；　friends；　is　a　lot　of　two　things　…　big　talk　and　white　space。
　Can　You？
　Yes。　Yes！
　Did　he？
　No。　He　cheated。　In　Misery's　Child　the　doctor　never　came。　Maybe　the　rest　of　you　forgot　what　happened　last　week；　but　the　stone　idol　never　forgets。　Paul　has　to　leave　the　circle。　Pardon　me；　please。　Now　I　must　rinse。　Now　I　must　…
　
　
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　〃　…　rinse；　〃　he　muttered；　and　slid　over　to　the　right。　This　dragged　his　left　leg　slightly　askew；　and　the　bolt　of　pain　in　his　crushed　knee　was　enough　to　wake　him　up。　Less　than　five　minutes　had　gone　by。　He　could　hear　Annie　washing　dishes　in　the　kitchen。　Usually　she　sang　as　she　did　her　chores。　Today　she　was　not　singing；　there　was　only　the　rattle　of　plates　and　the　occasional　hiss　of　rinse…water。　Another　bad　sign。　Here's　a　special　weather　bulletin　for　residents　of　Sheldon　County　…　a　tomado　watch　is　in　effect　until　5。00　P。M。　tonight。　I　repeat；　a　tomado　watch　…　But　it　was　time　to　stop　playing　games　and　get　down　to　business。　She　wanted　Misery　back　from　the　dead；　but　it　had　to　be　fair。　Not　necessarily　realistic；　just　fair。　If　he　could　do　it　this　morning；　he　could　just　maybe　he　could　derail　the　depression　he　sensed　ing　on　before　it　could　get　a　real　start。
　Paul　looked　out　the　window；　his　chin　on　his　palm。　He　was　fully　awake　now；　thinking　fast　and　hard；　but　not　really　aware　of　the　process。　The　top　two　or　three　layers　of　his　conscious　mind；　which　dealt　with　such　things　as　when　he　had　last　shampooed；　or　whether　or　not　Annie　would　be　on　time　with　his　next　dope　allotment；　seemed　to　have　departed　the　scene　entirely。　That　part　of　his　head　had　quietly　gone　out　to　get　a　pastrami　on　rye；　or　something。　There　was　sensory　input；　but　he　was　not　doing　anything　with　it　…　not　seeing　what　he　was　seeing；　not　hearing　what　he　was　hearing。
　Another　part　of　him　was　furiously　trying　out　ideas；　rejecting　them；　trying　to　bine　them；　rejecting　the　binations。　He　sensed　this　going　on　but　had　no　direct　contact　with　it　and　wanted　none。　It　was　dirty　down　there　in　the　sweatshops。
　He　understood　what　he　was　doing　now　as　TRYING　TO　HAVE　AN　IDEA。　TRYING　TO　HAVE　AN　IDEA　wasn't　the　same　thing　as　GETTING　AN　IDEA。　GETTING　AN　IDEA　was　a　more　humble　way　of　saying　I　am　inspired；　or　Eureka！　My　muse　has　spoken！
　The　idea　for　Fast　Cars　had　e　to　him　one　day　in　New　York　City。　He　had　gone　out　with　no　more　in　mind　than　buying　a　VCR　for　the　townhouse　on　83rd　Street。　He　had　passed　a　parking　lot　and　had　seen　an　attendant　trying　to　jimmy　his　way　into　a　car。　That　was　all。　He　had　no　idea　if　what　he　had　seen　was　licit　or　illicit；　and　by　the　time　he　had　walked　another　two　or　three　blocks；　he　no　longer　cared。　The　attendant　had　bee　Tony　Bonasaro。　He　knew　everything　about　Tony　but　his　name；　which　he　later　plucked　from　a　telephone　book。　Half　the　story　existed；　full…blown；　in　his　mind；　and　the　rest　was　rapidly　falling　into　place。　He　felt　jivey；　happy；　almost　drunk。　The　muse　had　arrived；　every　bit　as　wele　as　an　unexpected　check　in　the　mail。　He　had　set　out　to　get　a　video　recorder　and　had　gotten　something　much　better　instead。　He　had　GOTTEN　AN　IDEA。
　This　other　process　…　TRYING　TO　HAVE　AN　IDEA　…　was　nowhere　near　as　exalted　or　exalting；　but　it　was　every　bit　as　mysterious　。　。　。　and　every　bit　as　necessary。　Because　when　you　were　writing　a　novel　you　almost　always　got　roadblocked　somewhere