sk.everythingseventual-第14部分

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　　He　lit　a　cigarette；　reached　for　the　telephone；　then　remembered　his　notebook。　He　reached　into　his　right　coat　pocket　and　pulled　it　out。　It　was　an　old　Spiral；　bought　for　a　buck　forty…nine　in　the　stationery　department　of　some　forgotten　five…and…dime　in　Omaha　or　Sioux　City　or　maybe　Jubilee；　Kansas。　The　cover　was　creased　and　almost　pletely　innocent　of　any　printing　it　might　once　have　borne。　Some　of　the　pages　had　pulled　partially　free　of　the　metal　coil　that　served　as　the　notebook's　binding；　but　all　of　them　were　still　there。　Alfie　had　been　carrying　this　notebook　for　almost　seven　years；　ever　since　his　days　selling　Universal　Product　Code　readers　for　Simonex。
　　There　was　an　ashtray　on　the　shelf　under　the　phone。　Out　here；　some　of　the　motel　rooms　still　came　with　ashtrays；　even　on　the　first　floor。　Alfie　fished　for　it；　put　his　cigarette　on　the　groove；　and　opened　his　notebook。　He　flipped　through　pages　written　with　a　hundred　different　pens　（and　a　few　pencils）；　pausing　to　read　a　couple　of　entries。　One　read：　'I　suckt　Jim　Morrison's　cock　w/my　poutie　boy　mouth　（LAWRENCE　KS）。'　Restrooms　were　filled　with　homosexual　graffiti；　most　of　it　tiresome　and　repetitive；　but　'poutie　boy　mouth'　was　pretty　good。　Another　was　'Albert　Gore　is　my　favorite　whore　（MURDO　S　DAK）。'
　　The　last　page；　three…quarters　of　the　way　through　the　book；　had　just　two　entries。　'Dont　chew　the　Trojan　Gum　it　taste's　just　like　rubber　（AVOCA　IA）。'　And：　'Poopie　doopie　you　so　loopy　（PAPILLION　NEB）。'　Alfie　was　crazy　about　that　one。　Something　about　the　'…ie；…ie；'　and　then；　boom；　you　got　'…y。'　It　could　have　been　no　more　than　an　illiterate's　mistake　（he　was　sure　that　would　have　been　Maura's　take　on　it）　but　why　think　like　that？　What　fun　was　that？　No；　Alfie　preferred　（even　now）　to　believe　that　'…ie；…ie；'　。　。　。　wait　for　it　。　。　。　'…y'　was　an　intended　construction。　Something　sneaky　but　playful；　with　the　feel　of　an　e。　e。　cummings　poem。
　　He　rummaged　through　the　stuff　in　his　inside　coat　pocket；　feeling　papers；　an　old　toll…ticket；　a　bottle　of　pills…stuff　he　had　quit　taking…and　at　last　finding　the　pen　that　always　hid　in　the　litter。　Time　to　record　today's　finds。　Two　good　ones；　both　from　the　same　rest　area；　one　over　the　urinal　he　had　used；　the　other　written　with　a　Sharpie　on　the　map　case　beside　the　Hav…A…Bite　machine。　（Snax；　which　in　Alfie's　opinion　vended　a　superior　product　line；　had　for　some　reason　been　disenfranchised　in　the　I…80　rest　areas　about　four　years　ago。）　These　days　Alfie　sometimes　went　two　weeks　and　three　thousand　miles　without　seeing　anything　new；　or　even　a　viable　variation　on　something　old。　Now；　two　in　one　day。　Two　on　the　last　day。　Like　some　sort　of　omen。
　　His　pen　had　COTTAGER　FOODS　THE　GOOD　STUFF！　written　in　gold　along　the　barrel；　next　to　the　logo；　a　thatched　hut　with　smoke　ing　out　of　the　quaintly　crooked　chimney。
　　Sitting　there　on　the　bed；　still　in　his　topcoat；　Alfie　bent　studiously　over　his　old　notebook　so　that　his　shadow　fell　on　the　page。　Below　'Dont　chew　the　Trojan　Gum'　and　'Poopie　doopie　you　so　loopy；'　Alfie　added　'Save　Russian　Jews；　collect　valuable　prizes　（WALTON　NEB）'　and　'All　that　you　love　will　be　carried　away　（WALTON　NEB）。'　He　hesitated。　He　rarely　added　notes；　liking　his　finds　to　stand　alone。　Explanation　rendered　the　exotic　mundane　（or　so　he　had　e　to　believe；　in　the　early　years　he　had　annotated　much　more　freely）；　but　from　time　to　time　a　footnote　still　seemed　to　be　more　illuminating　than　demystifying。
　　He　starred　the　second　entry…'All　that　you　love　will　be　carried　away　（WALTON　NEB）'…and　drew　a　line　two　inches　above　the　bottom　of　the　page；　and　wrote。*
　　
　　*'To　read　this　you　must　also　look　at　the　exit　ramp　from　the　Walton　Rest　Area　back　to　highway；　i。e。　at　departing　transients。'
　　
　　He　put　the　pen　back　in　his　pocket；　wondering　why　he　or　anyone　would　continue　anything　this　close　to　ending　everything。　He　couldn't　think　of　a　single　answer。　But　of　course　you　went　on　breathing；　too。　You　couldn't　stop　it　without　rough　surgery。
　　The　wind　gusted　outside。　Alfie　looked　briefly　toward　the　window；　where　the　curtain　（also　green；　but　a　different　shade　from　the　rug）　had　been　drawn。　If　he　pulled　it　back；　he　would　be　able　to　see　chains　of　light　on　Interstate　80；　each　bright　bead　marking　sentient　beings　running　on　the　rod　of　the　highway。　Then　he　looked　back　down　at　his　book。　He　meant　to　do　it；　all　right。　This　was　just　。　。　。　well　。　。　。
　　'Breathing；'　he　said；　and　smiled。　He　picked　his　cigarette　out　of　the　ashtray；　smoked；　returned　it　to　the　groove；　and　thumbed　back　through　the　book　again。　The　entries　recalled　thousands　of　truck　stops　and　roadside　chicken　shacks　and　highway　rest　areas　the　way　certain　songs　on　the　radio　can　bring　back　specific　memories　of　a　place；　a　time；　the　person　you　were　with；　what　you　were　drinking；　what　you　were　thinking。
　　'Here　I　sit；　brokenhearted；　tried　to　shit　but　only　farted。'　Everyone　knew　that　one；　but　here　was　an　interesting　variation　from　Double　D　Steaks　in　Hooker；　Oklahoma：　'Here　I　sit；　I'm　at　a　loss；　trying　to　shit　out　taco　sauce。　I　know　I'm　going　to　drop　a　load；　only　hope　I　don't　explode。'　And　from　Casey；　Iowa；　where　SR　25　crossed　I…80：　'My　mother　made　me　a　whore。'　To　which　someone　had　added　in　very　different　penmanship：　'If　I　supply　the　yarn　will　she　make　me　one？'
　　He　had　started　collecting　when　he　was　selling　the　UPCs；　noting　various　bits　of　graffiti　in　the　Spiral　notebook　without　at　first　knowing　why　he　was　doing　it。　They　were　just　amusing；　or　disconcerting；　or　both　at　the　same　time。　Yet　little　by　little　he　had　bee　fascinated　with　these　messages　from　the　interstate；　where　the　only　other　munications　seemed　to　be　dipped　headlights　when　you　passed　in　the　rain；　or　maybe　somebody　in　a　bad　mood　flipping　you　the　bird　when　you　went　by　in　the　passing　lane　pulling　a　rooster…tail　of　snow　behind　you。　He　came　gradually　to　see…or　perhaps　only　to　hope…that　something　was　going　on　here。　The　e。　e。　cummings　lilt　of　'Poopie　doopie　you　so　loopy；'　for　instance；　or　the　inarticulate　rage　of　'1380　West　Avenue　kill　my　mother　TAKE　HER　JEWELS。'
　　Or　take　this　oldie：　'Here　I　sit；　cheeks　a…flexin'；　giving　birth　to　another　Texan。'　The　meter；　when　you　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