sk.everythingseventual-第45节

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　　They　fanned　wider　and　wider；　some　disappearing　into　the　sage；　some　trundling　up　the　sides　of　a　rock　overhang；　pouring　into　the　cracks　where　they　would；　mayhap；　wait　out　the　heat　of　the　day。
　　They　were　gone。　She　was　gone。
　　Roland　sat　down　on　the　ground　and　put　his　hands　over　his　face。　He　thought　he　might　weep；　but　in　time　the　urge　passed；　when　he　raised　his　head　again；　his　eyes　were　as　dry　as　the　desert　he　would　eventually　e　to；　still　following　the　trail　of　Walter；　the　man　in　black。
　　If　there's　to　be　damnation；　she　had　said；　let　it　be　of　my　choosing；　not　theirs。
　　He　knew　a　little　about　damnation　himself　。　。　。　and　he　had　an　idea　that　the　lessons；　far　from　being　done；　were　just　beginning。
　　She　had　brought　him　the　purse　with　his　tobacco　in　it。　He　rolled　a　cigarette　and　smoked　it　hunkered　over　his　knees。　He　smoked　it　down　to　a　glowing　roach；　looking　at　her　empty　clothes　the　while；　remembering　the　steady　gaze　of　her　dark　eyes。　Remembering　the　scorch…marks　on　her　fingers　from　the　chain　of　the　medallion。　Yet　she　had　picked　it　up；　because　she　had　known　he　would　want　it；　had　dared　that　pain；　and　Roland　now　wore　both　around　his　neck。
　　When　the　sun　was　fully　up；　the　gunslinger　moved　on　west。　He　would　find　another　horse　eventually；　or　a　mule；　but　for　now　he　was　content　to　walk。　All　that　day　he　was　haunted　by　a　ringing；　singing　sound　in　his　ears；　a　sound　like　bells。　Several　times　he　stopped　and　looked　around；　sure　he　would　see　a　dark　following　shape　flowing　over　the　ground；　chasing　after　as　the　shadows　of　our　best　and　worst　memories　chase　after；　but　no　shape　was　ever　there。　He　was　alone　in　the　low　hill　country　west　of　Eluria。
　　Quite　alone。
　　
　　　
　　　
　　　EVERYTHING'S　EVENTUAL
　　
　　
　　One　day；　out　of　nowhere；　I　had　a　clear　image　of　a　young　man　pouring　change　into　a　sewer　grating　outside　of　the　small　suburban　house　in　which　he　lived。　I　had　nothing　else；　but　the　image　was　so　clear…and　so　disturbingly　odd…that　I　had　to　write　a　story　about　it。　It　came　out　smoothly　and　without　a　single　hesitation；　supporting　my　idea　that　stories　are　artifacts：　not　really　made　things　which　we　create　（and　can　take　credit　for）；　but　pre…existing　objects　which　we　dig　up。
　　
　　
　　I
　　
　　I've　got　a　good　job　now；　and　no　reason　to　feel　glum。　No　more　hanging　out　with　the　gumbyheads　at　the　Supr　Savr；　policing　up　the　Kart　Korral　and　getting　bothered　by　assholes　like　Skipper。　Skipper's　munching　the　old　dirt　sandwich　these　days；　but　one　thing　I　have　learned　in　my　nineteen　years　on　this　Planet　Earth　is　don't　relax；　there　are　Skippers　everywhere。
　　Ditto　no　more　pulling　pizza　patrol　on　rainy　nights；　driving　my　old　Ford　with　the　bad　muffler；　freezing　my　ass　off　with　the　driver's…side　window　down　and　a　little　Italian　flag　sticking　out　on　a　wire。　Like　somebody　in　Harkerville　was　going　to　salute。　Pizza　Roma。　Quarter　tips　from　people　who　don't　even　see　you；　because　most　of　their　mind's　still　on　the　TV　football　game。　Driving　for　Pizza　Roma　was　the　lowest　point；　I　think。　Since　then　I've　even　had　a　ride　in　a　private　jet；　so　how　could　things　be　bad？
　　'This　is　what　es　of　leaving　school　without　a　diploma；'　Ma　would　say　during　my　Delivery　Dan　stint。　And；　'You've　got　this　to　look　forward　to　for　the　rest　of　your　life。'　Good　old　Ma。　On　and　on；　until　I　actually　thought　about　writing　her　one　of　those　special　letters。　As　I　say；　that　was　the　low　point。　You　know　what　Mr。　Sharpton　told　me　that　night　in　his　car？　'It's　not　just　a　job；　Dink；　it's　a　goddam　adventure。'　And　he　was　right。　Whatever　he　might　have　been　wrong　about；　he　was　right　about　that。
　　I　suppose　you're　wondering　about　the　salary　of　this　famous　job。　Well；　I　got　to　tell　you；　there's　not　much　money　in　it。　Might　as　well　get　that　right　up　front。　But　a　job　isn't　just　about　money；　or　getting　ahead。　That's　what　Mr。　Sharpton　told　me。　Mr。　Sharpton　said　that　a　real　job　is　about　the　fringe　benefits。　He　said　that's　where　the　power　is。
　　Mr。　Sharpton。　I　only　saw　him　that　once；　sitting　behind　the　wheel　of　his　big　old　Mercedes…Benz；　but　sometimes　once　is　enough。
　　Take　that　any　way　you　want。　Any　old　way　at　all。
　　
　　II
　　
　　I've　got　a　house；　okay？　My　very　own　house。　That's　fringe　benefit　number　one。　I　call　Ma　sometimes；　ask　how　her　bad　leg　is；　shoot　the　shit；　but　I've　never　invited　her　over　here；　although　Harkerville　is　only　seventy　or　so　miles　away　and　I　know　she's　practically　busting　a　gut　with　curiosity。　I　don't　even　have　to　go　see　her　unless　I　want　to。　Mostly　I　don't　want　to。　If　you　knew　my　mother；　you　wouldn't　want　to；　either。　Sit　there　in　that　living　room　with　her　while　she　talks　about　all　her　relatives　and　whines　about　her　puffy　leg。　Also　I　never　noticed　how　much　the　house　smelled　of　catshit　until　I　got　out　of　it。　I'm　never　going　to　have　a　pet。　Pets　bite　the　big　one。
　　Mostly　I　just　stay　here。　It's　only　got　one　bedroom；　but　it's　still　an　excellent　house。　Eventual；　as　Pug　used　to　say。　He　was　the　one　guy　at　the　Supr　Savr　I　liked。　When　he　wanted　to　say　something　was　really　good；　Pug'd　never　say　it　was　awesome；　like　most　people　do；　he'd　say　it　was　eventual。　How　funny　is　that？　The　old　Pugmeister。　I　wonder　how　he's　doing。　Okay；　I　suppose。　But　I　can't　call　him　and　make　sure。　I　can　call　my　Ma；　and　I　have　an　emergency　number　if　anything　ever　goes　wrong　or　if　I　think　somebody's　getting　nosy　about　what's　not　their　business；　but　I　can't　buzz　any　of　my　old　friends　（as　if　any　of　them　besides　Pug　gave　Shit　One　about　Dinky　Earnshaw）。　Mr。　Sharpton's　rules。
　　But　never　mind　that。　Let's　go　back　to　my　house　here　in　Columbia　City。　How　many　nineteen…year…old　high…school　dropouts　do　you　know　who　have　their　own　houses？　Plus　a　new　car？　Only　a　Honda；　true；　but　the　first　three　numbers　on　the　odometer　are　still　zeroes；　and　that's　the　important　part。　It　has　a　CD/tape…player；　and　I　don't　slide　in　behind　the　wheel　wondering　if　the　goddam　thing'll　start；　like　I　always　did　with　the　Ford；　which　Skipper　used　to　make　fun　of。　The　Ass…holemobile；　he　called　it。　Why　are　there　so　many　Skippers　in　the　world？　That's　what　I　really　wonder　about。
　　I　do　get　some　money；　by　the　way。　More　than　enough　to　meet　my　needs。　Check　this　out。　I　watch　As　the　World　Turns　every　day　while　I'm　eating　my　lunch；　and　on　Thursdays；　about　halfway　through　the　show；　I　hear　the　clack　of　the　mail…slot。　I　don't　do　anything　then；　I'm　not　supposed　to。　Like　Mr。　Sharpton　said；　'Them's　the　rules；　Dink。'
　　I　just　watch　the　rest　of　my　show。　The　exciting　stuff　on　the　soaps　always　happens　around　the　weekends…murders　on　Fridays；　fucking　on　Mondays…but　I　watch　right　to　the　end　every　day；　just　the　same。　I'm　especially　careful　to　stay　in　the　living　room　until　the　end　on　Thurs…days。　On　Thursdays　I　don't　even　go　out　to　the　kitchen　for　another　glass　of　milk。　When　World　is　over；　I　turn　off　the　TV　for　awhile…Oprah　Winfrey　es　on　next；　I　hate　her　show；　all　that　sitting…around…talking　shit　is　for　the　Mas　of　the　world…and　go　out　to　the　front　hall。
　　Lying　on　the　floor　under　the　mail…slot；　there's　always　a　plain　white　envelope；　sealed。　Nothing　written　on　the　front。　Inside　there'll　be　either　fourteen　five…dollar　bills　or　seven　ten…dollar　bills。　That's　my　money　for　the　week。　Here's　what　I　do　with　it。　I　go　to　the　movies　twice；　always　in　the　afternoon；　when　it's　just　4。50。　That's　9。　On　Saturday　I　fill　up　my　Honda　with　gas；　and　that's　usually　about　7。　I　don't　drive　much。　I'm　not　invested　in　it；　as　Pug　would　say。　So　now　we're　up　to　16。　I'll　eat　out　maybe　four　times　at　Mickey　D's；　either　at　breakfast　（Egg　McMuffin；　coffee；　two　hash　browns）　or　at　dinner　（Quarter　Pounder　with　Cheese；　never　mind　that　McSpecial　shit；　what　dimbulb　thought　those　sandwiches　up）。　Once　a　week　I　put　on　chinos　and　a　button…up　shirt　and　see　how　the　other　half　lives…have　a　fancy　meal　at　a　place　like　Adam's　Ribs　or　the　Chuck　Wagon。　All　of　that　goes　me　about　25　and　now　we're　up　to　41。　Then　I　might　go　by　News　Plus　and　buy　a　stroke　book　or　two；　nothing　really　kinky；　just　your　usual　like　Variations　or　Penthouse。　I　have　tried　writing　these　mags　down　on　DINKY'S　DAYBOARD；　but　with　no　success。　I　can　buy　them　myself；　and　they　don't　disappear　on　cleaning　day　or　anything；　but　they　don't　show　up；　if　you　see　what　I'm　getting　at；　like　most　other　stuff　does。　I　guess　Mr。　Sharpton's　cleaners　don't　like　to　buy　dirty　stuff　（pun）。　Also；　I　can't　get　to　any　of　the　sex　stuff　on　the　Internet。　I　have　tried；　but　it's　blocked　out；　somehow。　Usually　things　like　that　are　easy　to　deal　with…you　go　under　or　around　the　roadblocks　if　you　can't　hack　straight　through…but　this　is　different。
　　Not　to　belabor　the　point；　but　I　can't　dial　900　numbers　on　the　phone；　either。　The　auto…dialer　works；　of　course；　and　if　I　want　to　call　somebody　just　at　random；　anywhere　in　the　world；　and　shoot　the　shit　with　them　for　awhile；　that's　okay。　That　works。　But　the　900　numbers　don't。　You　just　get　a　busy。　Probably　just　as　well。　In　my　experience；　thinking　about　sex　is　like　scratching　poison　ivy。　You　only　spread　it　around。　Besides；　sex　is　no　big　deal；　at　least　for　me。　It's　there；　but　it　isn't　eventual。　Still；　considering　what　I'm　doing；　that　little　prudey　streak　is　sort　of　weird。　Almost　funny　。　。　。　except　I　seem　to　have　lost　my　sense　of　humor　on　the　subject。　A　few　others；　as　well。
　　Oh　well；　back　to　the　budget。
　　If　I　get　a　Variations