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me and uttered another empty bark of laughter。 The moonlight swam in his eyes； turning them into white circles； making them into the eyes of a statue。 And I understood he was more than dead； he was crazy。 'Did you ride that； Alan？'
I thought of telling him he had the wrong name； my name was Hector； but what was the use？ We were ing to the end of it now。
'Yeah；' I whispered。 Not a single light out there except for the moon。 The trees rushed by； writhing like spontaneous dancers at a tentshow revival。 The road rushed under us。 I looked at the speedometer and saw he was up to eighty miles an hour。 We were riding the bullet right now； he and I； the dead drive fast。 'Yeah； the Bullet。 I rode it。'
'Nah；' he said。 He drew on his cigarette； and once again I watched the little trickles of smoke escape from the stitched incision on his neck。 'You never。 Especially not with your father。 You got into the line； all right； but you were with your Ma。 The line was long； the line for the Bullet always is； and she didn't want to stand out there in the hot sun。 She was fat even then； and the heat bothered her。 But you pestered her all day； pestered pestered pestered； and here's the joke of it； man…when you finally got to the head of the line； you chickened。 Didn't you？'
I said nothing。 My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth。
His hand stole out； the skin yellow in the light of the Mustang's dashboard lights； the nails filthy； and gripped my locked hands。 The strength went out of them when he did and they fell apart like a knot that magically unties itself at the touch of the magician's wand。 His skin was cold and somehow snaky。
'Didn't you？'
'Yes；' I said。 I couldn't get my voice much above a whisper。 'When we got close and I saw how high it was 。 。 。 how it turned over at the top and how they screamed inside when it did 。 。 。 I chickened out。 She swatted me； and she wouldn't talk to me all the way home。 I never rode the Bullet。' Until now； at least。
'You should have； man。 That's the best one。 That's the one to ride。 Nothin else is as good； at least not there。 I stopped on the way home and got some beers at that store by the state line。 I was gonna stop over my girlfriend's house； give her the button as a joke。' He tapped the button on his chest； then unrolled his window and flicked his cigarette out into the windy night。 'Only you probably know what happened。'
Of course I knew。 It was every ghost story you'd ever heard； wasn't it？ He crashed his Mustang and when the cops got there he'd been sitting dead in the crumpled remains with his body behind the wheel and his head in the backseat； his cap turned around backward and his dead eyes staring up at the roof and ever since you see him on Ridge Road when the moon is full and the wind is high； wheee…oooo； we will return after this brief word from our sponsor。 I know something now that I didn't before…the worst stories are the ones you've heard your whole life。 Those are the real nightmares。
'Nothing like a funeral；' he said； and laughed。 'Isn't that what you said？ You slipped there； Al。 No doubt about it。 Slipped； tripped； and fell。'
'Let me out；' I whispered。 'Please。'
'Well；' he said； turning toward me； 'we have to talk about that； don't we？ Do you know who I am； Alan？'
'You're a ghost；' I said。
He gave an impatient little snort； and in the glow of the speedometer the corners of his mouth turned down。 'e on； man； you can do better than that。 Fuckin Casper's a ghost。 Do I float in the air？ Can you see through me？' He held up one of his hands； opened and closed it in front of me。 I could hear the dry； unlubricated sound of his tendons creaking。
I tried to say something。 I don't know what； and it doesn't really matter； because nothing came out。
'I'm a kind of messenger；' Staub said。 'Fuckin FedEx from beyond the grave； you like that？ Guys like me actually e out pretty often…whenever the circumstances are just right。 You know what I think？ I think that whoever runs things…God or whatever…must like to be entertained。 He always wants to see if you'll keep what you already got or if he can talk you into goin for what's behind the curtain。 Things have to be just right； though。 Tonight they were。 You out all by yourself 。 。 。 mother sick 。 。 。 needin a ride 。 。 。'
'If I'd stayed with the old man； none of this would have happened；' I said。 'Would it？' I could smell Staub clearly now； the needle…sharp smell of the chemicals and the duller； blunter stink of decaying meat； and wondered how I ever could have missed it； or mistaken it for something else。
'Hard to say；' Staub replied。 'Maybe this old man you're talking about was dead； too。'
I thought of the old man's shrill handful…of…glass voice； the snap of his truss。 No； he hadn't been dead； and I had traded the smell of piss in his old Dodge for something a lot worse。
'Anyway； man； we don't have time to talk about all that。 Five more miles and we'll start seeing houses again。 Seven more and we're at the Lewiston city line。 Which means you have to decide now。'
'Decide what？' Only I thought I knew。
'Who rides the Bullet and who stays on the ground。 You or your mother。' He turned and looked at me with his drowning moonlight eyes。 He smiled more fully and I saw most of his teeth were gone； knocked out in the crash。 He patted the steering wheel。 'I'm taking one of you with me； man。 And since you're here； you get to choose。 What do you say？'
You can't be serious rose to my lips； but what would be the point of saying that； or anything like it？ Of course he was serious。 Dead serious。
I thought of all the years she and I had spent together； Alan and Jean Parker against the world。 A lot of good times and more than a few really bad ones。 Patches on my pants and casserole suppers。 Most of the other kids took a quarter a week to buy the hot lunch； I always got a peanut…butter sandwich or a piece of bologna rolled up in day…old bread； like a kid in one of those dopey rags…to…riches stories。 Her working in God knew how many different restaurants and cocktail lounges to support us。 The time she took the day off work to talk to the ADC man； her dressed in her best pants suit； him sitting in our kitchen rocker in a suit of his own； one even a nine…year…old kid like me could tell was a lot better than hers； with a clipboard in his lap and a fat； shiny pen in his fingers。 Her answering the insulting； embarrassing questions he asked with a fixed smile on her mouth； even offering him more coffee； because if he turned in the right report she'd get an extra fifty dollars a month； a lousy fifty bucks。 Lying on her bed after he'd gone； crying； and when I came in to sit beside her she had tried to smile and said ADC didn't stand for Aid to Dependent Children but Awful Damn Crapheads。 I had laughed and then she laughed； too； because you had to laugh； we'd found that out。 When it was just you and your fat chain…smoking Ma against the world； laughing was quite often the only way you could get through without going insane and beating your fists on the walls。 But there was more to it than that； you know。 For people like us； little people who went scurrying through the wo