按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
LTON 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 sai