EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
nothing going on in here” and “Who’s this turkey, the cable-installer?”
I had nightmares. In one of them, the doorbell rings and when I open it, Mr. Sharpton’s there. He’s got a pair of handcuffs. “Put out your wrists, Dink,” he says. “We thought you were a tranny, but obvi-ously we were wrong. Sometimes it happens.”
“No, I am, ” I say. “I am a tranny, I just need a little more time to get acclimated. I’ve never been away from home before, remember.”
“You’ve had five years,” he goes.
I’m stunned. I can’t believe it. But part of me knows it’s true. It feels like days, but it’s really been five fucking years, and I haven’t turned on the computer in the little study a single time. If not for the cleaners, the desk it sits on would be six inches deep in dust.
“Hold out your hands, Dink. Stop making this hard on both of us.”
“I won’t,” I say, “and you can’t make me.”
He looks behind him then, and who should come up the steps but Skipper Brannigan. He is wearing his red nylon tunic, only now TRANSCORP is sewn on it instead of SUPR SAVR. He looks pale but otherwise okay. Not dead is what I mean. “You thought you did something to me, but you didn’t,” Skipper says. “You couldn’t do anything to anyone. You’re just a hippie waste.”
“I’m going to put these cuffs on him,” Mr. Sharpton says to Skipper. “If he gives me any trouble, run him over with a shopping cart.”
“Totally eventual,” Skipper says, and I wake up half out of my bed and on the floor, screaming.
XV
Then, about ten days after I moved in, I had another kind of dream.
I don’t remember what it was, but it must have been a good one, because when I woke up, I was smiling. I could feel it on my face, a big, happy smile. It was like when I woke up with the idea about Mrs.
Bukowski’s dog. Almost exactly like that.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and went into the study. I turned on the 245
STEPHEN KING
computer and opened the window marked TOOLS. There was a program in there called DINKY’S NOTEBOOK. I went right to it, and all my symbols were there—circles, triangles, japps, mirks, rhomboids, bews, smims, fouders, hundreds more. Thousands more. Maybe millions more. It’s sort of like Mr. Sharpton said: a new world, and I’m on the coastline of the first continent.
All I know is that all at once it was there for me, I had a great big Macintosh computer to work with instead of a little piece of pink chalk, and all I had to do was type the words for the symbols and the symbols would appear. I was jacked to the max. I mean my God. It was like a river of fire burning in the middle of my head. I wrote, I called up symbols, I used the mouse to drag everything where it was supposed to be. And when it was done, I had a letter. One of the special letters.
But a letter to who?
A letter to where?
Then I realized it didn’t matter. Make a few minor customizing touches, and there were many people the letter could go to . . .
although this one had been written for a man rather than a woman. I don’t know how I knew that; I just did. I decided to start with Cincinnati, only because Cincinnati was the first city to come into my mind.
It could as easily have been Zurich, Switzerland, or Waterville, Maine.
I tried to open a TOOLS program titled DINKYMAIL. Before the computer would let me in there, it prompted me to wake up my modem. Once the modem was running, the computer wanted a 312
area code. 312’s Chicago, and I imagine that, as far as the phone company is concerned, my compu-calls all come from TransCorp’s headquarters. I didn’t care one way or another; that was their business. I had found my business and was taking care of it.
With the modem awake and linked to Chicago, the computer flashed