“Hello, Mr. Earnshaw,” a voice says back. It was one I’d never heard before, but it didn’t seem the least put-out or puzzled by my bullshit.
220
EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL
I was mortified enough for both of us, though. Have you ever noticed that when you do something like that on the phone—try to be cool right from the pickup—it’s never the person you expected on the other end? Once I heard about this girl who picked up the phone and said “Hi, it’s Helen, and I want you to fuck me raw” because she was sure it was her boyfriend, only it turned out to be her father. That story is probably made up, like the one about the alligators in the New York sewers (or the letters in Penthouse), but you get the point.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, too flustered to wonder how the owner of this strange voice knows that Reverend Dink is also Mr. Earnshaw, actual name Richard Ellery Earnshaw. “I thought you were someone else.”
“I am someone else,” the voice says, and although I didn’t laugh then, I did later on. Mr. Sharpton was someone else, all right. Seri-ously, eventually someone else.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “If you wanted my mother, I’ll have to take a message, because she’s—”
“—out playing Bingo, I know. In any case, I want you, Mr. Earnshaw. I want to offer you a job.”
For a moment I was too surprised to say anything. Then it hit me—some sort of phone-scam. “I got a job,” I go. “Sorry.”
“Delivering pizza?” he says, sounding amused. “Well, I suppose.
If you call that a job.”
“Who are you, mister?” I ask.
“My name is Sharpton. And now let me ‘cut through the bullshit,’ as you might say, Mr. Earnshaw. Dink? May I call you Dink?”
“Sure,” I said. “Can I call you Sharpie?”
“Call me whatever you want, just listen.”
“I’m listening.” I was, too. Why not? The movie on the tube was Coogan’s Bluff, not one of Clint’s better efforts.
“I want to make you the best job-offer you’ve ever had, and the best one you probably ever will have. It’s not just a job, Dink, it’s an adventure.”
“Gee, where have I heard that before?” I had a bowl of popcorn in my lap, and I tossed a handful into my mouth. This was turning into fun, sort of.
221
STEPHEN KING
“Others promise; I deliver. But this is a discussion we must have face-to-face. Will you meet me?”
“Are you a queer?” I asked.
“No.” There was a touch of amusement in his voice. Just enough so that it was hard to disbelieve. And I was already in the hole, so to speak, from the smartass way I’d answered the phone. “My sexual orientation doesn’t come into this.”
“Why’re you yanking my chain, then? I don’t know anybody who’d call me at nine-thirty in the fucking night and offer me a job.”
“Do me a favor. Put the phone down and go look in your front hall.”
Crazier and crazier. But what did I have to lose? I did what he said, and found an envelope lying there. Someone had poked it through the mail-slot while I was watching Clint Eastwood chase Don Stroud through Central Park. The first envelope of many, although of course I didn’t know that then. I tore it open, and seven ten-dollar bills fell out into my hand. Also a note.
This can be the beginning of a great career!
I went back into the living room, still looking at the money.
Know how weirded-out I was? I almost sat on my bowl of popcorn.
I saw it at the last second, set it aside, and plopped back on the couch.
I picked up the phone, really sort of expecting Sharpton to be gone, but when I said hello, he answered.
“What’s this all about?” I asked him. “What’s the seventy bucks for? I’m keeping it, but not because I think I owe you anything. I didn’t fucking ask for anything.”
“The money is absolutely yours,” Sharpton says, “with not a string in the world attached. But I’ll let you in on a secret, Dink—a job isn’t just about money. A real job is about the fringe benefits. That’s where the power is.”