Everything’s Eventual by Stephen King
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 preexisting 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 211
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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 comes 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 212
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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.