doctor’s bag that holds everything I own. I have nineteen fifties, four tens, a five, three ones, and assorted change. I broke one of the fifties to buy this tablet of paper and a deck of smokes.
Wondering what I should do.
But there’s really no question. It always comes down to just two choices. Get
busy living or get busy dying.
First I’m going to put this manuscript back in my bag. Then I’m going to
buckle it up, grab my coat, go downstairs, and check out of this fleabag. Then I’m
going to walk uptown to a bar and put that five dollar bill down in front of the
bartender and ask him to bring me two straight shots of Jack Daniels–one for me and
one for Andy Dufresne.
Other than a beer or two, they’ll be the first drinks I’ve taken as a free man
since 1938.
Then I am going to tip the bartender a dollar and thank him kindly. I will leave
the bar and walk up Spring Street to the Greyhound terminal there and buy a bus
ticket to El Paso by way of New York City. When I get to El Paso, I’m going to buy a
ticket to McNary. And when I get to McNary, I guess I’ll have a chance to find out if
an old crook like me can find a way to float across the border and into Mexico.
Sure I remember the name. Zihuatanejo. A name like that is just too pretty to
forget I find I am excited, so excited I can hardly hold the pencil in my trembling
hand. I think it is the excitement that only a free man can feel, a free man starting a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.
I hope Andy is down there.
I hope I can make it across the border.
I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.
I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.
I hope.