And it was soothing. He finished one drawer and went on to the next, thinking all the while about John Shooter and how John Shooter’s story – his story, goddammit! – had made him feel.
The most obvious thing, of course, was that it had made him feel like he needed a cigarette. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt that way in the last four years; there had been times when just seeing someone puffing away behind the wheel of a car next to his at a stoplight could set off a raging momentary lust for tobacco.
But the key word there, of course, was ‘momentary.’ Those feelings passed in a hurry, like fierce rainsqualls
– five minutes after a blinding silver curtain of rain has dropped out of the sky, the sun is shining again.
He’d never felt the need to turn in to the next convenience store on his way for a deck of smokes … or go rummaging through his glove compartment for a stray or two as he was now rummaging through his desk.
He felt guilty, and that was absurd. Infuriating. He had not stolen John Shooter’s story, and he knew he hadn’t – if there had been stealing (and there must have been; for the two stories to be that close without prior knowledge on the part of one of the two players was impossible for Mort to believe), then it had been Shooter who had stolen from him.
Of course.
It was as plain as the nose on his face … or the round black hat on John Shooter’s head.
Yet he still felt upset, unsettled, guilty … he felt at a loss in a way for which there was perhaps no word.
And why? Well … because…
At that moment Mort lifted up a Xerox of The Organ-Grinder’s Boy manuscript, and there, beneath it, was a package of L & M cigarettes. Did they make L & M’s anymore? He didn’t know. The pack was old, crumpled, but definitely not flat. He took it out and looked at it. He reflected that he must have bought this particular pack in 1985, according to the informal science of stratification one might call – for want of a better word – Deskology.
He peered inside the pack. He saw three little coffin nails, all in a row.
Time-travellers from another age, Mort thought. He stuck one of the cigarettes in his mouth, then went out into the kitchen to get a match from the box by the stove. Time-travellers from another age, riding up through the years, patient cylindrical voyagers, their mission to wait, to persevere, to bide until the proper moment to start me on the road to lung cancer again finally arrives. And it seems the time has finally come.
‘It’ll probably taste like shit,’ he said aloud to the empty house (Mrs Gavin had long since gone home), and set fire to the tip of the cigarette. It didn’t taste like shit, though. It tasted pretty good. He wandered back toward his study, puffing away and feeling pleasantly lightheaded. Ah, the dreadful patient persistence of addiction, he thought. What had Hemingway said? Not this August, nor this September – this year you have to do what you like. But the time comes around again. It always does. Sooner or later you stick something back in your big dumb old mouth again. A drink, a smoke, maybe the barrel of a shotgun. Not this August, nor this September …
… unfortunately, this was October.
At an earlier point in his prospecting, he had found an old bottle half full of Planter’s Peanuts. He doubted if the nuts would be fit to eat, but the lid of the bottle made a fine ashtray. He sat behind his desk, looked out at the lake (like Mrs G., the boats which had been out there earlier were gone), relished his old, vile habit, and found he could think about John Shooter and John Shooter’s story with a little more equanimity.
The man was one of the Crazy Folks, of course; that was now proven in brass if any further proof had been needed. As to how it had made him feel, finding that the similarity actually existed …
Well, a story was a thing, a real thing – you could think of it like that, anyway, especially if someone had paid you for it – but in another, more important, way, it wasn’t a thing at all. It wasn’t like a vase, or a chair, or an automobile. It was ink on paper, but it wasn’t the ink and it wasn’t the paper. People sometimes asked him where he got his ideas, and although he scoffed at the question, it always made him feel vaguely ashamed, vaguely spurious. They seemed to feel there was a Central Idea Dump somewhere (just as there was supposed to be an elephant graveyard somewhere, and a fabled lost city of gold somewhere else), and he must have a secret map which allowed him to get there and back, but Mort knew better. He could remember where he had been when certain ideas came to him, and he knew that the idea was often the result of seeing or sensing some odd connection between objects or events or people which had never seemed to have the slightest connection before, but that was the best he could do. As to why he should see these connections or want to make stories out of them after he had … to that he hadn’t a clue.
If John Shooter had come to his door and said ‘You stole my car’ instead of ‘You stole my story,’ Mort would have scotched the idea quickly and decisively. He could have done it even if the two cars in question had been the same year, make, model, and color. He would have shown the man in the round black hat his automobile registration, invited him to compare the number on the pink slip to the one on the doorpost, and sent him packing.
But when you got a story idea, no one gave you a bill of sale. There was no provenance to be traced. Why would there be? Nobody gave you a bill of sale when you got something for free. You charged whoever
wanted to buy that thing from you – oh yes, all the traffic would bear, and a little more than that, if you could, to make up for all the times the bastards shorted you – magazines, newspapers, book publishers, movie companies. But the item came to you free, clear, and unencumbered. That was it, he decided. That was why he felt guilty even though he knew he hadn’t plagiarized Farmer John Shooter’s story. He felt guilty because writing stories had always felt a little bit like stealing, and probably always would. John Shooter just happened to be the first person to show up on his doorstep and accuse him of it right out loud.
He thought that, subconsciously, he had been expecting something like this for years.
Mort crushed out his cigarette and decided to take a nap. Then he decided that was a bad idea. It would be better, healthier both mentally and physically, to eat some lunch ‘ read for half an hour or so, and then go for a nice long walk down by the lake. He was sleeping too much, and sleeping too much was a sign of depression. Halfway to the kitchen, he deviated to the long sectional couch by the window-wall in the living room. The hell with it, he thought, putting a pillow under his neck and another one behind his head. I Am depressed.
His last thought before drifting off was a repeat: He’s not done with me yet. Oh no, not this guy. He’s a repeater.
5
He dreamed he was lost in a vast cornfield. He blundered from one row to the next, and the sun glinted off the watches he was wearing – half a dozen on each forearm, and each watch set to a different time.
Please help me! he cried. Someone please help me! I’m lost and afraid!
Ahead of him, the corn on both sides of the row shook and rustled. Amy stepped out from one side. John Shooter stepped out from the other. Both of them held knives.
I am confident I can take care of this business, Shooter said as they advanced on him with their knives raised. I’m sure that, in time, your death will be a mystery even to us.
Mort turned to run, but a hand – Amy’s, he was sure – seized him by the belt and pulled him back. And when the knives, glittering in the hot sun of this huge secret garden 6
It was the telephone which woke him an hour and a quarter later. He struggled out of a terrible dream –
someone had been chasing him, that was all he could clearly remember – to a sitting position on the couch.