I won’t, he said.
No, I agreed. You probably won’t.
That’s what I was thinking about, he said. And I wondered why the hell I wanted to go to Europe, anyway — why should I?
I shrugged. Why not?
You know, said Yeamon, I haven’t been home in three years, but the last time I was there, I spent a lot of time in the woods.
You’re losing me again, I said. I don’t even know where you’re from.
A place called London, Kentucky, he said. Laurel County — a fine place to disappear.
You planning on disappearing? I asked.
He nodded. Could be. Not in Laurel County, though. He paused. My father decided to play games with his money, and we lost the farm.
I lit a cigarette.
It was a fine place, he said. A man could go out there and shoot all day and run his dogs and raise all manner of hell, and not a soul in the world would bother him.
Yeah, I said. I did some hunting around St. Louis.
He leaned back and stared into his drink. I got to thinking about that yesterday, and it gave me the idea that I might be on the wrong track.
How’s that? I said.
I’m not sure, he replied. But I have a feeling that I’m following a course that somebody laid out a long time ago — and I have one hell of a lot of company.
I looked up at the plantain tree and let him go on.
You’re the same way, he said. We’re all going to the same damn places, doing the same damn things people have been doing for fifty years, and we keep waiting for something to happen. He looked up. You know — I’m a rebel, I took off — now where’s my reward?
You fool, I said. There is no reward and there never was.
Jesus, he said. That’s horrible. He raised the bottle to his lips and finished it off. We’re just drunkards, he said, helpless drunkards. To hell with it — I’ll go back to some Godforsaken little town and be a fireman.
I laughed, and just then Chenault came back. We sat in the patio and drank for several hours until Yeamon stood up and said they were going home. Think about that St. Thomas thing, he said. We might as well play the game while we can.
Why not? I muttered. I’ll probably go. Might be the last fun I’ll have.
Chenault waved goodbye and followed Yeamon out to the street.
I sat there for a while, but it was too depressing. Between Yeamon’s talk and my picture in El Diario, I was beginning to feel suicidal. My skin felt creepy and I began to wonder if maybe all this drinking was getting the best of me. Then I remembered a story the News had run last week about an epidemic of parasites in the local water supply, little worms that destroy the intestines. Jesus, I thought, I better get out of here. I paid my tab and bolted out to the street and looked up and down, wondering where I could go. I was afraid to walk, for fear of being recognized and beaten by an angry mob — but the thought of going home to the nest of fleas and poison crab lice I had been sleeping in for three months filled me with terror. Finally, I took a cab to the Caribe Hilton. I sat at the bar for an hour or so, hoping to meet a girl who’d invite me up to her room, but the only person I met was a football coach from Atlanta who wanted me to walk on the beach. I told him I would, but first I had to borrow a meat-whip from the kitchen.
What for? he asked.
I stared at him. Don’t you want to be flogged?
He laughed nervously.
You wait here, I said. I’ll get the whip. I got up and went to the restroom, and when I returned he was gone.
There were no girls in the bar — only middle-aged women and bald men in dinner jackets. I was shaking. Jesus, I thought, maybe I’m getting the DTs. I drank as fast as I could, trying to get drunk. More and more people seemed to be staring at me. But I couldn’t speak. I felt lonely and exposed. I stumbled out to the street and flagged a cab. I was too crazed to check into a hotel. There was no place to go but that filthy roach-infested apartment. It was the only home I had.