Chapter 3 third chapter

At dawn, I heard voices.In a daze, I listened carefully to the people in the ghost town. "Oh, Tim," said someone, "you burn wax at both ends: head and eggs, cock and tongue, ass and mouth. Is there any oil in your wick? As if the wicked would tell you." They said, "Hey Tim, stop licking the whore's thighs. You're a bit too much for an old sperm whale. Give us back the dying old sailors. Give us back the scum of those who were missing." Farewell, my dear friend, and we will curse your house." Let me tell you what I can understand.Horror doesn't kill the time we lose trying to find a clear idea.I awoke from a nightmare and slept in terror, bringing me at last to a conclusion.Suppose I didn't do it—how can I be sure I didn't? —I still have to ask: Who did it?It must have been done by the guy who knew about my marijuana field.That leads directly to my wife - unless that lock of hair I found in the burrow was hers.So I have come to the conclusion that I must look into the woods again.But that mound of dirt-stained blond hair is imprinted on my mind with as much clarity as the thunderous pain and dizzying lightning bolts of a shoulder pulled by the wrong ring.I know I can't go.I am indecisive.I'd rather rot in the last cowardly pustule.

Is it obvious why I don't want to say how I spent the night?Are the reasons why it takes so much effort to make every logical step justified?Now I understand how lab rats get psychotic in a maze.Almost every corner of the maze has a shock point.What if it was really Jessica who was buried there?Am I sure I did it? Looked at another way—and it would have taken me a hundred miles to drive this possibility—if Pound and Pangborn had returned to Boston, or even Santa Barbara now, or If they had left the place where their indulgence had driven them out, then the head must have belonged to Patty, and the consequences of this reasoning make me terribly sad.An onslaught of grief and nasty justifications—an onslaught stopped only by another new fear.Who else could kill Patty but Mr. Black?If so, am I safe?

Do you feel at ease among the strange black dude?At night, when you feel that a black dude might be looking for you, try to think of it this way.Even every wave that laps on the shore, every seagull that wakes up becomes an intruder: I can hear windows breaking and doors knocking. What a shameful degradation.I never thought of myself as a hero.My father was kind and strong-willed, and he could be called a hero.But usually I don't think of myself as a gutless man.I can defend my friends, I can bandage my own wounds, and stay silent even when they fester.I want to go my own way.But now, every time my head is clear enough to come up with a new idea, panic kills me.I'm like a puppy in a strange house.I started to be afraid of my friend.

It must have been done by "the guy who hid the weed" who knew I was there.This is logically deduced.So, in this artificial dawn, I realize that when I meet friends on the street tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, I cannot believe their eyes.I was like a person who fell suddenly on a very slippery steep slope, only holding an icicle in his hand, but when he tried to grab it, the icicle shattered.I know, if I can't answer the first question, it's: Speak!Am I a murderer? - Then I will continue to slide down.Madness awaits me down the slope. However, when the dawn did come, I still heard the seagulls chasing and frolicking, shouting loudly, and driving away the little ghosts of the night.When I was drowsy, I heard the pleading voice of the people in the ghost town. Why is this voice the loudest in the trance, as if waking up and falling asleep are thousands of miles away?To my relief, I can still think of the Latin word for "limp" at this time. You larvae, you ghosts!At Exeter they taught Latin very well.

I cling to this relief.In prison, when one convict clashes with another, and fear weighs on you like the sky is falling, the thought of even a little pleasure is worth as much as the cost of throwing yourself into the abyss. The rope is worth the same.I know that.Focus on that pleasurable thing, whatever it is, and you'll be able to put your hand on the edge of the abyss.So, at this time, I tried to think about those distant things, and I thought of Exeter and Latin.I use this method not so much to isolate the fear as to calm myself down.So, I went on thinking about it.I thought of a furnished cabin in the apartment building on the west side of 10th Avenue, Forty-fifth Street.My seventy-year-old father lives there now.This way of thinking helped me see the note he pressed above the mirror again, and see the words he wrote on it stroke by stroke.The note read: interfaeces et urinam nascimur.My father signed the author's name in cursive script below: St. O'Donnell Clooney.My father's nickname (I want to mention it here) is still Big Mac, regardless of the majesty of McDonald's hamburger.

"I said, what are you doing?" I said to Big Mike when I saw the note on the mirror for the first time. "Use it as a wake-up call," replied the father. "You never told me you knew Latin." "At the parish school," he said, "they tried to teach us. I only remember one and a half." "From a clergyman I know, Father Steve. He used to have trouble with cardinals," said Big Mac in a sweet voice, as if that was the first quality to ask a priest. Never mind, I know enough Latin to translate this sentence. "interfaeces et urinam nascimur" means "we were born between shit and shit".Big Mike, who's spent his life working with dock porters' hooks, is a bit cultured.

At this time, the phone on the bedside table rang, and I immediately expected it to be from my father.We haven't talked on the phone for a long time, but I'm pretty sure he's definitely there.I have the ability to think of my friend even as he or she picks up the receiver to call me.This happens often, so I don't feel surprised anymore.But this morning, I took it as a signal. "Hello, Tim?" "I say, Dodge," I said, "let's talk the devil." "Okay," he said.The voice told me how drunk he was.His word "Xing" shows you the desolate scenery in the head that has dealt with wine for sixty years. (Of course, we assume he's been drinking since he was ten.)

"Tim," he said, "I'm in Hyannis right now." "What are you doing on Cape Cod? I thought you didn't like traveling." "I've been here three days. Frankie Freelod lives here after he retires. Didn't I tell you?" "No," I said, "how is he now?" "He's dead. I'm holding his wake." For Dad, the death of an old friend is terrible, as you feel after the cliff next to your house collapses into the sea. "I said," I asked, "why don't you come to Provincetown?" "I've been thinking about it."

"Do You have a Car?" "I can rent one," he said. "No, I'll pick you up by car." He didn't say anything for a long time, but I didn't know if he was thinking about himself or me.After a while, he said, "Let's wait two days. The widow's mess isn't over yet." "Okay," I said, "come if you want." I don't think I've let him in on the wretched situation I'm in, but Big Mike said, "How are you?" "My wife isn't here. She's gone, and that's all right." After a long pause, he said, "Okay, I'll see you." He hung up the phone.

In doing so, however, he gave me some tips on how to get out of bed and start my day. When it comes to getting drunk, I'm like an epileptic on the verge of a seizure.If I watch my every move, don't stumble or take a wrong step, if I don't jerk my head away, don't jerk around, then I'll probably get through this period.My solitary contemplation was not to get rid of the convulsions of the body, but to get rid of the witch's cry of spring.Thinking alone means that I only allow myself to think about specific things and nothing else. Since the problems I have now are as untouchable as an undressed wound—even the tattoo shudders at the mere thought of it—I find, as compensation, that thinking about my father this morning is a tranquilizer. .I don't have to think about pleasant things.I can even linger on the pains of the past, but as long as they cling to the past, they are good material for reverie.Regrets from the past became the weight to keep me from slipping to where I am now.

For example, I thought again of Meeks Wadley Shelby III.I've lived in Tampa for a month of my life.At that time, when I woke up every morning, I thought about this question: How can Patty and I succeed in killing him.It pains me not to think about that now.Indeed, it focused my attention on two excellent reasons.To me they are like two camel baskets, one on the left and one on the right, balanced.One is, I barely killed Wardley.I even came to realize that I wasn't the type to kill people.Even this morning there was no malice.The other was that I didn't think about Mr. Shelby I knew in Tampa who lived with Patty.On the contrary, I was thinking of the incomprehensible bond I had with him when we were students at Exeter.This union is associated with the father.Really, it made me think about what I think were the best days I had with Big Mike. Meeks Wadley Shelby III, we better repeat the name, was the only inmate I knew in the prison.He and I were classmates at Exeter.What I can never forget is that we were both expelled one morning in the last month before graduation.Before that, I didn't know him at all.Shelby is a wimp and I'm a good athlete.He followed in his father's footsteps and studied at Exeter for four years; I attended Exeter for two fall and spring terms on an athletic scholarship after graduating from Long Island High School. (My mother wanted me to go to Harvard.) I tried my best to fulfill my "iron gate" promise on a failing Exeter team. (Have you seen Eastern Prep play football?) We walked out of the principal's office the day we got expelled.Meeks Wadley Shirby III wept.The frayed satin lapels and lavender bows are like special clothes for the execution ground.I feel very uncomfortable.Even now, when I recall the scene, I feel weak in all limbs.The reason I got fired was that I was seen smoking weed (not a small thing twenty years ago).This really shocked the headmaster.Things were worse for Shelby.It's unbelievable to see the way he's slacking off, trying to rape a girl he's on a cuddle date with.At the time, I hadn't heard of it.People in the know were reluctant to tell (the girl's parents were also silenced by money before long), but eleven years later, Shirby told me all about it.In prison, there is plenty of time to tell your own story. So, this morning, in Provincetown, as I tried to shake off what was weighing on my mind, I recalled the day I left Exeter, a troubled day still (as I say) It makes people feel very comfortable.I remember that it was a sunny afternoon in May twenty years ago when I said goodbye to school.I stuffed the clothes into two duffel bags and threw them on the bus with myself.My father came to pick me up in Boston by short train (I called my father but didn't dare to call my mother).We were both drunk.That night alone, I should have loved my father for the rest of my life.Father (as you might get the impression from our phone conversations) was not talkative except when absolutely necessary.But you'll be comforted by his quiet energy.He is six feet three inches tall.He was fifty years old and weighed two hundred and eighty pounds.It's okay to lose another forty pounds.His stomach is like a round rubber ring around a bumper car.He was breathing heavily.With his prematurely gray hair, his dark red face, and his blue eyes, he looked like the biggest, cunning, worst cop in town.Unfortunately, in fact, he hated the police.His brother grew up in the police station from birth to death, and the two of them never got better. That afternoon, the two of us were standing side by side in an Irish pub (the inside of the pub was so long that, in my father's words, you had to call a dog to find the way), he finished his fourth glass of wine, put down up the cup.This cup is the same as the previous three cups, all in one mouthful. "Weed, huh?" I nod. "How did you get caught?" What he meant was: How could you be so stupid and get caught by a bunch of white people?I know what he thinks about white intelligence. "Some people," he said once quarreling with his mother, "make a mistake in wanting God to buy their clothes in the same store as them." So I always look at my father to change my mind about white people.Big Mac thinks of white people as a bunch of burly, silver-haired, gray-suited people who always speak in a very pompous, condescending tone.Listening to the tone of their speech, they must believe that God uses them to show his dignity. "Well," I told him, "I was being careless. Maybe I laughed too hard." I then described to him the morning I was caught.I was on a lake near Exeter, sailing with other people.I can't remember the name of that lake now (karma for smoking marijuana).At that time, because there was no wind, the boat was motionless on the water.They almost canceled the game.I know nothing about sailing.But the guy I was in the room with would, he made me work for an old professor who taught history.The professor looked and dressed exactly like my father's idea of ​​white people.He was an excellent captain, probably the best in our school.He didn't think much of this game at all, so he let me, an inexperienced person, be his assistant.But during the race, we didn't have good wind, so we had bad luck.The wind just picked up and then died down, a slight breeze carried us a short distance before it died down again.At last we stood by the mast, with the spinnaker at the bow, and watched a boat swing slowly ahead of us.At the helm of the boat was an elderly woman.Her boat was closer to shore than ours.She had bet that if there had been no wind this morning, she could have reached the finish line just by the waves lapping on the shore, for the waves were rushing toward a small river.She was right to do so.At first she was three boats behind us, and now she was eight boats behind us.We took only one runner up, five hundred yards offshore, motionless.She's more cunning than our old fox. After a while, I get bored.I joked with the guy I was in the room with.The captain kept silent and endured.But the lazy spinnaker finally got the better of him, and he fired at me, "If I were you, I'd shut up, it's taking all the wind off the sail. " After I finished speaking, my father and I laughed so hard that we had to hug each other and turn around a few times to keep our balance. "Yeah," said Big Mike, "it's kind of a shame to be caught with a guy like that." That way, I don't have to tell him how I got back to my room amid wild laughter and angry shouts.These scoldings really make me speechless.Obviously, a year at Exeter was too short a year to learn the habits of the rich and powerful. (Oh, and the Englishman's big head is in his nose, and the Irishman has hairy toes.) "I'll explain to your mother about you getting fired," said Big Mike. "Thank you so much." I knew that he and his mother hadn't spoken for maybe a year.But I can't see her.She will never understand in her life.From the time I was eleven to thirteen (and not at home every night), she managed to sit next to me every evening and read to me a poem from Louis Untermeyer's Great Poems.Because of her upbringing (and Untermeyer's collection of poems), I like to read a few poems even when I'm not lucky.I cannot tell her now that there are other reasons for my business. Of course, I had to hear my father say with every drink, "It's blowing the wind off the sails." My father, like many drinkers of old, repeated it every drink.But at this point, I can't think of it anymore.The phone rang. It had already rang twice this morning.I picked up the receiver, feeling no good omen. It turned out to be the call from the owner of Wangfutai Restaurant. "Mr. Madden," he said, "I don't like to disturb you, but I found out that night that you seemed to know the couple who were sitting with you in the drawing-room." "Oh, yes," I said, "we had a good drink together. Where did they come from—the West, didn't they?" "At dinner," he replied, "he told me they were from California." "Yes, I remembered." I said. "I'm asking you because their car is still in the parking lot." "That's weird," I told him. "Are you sure it's theirs?" "Well," he replied, "I'm sure it must be theirs. I happened to see it when they pulled up." "That's amazing," I repeated.The tattoo pattern on my body began to hurt violently. "Honestly," he said, "I wish you knew where they were." He paused, "but I guess you don't." "No," I said, "I don't." "The name on the guy's credit card is Leonard Pangborn. If they don't pick up the car tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, I think I'll have to go check their VISA cards." "I think you should go get tested." "You don't know the girl's name, do you?" "She did tell me, but, you know, if I can remember now, I'm not a fucking human. If I do remember, how about I call you? His name is indeed Pangborn." "Mr. Marden, I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but such things are too rare." Just count on this.After hanging up the phone, I couldn't break free from the hard thinking.Every thought ran towards that forest.find out!But it gave me the creeps involuntarily.I'm like someone who learns they're mentally ill.It can only be cured by jumping into the water from a fifty-foot cliff. "No," he said, "I'll lie in bed. I'd rather die." What was he hiding?What am I covering up again?But fear makes everything scary.It's as if I've learned in a dream that the worst villainy in the ghost town gathers under that tree in the Tropicana.Can they get into my heart, if I go back?That's my logic? I sat by the phone, terrified, as palpable as physical pain.My nostrils were colder than my feet, and my lungs were burning like hell—I began to calm myself down again, which was almost physical labor.How many mornings, after a noisy breakfast, I headed off to my top-floor cabin, where I overlooked the harbour, trying to write something.I learned how to separate all the wreckage in my life every morning, like skimming the inedible from a bowl of soup.These wreckage may have affected my writing activity that day.So I have a habit of meditation, and I developed this habit in two places, one in prison and the other in my own home.I've learned to be at home and work every morning no matter how annoying my wife is.I can go in the same direction as my train of thought.If the sea is turbulent before my eyes, it's okay, I know, if nothing else, now I must think about my father instead of asking unanswered questions. "Don't try to think what you can't think of" has always been my motto.Memory is the same as sex, trying to think of something you can't remember-no matter how urgent the need-is like a girl spreading her thighs in front of you, but that thing of yours-that stubborn wild dog Stubbornly not moving.You have to give up this good fortune.I may or may not remember what happened two nights ago—I'll wait, but for the time being I'll have to build a wall around my fear.Therefore, every memory of my father is like a big rock placed in a good place. So, I remembered the past again.I know that the peace of mind comes from contemplating love for my parents, however distressing that love may be.Since I poured myself a glass of wine this morning as what I call a legitimate sedative, and since I'm in the study on the third floor where I used to work with a view of the bay, I was reminded of the legend about Dodge, "Big Mike Madden," and meditated on the great loss he had caused him, my mother, and me.Because judging by his size and size, he gave us very little.I can tell you that a lot of my father was lost before he even met my mother.This is what I heard from the conversations of his old friends when I was a child. I remember they used to come to see him at my house for an afternoon and then go to his bar.We were living on Long Island at the time.Because they were all dock workers, some of them had worked on the docks before like him, and almost all of them were big men.As soon as they stood up, my mother's small living room was like an overfilled boat that was about to capsize.I was very happy when they came.From them, I heard the great history of my father over and over again. Years later, a lawyer said to me that if two witnesses tell the same story, you are listening to a lie.If this is true, then there must be a lot of truth in the legends about my father.Ten people say ten things.But they all tell of the day in the late thirties when the Italians drove the Irish out of the leadership of the longshoremen's union.My father was one of the leaders of the Irish Longshoremen's Association.He was about to park his car on a side street in Greenwich Village when a man rushed out of a doorway and shot him six times with a 45 (38 I also heard).I don't know how many bullets hit him.It's hard to believe, but most people say six rounds.I found four gunshot wounds on him while he was in the shower. At that time, he was famous for his strength.The strong man among the longshoremen must have been a remarkable man.But he must have been as strong as a Kodiak brown bear at the moment he was hit by the bullet, because he looked up at the attacker and took a step forward.The gunman (whose 45 was out of bullets, I think) saw that his victim wasn't down, and ran.It's hard for me to believe this, but my dad really went after that kid.He chased for six blocks (some said eight, some said five, some said four) along Seventh Avenue in Greenwich Village, but it took that much distance before Dodger realized he couldn't catch up. He got on, so he stopped in his tracks.At this moment, he saw blood oozing from the shoe, and felt his head was dazed.He just felt a little dizzy when he turned around and found that he was standing in front of the emergency entrance of St. Vincent's Hospital.He knew he couldn't do it.He hated the doctors, hated the hospitals, but he went in anyway. The guy at the duty desk probably thought the guy who had just come in was a drunk.A bloody, massive madman staggered toward the table. "Sit down, please," said the orderly, "and wait in line." When his father's friends told him this story, he often just nodded or frowned, but when it came to this, he sometimes had to say a few words for himself.When I was very young, that malevolent look in his eyes was so terrifying to my already nervous young mind that I wet my pants once or twice. (Although in front of this real man, I didn't tell anyone about peeing my pants.) When my father told this story, he would always grab the shirt of the imaginary orderly, his arms stretched out straight, and his fingers on the boy's collar, as if he would lose his breath in a flash. , but the strength left in him was enough to throw that cold-blooded creature among humans against the wall. "Take care of me," Dodge Madden said in a low, terrible voice in my mother's living room, "I'm hurt." He was indeed badly hurt.They kept him in St. Vincent's Hospital for three months.When he was discharged from the hospital, his hair was all white.Since then, he has made a clean break with the union.I don't know now whether he was crippled by being in bed for too long, or because the Irish leader had lost the struggle for power.Perhaps now his heart turned elsewhere, to that distant place of unspeakable sorrow, where he would spend the rest of his life.In this way, he retired before I was born.Perhaps, he was mourning the loss of his prominence, he was no longer a leader of labor, just a big guy.Then he borrowed some money from relatives and opened a bar on the Sunrise Highway, forty miles south of the bank, which he kept for eighteen years.His bar neither thrived nor collapsed. If you go by this description, the vast majority of pubs are trying to save money because there are usually not many people visiting them.But Dad's bar was just like himself, big and generous, but not very well managed, even though Big Mike did look like a waiter.The temperament and shape of the bar was learned from him. He stood there eighteen years in a white apron with premature gray hair, his blue eyes looking up and down the customers as they clamored.His skin was reddened by the constant influx of alcohol ("It's my only medicine," he often told his mother), making him look like a man pissed off with rage.Actually, that's not really the case.His red face made one feel that he was as fierce as a lobster in its last struggle in a pot. Every day, there are a lot of people visiting his bar, and on Saturdays, the house will be full of people. In addition, there are beer drinkers, summer tourists, lovers who come here from Long Island for trysts on weekends, and people who come and go. fishermen.He could have made a fortune, but he drank some of it himself and gave most of it out across the counter.He serves drinks to the whole house for free.He made people drink for nothing, and all the money he spent was enough to bury their father, mother, uncle, and aunt.He lent money to others without interest, but he didn't get much back.He gave out another part, and lost part of the bet.As the Irish say (do the Jews say the same?), "This is life." Everyone loved him except my mother.As the years went by, she grew colder and colder towards him.I used to wonder how they got married.In the end, I decided that she must have been a virgin when they met.I suspect that their brief, love-filled romance was not just facilitated by their differences, but also due to her being an enlightened person too.She defies her parents' prejudice against Irish laborers and the smell of booze in pubs.In this way, they got married.She is not tall, stable and dignified, and looks good.She was a schoolteacher from a pretty town in Connecticut.Her slenderness is inversely proportional to his bulkiness.To him, she behaved like a lady.To him, I suppose, she had always been a dame.Although he didn't admit it, the biggest prejudice in his heart was still: the hands of a lady wearing a long glove, elegant and beautiful, graceful and moving.But he still loves her.He was flattered to marry such a woman.However, they are not a couple who like each other.In his words, neither of them could move the other to the left, not even as far as the pubic hair.If I hadn't been there, their time together would have been dull and dull.But I was really among them, so they didn't break up until I was fifteen. Everything could have been normal, but my mother made a mistake.She persuaded my father to move from the one-floor apartment above his bar to a town called Atlantic Alley.It was a silent disaster.Undoubtedly, the shock of the move was similar to that experienced by his father when he left Ireland.The biggest concession my mother won was the one my father would never agree to in his life.Dodge was suspicious of Atlantic Alley as soon as he saw it.I know that even though it sounds like a rolling water court, the real reason the developers named their boomtown that way is that we're less than two miles from the ocean.Designers designed several bends (hutongs) on the street.The curvilinear streets that the cartographers drew on the drawing boards became our winding streets.Since the land is as flat as a parking lot, I don't think those S-turns are going to help much, except to make it harder to see the neighboring farm houses.The house on the neighboring farm is exactly like yours.It's a joke, but Dodge really can't find his way home when he's drunk.This is no joke.Anyone who grew up there felt that something was filtering through us.I can't even tell what it is.But in the eyes of my father, we children are too gentle.We don't hang out on the streets - there are no right angles at Atlantic Alley - and we don't hang out in gangs (we have best friends).Once, I got into a boxing fight with another kid.Just as we were fighting, the kid said: "Come on, I admit defeat." We stopped and shook hands.This made my mother very happy, (1) I won, she knew from years of living with my father that it would please him, and (2) I behaved like a gentleman.I shook his hand very graciously.My father was very interested in this.This is indeed a suburb.You can get into a fight with someone and say "I give in".The kid who wins won't bang your head on the sidewalk celebrating victory. "Boy, where I grew up," he told me (which happened to be 10th Avenue West, 48th Avenue), "you never gave up. You probably said, 'I'm going to die!'" On one occasion, a few years before their divorce, I overheard my father and mother talking in the living room.It was a once-in-a-lifetime night, and he came home from the bar.I didn't want to hear it, in fact I avoided it on purpose and went to the kitchen to do my homework.On rare occasions like these, when they came together by accident, they could sit for hours without speaking a word.The melancholy between them was sometimes so tense that even the audio on the TV seemed to vibrate.But one night, the two of them were a little closer than before, because I heard my mother say in a soft voice, "Douglas, you never said you loved me." This is true.For many years, I almost never saw him kiss his mother.It would be like a miser pulling out a year's worth of Dhaka gold coins from his pocket.Mother is so pitiful.She is very loving and always kisses me. (But that was when he was away.) She never wanted him to think my habits were unmanly. "Not once, Douglas," she repeated, "you said you loved me." He said nothing.After a while he said in a rustic Irish voice--this was his declaration of intimacy--"I'm here, aren't I?" Of course, it was this asceticism that made him famous among his friends.During his days as a longshoreman there were many women who fascinated him.How many times he could have had them all at night, but he'd dismissed such things, and he'd become a legend.Likewise, another of his manly prides was that he was never compelled to kiss a girl.谁知道我那个骨瘦如柴的爱尔兰奶奶是把他放在什么样的感情冷室中养大的！他就从来都不亲别人。有一次，那是我从埃克塞特被赶出来不久，我知道道奇同他的老哥们儿在一块喝酒。一扯起大姑娘的事儿，他可就成了被燎烤的肉了。他的那些老朋友，有的满身疤痕，有的牙都掉了一半了，年纪大都五十开外，不到六十。当时我二十岁，所以对我来说他们看上去都已老态龙钟了。但是，我的上帝，他们的心可真够花花的。他们一闲扯起来，尽说些男女性交的事，好像那玩意儿就别在他们的裤裆上。 那时，父亲不但与母亲离婚了，而且还因离婚后的浪费，把酒吧间也丢了。他租了间房子住下，偶尔找个情妇玩玩，在家酒吧里做工挣点钱，会会老朋友。 我不久便发现，父亲那些老朋友每人都有个双关话。开玩笑的规则就是用这个双关话来捉弄你的老哥们。他们有的吝啬得要命，有的则有些愚蠢的癖好，如赌谁能想出大胆的企图。还有一位一喝酒就吐（“我的肚子很敏感。”他常抱怨说。“对，我们的鼻子也很敏感。”他们会这样回答）。我父亲总是在亲大姑娘上被人捉弄。 “噢，道奇，”他的一位老明友，戴南梅特·赫弗农说，“昨晚，我找了个十九岁的大姑娘，她那两片小嘴别提有多水灵了，那个甜劲呀，圆乎乎的，漂亮极了，你从来没看过。她可会亲嘴呢！啊，她甜甜蜜蜜地一笑，湿乎乎的热气直扑脸。你知道你失去了什么吗？” “我说，道奇，”另外一个又叫了起来，“试一回吧，让让步，亲你那个娘们一口！” 我父亲坐在那儿。因为这是在开玩笑，他只好忍着。他薄薄的嘴上没一丝笑意。 弗朗西斯·弗雷拉夫，或叫作弗兰基·弗里洛德也过来凑热闹儿。“上星期，我弄了一个长着舌头的寡妇，”他对我们说，“她用舌头舔我的耳朵、嘴，她还舔我的喉咙。要是我允许的话，她还会舔我的鼻孔呢。” 他们看到我父亲脸上那种嫌恶的样子，笑得就像合唱团里的小孩似的，嗓门又高又尖，爱尔兰的男高音们可把道奇·马登捉弄得够呛。 他坐在那干听着。等他们都讲完了，他摇了摇头。因为我在跟前，他不想让别人拿他当什么耍——落架的凤凰不如鸡。所以他说，“我认为你们这些人都在他妈的说大话。过去十年你们谁也没碰过一个娘们。”看到他气成那个样子，他们高兴得嗬嗬直叫。他把手张开。“我给你们讲讲怀疑的好处，”他说，“比方说你认识几个姑娘，而且她们还真的喜欢亲嘴。甚至她们也许还会喜欢你，和你玩上几宿。行，这可能都是真的。只是你扪心自问一下：那个娘们现在还照顾你吗？昨晚她又是和谁待在一块儿？那时候，她那张嘴在哪儿呢？问问自己吧，你们这帮老色鬼。要是她能亲你，她就能吃狗屎。” 他这番话把那群老家伙乐得前仰后合。“我想知道谁在亲她。”他们在道奇耳边低声哼着。 他从来不笑。他知道自己是对的。这是他的逻辑。I know.我在他跟前长大。 我可能还会继续想下去，但那个刺花纹痛痒起来，把我从冥想中唤醒。我看了看表，已经快到中午了。我站起来想出去走走。可一想到走出家门我就毛骨悚然。恐惧把我又逼回椅子上。 可是，眼下我感到我要还原了，真的一下子从人变成狗。我再也不能畏缩在屋里了。所以，我穿上夹克衫，出了屋子，走进十一月那湿漉漉的空气中。我装出一副刚做了件了不起的事情后表现出来的那种得意扬扬的样子。十足的胆小鬼才这么干呢。真是幕低级喜剧。 可是，一到了街上我就开始寻思起我为什么又要害怕。我前面一英里地左右矗立着普罗文斯敦纪念碑，那座碑是一根尖顶石柱，大约二百英尺高，同佛罗里达的乌费兹塔很相像。到我们海港来的人，不论从陆路还是海上，他第一眼就能看见这座塔。它坐落在镇码头后面那座风景优美的小山上。我们天天都能看到它，它差不多成了我们生活的一部分。没法不去看它。在你去波士顿以前，再没有比它更高的建筑物了。 当然，作为本地人，你永远也不必去注意它就在那儿。我可能有一百来天没瞅它了。可今天，我一走向镇中心，那个刺花纹就如同只忧虑悸动的测试表，似乎要爬遍我的全身。平常，即便朝塔那边看，我也不会注意到它，可现在我看得一清二楚。二十来年前，每当我夜里喝醉时，我总是设法想往那座塔上爬。我差不多要爬上塔尖了，手都够着了离塔尖只有三十英尺的女儿墙。我是垂直向上爬的，在花岗岩大石块上寻找着手能抓、脚能踏的地方，最起码是寻找着能放进手指尖和大脚指头那么点的小坑。数年以后，这次爬塔的情景常使我从梦中惊醒。因为在朝上爬的过程中，有好多次，我是全凭胳膊的劲把自己硬拔上去的，在最糟的地方，我的脚指头踏在只有二指宽的突出部位上，而我的手则什么也够不着，只好手掌贴在石壁上。这真令人难以置信。可当时，我已醉得顾不上这许多了，我一直爬到了女儿墙边。 现在，我同几个登岩探险者交谈着，因为有一两个人甚至和我一起打量着那座纪念碑。当我问他们能不能爬到女儿墙边时，他们真是张嘴就来：“小菜一盘。”他们会说到做到的。有个人甚至向我讲了他采用的方法，尽管我根本听不懂他在说些什么。我可不是爬岩的材料。那天晚上，是我一生中唯一的一次在离地面约二百英尺高的墙边上度过的夜晚。但结果并不理想。打那以后我再也没有足够的胆量去试一次。 正如他们所说的那样，我把自己卡在女儿墙的悬垂上。我似乎十分相信我待的那个地方的结实程度，然后身子朝后仰，直到一只手抓住了女儿墙为止——那只是块很小的悬垂！——但我不知道该怎样爬上去，所以我把身子紧紧贴在它下面的拱洞里，后背靠在一根支柱上，脚蹬着另外一根。我就这样卡在那儿。当我把身体塞进女儿墙下面那个拱洞后，我渐渐感到力不从心。过了一会儿，我知道，我会掉下去的。我说，当时我想我从卡着的地方下去是根本不可能的。我这么想是对的。后来有人告诉我，如果不拿绳子，下墙比上墙还难。我悬在那儿，接着又卡在那儿，与此同时，我那股酒后的勇气渐渐跑光了。酒醒以后，我可真吓坏了。我开始高声呼喊，没多久，我想，我就厉声尖叫起来。长话短说，我在半夜里被志愿消防大队救了下来。救我的那个大块头消防队员身上系了个水手套（他粗得像油桶似的），从上面阳台上顺着绳子滑下来（他是摸着塔内的楼梯上去的）。最后他终于抓住了我。当他们把我俩往上拉时，我就像憋在树上六天没下来的小猫——我已闻到死神身上的气味了——他们说，我拼命撕打他，甚至在他离我稍近时我还想咬他。我怀疑那是真的，因为第二天早晨我的脑袋上鼓了个大包，这是他把我推到石头上以缓和一下青乌的程度的结果。 那天早晨我准备坐公共汽车走。我把手提箱收拾好，刚要离开普罗文斯敦，有几个朋友来串门。他们把我看成了勇士。看样子，大家并没把我当成大傻瓜。所以我又留了下来，并逐渐认识到了为什么普罗文斯敦对我十分合适，因为这里没有一个人认为我干了件怪事或者是稀奇事。我们每个人都有些杰出的东西值得炫耀，就这么回事。你愿怎么干就怎么干好了。 我把旅行袋塞到床底下，整整一冬天没动。我想，当时我随时都可能抬腿就走——在令人不快的时候，只一句戏弄便足可以把我赶出普罗文斯敦。我平生头一次意识到，我的精神并不十分正常。 当然，真正的病因，我是知道一些的。几年后，当我看琼斯写的弗洛伊德传，读到了弗洛伊德提出的“毫无疑问，一种潜在于我内心深处的同性恋恐惧是难以驾驭的”那种观点时，我不得不把书放下，因为我突然想到了我试图爬上纪念碑的那个夜晚。现在，那个刺花纹又疼了起来。那个难以驾驭的病态还在缠着我吗？ 对了，是不是同性恋者云集的地方都有座纪念碑？我想到了在中央公园尖石碑附近徘徊的男人和男孩们，想到了华盛顿纪念碑下公共厕所大便池墙上刻着的那些请柬，请柬上不但有阴茎大小的尺寸，而且还有电话号码。在我发疯似的往塔上爬时，我到底想根除我心里的什么东西呢？《在我们的荒野上——对心智健全者的研究》作者：蒂姆·马登。 在我们镇上，还有个人，他说他是我的伙伴，因为他也曾试图爬上普罗文斯敦纪念碑。和我一样，他也没爬过女儿墙边的那个悬垂，也是被志愿消防队救下来的，尽管那个油桶似的家伙没顺着绳子滑下来（对称也有局限性）。 他是四年前爬的塔。可当时的天下是吸毒上瘾者和风骚人物的。他们在夏日的普罗文斯敦这个巨大洗衣机的搅拌桶中上下颠簸着，谁还能记得住什么呢？有关父亲的传说一直在跟着他。可在这儿，在汉克·尼森爬了塔之后，大家都把我丢到脑后了——有多少人从记忆中消失了啊！——有时，我想尼森是唯一的还记得我也曾爬过那座纪念碑的人。 然而，我真后悔，私下里我们的功绩竟然结合在一起了，因为我实在无法忍受那小子做的事。他的外号——蜘蛛是不是能有助于解释一下我的这种情绪呢？蜘蛛·尼森。亨利·尼森，后来叫汉克·尼森，最后叫蜘蛛·尼森。这最后一个名字就像一股怪味似的沾在他的身上。说起怪味来，这小子可真有点像鬣狗——在笼子的铁棍后面鬣狗眼睛里燃烧着的那股“我们一起吃臭肉”的亲密劲儿和他的表情一模一样。所以蜘蛛·尼森常常会瞅瞅我，咯咯地笑起来，好像我们俩一起玩着同一个姑娘，并换班坐在她的脑袋上似的。 他可真让我烦死了。我不知道这是不是因为我们俩的光荣混在了一起，并且又先后在纪念碑上出了丑的缘故。反正，只要我在街上碰到他，我就整整一天都没情绪。我知道，在他周围，有一种令人不安的气氛，好像他在口袋里藏了把刀，他要用它来剜你的肋条骨。他真就有一把刀。一个坏家伙，但每年冬天他都是镇子上和我来往的二十位朋友之一。冬天，我们就像生活在阿拉斯加一样，需要做出点牺牲。朋友是你打发时间的伴侣，有了他们你才能熬过北方那由寒冷所造就的乏味生活。在寂静的冬季里，平常不太来往的熟人、醉鬼、卑鄙的家伙和令你讨厌的人都成了该称之为朋友的那类人了，尽管凑在一块时我很讨厌蜘蛛，但我们共享了其他人都不会理解的那一时刻，即使这一时刻距今已过去十六年。 此外，他还是个作家。在冬天，只要我们打算对我们同龄人的成绩品头论足，我们就得聚在一起。有天晚上，我们挑麦古恩的错，接着又去找德雷罗的毛病。罗伯特·斯通和哈维·克鲁斯可留着以后有特殊机会时再去评论。我们对与我们年龄相仿而颇有成绩的那些人的天赋的怒骂，使许多夜晚变得生机勃勃。我对他爱不爱读我的作品，抱有怀疑态度，不过我知道我不喜欢他的作品。可我没吱声。他是我的邻居加朋友，猥亵下流、奸诈狡猾、俗不可耐。除此而外，他的大脑有一半是值得羡慕的。他试图撰写一系列小说，描写一个私人侦探。这个侦探得了截瘫，整天坐在轮椅上，从不出门，试图通过面前的计算机来侦破所有案件。他能够在大通讯网上搞窃听，给中央情报局的内部通讯制造些麻烦，搞乱俄国人的部署。蜘蛛笔下的侦探也插手个人计算机，以关心他人的私事。他通过购物单就能知道杀人凶手在哪儿。蜘蛛小说的主人公是个真正的蜘蛛。有一次我告诉蜘蛛，“我们是从无脊椎动物进化为有脊椎动物的。你却让我们都成了只有脑袋的动物。”说完，我看见许多长着卷发的脑袋，这些卷发是躯干和四肢，可他的眼睛却闪闪发光，好像我在录像棚内一举成名似的。 我最好还是描述一下他的长相——眼下我十分清楚地意识到我是在往他家走。他个子很高，四肢又细又长，又稀又长的黄头发脏得变成了蓝绿色，就像他那件褪了色的脏得差不多发黄的蓝粗布工装一样。他鼻子很长，但不知道朝哪儿拐好，就是说，他的鼻子没了梁，鼻头上有一对不停地操作着的鼻孔，那个鼻子尖真叫人难以形容。他的嘴又宽又扁，活像只大螃蟹。此外，他还有一对深灰色的眼睛。对他来说，他家的天棚实在太矮了。裸露的大梁离地板只有八英尺高——鬼城里的又一个鱼棚子！这幢房子有八个房间，顺着那个科德角所特有的窄窄的楼梯往上爬有四间，往下走还有四间，每个房间都散发出阴郁的潮湿气味，外加卷心菜味、酒的余香、糖尿病的汗臭——我想他老婆有糖尿病——啃完的骨头味，老狗身上的臊味以及臭蛋黄酱味。跟穷老太婆的屋子没什么两样。 但是，在漫漫严冬，我们都蜷缩在屋里不出来，好像我们都属于上一世纪似的。他家在两条长街间的一个小胡同里，直到走进高高的篱笆墙中间的那个大门，你才会看到他家的房顶。你一进大门就能看见他家的屋门。他家的房子前后没有院子，四周只有一圈篱笆。如果你从一楼的窗户向外看，除了那堵篱笆墙外，什么也看不到。 当时我边走边想，现在我为什么要去看他，不大一会儿，我就想起来了，我上次去他家做客时，他用刀在西瓜上切了个口，往里倒了些伏特加酒，过一会儿他用这个灌了酒的西瓜加碎饼干招待我们。他用刀的那种方式——像位有经验的外科医生那样准确而又娴熟地转动刀子——使我尝到了玩刀的乐趣，这就像一个人进餐时，他那高雅的风度和兴致勃勃的劲儿，会使你食欲顿增。 我边走边寻思着那座纪念塔，我身上的刺花纹，也想到了蜘蛛·尼森，不但想到了他，也想到了一个月前他在降神会上那声令人毛骨悚然的尖叫。随之而来的是一件很少见的事。打那以后，帕蒂·拉伦动不动就发阵歇斯底里，这在以前是没有的事。一想起他如何用刀，我就猛然间感到（就像天使的礼物那样），百分之百地感到，他可能会知道我是怎样得到这个刺花纹的。就在这时，我忽然产生个念头：是蜘蛛的刀把那个金发的人头从脖子上割了下来。 现在，我心头最难忍受的压力一下子放了出来。当你处在深不可测的危险中，又找不到一丝线索时，你会感到痛苦万分。现在我找到了根据，这就是观察我的朋友蜘蛛。尽管我刚才说了他一些坏话，可在以前我曾多次大方地带他到那块大麻地里转转。就像我说的，冬天的寂寞是我们一半行为的基本依据。 尼森的女人贝思，听到我的敲门声后，开了门。我以前曾提过，普罗文斯敦没有摆绅士派头的人，根本没有，可你仍会发现一些人冒犯另一些人。比如，我那些朋友，他们在家时从不划门。你用不着敲门，直接进去就行。要是门划上了，那它只意味着一件事——你的朋友在性交。我有几位朋友专喜欢不划门在屋里性交。你如果推门进去的话，你既可站在一旁观看，也可根据实际情况加入到他们的狂欢中。在冬季的普罗文斯敦可没什么事好干。 然而，帕蒂·拉伦认为这么干乏味得很。她的许多事我从来就没弄明白过，因为我想她可能与大家同居过——但那仅仅是为了打赌，一个很大很大的赌。在她原先那个阶层，贫穷的白种人总是来往于相互间的床上。所以，我那位好妻子可能会考虑到许多建议，可她身上仍留有阶级的烙印。普罗文斯敦人喜欢在肮脏、破旧的毯子下调情，这个习惯叫她感到恶心。他们喜欢这个，因为他们都是来自良好的中产阶级家庭。并且，正如帕蒂·拉伦曾说过的“试图报复他们自己的人，因为，这些人使他们染上社会恶习！”帕蒂并不喜好这些。她的身体使她感到自豪。她喜欢在后岸海滩上举办的裸体海滩宴会，并酷爱站在海滩上，站在离“未来”情人的眼睛仅有一英尺远的地方（皮肤因日晒变得棕红），那个家伙吃着热狗，一只眼盯着沾满芥末面的红猪肉，另一只眼瞅着她大腿中间那堆灌木丛。 她常常会光着屁股在海里放荡地玩乐，胳膊搂住另外两位裸体女人。她那老练，好捏东西的手指捏弄着她们的奶头——捏奶头、摆弄乳房、拍屁股是良家姑娘在水坑里玩耍的好游戏。她过去常常到那些水坑里玩。海滩边的峭壁上有棵老树，老树的一个粗枝上垂下一条绳子。 她也喜欢一丝不挂只穿双高跟鞋在屋里走来走去。当一个里面装着男人的旧派克大衣突然在门口出现，问“蒂姆在家吗？”她那最为敏感的组织会被惹恼的。 “你这个愚蠢、低级、粗野的坏种，”她常常会这样说，“你听过敲门声吗？” 所以，我的那些朋友就得遵守一项新的法令：进屋前先敲门。我们——我的意思是指她——强化了这项法令。由于我们过于保守而遭到他人的白眼，但正如我所暗示的，冬天，颠倒了的虚伪占领了我们镇子。 所以，我有意识地敲了敲蜘蛛家的门。他女人，贝思，让我进了屋，我朝她点了点头。她对尼森的怪念头百依百顺，致使镇上最最乐意帮助人的女人对她都不抱任何希望了。有讽刺意味的是，贝思赡养尼森的一家老小。一点不错，那幢小房子是她的，是用她富有的父母给的钱买的（我听别人说，她父母在威斯康星的大公司里工作）。可蜘蛛把那个盐盒子视作自己的封地。用她的钱买的霍达牌1200CC小汽车、特尼特朗牌电视机、索尼录像机、贝塔马斯录音机和苹果牌计算机加强了他的力量。只有随他去摆布钱，她那不太健全的价值才可能会发出微弱的光。她的话不多，脸苍白，说话温柔，做起事来总是偷偷摸摸的。她皮肤呈焦茶色，脸上戴了副眼镜。我总觉得，即使我和贝思点点头，不太好意思地朝对方笑笑，她也会有意不让她每一种很小的魅力暴露出来。她看去像棵草，但她能写出许多好诗来。在读她能让我看到的那么几首诗作时，我发现当她对她的概念施行暴力时，犹如贫民窟里的强奸犯那样残忍无情，而她运用暗喻则又像杂技演员那样敏捷迅速，有时用好似小孩嘴里叨咕着的忍冬青那样柔软的情感弄碎了你的心。对此我感到惊奇不已，但并没有被吓呆。她是一棵用镭培养出来的野草。 但还是让我先告诉你一声，她和蜘蛛的性生活——这对任何一位朋友来说并不是什么秘密——真叫人感到恶心，甚至对我们来说也是这样。在一次性交过程中，尼森弄伤了腰，现在他患着很严重的脊柱脱臼症，每隔几个月，他就得搬到地板上住几个星期，他在地板上写作、吃饭、性交。我想，腰越疼，他就越想干那件事，这使他脊骨的病情每况愈下。首先他仔细玩味着他们之间相互吸引的肉，然后是骨头，最后是肠肚下水，好像在地板上这段监禁中——趴着那段时间可真够长的！——他不得不拨了几下身子左边的班卓琴，直到不是他把脊骨弄碎，他的思维在外层空间嚎叫，就是她把自己的手腕子切开为止。他过去常常用录像机把他们性交的情景录下来。可能在我们这帮朋友中，有十来个人看过他制作的录像片。他向我们展示脊骨脱臼后怎样性交的技巧，而她却像位修女似的，静静地坐在我们当中。那些镜头，大多数都是，蜘蛛躺着不动，她（他对在他身上蠕动着的那个纤细的身子十分自豪）在上面做出各种花样动作。而他背上的卷毛则像狗尾巴那样来回摆动。他把这些全都录下来。最后是一阵闪电，一阵抽搐，一动不动了。他们因为缺少娱乐活动，整天以性交来打发时光。看这些可真让人恶心。他还常常在她身上撒尿，这些我们在电视屏幕上都看得一清二楚。他留了一撮达特根式的浅棕色小胡子。他像个恶棍那样一边捻着小胡子，一边用甜言蜜语把她弄倒在地上。你可能会问，我为什么要看这些玩意儿。我告诉你：我知道伟大的苍穹是天使的天下，但空中也有供小鬼们藏身的阴沟和地下交通网。我过去总感到，尼森那幢房子（尽管房主的名字是她的，怀特的，贝思·迪特里希·怀特）似乎是这个网络的又一个交通站。所以，我没走，一直看下去。我并不知道我是个助手还是个间谍，直到谢天谢地，几个月后，他的腰好了一点，减少了这种没有理智、错乱短路的性生活的次数。当然作为一种补偿，他眼下正在撰写关于在他腰伤期间他如何与贝思性交的回忆录，他可能会让你拜读他的作品。读完后你还得和他就这种活动的优点讨论一番。这真是百分之百的专题文学讨论会。 如果他相信上帝或者魔鬼，要不就是两者都相信的话，我还能与他，这只蜘蛛，这个极为残忍的家伙处得来。他和我共同分享着爬上那个用石头做的男性生殖器的丰功伟绩，那座在普罗文斯敦与华盛顿特区之间最高的纪念碑。如果他的灵魂真能在痛苦中受到煎熬，如果他真的或者希望去谋杀上帝或者在魔鬼的尾巴底下亲上一口，甘心做它的奴隶，那么我就能忍受左道邪说、谬论、伪誓、唯信仰主义、阿里乌斯教、人类美德主义、诺斯替教、摩尼教，甚至是单一性灵主义或感情净化主义了。可我同这个该死的无神论者就是处不来。他相信乘电子光束来的精灵。我想，他的理论观点是：以前曾有过一个好上帝，可现在不知什么原因，它没了，留给我们一座宇宙仓库。在那里，我们可以到处翻翻，用手指捅捅货物，窃听所有的通讯系统。他是只有脑袋没身子的动物的始祖。 今天，当我走进屋时，他们的起居室里很暗，百叶窗拉了下来。蜘蛛和两个男的坐在一起，刚进来时，我没看清他们的脸。他们正看爱国者队试图从十码线那儿发球得分。今天可能是星期天，从这便可以看出来我与真正生活的距离有多远。我甚至还不知道。在十一月里的其他那几个星期天，我常常是经过再三考虑后，下赌，从发球起就坐在这儿。因为，我承认，无论我多么讨厌尼森，也不喜欢连续看几个小时的电视，因为它就像把泻盐一样，把我滤得一干二净，可如果你想看电视的话，什么地方也比不上尼森的起居室。臭袜子味和洒在地上的啤酒散发出来的味与家用电器那种难以捉摸的味——发热的电线和塑料套——混在一起。我感到好像是在未来文明边缘上的一个岩洞里——和只有脑袋没有身子的新型山洞人待在一起，期待着一千年的到来。如果星期天的下午都能在消沉而又平安地打发时间中度过，同时冬去春天还会来，那我就会怀着一种微妙的喜悦心情，观看爱国者队、凯尔特队、布鲁因斯队踢球，四月，看红短袜队踢球。到了五月，气氛就变了。冬季已过，夏日已浮上眼前。尼森的起居室到那时再也不像个岩洞，而成了个不通气的兽穴。可现在，我们刚刚开始冬眠。因为秋天的生活对我来说并没有什么新鲜感，要不然我会很高兴地（有点忧郁）拎六瓶一盒或一夸脱的波旁威士忌酒，作为我对岩洞的贡献，然后，想也不想地一屁股坐在长沙发上。那间屋长还不到十六英尺，宽也不足十二英尺，我把脚上那双生皮翻毛皮鞋伸到地毯上，使我自己与屋里其他所有颜色混在一起——墙壁、地毯、家具都失去了光泽，呈现出黑灰色，经常洒啤酒的地方已变得苍白，点点斑迹使它们变成了无所不在的无色颜色，既不是柴灰的灰色，又不是洗褪了的紫色，也不是暗淡的绿色，更不是浅棕色，这屋里的颜色是所有这些颜色的总和。谁还在乎颜色？电视屏幕是我们光线的圣坛，屋里的人都看它，不时有人咕哝一声或者呷口啤酒。 我很难说清楚这对我来说是种多么大的宽慰。这些天来，对像我这样还活着的人来说，坐在蜘蛛的朋友中间才是真正的安慰。要是在好时候，那两个家伙我理都不理，可在今天他们成了伴侣。有一个名叫皮特的波兰佬，我们下赌时他管登记。他名很怪，谁也不能以同样的方式说上两回。他自己也不能（他的名字可能是这样写的——彼得·帕特亚兹维斯茨）。我并不得意他，这小子既不公平又贪婪，因为他向输方要的超额利息高达百分之二十，而在波士顿打赌的场上只要百分之一（“给波士顿挂个电话。”他常常这样说，他知道他的赌客是不会从波士顿那儿赊到钱的）。除此而外，如果他摸到了你下赌方法的线索，他会整你一下。真是个长着一副尖酸刻薄脸的坏心眼子家伙，万金油式的少数民族：你可能会认为他是意大利人、爱尔兰人、波兰人、匈牙利人、德国人或乌克兰人，如果这些就是你听来的话。他也不喜欢我。我是为数不多的能从波士顿赊到钱的人中间的一个。 皮特波兰佬今天到这儿来仅仅说明尼森在爱国者队上下了很大的赌注。这让人感到十分不安。尼森可能会冷冰地朝他那位奴隶般的女人身上撒尿，也肯舔吃爱国者队任何一个运动员的鞋带。对他来说，这些运动员就像神似的。他那患截瘫的侦探可能会打入中央情报局的计算机系统，以同样的派头把朋友、敌人一勺烩了。可尼森抱住他那种忠诚死死不放，其结果皮特在爱国者队上赌六点时，我在波士顿只给三。不知有多少次，蜘蛛被夹在中间！我寻思，今天的赌注很大，皮特到这搂钱来了：如果他赢了的话。五分钟之后，我知道，我是对的。不大一会儿，蜘蛛开始冲着电视机大喊起来。不久，我十分肯定地认为，他这次比赛下的赌注可值他那辆摩托车。要是他输了的话，皮特到这儿来的目的是想骑走它。 讲讲皮特是值得的，他能娴熟地让蜘蛛的债台逐渐增高，以得到他的许诺——“再容我一个星期，我会领你到马登藏大麻的地方。”我藏的那些东西至少值几千美金，尼森懂这个：他只不过是想把它当附属担保物罢了。 屋里另外那位我不认识。你可能会以为他是拉美血统的美国人。他的胳膊上刺满了鹰和美人鱼的花纹，黑头发没卷儿，低前额，勾鼻子，两撇小胡子，还掉了几颗牙。大家都叫他斯都迪，因为他在科德角一带专偷斯都德贝科牌小汽车。这只是个传说，不是真的。他什么车都偷，大家管他叫斯都迪是因为他偷了一辆斯都德贝科牌小汽车，被警察逮捕了。他到这儿来是为皮特收赌金的。我听说他现在是个机械工和金属制造工（他是在瓦尔堡监狱里学来的这两手），能改变别人偷来的汽车发动机上的编号。但我想他并不知道我在特普罗森林里的那一小块地。 我提这些是因为我像约翰·福斯特·杜勒斯那样正在经历一场“令人痛苦的重新估价”。不论杜勒斯的罪孽有多么大，这个警句，是他讲出来的。我喜欢把自己看作是一个从更广阔的角度来探讨人类的作家。把我所遇到的人都贬到知道或不知道蒂姆·马登在哪儿藏大麻那种人的地步并不使我感到高兴。 可现在，我脑子空空，只有这一串名字：尼森知道，据我所知，我领杰西卡和潘伯恩先生到那去过，雷杰西看起来很清楚。我还能想想其他人。我甚至把我父亲也加进去。我多少年来一直想方设法用大麻来减少饮酒量，但没成功。一年前，在他最后一次来看我和帕蒂时，我把他领到那块空地，试图想让他对大麻感兴趣。我想如果他看到那些植物，他可能会像尊敬做啤酒的蛇麻子一样尊敬它们。所以，没错，我把父亲也加了进去。 但这就像往贝思身上撒尿一样。突然间，我感到我的思维很奇特。每个人就像计算机屏幕上表格里的数字一样蹦了出来。我是在变成只有脑袋没有身子的动物吗？这种思维活动使我的脑袋几乎无法承受，我感到自己就像台功能不太好使的计算机。我不断地把我父亲的名字打上去又拿下来。我宁愿在大海狂涛里颠簸，也不愿想这些。 我尽力坐在那儿看足球赛。最后，在第二次四分之一场暂停时，尼森站起来，走到冰箱那儿取啤酒。我跟在他后面。 跟他打交道只有一个办法，就是用不着客气。由于他能把自己和老婆显示在由电子点组成的五彩纸屑中，或者一口咬着三明治，问你是否便秘，我就用不着在乎直截了当地问他问题是不是会得罪他。所以我说，“蜘蛛，还记得降神会吗？” “伙计，忘了它吧，”他说，“我想不起来。” “那次降神会可真古怪。” “叫人汗毛直竖。”他把嘴里的啤酒在大牙豁子里来回涮几下