Chapter 11 9

Vic awoke suddenly from the darkness, the rapid breath in his throat dry as salt.His heart pounded slightly in his chest, he was completely disoriented, and even felt like he was falling for a moment, he reached out and grabbed the bed. He closed his eyes for a while, trying to adjust himself not to let himself fall apart. (you are--) He opened his eyes and saw a window, a bedside table, and a lamp. (Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Boston, Massachusetts.) He relaxes.Finding the point of reference, everything snapped shut, making him wonder how, even for a moment, he'd gotten so lost, so almost completely unraveled.It was a strange place, he thought, that, nightmare.

nightmare!God, this dream is so bad. He couldn't remember a time since the falling dreams that tormented him up and down in adolescence when he'd had such a bad dream.He reached for the little travel clock on the table, grasped it with both hands, and held it before him.One forty.Rollo was snoring softly on the other bed, his eyes already adjusting in the darkness to see him.He was lying flat there in a ridiculous pajamas with little yellow college pennants painted on it. Vic rolled his legs out of bed, walked softly into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.There were Roger's cigarettes on the washstand, and he took one.He needs it.He sat on the toilet and smoked, dusting the sink.

A dream that made him anxious, Donna would say, and God knew he had so much to worry about already. However, he went to bed at 10:30 last night, and he was in better spirits than last week.After returning to the hotel, he and Roger stayed in the Ritz Carlton bar for half an hour. They roughly discussed the plan of apologizing. Roger found Yansi Harrington from his old-fashioned wallet. home phone number.Harrington was the actor who played Professor Sharpe Cereal. "We'll see if he wants to before we take the next step," Roger said, picking up the phone and calling the home of Harrington, who lives in Westport, Connecticut.Vic didn't know where it would end.If he had to guess, he'd say that Harrington might take a bit of a hit -- he's already been miserable with the Vitality incident and whatever impact he can think of on his image.

What the two of them got was a surprise. Harrington immediately agrees, well aware of reality, knowing that the professor is over ("Poor old guy is a goose in the past," Harrington says darkly).But what this final ad did, he said, was simply to get the company out of the episode and, so to speak, back on track. "Bullshit," Roger said with a grin after hanging up the phone. "All he wants is someone to applaud him for the curtain call. Not many commercial actors get that chance. As soon as we call him, he'll buy his own ticket and fly." Come to Boston."

So Vic was happy when he went to bed, fell asleep almost immediately, and then, the dream.In the dream, he stood in front of Qin De's closet and told Ted that) [There is nothing, nothing at all.Even so, I can let you watch it once.As he spoke he opened the door of the farm closet, where he saw Ted's clothes and toys set, and there was a forest—an old pine tree, cloud villages, and ancient hardwoods. A mulch of fragrant pine needles and leaves covers the wardrobe floor.He pushed it aside to see if the floor was underneath.Not there, his feet stepped into the fertile black soil of the forest.

He went into the closet and the door closed behind it.Nothing, there is enough light.He found a path and followed it.Suddenly, he realized that he was carrying a bag on his back and a kettle on one shoulder.He could hear the mysterious rustling of the wind through the fir trees, and faintly the song of birds. Seven years ago, before Woolkers commercials, they went hiking together on a vacation, and they walked the Appalachian Trail, where the terrain resembled the one in his dream. They only went They went there once, and then they only went to the seaside for vacation.He, Donna, and Roger were all having a good time, but Althea Brixton didn't like hiking, and she came back very itchy and very ill.

The first part of the dream was quite pleasant. All of these things, in their own strange way, were wonderfully placed in Ted's closet.Then he came to an open place that he had seen before...but the dream was beginning to crumble, as he always did when he recalled the dreams in his waking hours. On the other side of the open land was a gray cliff, more than a thousand feet high, plunging into the sky.At about twenty feet high there was a cave—no, not deep enough to call it a cave.It's more like an alcove, just a depression in the rock that happens to have a flat bottom. Donna and Ted were huddled in fear of some kind of demon that was trying to climb up, get in, grab them, eat them.It's kind of like the scene in "King of Kong" where the gorilla shakes Fay Ray's would-be rescuer off the log bridge and starts chasing the lone survivor, but the man escapes into the hole, and the hole isn't easy catch him.

But the demon in his dream wasn't a gorilla. It's a... what?dragon?No, not like.Not a dragon, not a dinosaur, not a giant.He couldn't figure out what it was. Whatever it was, it wasn't easy to go in and catch Donna and Ted, so it had to wait outside their shelter like a cat waiting for a mouse with terrible patience. He started to run, but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't get close to the other side of the open field.He could hear Donna screaming for help, but when he yelled in answer, his voice seemed to die away just two feet from his mouth, and finally Tad saw him.

"They don't work!" Ted screamed, his desperate voice filling Vic's heart with terror, "Dad, the 'devil's words' don't work! Oh, Dad, they don't work, they never work ! You lied, Daddy! You lied!" He continued to run, but what he was standing on seemed to be a gym-type treadmill.He looked to the bottom of the cliff, and he saw piles of bones and grinning skulls, some of which were covered with green moss. Then he woke up. What exactly is that demon? He really can't remember. The dream is already like the scenery seen when holding the telescope backwards.He threw the cigarette butt down the toilet and flushed it.Turn on the tap again and rinse out the soot in the sink.

He urinates, turns off the lights, and gets into bed again. When he was lying down, he glanced at the phone, and suddenly had a very irrational urge to call home.Irrational?That's an understatement.It's one fifty in the morning.He doesn't just wake her up, he scares her out of her wits.You can't actually interrupt someone's dream, everyone knows that.When your marriage and career are in danger of derailing at the same time, it's no surprise that your mind plays some turbulent games, isn't it? Anyway, just listen to her voice and know she's okay— He turned his head away from the phone and closed his eyes resolutely.

Call her in the morning, maybe it will make you feel better, just call her after breakfast. This thought reassured him, and soon he fell into a drowsy sleep. This time he didn't dream—or if he did, it didn't make an impression in his consciousness.By the time Tuesday morning came he had quite forgotten the dream of the beast in the open.I just vaguely remember getting up once in the middle of the night. Vic did not call home that day. At five o'clock sharp on Tuesday morning, Charity woke up, and for a short while she couldn't tell which was which, which was which, which was which, which was which, which was which. Narrow single beds instead of sunken double beds. Then she knew where she was--Sturatford, Connecticut--and she felt a sudden burst of delighted anticipation.She could chat with her sister all day long, reminiscing about the past, asking her what she's been up to for the past few years.Holly also talked about asking them to go shopping in Bridgeport together. She woke up an hour and a half earlier than usual, and there will be two or three hours before the family will move.But it was impossible to sleep well in a strange bed until the third day—her mother had said so, and it was true. She listened to her surroundings, and there was a small noise in the silence. She saw the faint morning light at five o'clock in the morning, which fell on the half-drawn curtains... The morning light at dawn is always so white, so clear, so beautiful . She heard a board creak and a bluejay began to lose his morning tantrum. Today's first commuter train to Westport, Greenwich and New York City. The floor began to rattle again. Another sound. It's not the sinking of the house, it's the sound of footsteps. Charity sat up in bed, the blanket and sheet following her, gathering around the waist of her purple nightgown.Footsteps were coming slowly down the stairs.It is very lightly treaded: bare feet or only socks. It's Bright.The longer you live with people, the more you know their footsteps.It's one of those mysterious things that happen over a period of years, like the shape a leaf makes on a rock. She pushed off the covering, got up, and went to the door.Her room looked on the hall upstairs, and when she got to the door she saw the top of Brett's head disappearing, the curls on his forehead standing up and disappearing too. She walked behind him. By the time Sand Greenbelt reached the top step, Brett was disappearing down the hallway that ran the length of the house from the front door to the kitchen. She opened her mouth to call him...and closed it again.She was frightened by the house, it was sleeping, it was not hers. There's something about the way he walks...the way his body moves...but, it's been years, it's— She went downstairs quickly and lightly on her bare feet, and followed Brett into the kitchen.He was only wearing a pair of short light blue pajamas, and the white cotton belt of the pajama pants dragged under his crotch.Even though it was only mid-summer, he was visibly tan—he was naturally dark, like his father, and tanned easily. Standing in the corridor, she saw his silhouette, the same beautiful, clear morning light bathing his limbs.He was following the signs on the stove, counters, and sink to find things.She was filled with wonder and fear.He is beautiful, she thought, and everything we are beautiful is in him too.It was a moment she would never forget—she saw her son in just pajama shorts, and for a moment she understood vaguely the mystery of his boyhood, a moment so short it passed by.Her mother's eyes were fascinated by him, the slender curves of his muscles, the line of his hips, the well-defined soles of his feet.He looked...almost perfect. She could see so clearly because Brett wasn't awake.He had sleepwalked as a child, between the ages of four and eight, a dozen or so times in all, and she finally got so worried—frightened—to ask Dr. Gresham about it. She didn't tell Joe.It wasn't that she was afraid that Brett was going insane—everyone around him could tell he was bright and normal—it was that she was afraid that he might do something to hurt her in that strange state.Dr. Gresham told her that the odds of that happening were slim, and that the ludicrous notion of sleepwalking came mostly from cheap, poorly investigated movies. "We don't know much about sleepwalking," he told her, "but we do know that it occurs more often in children than in adults. The interaction between consciousness and body is constantly growing and maturing, Mrs. Chambers and many others who have done research in this field believe that sleepwalking may be a symptom of a transient, insignificant imbalance between consciousness and body." "Like growing pains?" she asked suspiciously. "Very similar," grinned Gresham, and he drew a bell-shaped curve on his pad, indicating that Brett's sleepwalking would reach a peak, last for a while, then taper off, and finally disappear. When she left Gresham, she had dubiously told him that Brett would not walk out of the window or into the middle of the road;She took Bret a week later, a month or two after his sixth birthday.Gresham, after performing a full physical examination on him, declared him to be fine.Indeed, Gresham appears to be right.It had been more than two years since what Charity thought was her last sleepwalking. But the last time means, before today. Brett opened and closed the cupboards one by one, searching for Holly's ironing pan, the contents of her Jane-Ellie multi-cooker, neatly folded dish towels, coffee tea creamer Bottles, Duplesson glassware set.His eyes were large and dull, and she could be sure calmly that they saw just other cabinets in another place. She felt the old, helpless fear, the fear she had almost completely forgotten, the fear that parents feel when they first encounter the signs and bodily derailments of their children's infancy: teething, vaccinations, That made high fevers a mere trifle, along with asthma, ear infections, and even unexplained sudden bleeding from hands and feet.What was he thinking about?Where is he, she thought?Why is this happening now, after he's been quiet for two years?Is it because you are new to a strange place?He doesn't look terribly upset...at least not yet. He opened the last cupboard, took out a pink gravy dish, and set it on the counter. He lifts something that doesn't exist, pantomime-like pouring something onto the saucer.Goosebumps suddenly appeared on her hands, she already knew where he was and what the pantomime was about.It was something he did every day at home, he was feeding Cujo. She unconsciously took a step closer to him, then stopped again. She didn't believe the wives' tales of what would happen if waking a sleepwalker--stories that the soul would leave the body forever, leading to madness, or sudden death--and she didn't need to ask Dr. wrong. She'd borrowed a monograph on it from the Portland City Library...but she didn't really need it either.Her own good common sense told her that the result of waking a sleepwalker was that he woke up—no more and no less.There may be tears, even mild hysteria, but this reaction can occur whenever the person is disoriented. But she still never woke Brett when he was sleepwalking, and she didn't dare to do so now. Her inexplicable fear came from other sources. She was suddenly very frightened, and she couldn't figure out why.Why did Brett's actual dream of feeding Cujo scare her so much?It would have been natural, he'd been worrying about Cujo all along. He bent down to set the plate down so that the waistband of his pajama pants formed a right angle with the horizontal plane of the red and black linoleum floor.He does a sad pantomime slow motion.He spoke, murmuring like a man asleep, in a guttural rapidity that was difficult to understand.There was no trace of emotion in his words, he was completely introverted, huddled in a cocoon of a dream, this dream was so vivid that he started sleepwalking again after two years. There was no sentimentality in those words, they just rushed out in quick sleepy sighs, but Charity's hand was already at her throat, and the flesh there was cold, cold. "Cujo isn't hungry anymore," Brett said, the words coming out of a sigh.He stood up again, holding the marinade dish in front of his chest, "I'm not hungry anymore, I'm not hungry anymore." He stood motionless for a moment at the counter, and Charity stood silently at the kitchen door.A tear fell down his face.He put the dish on the counter and walked towards the door.His eyes were open, but his eyes seemed to see nothing, and they just slid past Charity without feeling.He stopped and looked back. "Go and see among the weeds," he said to someone out of sight. Then he started walking towards her again.She stood aside, her hand still on her throat.Quickly and noiselessly he passed her on his bare feet, entered the hall, and headed for the stairs. She turned and followed him, remembering the gravy dish again. It stood alone on the bare counter, ready for the new day, like the focal point of a painting.She picked it up, and it slid out through her fingers—and she realized that her fingers were already slippery with sweat.She twirled it in its hand a few times like a juggler, imagining how it would feel when it smashed into pieces during this quiet sleeping time.Then she held it firmly in both hands, put it back on the shelf, and closed the cupboard door. She stood there for a while, hearing her heart beating heavily, feeling her own strangeness relative to this kitchen.She is an intruder in this kitchen.Then she followed her son upstairs. She walked out onto the corridor in front of his room just in time to see him climb into bed.He lifted the covers and rolled to his left side, the way he always slept.Charity knew it was all over, but she stood there for a while longer. A cough across the hall reminded her that this was someone else's home.She was suddenly very homesick, and a few times it seemed like her stomach was full of numbness, the kind a dentist uses.The idea of ​​her divorce was so immature and out of touch on this quiet, beautiful morning, it was like a child's imagination.It is easy for her to have the idea that this is someone else's home, not hers. Why did his pantomime feeding Cujo, and those quick sighs, scare her so much?Cujo wasn't hungry anymore, not hungry anymore. She went back to her room and lay on the bed. By this time the sun had risen, illuminating the room.At breakfast, Brett looked the same as before.He didn't mention Cujo, and apparently, for a while at least, had forgotten to call home.After some debate in her mind, Charity decided not to mention the matter for the time being. very hot. Donna rolled the window wider—about a quarter of the way open, as far as she dared—and leaned on Tad's lap and rolled his window open as well.Just then, she saw the crumpled yellow paper on his lap. "What's that, Ted?" He looked up at her.There were a few dirty brown marks under his eye circles. "The word of the devil," he said. "Can I see it?" He held it tightly for a moment, then let her carry it. There was an alert, almost property-owner look on his face that made her feel instantly jealous. "Devil's Words" is short, but powerful. Until now she had been doing her best to keep him alive and unharmed, while all he cared about was Vic's spell.Then that feeling of hers disappeared again, turning into confusion, frustration, and loathing for herself.She had brought him into this situation in the first place, and if she hadn't conceded to him about Debbie... "I put it in my pocket yesterday," he said, "before we hit the streets. Will the devil come and eat us?" "It's not a demon, Ted, it's just a dog, and it won't eat us!" Her voice was sharper than she thought, "I tell you, when the postman comes, we can go home. "And I told him the car would be ready to go right away, and I told him someone would be coming, the Cambers would be back soon— But what's the use of thinking that way? "Can you give me back the 'Devil's Words'?" he asked. For a moment she felt a utterly insane urge to rip this sweat-soaked crumpled yellow legal paper to shreds and throw it out her window, and she would be delighted to see confetti dancing in the air ...she handed the paper back to Ted.She ran her hands through his hair, and she was ashamed, astonished.What's wrong with her, God?Such a cruel thought.Why is she still making him worse?Because of Vic?Herself?What? So hot--too hot to think.Sweat trickled down her face like a stream, and she could see it dripping onto Tad's cheek.His hair was stuck in an unlovely clump on his skull, two shades darker than its usual medium blonde. He needs to wash his hair, she thought wildly, and it reminded her of Johnson's "No More Tears," sitting steadily on the bathroom shelf, waiting for someone to turn it upside down and pour out a , Two caps of liquid, and then poured into a cupped palm. (Don't lose control!) No, of course not. She has no reason to lose control.Everything will be fine, won't it?of course.The dog had been out of sight for more than an hour.The postman...it's almost ten o'clock, the postman will be here soon, and the heat in the car will be nothing by then. "Greenhouse effect," they call it.She once saw a pamphlet from the Society for the Cruelty to Animals, which explained why you can't keep a dog in a car for a long time when it's this hot, and it's because of the greenhouse effect.The brochure says that in a car parked in the sun with the windows rolled up can reach 140 degrees Fahrenheit so it is cruel and dangerous to keep pets in the car while out shopping or watching a movie thing.Donna let out a short, hoarse laugh. The shoe fits right on the other foot, doesn't it?Now it's the dogs that lock the people up. Well, the postman is coming. As soon as the postman arrives, it's all over.It doesn't matter that there is only a quarter of a bottle of milk left in the thermos.This morning she went to the bathroom and used Ted's thermos - or tried to - it overflowed and the Pinto was filled with the smell of urine, an unpleasant smell that seems to be increasing with the temperature and become stronger.She had capped the thermos and thrown it through the window, and she could hear it shattering on the gravel as she cried out. None of this matters anymore.It would be shameful and demeaning to try to urinate in a thermos, of course it is, but that doesn't matter anymore because the postman is coming - even though he's still far away on Carbin Street, covered in ivy He loaded his blue and white pick-up truck with letters in front of the brick post office...or possibly started his daily delivery, probably already headed from 117 to Maple Sugar Road. But either way, it's all coming to an end soon.She'd be able to take Tad home soon, and they'd go upstairs, and they'd undress together and shower, but before she and him got in the tub and rinsed under the shower head, she'd be off the second shelf. Removing the bottle of shampoo and placing the lid firmly on the side of the sink, she would wash Tad's hair first, then her own. Tad was reading the yellow paper again. His lips move silently, he's not really reading, not what he's supposed to be doing for the next two years (if we get out of here - her rebellious mind immediately adds meaninglessly), but a kind of rote Hard-backed reading.Driving school training function: When illiterates prepare for the written test of the driver's test, they are required to do this. She has seen it somewhere, maybe in a feature film. Isn't this amazing?How can the human brain hold so much dirt?Isn't it also surprising that all these things come out again when one has nothing to do?It's like a subconscious garbage disposal working in reverse. It reminded her of something that had happened at her parents' house, where she lived at the time. At one of her mother's famous cocktail parties (that's what Donna's father always called them, he said it with a sarcastic tone that automatically bolded the words, a tone that would make Samantha Going crazy) Less than two hours ago, the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink somehow turned upside down and her mother turned the little machine back on, trying to clean everything out, right here Suddenly, something green and sticky rushed out and sprayed all over the ceiling.Donna, who was only fourteen at the time, remembered being horrified and sickened by her mother's hysterical aggression.She was disgusted because her mother lost her temper in front of people who loved her and needed her to help create an easy-going little group of acquaintances who came from far away to drink freely here, she was horrified because she saw no logic in her mother's anger... because of the look she saw in her father's eyes, which was a helpless disgust.That was the first time she really believed—trusted in her own courage—that she would grow up to be a woman who would at least have the chance to try to be better than her mother, without the little things that happened to her It becomes that frightening and disgusting state... She closed her eyes and tried to push the train of thoughts out of her, already disturbed by the vivid emotion the memory evoked.The SPCA, the greenhouse effect, the garbage disposal, what's next?How did I lose my virginity?Six cute vacations?That's what the postman should be thinking, the damn postman. "Mommy, maybe the car can start now." "Honey, I'm freaking out, I'm afraid to try, the battery is dead so fast." "But we're just sitting here," he said, sounding grumpy, jaded and angry, "if we're just sitting here, does it matter if the battery is dead or not? Try it!" "Don't give me orders, man, or I'll take your ass!" He cringed in her hoarse, angry voice, and she began to curse herself.The ground stings... Can he be blamed?And, he was right.This is what really pissed her off.But Tad didn't understand that the real reason for her reluctance to try the engine again was that she was afraid that the roar of the car would attract Cujo, which was the last thing she wanted. She turned the key firmly in the ignition switch. The Pinto's engine was revving very slowly now, making a dragging, protesting sound.It coughed twice, but didn't light the fire.She turned the key back and honked the horn, and the car let out a vague, low whine that barely reached fifty yards, let alone the house down the hill. "Good." Her voice was sharp and cruel. "You're happy? Good." Tad started crying, and Donna remembered it well, when he was just a baby, and that's how it started: the mouth drawn into a quivering bow, the tears running down his cheeks before the first whimper began.She walks him to her side, apologizing to him, saying she didn't mean to be so bad, she was just upset herself.She told him that as soon as the postman arrived it would all be over and she could take him home and wash his hair.She thought: a chance to try to be a better woman than your mother, of course, of course, boy, you're just like her.You're just saying what she would say in a similar situation.When you feel bad, all you do is spread the pain and share the wealth.Well, like a mother, like a daughter, isn't it?Maybe Ted grew up feeling the way you felt about— "Why is it so hot, Mommy?" Thad asked dully. "Greenhouse effect." She didn't even think about it.Her heart is not in it, she knows that.If this was the final test of motherhood or adulthood in any sense, she had failed.How much time did they spend on this driveway?Fifteen hours at most, she had cracked and crumbled. "Can I have a Dr. Pepper when I get home, Mommy?" he asked, with the Devil's Words soaked in sweat and wrinkled, lying limp in his lap. "You can eat anything," she said, hugging him tightly.But his body left her stupefied with horror.I shouldn't have yelled at him, she thought distraughtly.Wish I hadn't yelled at him. But she should be able to do better, she promised herself.Because the postman is coming soon. "I think evil—I think the dogs will eat us," Ted said. She wanted to answer, but didn't say it. Cujo was still not around.The roar of Pinto's engine did not attract it.Possibly he fell asleep; possibly convulsed and died.That would be wonderful... especially if he spasmed slowly, painfully.She looked towards the back door again.It's so temptingly close.It was locked, she was sure now.When people go out, they always lock the door.Trying to rush for the door is just foolhardy, especially with the postman on the way.Go through it like it's real, Vic said sometimes.She had to, because it was real, and it was best to assume Cujo was alive, lying in the shadows behind those two half-open garage doors. Her mouth was wet thinking of shadows. It's already eleven o'clock. About forty-five minutes later, she saw something in the grass that bordered the driveway on Tad's side. After another fifteen minutes or so of careful observation, she was sure that it was an old baseball bat with a friction band attached to the handle, half hidden among the thatch and timothy. A few minutes later, just before noon, Cujo stumbled out of the barn, blinking his red, sticky eyes in the hot sun. When they come to make you sick, When they pulled that car aside, when they come to call you; Let your poor body slip away... Jiri Garcia's voice, smooth but languid, drifted down the hall, amplified and distorted on someone's transistor radio until it sounded like it was drifting down a long length of steel pipe.Someone was moaning nearby. When he went downstairs to the smelly industrial bathroom that morning to shave and shower, he saw a puddle of someone's vomit in the urinal and a washbasin of dried blood. "Come on, come on, Carrie Sue," sang Giri Garcia, "Don't tell them you know me." Steve Kemp stands at the window of his room, on the fifth floor of the YMCA in Portland, and Steve looks down Spring Street, feeling bad for some reason.His head hurts.He kept thinking about how Donna Trenton and he played her all over her--played her all over, and wandered around.What are you doing wandering around?What happened? He wished he was in Idaho, he'd been thinking about Idaho lately.So why doesn't he stop watching and head to Idaho right away?He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know.He didn't want all these questions to drill into his head.Doubt is only counterproductive to the serenity of mind that is necessary for the development of an artist. He saw himself in a toothpaste-stained mirror early this morning, and he thought he looked old, and he did.Returning to the room, he saw a cockroach scurrying across the floor, which was a very bad omen. She's not brushing me because I'm old, he thought, I'm not old, she's only doing it because she has an itch to rub, because she's a bitch, because I've given her a spoonful of the medicine.What does the handsome husband think of his cute little note?Has he thought about it carefully? Has my husband received his cute little note? Steve extinguished the cigarette on the bottle cap used as the ashtray.That's really a central question, isn't it?Once this question is answered, the answers to other questions will naturally be found.She got hold of him and told him to fuck off before he was done with it (she humiliated him, damn it), which is the most important point, damn it. Suddenly he knew what to do, his heart pounding in anticipation.He put one hand on his pocket, and he jingled the coins.He went out just after noon. In Castle Rock, the postman Donna was expecting had just walked the part of his itinerary from Maple Sugar Road to Towne 3. Vic, Roger and Rob Martin, who had been in the mirror all Tuesday morning, are now out drinking beer and eating hamburgers. After a few hamburgers and a lot of beer, Vic suddenly realized that he was eating and drinking more than he used to for his work lunches, when he usually only drank a cocktail or a glass of white wine.In these dark places off Madison Avenue, he'd seen too many of New York's best ad men milling around, telling friends about campaigns they might never launch...or if they'd been too drunk , would rant to the bartender about novels they might never write. It was a strange occasion, part celebration of victory and part painful lucidity.Rob lukewarmly welcomes the idea of ​​their last Sharp Cereal Professor ad, saying he can make it shocking...if he gets the chance.这就是清醒的一半，没有夏普老先生和“小孩”的同意，这世界上最伟大的场景对他们就毫无意义，他们只会一起摔出去，摔得四脚朝天。 这种环境下，维克想，喝醉了也就罢了。 现在，餐馆里吃午餐的高峰已经到了，他们三个穿着衬衫坐在角落边的一个小隔间里，吃剩的汉堡包放在一十蜡纸上，啤酒瓶散堆在桌上，烟灰缸翻倒着。 维克想起他和罗格坐在波特兰的黄色潜水艇的那天，他们当时正在讨论这次旅行，那时所有麻烦都只是生意的麻烦。他感到一阵乡愁，他怀念那段时间，也想知道多娜和泰德正在做些什么。只要找还没有醉得忘了，他想，今天晚上给他们打个电话。 “现在想做些什么？”罗布问，“你们想在波士顿逛逛街，还是立即去纽约？如果你们需要，我可以弄到从波士顿到堪萨斯城一线上的机票。也许看着乔治·布莱特在墙上弄出几个洞，会让你们很开心。” 维克看着罗格，罗格耸了耸肩说：“直接去纽约，我想，当然要谢谢你，罗布，不过我们谁都没有心情看棒球。” “我们在这儿没有其它事要做了。”维克同意，“计划中的许多时间要用于绞尽脑汁考虑各种问题，不过我想，我们在做最后一次场景上想法已经一致了。” “还有大量的毛边。”罗布说，“不要太骄傲了。” “我们可以磨掉毛边。”罗格说，“和做市场的人讨论一天应该就可以做到了，这是我的看法，你同意吗，维克？” “可能要两天。”维克说，“即使这样，我们也没有理由不把预期的时间大大缩短，现在我们的时间很充裕。” “然后做什么？” 维克咧着嘴笑了，“然后我们打电话给夏普老先生，定一个约会的时间。我想象结果是我们会直接从纽约去克利夫兰。不可思议的神奇旅行。” “到克利夫兰，然后死去。”罗格忧郁地说，他把剩下的啤酒倒进杯子里，“我实在等不及要看那个老屁。” “别忘了还有那个小屁。”维克说，微微咧着嘴。 “我怎么会忘了那个小混蛋？''罗格回答，“先生们，我建议再干一杯。 " 罗布看了看表：“我确实该——” “最后一杯。”罗格坚持，“只要你们想：昔日重来。” 罗布耸耸肩，“好，但我还有一个业务要跑，别忘了。即使没有了夏普谷制品，仍然会有许多长午餐等着我们。”他把杯子举向空中，摇动着它，直到一个侍者看见他向他点点头。 “告诉我你实际的想法，”维克问罗布，“别胡扯，你想我们完了？” 罗布看着他，好像要说什么，然后摇了摇头。 罗格说：“不，说吧。我们都乘着同一条豆绿色小船出海，或乘红浆果活力百纸盒，或任何东西，你觉得它开不动了，是不是？” “我认为我们已经完全没有了机会。”罗布说，“你们会准备出一次漂亮的演说——这是你们的拿手好戏，你们会在纽约把所有的准备工作都做好，我有一个感觉，纽约做市场调查的人能说的一切也都会向着你们。彦西·哈灵顿……我想他会感情汹涌得让他的那颗该死的心都跳出来，那是他临终床上的场景，他会干得那么好，以至于他能把《黑色的胜利》里的贝蒂·戴维斯演得像里的艾丽·麦克格罗一样。” “嗅，但根本不是那样——”罗格开始了。 罗布耸耸肩，“是的，可能有点不公平。好，那么就把这称作他的谢幕演出，或随便你们给的什么名字。我在这个行当上已经干了很汉时间了，这段时间足够让我相信，在谢幕广告上演三到四周后，屋里就再也不会有一只干眼了。它会打动每一个人，但是——” 啤酒来了。侍者对罗布说：“约翰逊先生要我告诉您，有好几个宴会都等了他很长时间了，马丁先生。” “好，你跑回去告诉约翰逊先生，这里在干最后一杯，让他别把裤子急潮了，清楚了吗，罗基？” 侍者笑了，倒空了烟灰缸，点点头。 he's gone.罗布转向维克和罗格，“那么压台词是什么？你们都是很聪明的孩子，应该不言自明。” “夏普就是不愿意道歉。”维克说，“这就是你的想法，我说得对不对？” 罗布举起啤酒瓶向他致敬：“你可以当班长了。” “这不是道歉。”罗格哀怨地说，“只不过是个该死的解释。” “这是你的看法。”罗市回答，“但他会这么看吗？问问你自己。我总共碰到过那个老头两次。他会把这个场景看作是一个船长抛开妇女和儿童不管，第一个从正在沉的船上逃走，这种原型比比皆是。不，这就是我想到的会发生的事，朋友们。”他举起杯子慢慢地喝着，“我想，一个有价值，但时间很短的关系很快就要结束了。夏普老先生会听听你们的建议，他会摇头，他会请你们离开，永远离开。下一个产品形象公司会由他儿子来挑选，他根据他觉得哪一家公司能让他最自由放纵地实施他那些胡思乱想来做的决定。” “可能。”罗格说，“但可能他会——” “这么胡扯或那么胡扯可能并不重要，”维克激烈地加进来，“一个好的广告人和一个好的狗皮膏药推销员的惟～区别，在于一个好的广告人用手头的材料做出最好的活……不跨出诚实一步，这一点也是这个广告要做的。如果他拒绝，他就拒绝广我们能做出的最好的东西。那当然一切就结束了。老驴。”地把烟头掐了，几乎要把罗格的半瓶啤酒碰翻。他的手在颤抖。 罗布点点头，“我为它喝一杯。”他举起了杯子，“干，先生们。” 维克和罗格举起了自己的杯子。 罗布想了一会儿，然后说：“希望最后的结果是好的，好的战胜坏的。” “阿门。”罗格说。 他们碰杯，喝了。喝光剩下的啤酒时，维克发现自己又在想多娜和泰德。 乔治·米亚拉，那个邮递员，抬起一条穿着蓝灰邮政服的腿放了个屁。 最近他放了很多屁，这让他开始担心了，这些屁看来和他吃了什么东西没有什么关系。昨天晚上，他和妻子吃了奶油鳕鱼和烤面包，他放屁了；今天早晨，他吃了里面有香蕉杯的凯罗格19号产品——他放屁了；今天中午，在镇上醉人的老虎里，他吃了两个奶酪汉堡加蛋黄酱……同样放屁了。 他在《居家医学百科全书》里查过这种症状。那套百科全书共十二卷，是一套价值无量的大型丛书，它们是他妻子过城买东西时一点一点抠出钱，一本一本买来的。 乔治·米亚拉在“过度肠胃气胀”一条下发现的内容不太让人鼓舞：它可能是胃不适的一种症状；可能意味着他有一个小溃疡；可能是肠的问题；甚至可能意味着癌症。这让他不断地想，是不是该去看看君汀老医生。君汀医生会告诉他，他放了这么多屁是因为他又老了，就是这样。 埃维伊·查尔梅尔斯阿姨去年春天的死对乔治打击很大——比他能相信得还要大——就在最近，他不愿意再想老了这种事。他更愿意去想金色的退休时间，他可以和凯前呆在一起的时间。他不用再六点三十起床，不用再拎着一麻袋一麻袋的邮件到处跑，不用再听那个蠢货迈克尔·福尼尔说话，福尼尔是邮局的局长；不用再在冬天把蛋都冻掉，或在夏天为那些消夏的人到处疯跑，这些人一到夏天就要求把邮件送到什么营地或什么小茅屋。在退休时间，有的只会是“穿越新英格兰的科学旅行”，会是“花园漫步”，会是“各种新爱好”，最有可能的，会是“休息和放松”。不知怎的，那种他会从六十好几开始放屁，一路放到七十几岁的念头，像个出了故障的火箭，总是和他金色的退休时间的画面不太一致。 他把蓝白相间的邮车开上3号镇道，阳光从防风玻璃上短短地一闪而过时，地缩了一下。 这个夏天已经热得和埃维伊阿姨预言得一模一样了。他可以听见蟋蟀在夏天的高革中昏昏沉沉地唱着歌，这时，他看见金色的退休时间里的一小段幻景，叫敞“乔治放松在后院的吊床上”。 他把车停在密粒根家门口，把一份扎伊尔广告单和一张电费通知单扔进邮箱里。 今天是所有电费通知单发出的日子，但他希望那些家伙在收到密粒根的支票之前不要屏住呼吸。密粒根一家只是可怜的白垃圾。路北的佩尔维尔也是白垃圾，发生在佩尔维尔身上的只能说是丑闻，这个人还得过杰出服务十字勋章。还有老乔·坎伯，他也好不到哪里去，他们正变得像狗，他们俩都在变得像狗。 约翰·密粒很正在边院里修一个像耙一样的东西，乔治向他挥了挥手，密粒根草草地伸出一个手指头，算是回答，又继续做他的活。 有你的一个，你这吃福利的家伙。乔治·米亚拉想。他抬起腿，吹起了他的长号。这些屁真可恶。你到外面公司里去的时候，必须非常非常地小心。 他开到了佩尔维尔家，又抽出一张扎伊尔广告单，又一张电费通知单，再加上了一份《海外战争退伍军人时事通讯》。他把它们塞进邮箱后，开始在加利家的汽车道上掉转车头。因为今天他不用把车开上坎伯家，坎伯昨天十点左右给邮局打过电话，要他们把他的邮件保存几天。迈克·福尼尔，这个主管罗克堡邮局各种事务的牛皮大王，填了一张保留邮件等通知的卡留给了乔治。 福尼尔告诉乔·坎伯说他的电话已经迟了十五分钟，他星期一的邮件已经送出去了，也许他会不太方便。 “没关系。”乔说，“那时我可能还在。” 乔治·米亚拉把加利的邮件送进他的邮箱时，注意到加利星期一的邮件——一份《大众力学》和一封来自农村奖学金基金会的捐款求助信——还没有被取走。他在汽车道上转圈的时候，还注意到加利的那辆旧的大克莱斯勒车停在院子里，乔·坎伯锈迹斑斑的旅行车也停在旁边。 “一起出去了。”他大声地嘟嚷着，“两个蠢货到什么地方撒野去了。” 他抬起腿，又放了一个屁。 乔治的结论是，他们俩可能乘着乔的货车出去喝酒、嫖女人、四处兜风了。 他没有想过为什么有两辆舒服得多的车时，他们还要乘货车出去；他也没有注意到门廊前的台阶上有血，纱门下面的板上有一个大洞。 “两个蠢货出去撒野了。”他又说了一遍，“至少乔·坎伯还记得取消投递他的邮件。” 他驶上来的路，开回罗克堡，时不时抬起腿吹起长号。 斯蒂夫·坎普开车去了西布鲁克商业街上的日记皇后咖啡店，他买了两个奶油汉堡和一个极好条。他坐在自己的货车里，一边吃着东西，一边看着外面的布里奇顿大街，但他既没有真正注意到这条路，也没有吃出食物的味道。 他给英俊的老公的办公室里打过电话。 秘书向他问好的时候，他自称叫亚当·斯怀楼，说他是灯屋公司的市场部主任，想要和特伦顿先生谈谈。等特伦顿接过电话后，他们就可以谈一些比市场更有趣的事情，比如说那个小女人的胎记，以及它像什么，比如说有～次她如何咬他，咬得那么重，他都出了血，比如说自从英俊的老公发现她另有新欢后，她过得怎么样。 但事情并没有照他想象地那样发展下去。 秘书告诉他说：“很抱歉，特伦顿先生和布瑞克斯通先生这星期都不在办公室，他们下个星期的大部分时间也不在，我还能帮您什么？”她的声音有一种升高的充满希望的变化。她确实希望她能有所帮助，现在老板们正在波士顿，或纽约——当然没有远到在洛杉矾——忙他们的生意，这是她能单独揽到一笔生意的极好机会。 他感谢她，告诉她他在月底还会打电话过来。没等她问他的电话号码，他就把电话挂了，因为灯屋公司的办公室就在国会大街乔熏肉店对面的一间电话亭里。 现在他在这儿，吃着奶油汉堡，考虑着下一步该怎么办。好像你木知道，他身体里有一个声音耳语着。 他开车向罗克堡进发。他已经吃完了午餐，现在正在北温德翰，他把垃圾扔到货车的地板上，它们在那儿和类似的东西一起积成了个难，那里有塑料饮料容器、大麦当劳盒、可收回啤酒和汽水瓶，还有一些空烟盒。乱扔垃圾是反社会、破坏环境主义者的行为，斯蒂夫不这么做。