little refrigerator. But he decided against it.
A thing the old man had said, about the drinking. It stuck with him. How did it go exactly? Something about being a self-made man.
Yeah. That was it. A self-made man. Tad said he was a self-made man, a self-made drunk.
Tad told him he was driving the same road.
Harry tore off the edge of a cardboard box and got some tape and taped the cardboard over the hole in the window. Maybe the landlord would fix it.
He got a broom out of the bathroom, where it leaned against the edge of the shower frame, swept the glass onto a piece of firm paper, picked it up, and tossed it in the garbage can.
Harry moved his chair to the center of the room and sat listening to the summer hail. It slammed against the house for about fifteen minutes, subsided. Then there was a slice of light in the darkness, and it slipped through the curtains and filled the room.
Harry didn’t move.
He sat and listened, and the last of the hail, smaller now, passed, followed by a smattering of rain, then it too was gone, and the light outside grew brighter yet and he could see clearly in the room.
He sat in the chair and listened.
There was nothing now, not even cars out on the road in front of the house.
There was only silence and sunlight, and he sat in the warmth of the light and listened to the nothingness of silence for as long as it lasted.
16
“The Beast in Me” sung by Johnny Cash was playing on the FM station as Harry drove to campus. He thought, the beast is not in me. It’s out there, and I let it in from time to time. A beast belonging to others. That’s the rub. It’s not even my beast.
As Harry drove he navigated according to his knowledge of “bad places.” He felt he was safe in the car if he stayed out on the road. He had never had one of his experiences just driving on the road, but he thought it could happen. Maybe hit a pothole where some tire had hit and blown and the car had gone off the road. If driving into a pothole frightened someone enough, it might be recorded, because things were like sponges when it came to fear; they soaked it up and held it.
And he squeezed it out.
God, was there anyone else in the world with this problem?
He couldn’t be the only one.
He drove onto campus and found a spot. When he got out of the car he slung his backpack over his shoulder, locked the car door, and started walking, keeping himself aware of where “things” had happened, at least the ones he knew about.
He had a path he always took, and he knew it was a safe path. He’d worked it out, followed it for weeks, and nothing had leaped out of the architecture at him, off of the sidewalk.
He avoided touching anything as he walked.
This way he knew he was safe.
Which was why, on this Wednesday morning, he was so upset. The path he usually took was blocked.
Construction. The sidewalk was torn up and there were barriers all about, big, burly men working at banging up the concrete with jackhammers and the like.
For a moment Harry just stood and stared.
Blocked.
Can’t go my route.
Shit.
He thought all manner of things, but none of them were any good.
Like trying to go under the wooden barriers and weave his way through the workmen.
He figured that wouldn’t work out. It would only cause him to possibly be part of a violent moment himself, though, in his own estimation, that was easier to handle. You couldn’t see what was happening to yourself, only feel it. It was seeing their faces, feeling their terror that made him crazy.
He slipped his backpack off his shoulder, laid it on the ground, got his notepad out of his back pocket, studied it.
All right. He could go left, then skirt around all this business, but he didn’t know that territory. Most likely, as was the case with much territory, it would be safe. Nothing hidden.
But you never knew. It was always a struggle.
Shit, he told himself, you go to bars. You do that, and they’re worse places to go than a college
A thing the old man had said, about the drinking. It stuck with him. How did it go exactly? Something about being a self-made man.
Yeah. That was it. A self-made man. Tad said he was a self-made man, a self-made drunk.
Tad told him he was driving the same road.
Harry tore off the edge of a cardboard box and got some tape and taped the cardboard over the hole in the window. Maybe the landlord would fix it.
He got a broom out of the bathroom, where it leaned against the edge of the shower frame, swept the glass onto a piece of firm paper, picked it up, and tossed it in the garbage can.
Harry moved his chair to the center of the room and sat listening to the summer hail. It slammed against the house for about fifteen minutes, subsided. Then there was a slice of light in the darkness, and it slipped through the curtains and filled the room.
Harry didn’t move.
He sat and listened, and the last of the hail, smaller now, passed, followed by a smattering of rain, then it too was gone, and the light outside grew brighter yet and he could see clearly in the room.
He sat in the chair and listened.
There was nothing now, not even cars out on the road in front of the house.
There was only silence and sunlight, and he sat in the warmth of the light and listened to the nothingness of silence for as long as it lasted.
16
“The Beast in Me” sung by Johnny Cash was playing on the FM station as Harry drove to campus. He thought, the beast is not in me. It’s out there, and I let it in from time to time. A beast belonging to others. That’s the rub. It’s not even my beast.
As Harry drove he navigated according to his knowledge of “bad places.” He felt he was safe in the car if he stayed out on the road. He had never had one of his experiences just driving on the road, but he thought it could happen. Maybe hit a pothole where some tire had hit and blown and the car had gone off the road. If driving into a pothole frightened someone enough, it might be recorded, because things were like sponges when it came to fear; they soaked it up and held it.
And he squeezed it out.
God, was there anyone else in the world with this problem?
He couldn’t be the only one.
He drove onto campus and found a spot. When he got out of the car he slung his backpack over his shoulder, locked the car door, and started walking, keeping himself aware of where “things” had happened, at least the ones he knew about.
He had a path he always took, and he knew it was a safe path. He’d worked it out, followed it for weeks, and nothing had leaped out of the architecture at him, off of the sidewalk.
He avoided touching anything as he walked.
This way he knew he was safe.
Which was why, on this Wednesday morning, he was so upset. The path he usually took was blocked.
Construction. The sidewalk was torn up and there were barriers all about, big, burly men working at banging up the concrete with jackhammers and the like.
For a moment Harry just stood and stared.
Blocked.
Can’t go my route.
Shit.
He thought all manner of things, but none of them were any good.
Like trying to go under the wooden barriers and weave his way through the workmen.
He figured that wouldn’t work out. It would only cause him to possibly be part of a violent moment himself, though, in his own estimation, that was easier to handle. You couldn’t see what was happening to yourself, only feel it. It was seeing their faces, feeling their terror that made him crazy.
He slipped his backpack off his shoulder, laid it on the ground, got his notepad out of his back pocket, studied it.
All right. He could go left, then skirt around all this business, but he didn’t know that territory. Most likely, as was the case with much territory, it would be safe. Nothing hidden.
But you never knew. It was always a struggle.
Shit, he told himself, you go to bars. You do that, and they’re worse places to go than a college
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