On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory by Stephen Benatar Page B

occasions such as these?
    (Yet nobody ever asked where was God when all the good things happened: when the universe was created, the first breath of human life blown into it—animal life as well—when butterfly wings began to be designed.)
    But even after learning of these sorts of tragedy how long-lasting had been my state of sober-mindedness—and how could you possibly hope to share; or do any good at all by attempting to imagine? And again—how long before I might have been chatting cheerfully to some friend on the telephone or selecting with Brad the DVD we thought we’d like to watch?
    â€œOr what about this, boy? ‘He came to know he lacked compassion.’ That’s at least some slight improvement ain’t it?”
    â€œâ€˜But came to know a bit too late. He was such a dunderhead.’”
    â€œSeems to me this inscription is getting longer and longer.” The sheriff chuckled. “Poor stonecutter will sure need to put in some danged overtime. Seeing as how there are other things could just as easily be added.”
    â€œâ€˜In fact to tell the truth he probably always knew. Just never did anything about it.’ I feel it in my bones: this stonecutter isn’t going to care for me a lot.”
    â€œUnless he’s getting paid by the word—and twice as much for the long uns.”
    We laughed; although in truth there wasn’t much to laugh about.
    â€œThem weren’t the other things I was thinking of anyways.”
    He lifted his boots down from the corner of the desk. Took up his bunch of keys and walked unsteadily towards the door of my cell. “Hell’s bells a man gets awful stiff,” he said.
    â€œWhy are you letting me out? Even if I’m more or less right about what I’ve been charged with I don’t see how I can make up for it. Is there any way I can make up for it?”
    â€œNever say die boy,” he answered. “Never say die.” Again he took the straw from his mouth. He contemplated it like there was writing there: very small print that he couldn’t quite decipher. “But … what’s done is done. Don’t you go leaning over backwards to think that you’re a bad person.”
    â€œThanks.” I was now standing on the outside of the cell and shook his hand. “But it’s a fairly new experience,” I continued drily. “Perhaps you oughtn’t to discourage it.”
    (In fact—to be entirely accurate—it wasn’t all that new an experience, not by any means.)
    Yet in any case he ignored it.
    â€œBecause if it was up to me,” he said, “which it’s not; but if it was … I’d do my best to see you didn’t swing. And that’s the truth of it boy.”
    I gave him a hug.

12
    Double feature?
    Or work experience? It felt more like work experience. Much! There seemed no way on earth that I could simply have been sitting on my butt. There seemed no way on earth that I couldn’t have been actively involved.
    I don’t mean in a film. I mean for real.
    Right there outside the window the old woman was giving the old man a blow job.
    â€œOh come on Gertie do you need to make it quite so public? We’ll have the police back here again.”
    I expostulated further.
    â€œBesides. Who ever knows where that thing’s been?”
    The woman didn’t so much as pause. Her lank grey matted hair fell forward from her grubby neck and it looked—though mercifully didn’t smell—like someone had been sick down the back of her dress. Six inches to the right of where she knelt there was a newish pile of dog’s muck.
    The man, however, sitting with his ragged-trousered legs stretched out across the gateless cement forecourt and with his brown-jacketed shoulders resting against the windowsill (it didn’t strike me as too comfortable) did in fact cast me a look. A drunken distracted conspiratorial look. He winked