11/22/63: A Novel

“Ground chuck from the Red amp; White,” he said. “Fifty-four cents a pound. I go in every week. Or I did until my latest adventure, which took me a long way from The Falls. I trade with Mr. Warren, the butcher. If I ask him for ten pounds of ground chuck, he says, ‘Coming right up.’ If I ask for twelve or fourteen, he says, ‘Going to have to give me a minute to grind you up some fresh. Having a family get-together?’”

“Always the same.”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s always the first time.”

“Correct. It’s like the story of the loaves and fishes in the Bible, when you think of it. I buy the same ground chuck week after week. I’ve fed it to hundreds or thousands of people, in spite of those stupid catburger rumors, and it always renews itself.”

“You buy the same meat, over and over.” Trying to get it through my skull.

“The same meat, at the same time, from the same butcher. Who always says the same things, unless I say something different. I’ll admit, buddy, that it’s sometimes crossed my mind to walk up to him and say, ‘How’s it going there, Mr. Warren, you old bald bastard? Been fucking any warm chicken-holes lately?’ He’d never remember. But I never have. Because he’s a nice man. Most people I’ve met back then are nice folks.” At this he looked a little wistful.

“I don’t understand how you can buy meat there… serve it here

… then buy it again.”

“Join the club, buddy. I just appreciate like hell that you’re still here-I could have lost you. For that matter, you didn’t have to answer the phone when I called the school.”

Part of me wished I hadn’t, but I didn’t say that. Probably I didn’t have to. He was sick, not blind.

“Come to the house tonight. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind, and then you can do whatever you think is best. But you’ll have to decide pretty fast, because time is short. Kind of ironic, wouldn’t you say, considering where the invisible steps in my pantry come out?”

More slowly than ever, I said: “Every… time… is… the… first time.”

He smiled again. “I think you’ve got that part. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Nineteen Vining Street. Look for the gnome with the flag.”

8

I left Al’s Diner at three-thirty. The six hours between then and nine-thirty weren’t as weird as visiting Lisbon Falls fifty-three years ago, but almost. Time seemed simultaneously to drag and speed by. I drove back to the house I was buying in Sabattus (Christy and I sold the one we’d owned in The Falls and split the take when our marital corporation dissolved). I thought I’d take a nap, but of course I couldn’t sleep. After twenty minutes of lying on my back, straight as a poker, and staring up at the ceiling, I went into the bathroom to take a leak. As I watched the urine splash into the bowl, I thought: That’s processed root beer from 1958. But at the same time I was thinking that was bullshit, Al had hypnotized me somehow.

That doubling thing, see?

I tried to finish reading the last of the honors essays, and wasn’t a bit surprised to find I couldn’t do it. Wield Mr. Epping’s fearsome red pen? Pass critical judgments? That was a laugh. I couldn’t even make the words connect. So I turned on the tube (throwback slang from the Nifty Fifties; televisions no longer have tubes) and channel-surfed for awhile. On TMC I came across an old movie called Dragstrip Girl. I found myself watching the old cars and angst-ridden teens so intently it was giving me a headache, and I turned it off. I made myself a stir-fry, then couldn’t eat it even though I was hungry. I sat there, looking at it on the plate, thinking about Al Templeton serving the same dozen or so pounds of hamburger over and over, year after year. It really was like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and so what if catburger and dogburger rumors circulated due to his low prices? Given what he was paying for meat, he had to be making an absurd profit on every Fatburger he did sell.

When I realized I was pacing around my kitchen-unable to sleep, unable to read, unable to watch TV, a perfectly good stir-fry turned down the sink-pig-I got in my car and drove back to town. It was quarter to seven by then, and there were plenty of parking spaces on Main Street. I pulled in across from the Kennebec Fruit and sat behind the wheel, staring at a paint-peeling relic that had once been a thriving smalltown business. Closed for the day, it looked ready for the wrecking ball. The only sign of human habitation were a few Moxie signs in the dusty show window (DRINK MOXIE FOR HEALTH!, read the biggest), and they were so old-fashioned they could have been left behind for years.