Adios, Scheherazade

Oh, yeah, that was the other thing. The reason Rod was up so early, he got a phone call from the fuzz. They’re looking for me, and they wanted to tell him — and all my friends, I guess, ruining my reputation (what there is of it) for miles around — the best thing for me to do is turn myself in. Statutory rape is bad enough, they said, I shouldn’t also be a fugitive from justice.

Statutory rape. That’s what I said. Apparently, what happened was Betsy decided to call Angie’s father. Remember Angie? The baby-sitter? You remember. Anyway, I guess Betsy thought the woman in the case ought to get some trouble, too, so she called Angie’s father and told him his daughter has been fucking with me, though probably in different words, and then the balloon went up.

I should hope Angie denied it, since it isn’t true, but her denials are apparently not worth the paper they’re written on, since it turns out the little cunt isn’t a virgin. How do you like them apples? They had her examined by the family doctor, and that sweet-looking little kid puts out. To think I could have—

Except I probably couldn’t. Some high school football player, not an elderly grandfather like me.

Anyway, the father called the cops, and now the law wants me for statutory rape. Can you see me beating that rap?

Of course, there’s no evidence any more, there’s nothing but my wife’s word for it that I ever wrote anything down about it. Angie will deny it, and I’ll deny it, and for Christ’s sake it’s only justice that I beat the rap. I mean, I didn’t do it, I really didn’t do it.

Really.

But somehow I don’t see me winning that round either.

I wonder what I’m going to do now. If Birge and Johnny don’t get me, the cops will, and if they don’t get me either, what am I going to do with myself? I can’t ever go back to that house in Sargass, and now I can’t even go home to Albany. The cops would be sure to pick me up there.

I guess I’ll stay here for a while. I have about fifty dollars on me, and a Diners’ Club card, so money won’t be a problem for a while. Rod also brought my checkbook in with him, but I’m not sure I could cash a check now without getting myself picked up.

So here I stand. There was no place to put the typewriter except on top of the dresser, so that’s where it is. And I’m standing here typing this stuff, shifting from foot to foot, standing here. Typing. I don’t believe it myself.

Tomorrow the sex book is due, but Rod has probably already phoned Samuel and told him not to expect it, old Ed isn’t available any more. We need a new ghost, a slot is free, send out the call.

Ghost wanted!

Ten thousand a year, very easy work. Just a little typing every month. But remember, nobody can do this shit forever.

How could I hear him when he said that? Betsy was big as a house, I was broke, and Sabina Del Lex had these smooth white thighs, smooth white thighs.

I ought to be altered, that’s what I ought to be. A good case of the mumps, that would cure what ails me.

I feel like the world is this big rattletrap wagon with everybody crammed on every which way, and I didn’t like my position, I was down too low, everybody was stepping on me, so I tried to get higher, or at least more comfortable, and in thrashing around all I’ve succeeded in doing is knocking myself off the wagon.

I have friends on that wagon. How can they go on without me? They have to notice I’m gone, they have to know something’s happened to me. Don’t they care? Doesn’t anybody care? Am I the only one in the world, in the whole wide world, who cares about me?

Well, Ed, who do you care about? Besides yourself, that is.

Hester.

Fred.

Maybe Betsy. Maybe.

Then that’s who cares about you, Ed. Hester. And Fred. And maybe Betsy. Maybe.

That’s fine. That’s wonderful. I’m lying here in the roadway, I’m lying here in the dirt, and there goes the wagon, bouncing and rattling along, over the next rise and gone.

I can’t even hear it any more.

Listen. Listen how quiet. Nothing but the click-click of this typewriter.