JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 48 из 425“No, nothing wrong,” Isaid, and then, because I sort of wanted to see how the words tasted coming out of my own mouth, I repeated them. “A vacation.”
“Ayuh,” he said, smiling. “People do it all the time.”
People do it allthe time. He was right about that; even people who couldn’t strictly afford to went on vacation. When they got tired. When they got all balled up in their own shit. When the world was too much with them, getting and spending. I could certainly afford a vacation, and I could certainly take the time off from work—what work, ha-ha? — and yet I’d needed the Red Cross cookie-man to point out what should have been self-evident to a college-educated guy like me: that I hadn’t been on an actual vacation since Jo and I had gone to Bermuda, the winter before she died. My particular grindstone was no longer turning, but I had kept my nose to it all the same.
It wasn’t until that summer, when I read Ralph Roberts’s obituary in the News (he was struck by a car), that I fully realized how much I owed him. That advice was better than any glass of orange juice I ever got after giving blood, let me tell you.
When I left the restaurant, I didn’t go home but tramped over half of the damned town, the section of newspaper with the partly completed crossword puzzle in it clamped under one arm. I walked until I was chilled in spite of the warming temperatures. I didn’t think about anything, and yet I thought about everything. It was a special kind of thinking, the sort I’d always done when I was getting close to writing a book, and although I hadn’t thought that way in years, I fell into it easily and naturally, as if I had never been away. It’s like some guys with a big truck have pulled up in your driveway and are moving things into your basement. I can’t explain it any better than that. You can’t see what these things are because they’re all wrapped up in padded quilts, but you don’t need to see them. It’s furniture, everything you need to make your house a home, make it just right, just the way you wanted it. When the guys have hopped back into their truck and driven away, you go down to the basement and walk around (the way I went walking around Derry that late morning, slopping up hill and down dale in my old galoshes), touching a padded curve here, a padded angle there.
Is this one a sofa? Is that’ one a dresser? It doesn’t matter.
Everything is here, the movers didn’t forget a thing, and although you’ll have to get it all upstairs yourself (straining your poor old back in the process, more often than not), that’s okay.
“Ayuh,” he said, smiling. “People do it all the time.”
People do it allthe time. He was right about that; even people who couldn’t strictly afford to went on vacation. When they got tired. When they got all balled up in their own shit. When the world was too much with them, getting and spending. I could certainly afford a vacation, and I could certainly take the time off from work—what work, ha-ha? — and yet I’d needed the Red Cross cookie-man to point out what should have been self-evident to a college-educated guy like me: that I hadn’t been on an actual vacation since Jo and I had gone to Bermuda, the winter before she died. My particular grindstone was no longer turning, but I had kept my nose to it all the same.
It wasn’t until that summer, when I read Ralph Roberts’s obituary in the News (he was struck by a car), that I fully realized how much I owed him. That advice was better than any glass of orange juice I ever got after giving blood, let me tell you.
When I left the restaurant, I didn’t go home but tramped over half of the damned town, the section of newspaper with the partly completed crossword puzzle in it clamped under one arm. I walked until I was chilled in spite of the warming temperatures. I didn’t think about anything, and yet I thought about everything. It was a special kind of thinking, the sort I’d always done when I was getting close to writing a book, and although I hadn’t thought that way in years, I fell into it easily and naturally, as if I had never been away. It’s like some guys with a big truck have pulled up in your driveway and are moving things into your basement. I can’t explain it any better than that. You can’t see what these things are because they’re all wrapped up in padded quilts, but you don’t need to see them. It’s furniture, everything you need to make your house a home, make it just right, just the way you wanted it. When the guys have hopped back into their truck and driven away, you go down to the basement and walk around (the way I went walking around Derry that late morning, slopping up hill and down dale in my old galoshes), touching a padded curve here, a padded angle there.
Is this one a sofa? Is that’ one a dresser? It doesn’t matter.
Everything is here, the movers didn’t forget a thing, and although you’ll have to get it all upstairs yourself (straining your poor old back in the process, more often than not), that’s okay.