Page 34 - The Myth and the Moment

Afternoon

“I’m going to clean this up for you, Evangelino, but it’s your mess.
Don’t forget that. I’ve got to pay for a new lock, too.”
Mrs. Fulcrone and her mop. My iced tea.
“Hey, where are you going? I’m only cleaning up this spill. You’ve
got to straighten up this place. It looks bad, walking down the hall,
with the door open.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to look for my papers. Maybe those cops are right.
Just close the door when you’re done, Mrs. Fulcrone. I don’t care if it
won’t lock. Lock wasn’t any good, anyway. A child could have forced
it.”
“The rent, Evangelino! Don’t forget what you owe me!”
Got to go about this systematically. She keeps the emergency door
in back locked—illegally, of course—so he had to go out the front
door. God, it’s bright! Where are my shades? Left them back in the
room again, blast it! The cops just sitting in their car. Probably
wondering which doughnut shop to hit next. How can they wear
black uniforms and look so cool? Easy, Nate: their pores are sealed
by law and order. Whoa! Just passed a trash can; back up. Nothing in
there but the detritus of fast food and sloe gin. This is pointless.
What are my alternatives? Wait for the cops to find The Myth
embedded in a jelly doughnut at Winchell’s? Start over? I could
reconstruct it from memory with a little mind-wringing, but I’d need
to pay for the camera-ready copy all over again, as well as pay more
rent to Mrs. Fulcrone. And there’s always the chance of The End
coming first. Got to keep looking.
Think: if I were the thief, what would I do? If I had a getaway car,
I’d be long gone before I looked at what I’d taken and decided to
toss it. But if I didn’t have a car, or it was parked at some distance, I
wouldn’t want to carry more than was essential (or valuable); then
where would I go from here? North, south, east, west? Seventh
Street? Wait a minute: the park. Yeah, go in there and get lost among
a thousand people. Sit down on a bench and calmly examine the haul.
Then casually get up and throw my masterpiece into a trash can, like
an old newspaper. Yeah. Go. Damn signal just changed!
Calm down, Nathan. Things are not going well today. You’re
teetering on the edge of a breakdown. Really? No: too many shocks
at one time would get to anyone. Nervous system, like epidermis,
must go from elastic to plastic at some point in middle age. Bend it

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