Page 94 - The Myth and the Moment

Evening

Open up the back.’ Boy, that would put all of us in the soup. Well,
Sherlock Holmes didn’t mind going over Reichenbach Falls, as long
as it was in the arms of Moriarty.
Better not happen. Bide your time, bite your tongue. Got to get The
Myth back and get myself on track again. When the air-raid sirens
start their final futile warning wail, I want to be among that select
number of citizens with nothing but their own imminent
vaporization to contemplate. No unfinished business, no personal
regrets; nothing but pure, unadulterated mortal terror. I might even
be able to provide a brief moment of comfort to my fellow human
beings, a rare bit of kindness on the part of cranky old Evangelino.
Another corner. Should I be able to know where we are by the twists
and turns, the distinctive street sounds and bumps in the road, like a
blindfold kidnap victim in the movies?
“Phil. That crazy man: he was good writer?”
“Oh, yes, sweetie. But that was years ago. I had a look at his stuff
this afternoon, and it’s garbage. He could have made the adjustment,
could have grown up like the rest of us, but it wasn’t in him. Just
wanted to make trouble.”
At last! An admission of guilt! But no witnesses other than the
plaintiff, and dead men tell no tales. If only I had Ham’s video
camera here to record it all! Hold on! Going uphill. Must be heading
into Trousdale.
“Not any useful?”
“You mean, ‘not useful at all,’ honey-bunch. Well, there was the
germ of an idea, something I might work into a nuclear-reactor
meltdown movie or some other disaster scenario. But those things
are a drug on the market now; it’s almost like crying wolf.”
“Crying wolf? Wolf not cry, only grin.”
“Ha-ha. That’s another funny English expression, left over from a
folk tale, I guess. How can I explain it to you? If I keep telling you
your neighbor is going to hit you with a brick, and it doesn’t happen,
what will you come to think?”
“I take brick from neighbor and hit you.”
“Uh, right, you get the point. Well, here we are. Home sweet
home. What a night! It’s still about eighty degrees.”
Swinging around. Hang on. Backing into driveway.
“Phil. You get rid of papers?”

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