Лоуренс Блок - Random Walk - A Novel for a New Age

“Here, have another beer. Hey, go ahead, I got six and I’m not about to drink five myself. And they’d just get warm in the truck.”

“Well, one more, then. Thanks.”

“My name’s Jody.”

“Guthrie Wagner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Guthrie.”

“My pleasure. Say, do you smoke, by any chance?”

Jody’s eyes narrowed. “Just how do you mean that?”

“Oh, no, I just meant cigarettes. See, I got a carton of cigarettes in my pack and they’re no good to me.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, it looks as though I don’t smoke anymore.”

“‘Looks as though’? What, did your doctor make you quit or something?”

“It just happened.” Guthrie shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. I started out on this walk Monday, and I think it was the day before yesterday I noticed I wasn’t smoking anymore.”

“You just quit.”

“I guess.”

“Without trying to.”

“Seems that way.”

“What kind of cigarettes?”

“Camels.”

“Camel filters or the real ornery kind?”

“Short and unfiltered.”

“Shee. You know, my brother smokes them sometimes. He smokes the filters, but now and then he wants something lowdown and nasty.” He chuckled. “Myself, I never got the habit. Tried it a couple of times and never liked it. Same thing with chewing. Only bad habits I ever tried that I didn’t like, come to think of it.” He underlined the remark with a long drink of beer, then added a belch for punctuation. “Excuse me, but that did feel good. I might could take them for my brother, if you got no use for ’em.”

“My pleasure. I’m glad to lighten the load.”

And so now he was driving north again with a full carton and an unopened pack of unfiltered Camels on the seat next to him. Was that why he’d stopped to offer Guthrie a ride, and why he’d gone back with the six-pack? Just so he could trade two beers for a carton and an extra pack of cigarettes?

All part of God’s wondrous plan, he thought, and praise the Lord and pass the plate, hallelujah and amen.

When he reached the Circle K again he slowed for a moment, then stomped savagely on the gas pedal. A mile or so further down the road he braked to a stop, let a car pass him, and swung the pickup around so that he was facing south again. He drove back to the Circle K, made a left turn into their lot and parked.

He didn’t have a sack, or any clothes but what he was wearing. His shoes were ankle-high work boots with heavy lug soles, well broken in and comfortable enough, but he didn’t know how good they’d be for long-distance walking. Guthrie had running shoes, he’d noticed, and maybe that was what he ought to have.

Well, if he got as far as Bend, he could get some there. Odds were he’d quit before he got that far, stick out his thumb and hitch back to Klamath. Or hang in as far as Bend and get a ride back from there. But if he got to Bend and felt like keeping on with it, he could buy whatever he needed. A sack, some clothes to put in it, other shoes if it turned out he needed them.

Of course, all this was assuming Guthrie was willing for him to come along. A man sets out to walk across the country all by himself, it stands to reason he wants to be all by himself. The dude had been friendly enough, but it was no particular strain to be friendly when you knew you were going to be shut of a person in another five minutes.

So there was no point calling until Guthrie showed up. There were two beers left. He cracked one of them and sat in the truck watching the road, sipping the beer slowly, nursing it along. When Guthrie finally came into view he trotted across the road to intercept him.

“Me again,” he said. “I got one beer left if you think you can handle it.”

“I’m afraid two’s my limit for now.”

“Yeah, well, I’m having trouble finishing my third, far as that goes. I see you’re wearing your hat.”

“The sun’s pretty warm.”

“That one of those hats you can wet on a real hot day?”

“Supposed to be. It hasn’t been hot enough yet for me to find out.”

“Well, you stay with it, it likely will be. Say, Guthrie?” He looked away as he spoke. “I was wonderin’ if you could stand some company for a spell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, see, I was thinking about walking along with you.”

“To Bend?”

“Well, I don’t know as I’d stick it that far. I was never one to walk if I could ride or stand if I could sit. Or sit if I could lay down, far as that goes. But I got to tell you, I been tryin’ to drive away from you and not havin’ too much success with it. You got any objection to me taggin’ along? If either of us don’t like it, well, all they got to do is say so and we can go our separate ways.”

Guthrie didn’t say anything at first. Well, shit, Jody thought. He’s trying to figure out how to say no and be polite about it.

But he said, “Yeah, I’d like that, Jody.”

“You mean it?”

“But don’t you have to buy a gearbox in Bend? And what are you going to do about your truck?”

“Sort of a gear assembly. What am I gonna do about the truck? If I got enough change I’m gonna make a phone call.” He rooted in his pocket, came up with a handful of silver. “Won’t take a minute,” he said, and crossed the road to the Circle K. There was a pay phone just to the left of the doorway.

He made his call and when his sister-in-law answered he said, “Patty, let me talk to Line, if you please.” He waited, leaning a shoulder against the brick wall. When his brother picked up he said, “Bud, there’s a Circle K on 97 about midway between Beaver Marsh and Chemult. You know where I’m talking about?”

“What did she do, the carburetor flood out on you again?”

“No, she’s running fine,” he said. “Bud, what I’m gonna do, I’m leaving the truck right here at the Circle K. Just listen to me, will you? I got something I got to do, I’ll be gone for a while. And hey, I didn’t get up to Bend so I didn’t pick up that gear assembly and shit.” He held the receiver at arm’s length and closed his eyes, shutting out his brother’s words.

Then he said, “Look, Bud, I’m telling you where the truck’s at. You got keys so I’ll just lock it and leave my keys in the ashtray. Oh, speaking of that, there’s some cigarettes for you. Camels, a carton and an odd pack. And I’m hanging onto the money for the windmill parts, so that’s whatever it is, three hundred fifty dollars I owe you.”

He rolled his eyes skyward and listened to his brother’s response.

“Well, Bud,” he said, “all I can say is that’s how it is. You know where the truck is, and you can pick it up or not, and what it comes down to, I guess, is fuck you. Nothing personal and all, but fuck you, hoss.”

He hung up and walked over to the truck. Guthrie had crossed the road to stand in the Datsun’s shade. “One thing,” Jody said, “is if a person wants to pick up and go away, they can’t stop you.”

“Damn straight.”

He dropped his keys in the ashtray and closed it, left the unopened beer on the seat with the cigarettes, chucked the open beer into the brush at the edge of the parking lot. He rolled up the windows, locked the doors, ran a hand through his mop of bright hair and replaced his cap.

“Hard to believe that’s all there is to it,” he said. “I feel like I used to feel in high school, right before a football game. All pumped up. You ready to go?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Then let’s do it. But look, you’re the expert, you know what I mean? You’re the one walked over the mountains. Tell me if there’s something I’m doing wrong, because I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about walking.”