sk.dreamcatcher-第2部分

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ld　instrumental；　sounds　a　little　bit　like　The　Ventures；　pouring　from　the　juke。　He　can't　quite　remember　the　name　of　this　one；　which　was　popular　before　his　time。　Still；　he　knows　it；　he　listens　a　lot　to　the　Portland　oldies　station　since　he　got　divorced。　Oldies　are　soothing。　A　lot　of　the　new　stuff。　。　。　Laurie　Sue　knew　and　liked　a　lot　of　it；　but　Beaver　doesn't　get　it。　　　　
　　　　The　Free　Street　is　mostly　empty；　maybe　half　a　dozen　guys　at　the　bar　and　another　half　a　dozen　shooting　eightball　in　the　back；　Beaver　and　three　of　his　hang…out　buddies　in　one　of　the　booths；　drinking　draft　Millers　and　cutting　a　greasy　deck　of　cards　to　see　who　pays　for　each　round。　What　is　that　instrumental　with　all　the　burbling　guitars？　'Out　of　Limits'？　'Telstar'？　Nah；　there's　a　synthesizer　in　'Telstar'　and　no　synth　in　this。　And　who　gives　a　shit？　The　other　guys　are　talking　about　Jackson　Browne；　who　played　the　Civic　Center　last　night　and　put　on　a　kick…ass　show；　according　to　George　Pelsen；　who　was　there。
　　　　'I'll　tell　you　something　else　that　was　kick…ass；'　George　says；　looking　at　them　impressively。　He　raises　his　undershot　chin；　showing　them　all　a　red　mark　on　the　side　of　his　neck。　'You　know　what　that　is？'
　　　　'Hickey；　ain't　it？'　Kent　Astor　asks；　a　bit　timidly。
　　　　'You're　fuckin…A；'　George　says。　'I　was　hanging　around　the　stage　door　after　the　show；　me　and　a　bunch　of　other　guys；　hopin　to　get　Jackson's　autograph。　Or　maybe；　I　don't　know；　David　Lindley。　He's　cool。'
　　　　Kent　and　Sean　Robideau　agree　that　Lindley　is　cool　…　not　a　guitar　god；　by　any　means　（Mark　Knopfler　of　Dire　Straits　is　a　guitar　god；　and　Angus　Young　of　AC/DC；　and　…　of　course　…　Clapton）；　but　very　cool　just　the　same。　Lindley　has　great　licks；　he　has　awesome　dreads；　as　well。　All　down　to　his　shoulders。
　　　　Beaver　doesn't　join　in　the　talk。　All　at　once　he　wants　to　get　out　of　here；　out　of　this　stale　going…nowhere　bar；　and　cop　some　fresh　air。　He　knows　where　George　is　going　with　this；　and　it's　all　a　lie。
　　　　Her　name　wasn't　Chantay；　you　don't　know　what　her　name　was；　she　blew　right　past　you　like　you　weren't　there；　what　would　you　be　to　a　girl　like　her　anyway；　just　another　working…class　longhair　in　another　working…class　New　England　town；　into　the　band　bus　she　went　and　out　of　your　life。　Your　fuckin　uninteresting　life。　The　Chantays　is　the　name　of　the　group　we're　listening　to；　not　the　Mar…Kets　or　the　BarKays　but　the　Chantays；　it's　'Pipeline'　by　the　Chantays　and　that　thing　on　your　neck　isn't　a　hickey　it's　a　razor　burn。
　　　　He　thinks　this；　then　he　hears　crying。　Not　in　the　Free　Street　but　in　his　mind。　Long…gone　crying。　It　goes　right　into　your　head；　that　crying；　goes　in　like　splinters　of　glass；　and　oh　fuck；　fuck　me　Freddy；　somebody　make　him　stop　crying。
　　　　I　was　the　one　who　made　him　stop；　Beaver　thinks。　That　was　me。　I　was　the　one　who　made　him　stop。　I　took　him　in　my　arms　and　sang　to　him。
　　　　Meanwhile　George　Pelsen　is　telling　them　about　how　the　stage　door　finally　opened；　but　it　wasn't　Jackson　Browne　who　came　out；　not　David　Lindlev；　either；　it　was　the　trio　of　chick　singers；　one　named　Randi；　one　named　Susi；　and　one　named　Chantay。　Yummy　ladies；　oh　so　tall　and　tasty。
　　　　'Man；'　Sean　says；　rolling　his　eyes。　He's　a　chubby　little　fellow　whose　sexual　exploits　consist　of　occasional　field…trips　to　Boston；　where　he　eyes　the　strippers　at　the　Foxy　Lady　and　the　waitresses　at　Hooters。　'Oh　man；　fuckin　Chantay。'　He　makes　jacking…off　gestures　in　the　air。　At　that；　at　least；　Beav　thinks；　he　looks　like　a　pro。
　　　　'So　I　started　talkin　to　them　。　。　。　to　her；　mostly；　Chantay；　and　I　ast　her　if　she'd　like　to　see　some　of　the　Portland　night…life。　So　we　。　。　。'
　　　　The　Beav　takes　a　toothpick　from　his　pocket　and　slides　it　into　his　mouth；　timing　the　rest　out。　All　at　once　the　toothpick　is　just　what　he　wants。　Not　the　beer　in　front　of　him；　not　the　joint　in　his　pocket；　certainly　not　George　Pelsen's　empty　kahoot　about　how　he　and　the　mythical　Chantay　got　it　on　in　the　back　of　his　pickup；　thank　God　for　that　camper　cap；　when　George's　Ram　is　rockin；　don't　e　knockin。
　　　　It's　all　puff　and　blow；　Beaver　thinks；　and　suddenly　he　is　desperately　depressed；　more　depressed　than　he　has　been　since　Laurie　Sue　packed　her　stuff　and　moved　back　to　her　mother's。　This　is　utterly　unlike　him；　and　suddenly　the　only　thing　he　wants　is　to　get　the　fuck　out　of　here；　fill　his　lungs　with　the　cool；　salt…tanged　seaside　air；　and　find　a　phone。　He　wants　to　do　that　and　then　to　call　Jonesy　or　Henry；　it　doesn't　matter　which；　either　one　will　do；　he　wants　to　say　Hey　man；　what's　going　on　and　have　one　of　them　say　back　Oh；　you　know；　Beav；　SSDD。　No　bounce；　no　play。
　　　　He　gets　up。
　　　　'Hey；　man；'　George　says。　Beaver　went　to　Westbrook　junior　College　with　George；　and　then　he　seemed　cool　enough；　but　juco　was　many　long　beers　ago。　'Where　you　goin？'
　　　　'Take　a　leak；'　Beaver　says；　rolling　his　toothpick　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other。
　　　　'Well；　you　want　to　hurry　your　bad　ass　back；　I'm　just　getting　to　the　good　part；'　George　says；　and　Beaver　thinks　crotchless　panties。　Oh　boy；　today　that　old　weird　vibe　is　strong；　maybe　it's　the　barometer　or　something。
　　　　Lowering　his　voice；　George　says；　'When　I　got　her　skirt　up…'
　　　　'I　know；　she　was　wearin　crotchless　panties；'　Beaver　says。　He　registers　the　look　of　surprise　…　alnost　shock　…　in　George's　eyes　but　pays　no　attention。　'I　sure　want　to　hear　that　part。'
　　　　He　walks　away；　walks　toward　the　men's　room　with　its　yellow…pink　smell　of　piss　and　disinfectant；　walks　past　it；　walks　past　the　women's；　walks　past　the　door　with　OFFICE　on　it；　and　escapes　into　the　alley。　The　sky　overhead　is　white　and　rainy；　but　the　air　is　good。　So　good。　He　breathes　it　in　deep　and　thinks　again。　No　bounce　no　play。　He　grins　a　little。
　　　　He　walks　for　ten　minutes；　just　chewing　toothpicks　and　clearing　his　head。　At　some　point；　he　can't　remember　exactly　when；　he　tosses　away　the　joint　that　has　been　in　his　pocket。　And　then　he　calls　Henry　from　the　pay　phone　in　Joe's　Smoke　Shop；　up　by　Monument　Square。　He's　expecting　the　answering　machine　…　Henry　is　still　in　school　…　but　Henry　is　actually　there；　he　picks　up　on　the　second　ring。
　　　　'How　you　doing；　man？'　Beaver　asks。
　　　　'Oh；　you　know；'　Henry　says。　'Same　shit；　different　day。　How　about　you；　Beav？'
　　　　Beav　closes　his　eyes。　For　a　moment　everything　is　all　right　again；　as　right　as　it　can　be　in　such　a　piss…ache　world；　anyway。
　　　　'About　the　same；　buddy；'　he　replies。　'Just　about　the　same。'


1993：　Pete　Helps　a　Lady　in　Distress
　　　　
Pete　sits　behind　his　desk　just　off　the　showroom　of　Macdonald　Motors　in　Bridgton；　twirling　his　keychain。　The　fob　consists　of　four　enameled　blue　letters：　NASA。
　　　　Dreams　age　faster　than　dreamers；　that　is　a　fact　of　life　Pete　has　discovered　as　the　years　pass。　Yet　the　last　ones　often　die　surprisingly　hard；　screaming　in　low；　miserable　voices　at　the　back　of　the　brain。　It's　been　a　long　time　since　Pete　slept　in　a　bedroom　papered　with　pictures　of　Apollo　and　Saturn　rockets　and　astronauts　and　space…walks　（EVAs；　to　those　in　the　know）　and　space　capsules　with　their　shields　smoked　and　fused　by　the　fabulous　heat　of　re…entry　and　LEMs　and　Voyagers　and　one　photograph　of　a　shiny　disc　over　Interstate　80；　people　standing　in　the　breakdown　lane　and　looking　up　with　their　hands　shielding　their　eyes；　the　photo's　caption　reading　THIS　OBJECT；　PHOTOGRAPHED　NEAR　ARVADA；　COLORADO　IN　1971；　HAS　NEVER　BEEN　EXPLAINED。　IT　IS　A　GENUINE　UFO。
　　　　A　long　time。
　　　　Yet　he　still　spent　one　of　his　two　weeks　of　vacation　this　year　in　Washington　DC；　where　he　went　to　the　Smithsonian　every　day　and　spent　nearly　all　of　his　time　wandering　among　the　displays　with　a　wondering　grin　on　his　face。　And　most　of　that　time　he　spent　looking　at　the　moon　rocks　and　thinking；　Those　rocks　came　from　a　place　where　the　skies　are　always　black　and　the　silence　is　everlasting。　Neil　Armstrong　and　Buzz　Aldrin　took　twenty　kilograms　of　another　world　and　now　here　it　is。
　　　　And　here　he　is；　sitting　behind　his　desk　on　a　day　when　he　hasn't　sold　a　single　car　（people　don't　like　to　buy　cars　when　it's　raining；　and　it　has　been　drizzling　in　Pete's　part　of　the　world　ever　since　first　light）；　twirling　his　NASA　key…chain　and　looking　up　at　the　clock。　Time　moves　slowly　in　the　afternoons；　ever　more　slowly　as　the　hour　of　five　approaches。　At　five　it　will　be　time　for　that　first　beer。　Not　before　five；　no　way。　You　drank　during　the　day；　maybe　you　had　to　look　at　how　much　you　were　drinking；　because　that's　what　alcoholics　did。　But　if　you　could　wait　。　。　。　just　twirl　your　keychain　and　wait　。　。　。
　　　　As　well　as　that　first　beer　of　the　day；　Pete　is　waiting　for　November。　Going　to　Washington　in　April　had　been　good；　and　the　moon　rocks　had　been　stunning　（they　still　stun　him；　every　time　he　thinks　about　them）；　but　he　had　been　alone。　Being　alone　wasn't　so　good。　In　November；　when　he　takes　his　other　week；　he'll　be　with　Henry　and　Jonesy　and　the　Beav。　Then　he'll　allow　himself　to　drink　during　the　day。　When　you're　off　in　the　woods；　hunting　with　your　friends；　it's　all　right　to　drink　during　the　day。　It's　practically　a　tradition。　It…
　　　　The　door　opens　and　a　good…looking　brunette　es　in。　About　five…ten　（and　Pete　likes　them　tall）；　maybe　thirty。　She　glances　around　at　the　showroom　models　（the　new　Thunderbird；　in　dark　burgundy；　is　the　pick　of　the　litter；　although　the　Explorer　isn't　bad）；　but　not　as　if　she　has　any　interest　in　buying。　Then　she　spot