Characters in Everything’s Eventual

I zigged and zagged, walking down boulevards and cutting through parking lots, all the time thinking about Andrew Neff climbing into his bathtub and putting a Baggie over his head. A big one, a gallon-size, keeps all your leftovers supermarket-fresh. He was funny. He was charming.

There’s still snail-mail. And the stuff I really needed was always in the database. The fact that Unger had a 1957 Thunderbird, for instance. Or that Ann Tevitch had a loved one—perhaps her husband, perhaps her son, perhaps her father—named Simon. And people like Tevitch and Unger were exceptions.

There was a wood-chopping block and a mailbox with a red flag, so it must have been while we were at Aunt Mabel’s, out in the country. That was where we lived after my father ran off.

I could tell myself there was nothing to know, that Charles “Skipper” Brannigan had either had an accident or committed suicide, the cops weren’t sure which (they couldn’t have known him very well; if they had …

“His sister’s name,” I said. I think that was when I gave up completely. “His sister, Debbie.” IX I’ve always had something, some kind of deal, and I sort of knew it, but not how to use it or what its name was or what it meant.

I’m pretty sure there were other trannies at Peoria when I was there, but Dr. Wentworth and the other folks running the place were careful to keep us separated. I once asked why, and got a runaround.

Unger had been General William “Roll Em” Unger, winner of the Silver Star and Bronze Star in Korea.

Once I heard about this girl who picked up the phone and said “Hi, it’s Helen, and I want you to fuck me raw” because she was sure it was her boyfriend, only it turned out to be her father.

But I missed Pug, and John Cassiday, who was our other friend from our Supr Savr days. John plays bass in a punk band, wears a gold ring in his left eyebrow, and has just about every Subpop record ever made.

There was one single word: MUFFIN. Say what? But then I knew. Muffin was Mr. Columbus’s pet. Very likely a cat. I called up my special letter again, transposed two symbols and deleted a third. Then I added MUFFIN to the top, with an arrow pointing down. There.

In fact, although I don’t like to brag (and I never let any of the faculty in on this little secret), I could program rings around Mr. Jacubois and Mrs. Wilcoxen.

On and on, until I actually thought about writing her one of those special letters. As I say, that was the low point. You know what Mr. Sharpton told me that night in his car? “It’s not just a job, Dink, it’s a goddam adventure.” And he was right.

But until it rained, it stayed pretty sharp. And while it was sharp, no one walked on it. I saw this for myself. People—kids walking to school, ladies walking downtown, Mr. Shermerhorn, the mailman—would just kind of veer around it. They didn’t even seem to know they were doing it.

… than anyone could’ve made out the stuff I wrote on the sidewalk outside Mrs. Bukowski’s yard . . . or so I would have said before the goddam phone rang. But who could be absolutely sure? And you know what they say about a guilty conscience. I didn’t exactly feel …

In fact, although I don’t like to brag (and I never let any of the faculty in on this little secret), I could program rings around Mr. Jacubois and Mrs. Wilcoxen.

I typed Y with absolutely no hesitation. The computer flashed SENDING DINKYMAIL and then DINKYMAIL SENT. That was all. No fireworks. I wonder what happened to Muffin, though. You know. After. XVI That night I called Mr. Sharpton and said, “I’m working.” “That’s good, Dink. Great news. Feel better?”

Pets bite the big one. Mostly I just stay here. It’s only got one bedroom, but it’s still an excellent house. Eventual, as Pug used to say. He was the one guy at the Supr Savr I liked.

Or that Ann Tevitch had a loved one—perhaps her husband, perhaps her son, perhaps her father—named Simon. And people like Tevitch and Unger were exceptions. Most of the folks I reach out and touch are like that first one in Columbus—fully equipped for the twenty-first century.