The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) (3 page)

The possibilities, though vague,
played in his mind. “A caretaker’s position, you said?” He was thinking out
loud.

“More or less. You’ll need to look
after the place initially, until you get through the trial period. Prove
yourself a writer, and the place will be yours, uncontested.”

“How long do I have?”

“There’s no real set time limit,” the
Writer said. “It depends entirely upon the person taking over.”

“I mean, when do I need to give you
an answer?”

“Ah. Well, like I said, I am pressed
for time. I need a decision today. This morning, actually.”

“I don’t know—”

“Jack, let me make a further
observation. I’ll bet that most people see you as quiet, hard-working, and
dependable. All fine traits, but traits that could just as easily describe a
Ditch Witch, a mechanical device that is gotten rid of once it’s served its
purpose. There’s more to you than that, Jack. When you first got this job that
you were laid off from, you told yourself that you’d only work there until your
writing took off. But soon, the job became an end unto itself, and your dream
of writing was postponed: a month, a year, indefinitely. You probably never
even felt like you belonged there at all; a temp job gone on too long. Well,
you’re right. You don’t belong there. You belong with me, doing what you’ve
always wanted to do; what you’re best at. No more punching a clock, working to
make ends meet. No, I’m talking about something that really makes a difference,
something you care about, something you’re passionate about.”

The old man’s eyes glimmered. “Allow
me, if I may, a final observation. That you have bothered to listen to me this
long, and not simply walked away, tells me that you are just as desperate for
change as I am to find someone to fill the caretaker’s position. And that tells
me that today is about more than just losing a job, or getting caught in the
rain. You have a kind of emptiness in your gaze, Jack, like a man who can’t
feel the bullet because he knows it’s severed his spine. It isn’t just that
something has gone wrong. Everything has gone wrong. Am I correct?”

And there it was. What he thought he
was hiding so cleverly was apparently written on his face for the whole world
to see. At least, for those who bothered to look. “Last week, my girlfriend
left me because I wasn’t interesting. The company I worked for was sold to a South Carolina based mortgage corporation. I could have left months ago, but I kept
thinking something would change, that it would get better. And today I was
kicked out of my office because my employer thinks I’m both useless and
harmless. I just left my car in the parking lot because it blew its radiator,
and I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to fix it. So maybe what’s really happening
is I’m having a mental breakdown, and that’s why I’m listening to you. And
maybe I’m not the right man for you.”

The Writer nodded with all
seriousness. “No, Jack. You are exactly the right man. Stop asking yourself why
you should accept my offer, and instead ask yourself why you
shouldn’t
?
You don’t have much to lose, and what I’m offering is a chance to embark upon a
life doing exactly what you have always dreamed of doing; what you always
imagined yourself doing. Think of me as opportunity, Jack. An offer like this
won’t come along again, I guarantee it. I need to fill this position today; if
you don’t want it, I’ll have to find someone else who does. And by the time
that person gives this place up, you’ll be as old as I am, your life spent
pretending to be what you’re not—what you despise—and your talents dead before they’re
ever tested. The question you have to ask yourself, Jack, is what’s keeping you
here?”

Jack sighed. “You have to have an answer now?”

The Writer smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry, I do. There are others who want this place, and they’re already
maneuvering for it. I need someone to take over immediately, someone I can pass
it along to before things get complicated. If you’re not interested, I need to
know now so that I can start looking elsewhere.”

“How do you know I’d be any good,
anyway? Twenty minutes ago, you didn’t even know me.”

“Would it help if you thought of this
as an interview?” The Writer asked. “You arrive, we indulge in some banter. I
ask why you left your former employer. I ask you what you want to do with your
life. You tell me you want to be a writer. You carry your writing with you,
demonstrating that you’re serious about that goal. You tell me you carry a pen
and paper, showing me that you’re willing to continue working at this goal. I
mention that you’ll need to relocate for this job, and you’re okay with that.
You even mention that you don’t have a lot of ties to the area. Honestly, I
don’t know how I could have stumbled on a more perfect candidate.”

Jack hesitated, unsure what to say.
The last time he was on an interview, it wasn’t anything like this; that was
for sure. “Can you tell me where this place is?”

The Writer smiled indulgently. “Let’s
start with how you get there.”

He took an envelope from his coat,
opened it, and removed one large ticket. “This is for a train leaving tomorrow
morning at 11:05. It doesn’t stay in the station very long, I’m afraid, so be
on time. Early, if possible. Board this train, and it begins.”

Jack looked at the envelope, shaking
his head in disbelief. “This all sounds so bizarre?”

“I know. I was sitting right where
you are once with a lunatic sitting across from me making the very same offer.
The real question you need to be asking yourself is, if you don’t board this
train, where will you go tomorrow? What will you do? Where else do you think
you ought to be that you shouldn’t be on a train with a complete stranger in
search of your dreams?”

There should have been a dozen
answers to the question; a dozen if there was one. But none came to mind. None
at all.

And it was in that moment that Jack
Lantirn was lost.

“If you have to think about a
question so outlandish for even a moment, Jack, then you already have your
answer,” the Writer noted quietly. “You’re just having trouble convincing
yourself of it.”

“Madness is a difficult
self-diagnosis,” he remarked wryly. “The implications are disturbing.”

“Not madness, Jack. Right up to the
very edge of it, perhaps, but not madness.” The Writer smiled and placed the
ticket back in the envelope. Then he wrote Jack’s name on the outside in
precise, flowing letters, and passed it across the table. “The station is a
couple blocks away on Main Street between Locust and Seventh.”

“I didn’t even realize there was a
train station in the city,” Jack said.

“When you see it, you’ll understand
why. There’s a newspaper stand just outside. I’ll meet you there tomorrow
morning. High adventure, Jack. You’ll forget all about your lost job, and your
car, and Jools. You’ll be the writer you always dreamed of being, and this day,
like your life every day before it, will seem like little more than an
unpleasant daydream. I’m not asking you for money or to believe in some
religious cult, just to have a bit of faith in yourself.”

Still, Jack thought, you just don’t
climb aboard a train with a total stranger—
whose real name you still don’t know,
by the way
! —without asking where you’re going, or what you’ll be doing
when you get there. It’s simply insane.

But what was he going to do tomorrow,
otherwise? He had no place to be, no one to be with, and nothing to do. He was
staring down a well of hard times, and someone just handed him a way out. Why
not take it?

“Hang on to the ticket, Jack, and
I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” the Writer said, looking genuinely pleased.
“This won’t be a mistake. You’ll see.” Then he took a drink of his latté and grimaced.
“There, I’ve talked so long, it’s gone cold.” He set it back down on the table
with a rueful expression. “When I was a young man, I spent time in Europe. This was back before all her problems. Such a fine place then, high adventure for a
young man eager to drink from life’s fountain. Bucks like me thought we had it
all, tipping sweet coffees and bantering poetry with olive-skinned ladies
enamored by our cowboy spirit and foolhardy bravado. When I left, you could
only find these in cafés in France and Italy. By the time I came back, the
beatniks were decrying the establishment while drinking them in obscure coffee
shops in New York and San Francisco. And this time, they’re a staple in every
donut shop and coffee house across America.” Something about that seemed to
make the old man very sad. “I’ve been gone too long. The changes are getting
harder and harder to keep up with.”

Then the Writer became silent,
staring out the window for an uncomfortably long time. Jack sipped his latté,
cold but still good, unsure if he should say something, or simply leave.

“It seems to have let up out there,”
the Writer observed. “Jack, I have to be going.” He gathered up a wicker valise
from beside his chair and stood to leave. “I have another appointment this
morning, and I shouldn’t be late. Consider my offer. The ticket’s genuine and
so am I. For that matter, Jack, so are you. You just don’t realize it.”

The Writer stopped at the doorway.
“The train leaves at exactly 11:05 tomorrow morning, Jack. Don’t be late. Settle
your affairs—what you have left of them—and meet me at Cross-Over Station. It’s
a real second chance, Jack. Your only regret will be if you pass this up.”

There were so many things he didn’t
know, so many questions he should ask.
Why are you even considering this?

Because you have nothing else to do,
and nowhere else to go. What’s keeping you here?

“Okay.”

“Good for you, Jack,” the Writer
said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then the old man left.

Jack watched him through the window
then looked down at the envelope, wondering for the umpteenth time if he wasn’t
going just a little bit mad. Outside, the sidewalks were already steaming under
the sun, and with no other reason to stay, he took the ticket and left the Café
Tangier for home.

He was in sight of his apartment building before he realized he had never
mentioned Jools’s name to the Writer.

EVERYTHING MUST GO

Jack sat on the floor in jeans and a
T-shirt, his suit crumpled in a ball on the floor, wrinkled and smelling like
sweaty mittens. In front of him was the ticket.

It seemed ordinary enough. The train
departed Cross-Over Station at 11:05, just as the Writer claimed, and was
identified simply as
HEAVY METAL
; an unusual name for a train, but what
about today wasn’t unusual. Boldly noted at the bottom of the ticket was the
stipulation
ONE-WAY ONLY
. There was little else. No phone numbers or legal
provisions. It was the kind of ticket a child would print up on a computer …

… or a delusional schizophrenic with
dementia.

Jack took out the phonebook and tried looking up the train station, but
found nothing. Half an hour on the internet still gave no indication of a train
station anywhere on Main Street, or even within the city limits.

So the Writer was yanking his chain. Jack would walk up and down the block
for about fifteen minutes before the Writer leaped from a nondescript van with
a camera crew and boom mikes. Three weeks later, Jack would find himself the
unwitting highlight on some new reality TV version of Candid Camera.

Or worse, the Writer was completely nuts. At this point, the possibility
had to be entertained.

The question is not whether you
should believe him?
he reasoned back with all seriousness
. The question is whether you should
not?
Caution only gets you so far. Look around and ask yourself if this is really
where you want to be. Ask yourself if you’re happy. And if you’re not, doesn’t
this place bear looking into? If it turns out to be a hoax or even nothing at
all, at least you tried instead of just dreaming of your big break somehow happening
on its own. This is a second chance. All you have to do is take the first step.

And if the Writer turns out to be a lunatic, so what; walk away. What’s
the difference between this and any other job interview he would go on in the
coming weeks? He would just go downtown and see for himself. There was no harm
in that. And besides, how would it be any worse than where he was right now,
out of work and alone.

Maybe it really is time to step out,
to say I quit. I quit everything. I quit my job. I quit my car. I quit this
life I’m living in. I quit everything. Cash out my chips, dealer. I’m moving on
to another game
.

What was the point of staying when
there was nothing to stay for? Better to gather up his things—what still
mattered, anyway—and head out; take a look at the world. End of chapter. Turn
the page.

Jack surveyed the small apartment,
studying his meager possessions. He would have no use for any of it where he
was going. Frankly, if it couldn’t go by train—and get itself down to the
station by tomorrow morning—it was more a burden than anything.

So let’s get rid of it.

Before he could change his mind, Jack went to the bedroom closet and
pulled out a big duffel bag, and started packing: clothes for a week—nothing
dressy, not anymore; he was turning over a new leaf—a couple folders of his
writing, a notebook of paper, and a handful of pens. The Writer promised him a
place that would make him a real writer, but it never hurt to make sure you had
a little bit to start off with. Besides, what writer worth his salt was ever
without a pen? He left room for a toiletries kit then packed
The Gunslinger
to read on the train and his iPod. Last, he packed his laptop and an extra
thumb drive, placing it with the duffel by the front door, the ticket in an
outside pocket.

All that remained was to deal with
his apartment and the rest of his things. The rent was paid through July. It
was forfeit along with the deposit if he left without sixty days notice.

It’s not like you don’t have money
coming in. Oh right, you don’t!

But an idea was already forming, a
solution that might once have seemed inconceivable, even insane. Now? Well, he
was discovering that the edge of reason was just wide enough to balance upon so
long as you ran fast, and didn’t lose your balance.

And, whatever else you do, never,
never
look down.

*     *     *

Jack took some old moving boxes out
of the closet while he lunched on bologna and cheese and a glass of milk; he
needed to empty the refrigerator before he left. He used a razor knife to
section the boxes into large cardboard squares and wrote on each with a black
marker:
APARTMENT SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO!!!
He carried the collection of newly
made signs along with a hammer and a small sack of mismatched nails downstairs,
posting them outside of his second floor apartment first, then on the nearby
telephone poles. He walked to either end of the block, nailing up signs and
adding his apartment’s address almost as an afterthought. Then he started
carrying all of his possessions out onto the front lawn of the apartment
building. He took the television and stereo first, certain they would draw
attention. Besides, he had already rendered their boxes into apartment sale
signs.

So went his afternoon. Cars would
slow down and survey what he had. Some stopped; others sped away, leaving him
witness to three near fender-benders. By the time he hauled out the old carpet
remnant that he used in the living room, huffing and sweating beneath the
cumbersome roll, cars had pulled over all along the street.

He sold the carpet outright for
twenty dollars; he never liked it much anyway.

People jockeyed to ask him how much
he wanted for lamps, chairs, a kitchen table, and stacks of dishes and glasses.
He threw out prices off the top of his head, dickering on a few items, but
usually settling for any fair offer. One man offered him ten dollars for his
stereo, which he declined. The man told him he could get one twice as good off
the back of a truck downtown for fifteen bucks. Jack recommended he take the
bus; downtown was a good five miles away, a fact he could testify to. An hour
later, he sold the stereo to a girl from City College for thirty-five dollars.

He taped a sign to the front door of
the apartment claiming
MORE FURNITURE UPSTAIRS
, to save him from lugging the sofa,
bed, and entertainment wall unit down the steps. He used masking tape to mark
prices, and laid out the rest of his clothes on an old blanket, including the
ruined suit and shoes. A man he assumed was homeless stared at these for nearly
fifteen minutes before offering him $6.37 for both, most of it in small change.
Jack accepted the offer.

As the day turned to evening, and most of his possessions were rendered
into cash—not so much as he might have hoped—a white Monte Carlo pulled up, the
motor grumbling and farting blue oil-smoke. His landlord stepped out and walked
over, navigating the bargain hunters like a righteous man through lepers. “Are
you moving or something, Lantirn?”

“Eventually,” Jack remarked, selling
his entire CD collection for seventy-five dollars—nearly a buck a piece. “I
needed to get rid of a few things early, though.”

Lou Palmino, Jack’s landlord, managed
his properties by proxy. A superintendent took care of the tenants, a
contractor maintained the plumbing and electricals, and a lawn service trimmed
the grass and shrubs. That left Lou Palmino with the task of collecting rent;
one he enjoyed wholeheartedly. Jack had never seen the man in anything but
ripped undershirts with yellowed armpit stains; in the winter, he would add a
sweater that was worn through at the elbows. Jack was actually glad he only
bothered to come around for rent, the man long ago bypassing peculiar on the
road to repugnant. His discount store glasses, lenses as thick as Coke-bottles,
were forever slipping down his enormous, hooked nose, and his tongue had a
tendency to dart out suddenly and lick at his dry, chapped lips like some
tropical iguana tasting the air for food. “Well, where are ya going?”

“I don’t know,” Jack answered
truthfully. “Did you know I lost my job?”

“No.” And from his tone, it was
obvious Lou didn’t care. “About this sale, are you gonna have anything left
when you’re done?”

“I hope not.”

Lou Palmino chewed on this answer for
a time. Jack waited a moment, just to be polite, then walked away. He crossed
out the sign on his pots and pans, changing it to $5.00 for the lot. An older
woman watching shrewdly from the side immediately snatched up the whole
collection before he could step away. She asked if he had any bags and he told
her no, taking the five and leaving her struggling to contain her bargain in
her arms. He did not feel inclined to thank her.

“You know, it’ll take me a couple
months to lease this place out,” Mr. Palmino pursued doggedly, trying to
confront Jack as he moved about the lawn sale.

“I suppose.”

“Well, if you can wait that long, you
won’t be out two months rent, Mr. Lantirn.” Jack suspected he was being formal
not out of politeness, but mere ignorance; he likely could not remember Jack’s
first name. “Any renter violating the end of the lease will be required to pay
for two full months of occupancy, whether the renter occupies the property or
not,” Palmino quoted. “It’s in your lease.”

“I know. I’m not leaving yet,
anyway,” Jack said, not adding that by this time tomorrow, he hoped to be far
away from here. He made a mental note to stop by the bank tomorrow morning and
close out his account. No sense letting it sit idle in his absence, the
duration of which was, as yet, unknown. “I’ll be here for a little while
longer,” he added, thinking that a lie might be the best way to end the useless
conversation with his landlord and encourage him to go away … or, at the very
least, discourage this line of questioning. “We’ll work it out.”

“Uh-huh,” Palmino said in a tone that
suggested otherwise. His tongue flickered out nervously, sanding chapped lips.
“Well, where are you going?” he asked for a second time.

“I don’t know?” Jack answered again
for the second time. “I’ve got nothing keeping me here, so I figured I’d take
off. Try a fresh start somewhere else.” Behind him, a man and his son were
struggling to carry the mattress and box spring down the steps, having decided,
for whatever reason, to take both at the same time. They had paid $200 for his
entire bed, which Jack thought was possibly more than it was worth, but he had
already undersold the television, and was feeling tired and not particularly
charitable. The two loaded the bed’s frame, comparatively worthless strip
metal, into the back of their rust-worn pick-up on the previous trip. While
momentarily distracted by their Laurel and Hardy antics, Mr. Palmino attentions
returned to Jack, apparently awaiting an answer; one he did not have.

“Unless there’s something else I can
do for you,” Jack said as politely as possibly, “I’m really kind of busy. If
you’re interested in buying something, let me know. There’s a box of paperbacks
over there for a quarter a piece if you’re a reader.”

Mr. Palmino blinked a couple times,
tongue nervously dancing around his mouth, then started shaking his head. Through
the thick lenses, his eyes appeared to swim in a blurry fluid like strange
black and brown creatures from the ocean floor. The thicker edges bent his face
until it disappeared, leaving only the gaping goldfish eyes that seemed to be
sizing Jack up for a straitjacket, or maybe a sixty-year old man’s attempt at
giving a young punk a fat lip. Instead, Mr. Palmino said only, “The appliances
came with the place. If I find ‘em missing, I’m calling the cops.”

Having said that, Lou Palmino left.

The man and his son, the same ones
who bought Jack’s bed, walked over, asking, “Did I hear him say something about
the appliances?”

After looking over his shoulder to be
certain his landlord had left, Jack suggested four hundred for both the stove
and the refrigerator. The man countered with three hundred and fifty in cash,
and a deal was struck.
Everything must go
.

*     *     *

By early evening, the sale was over.
Jack pulled down the signs and piled what was left into a pair of boxes,
hauling them back upstairs to his now-empty apartment where he left them in the
middle of the living room floor. His kitchen floor was filled with the contents
of his sold refrigerator, and somewhere along the way he had apparently sold
all of his garbage cans, though he could not remember when.

All told, he had cleared over
seventeen-hundred dollars; enough to keep him going if things got weird—amend
that to
weirder
—on his journey. It said little for two years of
possessions, that they could be liquidated so easily, and for so little.

He boxed up the food from his cupboards; there was a soup kitchen down
the street operating out of the First United Baptist Church. They might be able
to use it. He would drop it off in the morning before leaving for downtown and
the train station. There was no sense letting it go to waste. It was bad enough
that the food from his refrigerator would be left to spoil.