Authors: William Goldman
A car came up to the stop sign. Paused. Billy Boy didn
’
t budge —another bug, another goddam foreign job—they were bad luck tonight—not always, sometimes you could do okay with a foreign
job, but he
’
d already left one tonight, there was no point to getting in another. Not when he sensed what he needed was a Cadillac.
Next up was a Chevy. No go. He waited. Next up was a Buick. It was big but it wasn
’
t a Caddie and he was about to let it go when he sensed he was being picky, too picky, nothing wrong with a Buick, he
’
d made it plenty of times in a Buick, so as the car halted by the sign he burst out from the tree and the driver was on the other side but who cared, Billy Boy just ripped open the near door, and the driver was a big guy but who cared, Billy Boy just ripped him loose from the wheel, pulled him across the car and out, made a fist of his right hand, made a club of his arm, and one swing later the Buick guy was wiggling on the ground as Billy Boy slid in and
vrrooom,
gone.
Gone but not safe, not with these clothes, not with these clothes and no money and those were items that needed fast taking care of, so if it was an open place first, he
’
d go for the money, if a clothing store, the other, he didn
’
t care which order, he needed both.
The clothing store was dark. He pulled in the back, parked with the motor on, wondered what he would find he could use, comfort was important in clothes and comfortable clothes weren
’
t all that easy, at least not for him, but beggars couldn
’
t be anything else but, until they had clothes and bread, so he shouldered the back door open and the alarm was so quick and loud it shocked even him—goddam two-bit store, what the hell did it need to have an alarm that big for?—but he was inside, no time to waste with questions, and first he found some raincoats, got one that seemed maybe like it might be okay, then a pile of work shirts was no good, kid stuff, but another pile two counters down was better and he grabbed one of those and finally some jeans, it was hard to see sizes, so he took half a dozen and headed back out the door—
—-right into a cop, a cop with a pistol, but before there were words he threw the clothes dead at the mouth of the gun and the cop was surprised long enough for Billy Boy to reach him and once he reached a cop, it was
over,
man, and when this cop was groggy on the ground Billy Boy took his pistol and aimed it at the cop
’
s nuts and the cop cried
“
Jesus, please
”
and as Billy Boy picked up his clothes he aimed it at the cop
’
s eyes and the crying was louder now,
“
Don
’
t—Christ—gimme
a
—donnnn
’
t—
”
this last and loudest coming as Billy Boy began to fire—
—KA-BLAMM—
—KA-BLAMM—
—and now moving in close, three in succession.
You had to laugh. The fucking cop passed out. You had to really laugh at a thing like that. Because all the shots missed; close, sure, but misses. And still he passed out.
Chickenshit cops these days.
He aimed his final bullet at a police car tire, tossed the pistol away, back in the Buick and
Vrrooooooom
!
A few miles on he saw a dark garage, pulled in, motor running, quick changed clothes. They weren
’
t good but not so terrible either. They
’
d do. They
’
d have to.
And he
’
d have to leave the Buick, he didn
’
t sense it, he
knew
it, because the cop would be awake about now and he
’
d seen the Buick so the Buick was about to become another portion of his past.
He pulled into the first shopping center he came to, got out, waited in darkness. An old guy came along pushing a cart full of food. He loaded the food into his car, took out his keys, and Billy didn
’
t even bother making a fist of his hand, a club of his arm, not for an old guy—for an old guy a swipe was enough, a backhander, and as the old guy folded up Billy Boy grabbed his wallet and car keys, took off again on the road, counting the bread as he went along—
—shit, six bucks, he should have made a club after all, teach the old guy about coming out at night with an empty wallet. He reached back for the food, rummaged around, felt what should have been an apple but it was an onion, reached again, snagged an orange this time, peeled it as he drove, ate it down fast—
—the car slowed. Billy Boy gave a glance at the gas gauge. Empty. He
really
should have clubbed that old guy. The car coasted to a stop and he started running again, not on the road but across a huge barren stretch of Illinois land, because in the distance there were streaks, streaks of light, and as he kept on running the streaks turned into headlights and once he saw the turnpike clear, Billy Boy knew his next stop would be one of those service areas and now ahead he saw the streaks turning off and he picked up his pace as the service area assumed shape in the February darkness, and when he finally reached it he almost went inside because he had the six bucks and you could buy burgers with that,
only more important than eating was moving, and he went to where the cars were and right away along came this Shrimp and if a swipe was enough to handle the old guy, this one coming now, this Shrimp with the pale blue eyes, you could take car
e
of with a finger snap—
—only Billy Boy sensed that was wrong. Big wrong. As the Shrimp came toward him what Billy Boy sensed was
…
was …
…
fear?
“
Ex—excuse me, sir, but I could sure use a lift.
”
The little guy looked at him quietly; nothing showed in the pale blue eyes.
“
Swear to God I won
’
t be no trouble.
”
“
You drive?
”
“
Yessir. I do. I drive good.
”
Again, the little guy looked at him quietly.
“
Please.
”
“
Wouldn
’
t mind some company,
”
the little guy said. And he gestured toward his car.
Toward a Cadillac!
Billy Boy waited while the car was unlocked. Carefully so as not to upset anything, he got in. His hands stroked the leather.
“
I
’
m driving all night.
”
“
Yessir. No problem. I
’
d like that. Fine with me.
”
“
You want to use the facilities, use them now.
”
“
Huh?
”
“
Do you want to piss or not?
”
He did.
“
Oh no sir. Just fine, thank you.
”
What the hell, no point in getting people mad at you.
The wondercar began to glide.
So smooth. So smooth. Billy Boy just sat there. Everything was good now. He sensed that.
“
You didn
’
t ask where we were going.
”
“
I didn
’
t?
”
“
No.
”
“
Well, where are we going?
”
“
New York City.
”
So smooth. So smooth. Billy Boy just sat still. Everything was great now. Because even though he had never been there, Billy Boy had always sensed that the Apple was going to be the end of the line
…
They undressed in silence.
They stood across the small bed from each other, their backs to each other, concentrating on their clothing. He had always been aware of the plainness of his room, but never so much as now, with Charlotte, for the first time, inside—she was, for him, that beautiful.
Correction.
Not
just
for him. He had seen, these past months, too many male heads turn whenever Charlotte had made an entrance. He had noted, these past months, the following flick in the eyes of their wives—from their men, to this woman, to their men again. With her black hair framing her pale skin, with the straight nose, the wide mouth, the wide violet eyes, she was clearly not a creature to be competed with, not by others of her sex. And just as clearly, she was meant to be surrounded by luxurious things.
His room was hardly luxurious. When he had fantasized their Iovemaking, he had imagined much. Musicians somewhere, out of sight of course, floating perhaps, surrounding them with sound, string quartets, piano trios, Mozart, Chopin, Liszt. And perfumed air. And silken sheets (black? Did he dare black?). And their bodies miraculously tinted gold. And— And—
He finally managed to unbutton his shirt, but before he took it off he turned, glanced at the lone candle illuminating this square, dreary, plain, barren room.
“
Too harsh for us,
”
he managed. Then to be sure she understood, he added,
“
Candlelight.
”
The perfect f
a
ce turned toward him.
He blew out the candle, lifted the shade.
“
We deserve to be lit by the moon, Charlotte,
”
and he made a quick gesture toward the February night.
In the dark silence now, the perfect smile.
He turned away and wa
s
startled at the amount of courage required to drop his shirt to the floor. For the moment, he was not nearly that brave. It was not the fact that he was so completely inexperienced that blocked him. He had confessed to her that he was still, ye Gods, a virgin. That he had managed to go through four years at Oberlin without once coming close to a naked female form.
Two truths had to be faced. One was that his body, his naked body, humiliated him. He was that frail, that sickly in appearance. He had never in his life weighed one hundred twenty pounds or stood more than five feet six. Not only did he not look strong, he had little skill at resisting epidemics. When a sickness was around, he would catch it. And he always seemed to have a cough.
But he had a wonderfully aesthetic face, much older seeming than his twenty-two years. His eyes were pale blue, he was subject to headaches and minor pain, so he had with him always the look of someone brilliant, someone special, someone deeply haunted.
In other words, he resembled nothing so much as precisely what he was: a young, sensitive, unknown, but unquestionably gifted Romantic poet.
And he loathed being a
cliché
.
“
Theo,
”
Charlotte whispered then.
Startled:
“
What?
”
Calm:
“
It
’
s just I like saying your name. Theo. I can say it all I want. Tell me you don
’
t mind.
”
“
I love you so,
”
he told her, which was, of course, true, and saved him from lying to her.
Because he
hated
his name. He had been born Theodore Duncan and except for his long-dead mother who used to call him first
“
The Bairn
”
and then just
“
Bairn
”
alone, a word from her past, from what was left of her Scottish girlhood, the world had always called him Theo.
“
Ted
”
was his heart
’
s desire.
Whenever he met a stranger and they exchanged names, he would refer to himself as Ted.
“
Ted Duncan
’
s the name.
”
Because Ted could be a hero, Ted could be a captain, Ted could smile at girls confident that they
’
d smile back.
In school, he would sign tests and papers,
“
Ted Duncan.
”
Sometimes he would underline the
“
Ted.
”
When things were
desperate, he would even draw arrows pointing directly at the name.