Authors: John Darnielle

Wolf in White Van (18 page)

There was a summer-long gap between me and all the stuff that was supposed to happen next; I now saw, nested within
that gap, possibilities without number. Infinite futures. I am a musician on a stage somewhere, my instrument singing in tones so universal that the masses howl their accord in places near and far: Reseda, New York, Japan; or else I escape through a bedroom window three minutes from now and careen through the streets, crazed, lost, locked inside the person in whose image I have remade myself; or I am no one, driving a delivery van carrying boxes of electronics from nowhere to no place, the road empty before me by day, shared by headless headlights after dark, beams increasing briefly and then gone, beyond, somewhere off in the cross-traffic, catchable in the rearview if I dare. I thrive. I fail to thrive. I fall. I rise. Too many. Too late. Not that, not those, not these:
this.

I treaded the carpet backwards from my parents’ door, alone and awake, and I caught sight of the painting of the cowboys at sunset, smoke rising from their campfire in the foothills, black and even as it sought the coming darkness. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I waved at the cowboys, and then one waved back at me, a faint movement in the dark orange glow of his eternal sunset, imagine that, for just one second the glint of his tin cup, the smell of his drying skin at day’s end, head turning now back to the fire and its permanent smudging blur. And then I went back into my room, locked into a sequence as perfect as a pattern, and I sat down on my great rock throne, invisible to the outside world but palpable beneath me, and from how my face felt I thought maybe I was crying, either because I didn’t want to do this or because I did, it was hard to tell and anyway I never would, who would believe me in either case and who would be there to believe me in all cases, it was a puzzle, I had yet to learn the
way of the jigsaw, and so I positioned the rifle beneath my chin, it feels cold, like an actual thing in the actual present physical world, OK, there it is, I am here now, and then I
lay down on my belly and listened to the rising squall beyond the door.

A Note About the Author

JOHN DARNIELLE
is a writer, composer, guitarist, and vocalist for the band the Mountain Goats; he is widely considered one of the best lyricists of his generation. He lives in Durham, North Carolina, with his wife and son.

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Acknowledgments

For their generous ears, watchful eyes, and great suggestions, deepest gratitude to:

CHRIS PARRIS-LAMB

SEAN MCDONALD

LALITREE AND ROMAN DARNIELLE

TAYLOR SPERRY

LENNI WOLFF

Also by John Darnielle

Black Sabbath’s Master of Reality (33⅓)

Copyright

Wolf in White Van
Copyright © 2014 by John Darnielle.

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EPUB Edition August 2014 ISBN 9781443437400

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, by arrangement with Farrar, Straus and Giroux

FIRST CANADIAN EDITION

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