Straight Man

world become infinitely alien just before his leaving it? Or did the world
fail
to tilt? Did it remain mundane and true to his trained, melancholy expectation right to the end, its boxcars merely boxcars, all lined up along the seemingly endless track, as far as William Cherry’s eye could see?
    I do not want to die. I’m as sure of this, I think, as a man can reasonably be. I do not want to learn, when I speak to Phil Watson tomorrow, that the asymmetry he thought he felt in my prostate is a tumor, and yet, there is a part of me that would thrill to receive such news. Why that should be I cannot imagine. Nor do I want the woman that I’m married to and that I love to leave me, but the thought of her doing so moves me in a way that our growing old together and contentedly slipping, in affectionate tandem, toward the grave does not. The thought of Lily’s having found someone to replace me is not welcome, but an urgent new love—and what makes the world stranger than love?—is a thing that I could half-wish for her. For me.
    Half. I can hear Tony Coniglia whispering to me that I’m permitted half.
    The more immediate question is what I’ll be permitted by the young uniformed officer I see approaching through the snow on foot in my rearview mirror. How long has the revolving blue and red light of his cruiser been flashing back there? When the cop taps on my window, I roll it down and provide my license. He studies this with his flashlight, then shines the light in my face to see if I’m the same guy. Would I mind stepping out of the vehicle? he wonders. Hell, no. Have I been drinking? Hell, yes. Where am I headed? Good question. Would I mind answering it? Allegheny Wells, I tell him. That’s what you think, he replies. Where I’m headed is the backseat of his cruiser. He takes me by the elbow, the big, helpful lug.
    On the short drive to the station I notice him studying me in the rearview mirror. “Tell the truth,” he grins when we pull into the lot,and for a second I think he’s going to accuse me of indulging suicidal thoughts out there in the dark railyard. “You’re that duck guy, aren’t you?”
    With my one phone call, I try Tony Coniglia. He’s responsible for this mess, is my reasoning. But there’s no answer at Tony’s. He was drunker than I, though. If he’s passed out, it’ll take more than a ringing phone to rouse him. I consider calling Teddy. Getting me out of jail in the middle of the night is the kind of duty that would appeal to him. He’s always on the lookout for a new Hank story for his repertoire. But he’ll tell this one badly, just like all the others, and besides, I’ve been too mean to him at the restaurant to call him now.
    “Your wife ain’t home?” the old cop says, eyebrow raised, when I hang up. I can read his thoughts. Going on two o’clock and this poor bastard’s wife isn’t home. No wonder he’s drinking. “I tell you what,” he says. “We have lovely accommodations right here.”
    Fine with me, at this point. “There are lots of other people I could call,” I tell my escort as he leads me down a corridor to the drunk tank. I don’t want him to think I’m alone in the world, a man without friends or colleagues. I mean, hell, there are academic deans I could call who’d come and get me if I asked. The only reason I’m here is to fulfill a prophecy.
    “Monday night. You got the place practically to yourself,” I’m told, and it’s true. The cell’s got a half dozen cots, only one of which is occupied. “You’ll like your roommate too. We’re pretty upscale tonight.”
    Truth underlies all reality. I believe this. Often there are several explanations for observable phenomena that make varying degrees of sense, but the correct interpretation of the facts is always recognizable for its beauty, its simplicity. Tony Coniglia did not answer his telephone for the simple reason that he wasn’t there to answer it. He wasn’t there to answer it because he can’t be in two places at once. If he’s here, he can’t be there. And he’s here. I see this.
    I decide not to wake him to say hello, though I’m tempted. I don’t because it would rob him of tomorrow morning’s mystical moment when he awakes and finds me in the same cell and cannot for the life of him account for my being there, with or without the application ofOccam’s Razor. He will not rest easy until everything is explained to him, until the rich possibility of a world different