520美书楼

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第50部分（第4页）

A　pawnbroker　might　give　them　twenty　bucks。　A　kind　pawnbroker。　There　would　be　no

job；　not　even　part…time　or　seasonal；　except　maybe　shoveling　out　driveways　for

three　dollars　a　shot。　The　picture　of　John　Torrance；　thirty　years　old；　who　had

once　published　in　Esquire　and　who　had　harbored　dreams　—　not　at　all　unreasonable

dreams；　he　felt；　of　being　a　major　American　writer　during　the　next　decade；　with

a　shovel　from　the　Sidewinder　Western　Auto　on　his　shoulder；　ringing　doorbells。。。

that　picture　suddenly　came　to　him　much　more　clearly　than　the　hedge　lions　and

he　clenched　his　fists　tighter　still；　feeling　the　fingernails　sink　into　his　palms

and　draw　blood　in　mystic　quarter…moon　shapes。　John　Torrance；　standing　in　line

to　change　his　sixty　dollars　into　food　stamps；　standing　in　line　again　at　the

Sidewinder　Methodist　Church　to　get　donated　modities　and　dirty　looks　from　the

locals。　John　Torrance　explaining　to　Al　that　theyd　just　had　to　leave；　had　to

shut　down　the　boiler；　had　to　leave　the　Overlook　and　all　it　contained　open　to

vandals　or　thieves　on　snow　machines　because；　you　see；　Al；　attendez…vous；　Al；

there　are　ghosts　up　there　and　they　have　it　in　for　my　boy。　Good…by；　Al。　Thoughts

of　Chapter　Four；　Spring　es　for　John　Torrance。　What　then？　Whatever　then？　They

might　be　able　to　get　to　the　West　Coast　in　the　VW；　he　supposed。　A　new　fuel　pump

would　do　it。　Fifty　miles　west　of　here　and　it　was　all　downhill；　you　could　damn

near　put　the　bug　in　neutral　and　coast　to　Utah。　On　to　sunny　California；　land　of

oranges　and　opportunity。　A　man　with　his　sterling　record　of　alcoholism；　student…

beating；　and　ghost…chasing　would　undoubtedly　be　able　to　write　his　own　ticket。

Anything　you　like。　Custodial　engineer　—　swamping　out　Greyhound　buses。　The

automotive　business　—　washing　cars　in　a　rubber　suit。　The　culinary　arts；　perhaps；

washing　dishes　in　a　diner。　Or　possibly　a　more　responsible　position；　such　as

pumping　gas。　A　job　like　that　even　held　the　intellectual　stimulation　of　making

change　and　writing　out　credit　slips。　I　can　give　you　twenty…five　hours　a　week　at

the　minimum　wage。　That　was　heavy　tunes　in　a　year　when　Wonder　bread　went　for

sixty　cents　a　loaf。

Blood　had　begun　to　trickle　down　from　his　palms。　Like　stigmata；　oh　yes。　He

squeezed　tighter；　savaging　himself　with　pain。　His　wife　was　asleep　beside　him；

why　not？　There　were　no　problems。　He　had　agreed　to　take　her　and　Danny　away　from

the　big　bad　boogeyman　and　there　were　no　problems。　So　you　see；　Al；　I　thought　the

best　thing　to　do　would　be　to

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