They fanned wider and wider； some disappearing into the sage； some trundling up the sides of a rock overhang； pouring into the cracks where they would； mayhap； wait out the heat of the day。
They were gone。 She was gone。
Roland sat down on the ground and put his hands over his face。 He thought he might weep； but in time the urge passed； when he raised his head again； his eyes were as dry as the desert he would eventually e to； still following the trail of Walter； the man in black。
If there's to be damnation； she had said； let it be of my choosing； not theirs。
He knew a little about damnation himself 。 。 。 and he had an idea that the lessons； far from being done； were just beginning。
She had brought him the purse with his tobacco in it。 He rolled a cigarette and smoked it hunkered over his knees。 He smoked it down to a glowing roach； looking at her empty clothes the while； remembering the steady gaze of her dark eyes。 Remembering the scorch…marks on her fingers from the chain of the medallion。 Yet she had picked it up； because she had known he would want it； had dared that pain； and Roland now wore both around his neck。
When the sun was fully up； the gunslinger moved on west。 He would find another horse eventually； or a mule； but for now he was content to walk。 All that day he was haunted by a ringing； singing sound in his ears； a sound like bells。 Several times he stopped and looked around； sure he would see a dark following shape flowing over the ground； chasing after as the shadows of our best and worst memories chase after； but no shape was ever there。 He was alone in the low hill country west of Eluria。
Quite alone。
EVERYTHING'S EVENTUAL
One day； out of nowhere； I had a clear image of a young man pouring change into a sewer grating outside of the small suburban house in which he lived。 I had nothing else； but the image was so clear…and so disturbingly odd…that I had to write a story about it。 It came out smoothly and without a single hesitation； supporting my idea that stories are artifacts： not really made things which we create （and can take credit for）； but pre…existing objects which we dig up。
I
I've got a good job now； and no reason to feel glum。 No more hanging out with the gumbyheads at the Supr Savr； policing up the Kart Korral and getting bothered by assholes like Skipper。 Skipper's munching the old dirt sandwich these days； but one thing I have learned in my nineteen years on this Planet Earth is don't relax； there are Skippers everywhere。
Ditto no more pulling pizza patrol on rainy nights； driving my old Ford with the bad muffler； freezing my ass off with the driver's…side window down and a little Italian flag sticking out on a wire。 Like somebody in Harkerville was going to salute。 Pizza Roma。 Quarter tips from people who don't even see you； because most of their mind's still on the TV football game。 Driving for Pizza Roma was the lowest point； I think。 Since then I've even had a ride in a private jet； so how could things be bad？
'This is what es of leaving school without a diploma；' Ma would say during my Delivery Dan stint。 And； 'You've got this to look forward to for the rest of your life。' Good old Ma。 On and on； until I actually thought about writing her one of those special letters。 As I say； that was the low point。 You know what Mr。 Sharpton told me that night in his car？ 'It's not just a job； Dink； it's a goddam adventure。' And he was right。 Whatever he might have been wrong about； he was right about that。
I suppose you're wondering about the salary of this famous job。 Well； I got to tell you； there's not much money in it。 Might as well get that right up front。 But a job isn't just about money； or getting ahead。 That's what Mr。 Sharpton told me。 Mr。 Sharpton said that a real job is about the fringe benefits。 He said that's where the power is。
Mr。 Sharpton。 I only saw him that once； sitting behind the wheel of his big old Mercedes…Benz； but sometimes once is enough。
Take that any way you want。 Any old way at all。
II
I've got a house； okay？ My very own house。 That's fringe benefit number one。 I call Ma sometimes； ask how her bad leg is； shoot the shit； but I've never invited her over here； although Harkerville is only seventy or so miles away and I know she's practically busting a gut with curiosity。 I don't even have to go see her unless I want to。 Mostly I don't want to。 If you knew my mother； you wouldn't want to； either。 Sit there in that living room with her while she talks about all her relatives and whines about her puffy leg。 Also I never noticed how much the house smelled of catshit until I got out of it。 I'm never going to have a pet。 Pets bite the big one。
Mostly I just stay here。 It's only got one bedroom； but it's still an excellent house。 Eventual； as Pug used to say。 He was the one guy at the Supr Savr I liked。 When he wanted to say something was really good； Pug'd never say it was awesome； like most people do； he'd say it was eventual。 How funny is that？ The old Pugmeister。 I wonder how he's doing。 Okay； I suppose。 But I can't call him and make sure。 I can call my Ma； and I have an emergency number if anything ever goes wrong or if I think somebody's getting nosy about what's not their business； but I can't buzz any of my old friends （as if any of them besides Pug gave Shit One about Dinky Earnshaw）。 Mr。 Sharpton's rules。
But never mind that。 Let's go back to my house here in Columbia City。 How many nineteen…year…old high…school dropouts do you know who have their own houses？ Plus a new car？ Only a Honda； true； but the first three numbers on the odometer are still zeroes； and that's the important part。 It has a CD/tape…player； and I don't slide in behind the wheel wondering if the goddam thing'll start； like I always did with the Ford； which Skipper used to make fun of。 The Ass…holemobile； he called it。 Why are there so many Skippers in the world？ That's what I really wonder about。
I do get some money； by the way。 More than enough to meet my needs。 Check this out。 I watch As the World Turns every day while I'm eating my lunch； and on Thursdays； about halfway through the show； I hear the clack of the mail…slot。 I don't do anything then； I'm not supposed to。 Like Mr。 Sharpton said； 'Them's the rules； Dink。'
I just watch the rest of my show。 The exciting stuff on the soaps always happens around the weekends…murders on Fridays； fucking on Mondays…but I watch right to the end every day； just the same。 I'm especially careful to stay in the living room until the end on Thurs…days。 On Thursdays I don't even go out to the kitchen for another glass of milk。 When World is over； I turn off the TV for awhile…Oprah Winfrey es on next； I hate her show； all that sitting…around…talking shit is for the Mas of the world…and go out to the front hall。
Lying on the floor under the mail…slot； there's always a plain white envelope； sealed。 Nothing written on the front。 Inside there'll be either fourteen five…dollar bills or seven ten…dollar bills。 That's my money for the week。 Here's what I do with it。 I go to the movies twice； always in the afternoon； when it's just 4。50。 That's 9。 On Saturday I fill up my Honda with gas； and that's usually about 7。 I don't drive much。 I'm not invested in it； as Pug would say。 So now we're up to 16。 I'll eat out maybe four times at Mickey D's； either at breakfast （Egg McMuffin； coffee； two hash browns） or at dinner （Quarter Pounder with Cheese； never mind that McSpecial shit； what dimbulb thought those sandwiches up）。 Once a week I put on chinos and a button…up shirt and see how the other half lives…have a fancy meal at a place like Adam's Ribs or the Chuck Wagon。 All of that goes me about 25 and now we're up to 41。 Then I might go by News Plus and buy a stroke book or two； nothing really kinky； just your usual like Variations or Penthouse。 I have tried writing these mags down on DINKY'S DAYBOARD； but with no success。 I can buy them myself； and they don't disappear on cleaning day or anything； but they don't show up； if you see what I'm getting at； like most other stuff does。 I guess Mr。 Sharpton's cleaners don't like to buy dirty stuff （pun）。 Also； I can't get to any of the sex stuff on the Internet。 I have tried； but it's blocked out； somehow。 Usually things like that are easy to deal with…you go under or around the roadblocks if you can't hack straight through…but this is different。
Not to belabor the point； but I can't dial 900 numbers on the phone； either。 The auto…dialer works； of course； and if I want to call somebody just at random； anywhere in the world； and shoot the shit with them for awhile； that's okay。 That works。 But the 900 numbers don't。 You just get a busy。 Probably just as well。 In my experience； thinking about sex is like scratching poison ivy。 You only spread it around。 Besides； sex is no big deal； at least for me。 It's there； but it isn't eventual。 Still； considering what I'm doing； that little prudey streak is sort of weird。 Almost funny 。 。 。 except I seem to have lost my sense of humor on the subject。 A few others； as well。
Oh well； back to the budget。
If I get a Variations