Ronk started to sing about the cocaine blues。 Halfway through the third verse I paused with my razor by my cheek。 Got a headful of whiskey and a bellyful of gin； Dave sang in his rasping voice。 Doctor say it kill me but he don't say when。 And that was the answer； of course。 A guilty conscience had led me to assume that my mother would die immediately； and Staub had never corrected that assumption…how could he； when I had never even asked？…but it clearly wasn't true。
Doctor say it kill me but he don't say when。
What in God's name was I beating myself up about？ Didn't my choice amount to no more than the natural order of things？ Didn't children usually outlive their parents？ The son of a bitch had tried to scare me…to guilt…trip me…but I didn't have to buy what he was selling； did I？ Didn't we all ride the Bullet in the end？
You're just trying to let yourself off。 Trying to find a way to make it okay。 Maybe what you're thinking is true 。 。 。 but when he asked you to choose； you chose her。 There's no way to think your way around that； buddy…you chose her。
I opened my eyes and looked at my face in the mirror。 'I did what I had to；' I said。 I didn't quite believe it； but in time I supposed I would。
Mrs。 McCurdy and I went up to see my mother and my mother was a little better。 I asked her if she remembered her dream about Thrill Village； in Laconia。 She shook her head。 'I barely remember you ing in last night；' she said。 'I was awful sleepy。 Does it matter？'
'Nope；' I said； and kissed her temple。 'Not a bit。'
My Ma got out of the hospital five days later。 She walked with a limp for a little while； but that went away and a month later she was back at work again…only half shifts at first but then full…time； just as if nothing had happened。 I returned to school and got a job at Pat's Pizza in downtown Orono。 The money wasn't great； but it was enough to get my car fixed。 That was good； I'd lost what little taste for hitchhiking I'd ever had。
My mother tried to quit smoking and for a little while she did。 Then I came back from school for April vacation a day early； and the kitchen was just as smoky as it had ever been。 She looked at me with eyes that were both ashamed and defiant。 'I can't；' she said。 'I'm sorry； Al…I know you want me to and I know I should； but there's such a hole in my life without it。 Nothing fills it。 The best I can do is wish I'd never started in the first place。'
Two weeks after I graduated from college； my Ma had another stroke…just a little one。 She tried to quit smoking again when the doctor scolded her； then put on fifty pounds and went back to the tobacco。 'As a dog returneth to its vomit；' the Bible says； I've always liked that one。 I got a pretty good job in Portland on my first try…lucky； I guess…and started the work of convincing her to quit her own job。 It was a tough sled at first。 I might have given up in disgust； but I had a certain memory that kept me digging away at her Yankee defenses。
'You ought to be saving for your own life； not taking care of me；' she said。 'You'll want to get married someday； Al； and what you spend on me you won't have for that。 For your real life。'
'You're my real life；' I said； and kissed her。 'You can like it or lump it； but that's just the way it is。' And finally she threw in the towel。
We had some pretty good years after that…seven of them in all。 I didn't live with her； but I visited her almost every day。 We played a lot of gin rummy and watched a lot of movies on the video recorder I bought her。 Had a bucketload of laughs； as she liked to say。 I don't know if I owe those years to George Staub or not； but they were good years。 And my memory of the night I met Staub never faded and grew dreamlike； as I always expected it would； every incident； from the old man telling me to wish on the harvest moon to the fingers fumbling at my shirt as Staub passed his button on to me； remained perfectly clear。 And there came a day when I could no longer find that button。 I knew I'd had it when I'd moved into my little apartment in Fal…mouth…I kept it in the top drawer of my bedside table； along with a couple of bs； my two sets of cufflinks； and an old political button that said BILL CLINTON； THE SAFE SAX PRESIDENT…but then it came up missing。 And when the telephone rang a day or two later； I knew why Mrs。 McCurdy was crying。 It was the bad news I'd never quite stopped expecting； fun is fun and done is done。
When the funeral was over； and the wake； and the seemingly endless line of mourners had finally e to its end； I went back to the little house in Harlow where my mother had spent her final few years； smoking and eating powdered doughnuts。 It had been Jean and Alan Parker against the world； now it was just me。
I went through her personal effects； putting aside the few papers that would have to be dealt with later； boxing up the things I'd want to keep on one side of the room and the things I'd want to give away to the Goodwill on the other。 Near the end of the job I got down on my knees and looked under her bed and there it was； what I'd been looking for all along without quite admitting it to myself： a dusty button reading I RODE THE BULLET AT THRILL VILLAGE； LACONIA。 I curled my fist tight around it。 The pin dug into my flesh and I squeezed my hand even tighter； taking a bitter pleasure in the pain。 When I rolled my fingers open again； my eyes had filled with tears and the words on the button had doubled； overlaying each other in a shimmer。 It was like looking at a 3…D movie without the glasses。
'Are you satisfied？' I asked the silent room。 'Is it enough？' There was no answer； of course。 'Why did you even bother？ What was the goddam point？'
Still no answer； and why would there be？ You wait in line； that's all。 You wait in line beneath the moon and make your wishes by its infected light。 You wait in line and listen to them screaming…they pay to be terrified； and on the Bullet they always get their money's worth。 Maybe when it's your turn you ride； maybe you run。 Either way it es to the same； I think。 There ought to be more to it； but there's really not…fun is fun and done is done。
Take your button and get out of here。
LUCKEY QUARTER
In the fall of 1996； I crossed the United States from Maine to California on my Harley…Davidson motorcycle； stopping at independent bookstores to promote a novel called Insomnia。 It was a great trip。 The high point was probably sitting on the stoop of an abandoned general store in Kansas； watching the sun go down in the west as the full moon rose in the east。 I thought of a scene in Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides where the same thing happens； and an enraptured child cries out； 'Oh； Mama； do it again！' Later； in Nevada； I stayed in a ramshackle hotel where the turn…down maids left two…dollar slots chips on the pillow。 Beside each chip was a little card that said something like； 'Hi； I'm Marie； Good Luck！' This story came to mind。 I wrote it longhand； on hotel stationery。
'Oh you cheap son of a bitch！' she cried in the empty hotel room； more in surprise than in anger。
Then…it was the way she was built…Darlene Pullen started to laugh。 She sat down in the chair beside the rumpled； abandoned bed with the quarter in one hand and the envelope it had fallen out of in the other； looking back and forth between them and laughing until tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks。 Patsy； her older kid； needed braces。 Darlene had absolutely no idea how she was going to pay for them； she had been worried about it all week； and if this wasn't the final straw； what was？ And if you couldn't laugh； what could you do？ Find a gun and shoot yourself？
Different girls had different places to leave the all…important envelope； which they called 'the honeypot。' Gerda； the Swede who'd been a downtown corner…girl before finding Jesus the previous summer at a revival meeting in Tahoe； propped hers up against one of the bathroom glasses； Melissa put hers under the TV controller。 Darlene always leaned hers against the telephone； and when she came in this morning and found 322's on the pillow instead； she had known he'd left something for her。
Yes； he certainly had。 A little copper sandwich； one quarter…dollar； In God We Trust。
Her laughter； which had been tapering off to giggles； broke out in full spate again。
There was printed matter on the front of the honeypot； plus the hotel's logo： the silhouettes of a horse and rider on top of a bluff； enclosed in a diamond shape。
Wele to Carson City； the friendliest town in Nevada！ ＇said the words below the logo＇。 And wele to The Rancher's Hotel； the friendliest lodging in Carson City！ Your room was made up by Darlene。 If anything's wrong； please dial 0 and we'll put it right 'pronto。' This envelope is provided should you find everything right and care to leave a little 'extra something' for this chambermaid。
Once again； wele to Carson； and wele to the Rancher's。
William Avery
Trail…Boss
Quite often the honeypot was empty…she had found envelopes torn up in the wastebasket； crumpled up in the corner （as if the