Crazy by William Peter Blatty Page B

shouting hoarsely at the jet plane’s contrails, “What’s the goddamn good of it, man, would you tell me?” I not only knew that time had passed but also how it had passed: that it was almost summer, and that the Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor and Jane was still vanished from the face of the earth. Yes, I knew these things, but not as I would have if I’d actually lived them.
    It was more like a movie I’d seen.
    The mighty Cyclone clattered to a gradual stop. I got off and started glancing all around me furtively and probably with big white eyeballs rolling around like Peter Lorre being hunted by the mob in M , which of course was not exactly my situation, although the way I used to look at things then it was close. It seems Sister Louise, in her bountiful view that even morons and future wanted criminals like us should have some modicum of mercy and reward against the chance that, as the dreaded statewide Regents Exams approached, we might suddenly rebel and start nailing heretical and scurrilous theses to the massive St. Stephen’s Church’s doors reading:
    Who Is to Say When a Sin Is Mortal?
     
    So a few weeks before, and in her usual froggy voice, the good sister had decreed for us a “stately pleasure dome” by which she could have meant a cool and quiet pond with giant lily pads floating on its glassy surface, although in fact she meant our class would have a school day spent instead at Coney Island, which was great, but then each of us boys was to pair off with one of the girls for the day and pay their way for all the rides. Yes. Getting to Know Me. We got paired up in a raffle of sorts, picking numbers out of a box, but instead of a regular number, instead I got the dreaded Treasure Island “black spot,” the notoriously gloomy Vera Virago. But never mind. No biggie. Okay? And I was totally with the program until we got to Coney and I sniffed that sea air and the sweet smell of taffy enfolded in that rich, wet aroma of those crinkled and salted potato fries and grilled hot dogs with mustard and relish from Nathan’s, which is when Satan swooped down and grabbed me, then took me to the top of the Parachute Jump, where he sweepingly gestured at the goodies below while at the same time cupping his hand against my ear as he whispered, “All these and lots more do I offer you, Joey! Dump Virago and double your well-deserved pleasure! Didn’t you toil and slave toting bags for old ladies for that dollar and eighty cents that you’ve saved, sometimes pissing in your corduroy knickers from depression at even having to talk to them, to answer their dithering questions while your urinary tract was close to bursting and requiring every bit of concentration on your part to prevent you from soiling? No, Joey, there is no free lunch, none at all, and most especially for Vera Virago. Remember how mockingly she laughed when you fell playing touch tag in the school yard, badly skinning both your knees on the pavement? There was blood, a lot of blood, I recall. You know, I doubted my eyes when I saw—or at least I think I saw—well, on top of your hurt she was flipping you ‘The Bird.’ Look, I shouldn’t have said that. Okay? Just forget it. I mean, who knows what I actually saw. Matter of fact I’ve got an eye exam coming up soon for new reading glasses, so there’s at least a five, maybe ten percent chance I was mistaken. She could even have been signaling someone; you know, someone in her club, perhaps some secret sign of friendship between them. And then who knows what ‘The Bird’ sign means in Albania, Joey, or to the Huaorani tribes of the Amazon. Okay? Let’s not buy trouble. Oh, well, yes, yes, I know; I know her whole pathetic story: how she’s suffered from severe depression and is so deeply and neurotically insecure that if it isn’t taken care of by the time she’s twenty-one she’ll go to bars and then slip herself a date-rape drug. Is that really your concern, Joey? Really? I don’t think