A Matter of Life and Death or Something by Ben Stephenson Page B

directions I could see in, and by the time I was eighty I’d be covered. All over my arms and legs and everywhere. I would have so many eyes that if I rolled them backwards far enough I could see everything inside all of me. And when I blinked them all it would make a sound like someone jumping up and clacking their shoes together at the heels, and sometimes, obviously, I would actually do that at the same time as I blinked. And my clothes would look like moths had eaten holes through every inch of them, but really it was because I was getting so old that I could see in all directions at once and never miss anything.
    I’d decided to use the most obvious system, which was beginning at the houses closest to my own house, and working my way farther and farther up the street. So, going by this plan, the first house I’d check out would be the house of these people called the Beckhams. There was actually a house before them, but no one lived there ’cause it was for sale, then Finch’s was next, but I wasn’t going to put Finch’s or Victoria’s houses on the list of houses I had to check, obviously, because if Finch’s parents or Victoria’s dad actually read any of Phil they might think I was being a weirdo, and they might call Simon on the phone or something. Then next I would check the house that said “PETERSON” on the mailbox, and then, if I absolutely had to, the hermit’s.
    When I got to the Beckhams’ driveway, I stood on the seam between the old dusty grey pavement of our street and their fresh black tar. I think that they had the only driveway on our street that wasn’t gravel. Maybe it would be less noisy to walk on. I stood there for a while and observed the scene. There were no cars in the yard, the garage was closed, and the lawn was a bit tall.
    â€œMaybe no one is home,” I said out loud by accident.
    I tried to think of the last time I’d actually seen the Beckhams. All I could come up with was a time where I walked along the side of the road and they drove past me and smiled and waved. I felt like that happened often. I tried to think of a time other than those times when I had seen the Beckhams, and I couldn’t. I could barely even picture them, except that I thought Mrs. Beckham had blond hair.
    I started to wobble back and forth on my feet and kick rocks.
    â€œAhh, who cares about Phil,” one of the voices inside my brain said.
    I turned around to leave.
    â€œWait, I do,” the other voice said.
    I turned around again.
    In the cartoon of myself standing almost in the driveway, there was an angel on one of my shoulders and a devil on the other. In the cartoon, I looked at the devil, he smiled and winked, or something, and then I looked at the angel. He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head slowly. I knew that what I should do was I should pick the angel, and walk up to the Beckhams’ and ring the doorbell and try to find out clues about Phil. Because in the cartoon of my life, if I picked the devil, I might have an easier day, but I might also get flattened by a steamroller, or exploded by dynamite, or accordioned by a giant anvil.
    â€œExcuse me?” said someone. Mrs. Beckham was on her doorstep, with the door open behind her.
    I stared at her, trying to think of what to say.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    She did have blond hair. It was straight, a bit longer than most moms’, and looked dry. I couldn’t tell if it was real blond or fake blond. She was wearing a yellow apron that looked like it was too small, tied right overtop of a navy blue business-man suit.
    â€œSorry?” she said.
    â€œYes!” I said again but I didn’t know why.
    â€œYes, what?”
    I tried to do some unboggling of my mind for a moment but it was hard work.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she said, pointing at me.
    â€œHuh?” I thought, it’s me, obviously. I walked slowly up the quiet new