The Light at the End by John Skipp, Craig Spector Page A
Authors: John Skipp, Craig Spector
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been the C.I.A.
The big question in his mind was beginning to be what difference does it make? If someone got Rudy, it doesn’t really matter who it was. Does it?
In truth, he didn’t really have any evidence that Rudy was on the train at all, just a gut feeling that got harder and harder to hang on to as time dragged by. By 2:45, Stephen was more than half convinced that he’d been making a complete arse out of himself… that Rudy was out somewhere, sleeping it off, and just not bothering to call.
Which led to the next question: why, exactly, should I care? Why should I break my neck looking for someone who wakes me up in the middle of the night, says he’ll be right over, and then doesn’t so much as call for two days?
By 3:15, Stephen had decided that Josalyn was right, and he was wrong: Rudy was a pig. He had no respect for anybody else. He was completely selfish, completely wrapped up in his own cynical world. He treated other people… other artists , even… like trash, and he had a ridiculously inflated sense of his own importance. An ego as big as a Buick. And he wasn’t all that great, really, when you came right down to it.
Stephen felt extremely guilty, then. He felt like an idiot for letting Rudy jerk him around like that, and he felt even worse about jumping all over Josalyn. She was a nice enough girl, and she certainly wasn’t stupid: she’d seen through Rudy before he had.
And so it was that, at roughly 3:30, Stephen decided to call her up and apologize. It won’t be pleasant , he told himself, but I really have to do it. It’s the least I can do, considering how I’ve behaved.
He started pacing around the apartment, trying to figure out how to approach it. Should he just say I’m sorry and forget about it? Should he try to joke around with her, stay within her good graces if it wasn’t already too late? And what if she wasn’t willing to talk with him? Could he blame her? Not really.
By 3:40, he’d given up on the idea. It would probably just blow over, and the situation was already awkward. Why make it worse? He spent another ten minutes, just trying to assure himself that he’d made the right decision.
Then he tried to think of something to do.
He went downstairs and checked the mailbox. His weekly check from Mom and Dad was there. As an unemployed art school student (who needed lots of time to pursue his main interest, which was writing), it seemed only right that they should cover his rent, tuition, and all other expenses. This will come in handy , he thought. I’m down to thirty bucks . Then he went back upstairs.
Half an hour later, after another cup of instant, he decided that writing might help him work off some of his nervous energy. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to write about. There were a couple of stories kicking around in his head, but he didn’t quite know where to start with any of them.
He tried to come up with something new, but it went nowhere. He threw out the sheet and put in a new one. He stared at it for a long long time.
When 5:00 rolled around, Stephen put on his jacket and headed for the store. He decided that a nice long walk might do him some good, help him clear his mind for this story he was trying to write, help him to relax. He wanted desperately to be a writer… a great writer… but he just couldn’t seem to concentrate. Too many distractions. He made a private vow to let nothing disturb him until the story was complete.
By 5:15, he was calling Rudy’s house from a Bleecker Street pay phone. Nobody answered. He decided to get a Coke or something and try again later. Just knowing that Rudy was alright would certainly ease his mind.
By 9:30, Stephen had decided that Rudy probably wouldn’t be out on the street tonight. He headed home to do some serious writing: a great new idea came to him at McSorley’s, swigging ale… actually, just some insights into collegiate behavior. Their sexual problems. How hard it all was. That
The big question in his mind was beginning to be what difference does it make? If someone got Rudy, it doesn’t really matter who it was. Does it?
In truth, he didn’t really have any evidence that Rudy was on the train at all, just a gut feeling that got harder and harder to hang on to as time dragged by. By 2:45, Stephen was more than half convinced that he’d been making a complete arse out of himself… that Rudy was out somewhere, sleeping it off, and just not bothering to call.
Which led to the next question: why, exactly, should I care? Why should I break my neck looking for someone who wakes me up in the middle of the night, says he’ll be right over, and then doesn’t so much as call for two days?
By 3:15, Stephen had decided that Josalyn was right, and he was wrong: Rudy was a pig. He had no respect for anybody else. He was completely selfish, completely wrapped up in his own cynical world. He treated other people… other artists , even… like trash, and he had a ridiculously inflated sense of his own importance. An ego as big as a Buick. And he wasn’t all that great, really, when you came right down to it.
Stephen felt extremely guilty, then. He felt like an idiot for letting Rudy jerk him around like that, and he felt even worse about jumping all over Josalyn. She was a nice enough girl, and she certainly wasn’t stupid: she’d seen through Rudy before he had.
And so it was that, at roughly 3:30, Stephen decided to call her up and apologize. It won’t be pleasant , he told himself, but I really have to do it. It’s the least I can do, considering how I’ve behaved.
He started pacing around the apartment, trying to figure out how to approach it. Should he just say I’m sorry and forget about it? Should he try to joke around with her, stay within her good graces if it wasn’t already too late? And what if she wasn’t willing to talk with him? Could he blame her? Not really.
By 3:40, he’d given up on the idea. It would probably just blow over, and the situation was already awkward. Why make it worse? He spent another ten minutes, just trying to assure himself that he’d made the right decision.
Then he tried to think of something to do.
He went downstairs and checked the mailbox. His weekly check from Mom and Dad was there. As an unemployed art school student (who needed lots of time to pursue his main interest, which was writing), it seemed only right that they should cover his rent, tuition, and all other expenses. This will come in handy , he thought. I’m down to thirty bucks . Then he went back upstairs.
Half an hour later, after another cup of instant, he decided that writing might help him work off some of his nervous energy. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to write about. There were a couple of stories kicking around in his head, but he didn’t quite know where to start with any of them.
He tried to come up with something new, but it went nowhere. He threw out the sheet and put in a new one. He stared at it for a long long time.
When 5:00 rolled around, Stephen put on his jacket and headed for the store. He decided that a nice long walk might do him some good, help him clear his mind for this story he was trying to write, help him to relax. He wanted desperately to be a writer… a great writer… but he just couldn’t seem to concentrate. Too many distractions. He made a private vow to let nothing disturb him until the story was complete.
By 5:15, he was calling Rudy’s house from a Bleecker Street pay phone. Nobody answered. He decided to get a Coke or something and try again later. Just knowing that Rudy was alright would certainly ease his mind.
By 9:30, Stephen had decided that Rudy probably wouldn’t be out on the street tonight. He headed home to do some serious writing: a great new idea came to him at McSorley’s, swigging ale… actually, just some insights into collegiate behavior. Their sexual problems. How hard it all was. That
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