Tours of the Black Clock

8

AFTER SEVERAL WEEKS MARC said to the old man one night, I’m not getting to Samson very quickly this way. “Don’t say it like it’s my fault,” Zeno snapped back, “I’m not stopping you.” Well, the boy said after thinking about it a moment, I don’t have a ticket for the bus. “I’ll give you the money for the ticket,” said Zeno, “you can leave tomorrow. I’m not stopping you.” You don’t have any money, the boy said, those fares don’t add up to anything, how do you get by with charging them four-bits anyway? What kind of business is that? “It’s my business, that’s what kind,” the old man answered, “the fares don’t mean puckey. Pocket money. I get my main cut from Judy on the island, a percentage of her take. I bring her the tourists and she provides a place for them to be brought. Don’t worry about my business.” He pulled a canvas sack from beneath his mattress. He pulled from it some ratty old bills and a lot of loose change. The boy turned away. He built a fire in the stove and lit the gaslamp, not looking at Zeno who stood with the money in his gnarly hands, affronting the boy with it. Marc’s head was light and pounding from the final trip back — the liquor of the passengers and the fumes of the boat’s motor. What about you? he muttered finally, still not looking at Zeno who by this time had dropped the money to his side. “Hell I got along forty years without you, punk,” said Zeno. The two of them sat and had a drink together, and at last the boathouse began to warm though it never lost its dampness. The fire burned down and the boy fed and stoked it again, and when it burned down again, before they slept, Marc said, A couple more days. Then I’m gone. The old man nodded and muttered back, “Sure. You can leave tomorrow if you want.” When Marc was sure Zeno was asleep he added, You fucking cheat at cards anyway. Closing his eyes he heard, “Sure, leave tomorrow. I’m not stopping you.”