The Writer's skin began to crawl.
"And someone answers," Lud continued. "And the fella who answers is... ?"
The Writer gulped. "Me... "
"Right. Since truth is subjecter-tive, and morality ain't constant 'cos it ain't nothin' but a abstraction... who's ta say that couldn't happen?" and then Lud ordered another soda water from the keep.
That's almost impossible, the Writer thought in a creepy rush. What he just said... is like that haiku I wrote on the shade last night when I was drunk...
Now Lud scoffed, pointing up to the TV where more news blathered on about the serial killer. "This up here ain't nothin' but naturalistic evil. It's okay ta reject socially grounded morality when it conflicts with God's laws. But ya have to turn it into somethin' else which follows Kierkegaard's rule. This fella up here— He dang shore didn't do that. If what'cha do don't change yer purpose ta somethin' that serves God, then ya ain't nothin' but a pissant acker-lye'a the devil."
It's unbelievable how deeply this man can COGITATE, the Writer thought. He was even... mildly jealous.
"It's a dang good thing fer men like us ta run inta each other'n talk above the masses, ain't it?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Ain't nothin' more important than findin' yer purpose as defined by God," and the old man pronounced the word defined as "duh-fanned." "Nots many folks do that no more—don't care, none of 'em. Alls they'se care about're these dickerliss rock stars and the next John Truh-volter movie."
"You're absolutely right," the Writer agreed. "Especially when the proof is right there. Truth is subjective, therefore God transcends truth empirically by offering salvation through sequent purpose."
"Um-hmm. And I knows I found my purpose, son. It's by helpin' others—sinners mind ya—find theirs, and—" The old man made a mocking smile. "I say, how long does it take fer these fellas here ta cook a burger ta go? I'll'se be back in a minute, son, and we'se can talk a few minutes more ‘fore I gotta be on my way. See, ya gots ta excuse me, unless I wanna die like Tycho Brahe." The old man smiled through a pause. "Ya know who Tycho Brahe was, son?"
But the Writer was already chuckling. "The famous Danish astronomer and philosopher who refined all of Copernicus' discoveries. Brahe died because he couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough, and his bladder ruptured."
"Good, good. Now where's the pee-pot in this heck-hole?"
"Back there, sir," the Writer pointed.
"But let's me tell ya a joke first," Lud said. "Ready?"
"Ready."
"What'cha reckon Sartre said a second after he up'n died?"
"What?"
"‘Oops. I gone ta Hell!'"
Both men laughed so uproariously that every redneck in the place gaped at them. Then Lud slapped the Writer on the back and loped to the rest room.
I still can hardly believe it. I've just had the most elucidating intellectual conversation in my life... and it was with a redneck in his sixties who looks like Uncle Jed on the Beverly Hillbillies... The Writer ordered another beer, still marveling at the coincidence.
But then there was that other coincidence, too, wasn't there?
The haiku, he thought, that I don't remember writing but I MUST HAVE. When the barkeep wasn't nearby, the Writer whipped out his Sharpie and quickly scribbled on the bar:
You live alone. You
dial your number by mistake
and someone answers.
It was uncanny how Lud used an almost identical abstraction to compare to Kant's Theory of the rejection of causality.
Incredible. A completely explicable coincidence, yes, but still...
Incredible.
The barkeep brought over another beer. "Who was that wacky codger?"
That wacky codger probably understands philosophy better than most professors and theologians. "Just some man passing through."
"He the one who ordered a burger ta go?"
"I believe so."
"Well I'se hope he don't mind a little possum meat mixed with the ground beef."
The Writer was only half-listening. "Uh, possum? Really?"
The barkeep sputtered. "Jeez, fella! I'se just jokin'!"
The Writer feigned a smile. He subconsciously felt for change in his pocket. "Say, is there a pay phone on the premise?"
"Don't rightly know where the premise is, fella. What's that? Some restaurant in Pulaski?"
The Writer sighed. "Is there a pay phone here, sir?"
"Oh, shore." He pointed. "Right out back. If'n ya see Cora, tell her the ice in her drink's meltin'." The barkeep astonishingly pronounced the word ice as "ass."
"I will," the Writer agreed and headed for the back door.
Why not? he asked himself. He knew it was stupid but... so what? He believed in portents, or at least he liked to think so...
Or was it just more self-absorbed bullshit?
Nightsounds throbbed out back. The only vehicle parked in the narrow access was a beat-to-holy-hell red pickup truck with a U-Haul on the back. And beyond that? A fathomless forest.
His fingers poised before the payphone just before they would drop in change. Someone had scratched into the chrome plate over the coinbox: THE BIGHEAD WAS HERE. He'd seen that a lot lately.
The coins fell and he dialed the number to his room back at the Gilman House.
"Hello?"
It was a peppy woman's voice.
"Uh... Is this room Six?"
"Naw, it's room Three." A pause. "Hey! I reck-a-nize yer voice! Yer the Writer, ain't'cha?"
Dimwit! I dialed the wrong number! "Uh... yes, actually... "
"This is Nancy! Haa!"
"Hi, Nancy," he greeted, trying not to groan. "I apologize for the intrusion. I seemed to have dialed incorrectly."
"Aw, that's okay. I'se always like talkin' ta you. Somethin' 'bout yer citified voice... " A giggle. "Gits me all runnin' with honey... "
The Writer sighed. But it would be rude to just hang up. "So... How has your night been?"
"Suckin' dicks'n takin' no names, as my grandma used ta say. I'se in between jobs right now. But—kin you believe it? Coupla hours ago? A fella from Waynesville paid me thirty dollars ta give him a enema... . And earlier another fella had me stick a Ken Doll in his butt whiles I blowed him—and he even brought the doll hisself! Lots'a fellas inta havin' stuff done ta their rears, I'll'se tell ya. But they all say they's afraid to ask their wives to do it 'cos they might think 'em queer."
The Writer was speechless.
"Tonight I had me my reg-lar foot guy 'bout seven but he's gone, so's I'se just sittin' ‘round till my next appointment. Got me a four-top at midnight—some real randy fellas—lawyers," but, lo, she'd pronounced the word lawyers as "lah-yuhs." "They'se from Pulaski'n they comes ta see me ever week 'cos I give 'em some good butt-play. They'se rich; they'se pay fifty apiece and ain't none of 'em comes much—just li'l dribbles mostly, not like some'a these guys who come so much it's like someone stompin' on a large-size tube'a toothpaste."