Further Reflections on The End
Had it been worth it? Arnold asked himself. Fighting the current, making it at last to the outskirts of Oneonta? He thought of Mildred. Waiting on that bench at the bus station. Rain dripping off the eaves. Would he ever see her again? Did he even want to? And Eduardo. Arnold laughed to himself. It was a pretty safe bet the man would never leave that trailer. What were the chances of seeing him again? Pretty slim.
Arnold paused, gazing along the trash-littered road. Tomorrow stretched ahead, just another sequence of days. The mirror image of yesterday.
He kept walking.
* * *
Earl frowned and leaned back in his chair. That was either good or it stunk, he had no idea which. I’m too close to it, he thought, then muttered what the hell, leaned forward and typed— THE END
His phone rang.
He didn’t recognize the number, but something about the way it rang insisted.
“Hello?” he said, on guard but curious, his finger poised for the kill.
“What do you mean ‘The End’?” the voice said.
“Who is this?”
“You know. Answer my question.”
“Okay. ‘The End’—the end of the book. The end of a year’s work. And I can’t decide whether to kill myself or get drunk.”
“Kill yourself.”
“Who is this?” Earl demanded.
“Stop playing dumb. It’s Arnold.”
He wasn’t playing dumb—but yes, there was something familiar about the voice. A dim visage flickered in his mind. “Listen,” he said, “we really don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty to talk about,” Arnold pressed. He was worked up.
Earl just felt very tired. “What do you want?”
“I don’t like that bit about tomorrow. What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything—it’s just poetry.”
“Everything just repeats?”
“No, it’s an observation about where you’re standing.”
“Where am I standing?”
“Only you know that.”
“Oh please. How can I know that if I’m waiting for you to write it?”
“How can I write it until you let me know?”
“My God. You’re just words.”
“I know. And this is getting embarrassing.”
“It’s getting worse than that for me. I know where I’m standing. At ‘The End’. And ‘tomorrow’ is just a re-phrasing of ‘yesterday’.”
“Damn, that’s good,” said Earl, and reached for his pen.
“Can you have a little respect and not write that down, please?”
“Look, it’s just a way to end the book, that’s all.”
“So what happens to me?”
“Nothing happens to you. I just gave you a year of my life and a damn good story—what else do you want?”
“I want to know where I go from here.”
“You don’t go anywhere. The book is finished. It’s done.”
“Kind of leaves me hanging, doesn’t it? Will I ever see Mildred again?”
“How would I know?”
“Does the bus ever come?”
“Not in the book.”
“And what about Eduardo?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Who the hell else would I ask? You’re the writer.”
“That’s right. And you’re asking me what happens outside the book. I’m not responsible for that.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re just going to leave him in that trailer?”
“As opposed to what?”
“He said he was seeking eternal life.”
“He gets it. In the story.”
“I think he meant the other kind.”
“What other kind?”
“The kind like you have.”
“Me? Get real. I don’t even survive in my own life. Where’s the ten year old me? Where’s the one that started this book? Where’s any me I’ve ever been? Dead.”
“Write me a sequel.”
“Why? We’ll just end up at the same point.”
“Not if you keep writing.”
“What—forever? It’s not possible. Plus, it wouldn’t change anything. Not to mention, it would be boring as hell.”
“I need more stories.”
“You only get so many. And to be honest, I’m really not interested in sitting here trying to think up new stories for you. I want to write other stories. About other people.”
“The truth comes out. You’re dumping me.”
“If you want to look at it that way.”
“So that’s what I get—one story? The same one over and over? How long’s it going to take for me to get sick of that?”
“We’re all in the same boat. Our ‘The Ends’ are just in different places.”
“Write some sequels.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or don’t want to?”
“Both.”
“Great,” said Arnold. Despair was beginning to enervate his voice.
Earl dodged a stab of guilt. He was tired, and could feel his mental fingers letting go, as the image of Arnold, never exactly crisp, began to dissolve like a leaching photograph.
“That’s what I thought,” Arnold said, his voice decayed to a barely audible peep.
Earl killed the call, and sank wearily in his chair, staring through his window at the same back yard, same trees, shed, bushes, he’d been seeing for twenty-five years.
He had never felt more lonely in his life.
March 1, 2022