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“You know me,” I said, although of course he didn’t. “Places to go, people to meet. Things to do.”
He smiled. “Well, don’t be a stranger. Or at least not any stranger than you already are.”
I laughed.
“You’re a funny man, Nels,” I said.
And then I stepped away into the between. I stood there for a few moments, watching him.
He got up from the table, returned the ice cream to the freezer and washed out the bowls and utensils we’d used. When he was done, he walked into the hall and picked up a box which he took into the living room, out of my sight.
I could tell that he’d already forgotten me.
“Goodbye, Nels,” I said, though he couldn’t hear me. “Goodbye, Ghost Boy. Goodbye, old lady.” I knew they couldn’t hear me, either.
Then I stepped from the between, out onto the fire escape. I unfolded black wings and flew back to the Rookery, singing loudly all the way.
At least I thought of it as singing.
As I got near Stanton Street, a man waiting for his dog to relieve itself looked up to see me go by.
“Goddamned crows,” he said.
He took a plastic bag out of his pocket and deftly bagged his dog’s poop.
I sang louder, a laughing arpeggio of croaking notes.
Being happy was better than not, I decided. And it was certainly better than scooping up dog poop. If I was ever to write a story the way that Christy did, it would be very short. And I’d only have the one story because after it, I wouldn’t need any more.
It would go like this:
Once upon a time, they all lived happily ever after. The end.
That’s a much better sort of story than the messy ones that make up our lives. At least that’s what I think.
But I wouldn’t want to live in that story, because that would be too boring. I’d rather be caught up in the clutter of living, flying high above the streets and houses, making a joyful noise.
The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories
Neil Gaiman
It was raining when I arrived in L.A., and I felt myself surrounded by a hundred old movies.
There was a limo driver in a black uniform waiting for me at the airport, holding a white sheet of cardboard with my name misspelled neatly upon it.
“I’m taking you straight to your hotel, sir,” said the driver. He seemed vaguely disappointed that I didn’t have any real luggage for him to carry, just a battered overnight bag stuffed with T-shirts, underwear, and socks.
“Is it far?”
He shook his head. “Maybe twenty-five, thirty minutes. You ever been to L.A. before?”
“No.”
“Well, what I always say, L.A. is a thirty-minute town. Wherever you want to go, it’s thirty minutes away. No more.”
He hauled my bag into the boot of the car, which he called the trunk, and opened the door for me to climb into the back.
“So where you from?” he asked, as we headed out of the airport into the slick wet neon-spattered streets.
