is eyes and tried to
imagine telling Wendy。 Guess what； babe？ I lost another job。 This time I had to
go through two thousand miles of Bell Telephone cable to find someone to punch
out； but I managed it。
He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief。 He wanted a
drink。 Hell； he needed one。 There was a cafe just down the street； surely he had
time for a quick beer on his way up to the park； just one to lay the dust 。。。
He clenched his hands together helplessly。
The question recurred： Why had he called Ullman in the first place？ The number
of the Surf…Sand in Lauderdale had been written in a small notebook by the phone
and the CB radio in the office…plumbers' numbers； carpenters； glaziers；
electricians； others。 Jack had copied it onto the matchbook cover shortly after
getting out of bed； the idea of calling Ullman fullblown and gleeful in his
mind。 But to what purpose？ Once； during the drinking phase； Wendy had accused
him of desiring his own destruction but not possessing the necessary moral fiber
to support a full…blown deathwish。 So he manufactured ways in which other people
could do it； lopping a piece at a time off himself and their family。 Could it be
true？ Was be afraid somewhere inside that the Overlook might be just what he
needed to finish his play and generally collect tip his shit and get it
together？ Was he blowing the whistle on himself？ Please God no； don't let it be
that way。 Please。
He closed his eyes and an image immediately arose on the darkened screen of
his inner lids： sticking his hand through that hole in the shingles to pull out
the rotted flashing； the sudden needling sting；