"Adams, Scott - God's Debris v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Scott)

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GOD'S DEBRIS
A Thought Experiment
by Scott Adams

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CHAPTER 1 - THE PACKAGE
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The rain made everything sound different -- the engine of my delivery van, the traffic as it rolled by on a film of fallen clouds, the occasional dull honk. I didn't have a great job, but it wasn't bad either. I knew the city so well that I could lose myself in thought and still do the work, still get paid, still have plenty of time for myself. When you're inside your own head, the travel time between buildings evaporates. It's as if I could vanish from one stop and reappear at the next.

My story begins on a day I delivered to a place I'd never been. That's usually a fun challenge. There's a certain satisfaction when you find a new place without using the map. Rookies used maps.

If you work in the city long enough, it begins to deal with you on a personal level. Streets reveal their moods. Sometimes the signal lights love you. Sometimes they fight you. When you're hunting for a new building, you hope the city is on your side. You have to use a little bit of thinking -- you might call it the process of elimination -- and you need a little bit of instinct, but not too much of either. If you think too hard, you overshoot your target and end up at the Pier of the Tenderloin. If you relax and let the city help, the destination does all the work for you. It was one of those days.

It's amazing how many times you can travel the same route without noticing a particular sign. Then when you're looking for it, there it is. Universe Avenue. I would have sworn it wasn't there a day ago, but I knew it didn't work that way.

It was a scruffy package, barely up to company standards. I calculated the distance from my van to the doorway and decided the packing material could handle the moisture. On behalf of the package and myself, I surrendered to the rain.

This delivery required a signature. Those were the best kind. I could talk to people without any awkward lulls in the conversation. I liked people, but I didn't feel comfortable chatting unless there was a reason. A delivery was a good excuse for some shallow interaction. People were happy to see me and I was never at a loss for words. I'd say, "Sign on this line," and they'd say, "Thank you." We'd exchange some meaningless wishes and I'd be off. That's how it was supposed to work.

I walked up the four steps to the ornate wooden door and pressed the doorbell. A muddled 'bing-bong' filled the interior and leaked out the cracks of the door jam.

Delivery people don't like to leave the little yellow note, a confession of delivery failure. It means a do-over. I liked to do my work once. I liked my tasks to have beginnings and ends. As a rule of thumb, almost any customer can get to the front door in about a minute. But I usually waited two, in case someone was indisposed or having trouble walking. Two minutes is an eternity when you're standing under a doorway on a rainy San Francisco afternoon.

Rookies wore jackets.

Two minutes passed. The company's rules said I couldn't try the doorknob. They were emphatic about that.

Ah, rules.

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CHAPTER 2 - THE OLD MAN
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The oversized knob offered no resistance as it turned on its oiled core. I was no longer surprised to find unlocked doors in the city. Maybe at some subconscious level we don't believe we need protection from our own species.

I figured I would leave the package inside the door and sign the customer's name. I had signed for customers before; no one had complained yet. It was a firing offense, but that only happened if you got caught.

Inside I could see a long, dark hallway with red faux-textured walls lined with large, illuminated paintings. At the end was a half-opened door to a room that hosted a flickering light. Someone was home and should have heard the doorbell. I didn't like the look of it. Occasionally you read about an elderly person who dies alone and no one knows about it for weeks. My mind went there. I stepped inside and closed the door, enjoying the warmth, deciding what to do next.

"Hello!" I said in my professional voice, hoping it sounded non-threatening. I shuffled my way down the hall, noticing that the art looked original. Someone had money. Lots.

The source of the uneven light was a huge stone fireplace. I entered the room, not sure why I was being quiet. Somehow the room was both simple and overwhelming. It was half fire-washed color, half black, brilliantly appointed with antique wooden furniture, elaborate patterned walls, and wood floors. My pupils enlarged to tease out the shadows.

An old man's voice rose from the texture. "I've been expecting you."

I was startled and feeling a bit guilty about letting myself in. It took me a minute to locate the source of the voice. It was as if it came from the room itself. Something moved and I noticed, on the far side of the fireplace, in a wooden rocker, a smallish form in a red plaid blanket, looking like a hastily rolled cigar. His tiny wrinkled hands held the blanket like the button clasps. Two undersized feet in cloth slippers dangled from the wrap.