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

"I just deliver the packages," I said. "My job is to bring them to you. It's your package."

"No, it's yours."

"Uhm, okay," I said, planning my exit strategy. I figured I could leave the package in the hallway on the way out. The old man's caretaker would find it.

"What's in the package?" I asked. I hoped to get past an awkward moment.

"It's the answer to your question."

"I wasn't expecting any answers."

"I understand," said the old man.

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't.

He continued, "Let me ask you a simple question: did you deliver the package or did the package deliver you?"

By then I was a little annoyed with his cleverness, but admittedly engaged. I didn't know the old man's situation, but he wasn't as feeble-minded as I first thought. I glanced at my watch. Almost lunchtime. I decided to see where this was heading.

"I delivered the package," I answered. That seemed obvious enough.

"If the package had no address, would you have delivered it here?"

I said no.

"Then you would agree that delivering the package required the participation of the package. The package told you where to go."

"I suppose that's true, in a way. But it's the least important part of the delivery. I did the driving and lifting and moving. That's the important part."

"How can one part be more important if each part is completely necessary?" he asked.

"Look," I said, "I'm holding the package and I'm walking with it. That's delivering. I'm delivering the package. That's what I do. I'm a package-delivery guy."

"That's one way to look at it. Another way is that both you and the package got here at the same time. And that both of you were necessary. I say the package delivered you."

There was a twisted logic to that interpretation, but I wasn't willing to give in. "The difference is intention. If I leave this package here and go on my way, I think that settles the question of who delivered who."

"Perhaps it would," he said as he turned toward the warmth. "Would you mind throwing another log on the fire?"

I picked out a big one. The retiring embers celebrated its arrival. I had the brief impression that the log was glad to help, to do its part keeping the old man warm. It was a silly thought. I brushed off my hands and turned to leave.

"That chair is yours," he said, gesturing to a wooden rocker next to his. I hadn't noticed the second chair.

The old man's face revealed a life of useful endeavor. I had a sense that he deserved companionship and I was happy to give some. My other choice involved a bag lunch and the back of my truck. Maybe there wasn't any choice at all.

I settled into the rocking chair, letting its rhythm unwind me. It was profoundly relaxing. The room seemed more vivid now and vibrated with the personality of its master. The furniture was obviously designed for comfort. Everything in the room was made of stone or wood or plant, mostly autumn colors. It was as if the room had sprung directly from the earth into the middle of San Francisco.

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