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Glory Lane

by Alan Dean Foster


There are certain queer times and occa-sions in this strange mixed affair
we call life when a man takes his whole universe for a vast practical joke.--
Herman Melville, Moby Dick, chapter XCIII


*1*

It was always slow in Albuquerque on Tuesday nights, but tonight was
worse than usual. Man, it was dead, Seeth Ransom fumed. He couldn't even
find a stray cat to kick around. So he was forced to fall back on the old
standby of giving passing motorists the finger and smirking as they
pretended not to notice, speeding up slightly as they hur-ried on past, their
eyes fixed unswervingly to the road ahead. The pleasure this provided was
decidedly muted, but it was better than nothing. At least the world was
compelled to take notice of him.

Still, there was no denying the night was dull enough to bore a turtle.

He checked the watch he wore high up on his forearm so that his friends
wouldn't know he had the slightest interest in what time it was. A little
past nine. He consid-ered returning to the apartment, just giving up on the
night and crashing 'til tomorrow. Trouble was, the day would be more boring
than the night. Besides which, the place was probably full to overflowing by
now. The bed, couch, and kitchen table would be occupied. The Hole filled
up fast. If you showed too late you had your choice of sleeping standing up
or lying down on top of somebody else.

Seeth wasn't into that. He was pumped, full of adrena-line and suppressed
energy and in no mood to close his eyes, even temporarily. Hyperactive, his
high school coun-selors had called him. They'd called him other things as
well. Seeth had responded in kind, with the result that he and his alma
mater had parted company prior to his gradu-ation. That Seethless
ceremony had taken place a year ago. He told himself he wasn't missing
anything. Street life was an education unto itself. Hanging out was an art.
When you needed money you worked the odd job. When food or drink or
the occasional recreational pharmaceutical was required, you shared with
trusted friends.

The only real problem was the boredom—long stretches of nothing to do,
nowhere to go. During such times he occasionally wondered if just maybe
he might have screwed up his life.

No, no chance, he told himself firmly.

He thought about hitching out to Indian Petroglyph Park on the northwest