The Plant

From John Kenton's diary. March 22, 1981

Had a letter from Carlos today. I laughed until I shrieked. Herb Porter came on the run, wanted to know if I was dying or what. I showed it to him. He read it and only frowned. He wanted to know what I was laughing about-didn't I take this Detweiller fellow seriously?

“Oh, I take him seriously... sort of,” I said.

“Then why in hell are you laughing?”

“I guess I just must be a warped plank in the great floor of the universe,” I said, and then went off into even madder gales of laughter.

Frowning so deeply now that the lines in his face had become crevasses, Herb laid the letter on the corner of my desk and then backed into the doorway, as if whatever I had might be catching. “I don't know why you're so weird lately,” he said, “but I'll give you some good advice anyway. Get yourself some personal protection. And if you need psychiatric help, John—” I just kept laughing-by then I'd worked myself into a semihysterical frenzy. Herb stared at me a moment longer, then slammed the door and walked away. Just as well, really, as I finished by crying.

I expect to speak to Ruth tonight. By exercising all of my willpower I have managed to hold off on calling her, expecting each day that she must call me. Maddening images of her and the odious Toby Anderson cavorting together-the locale which keeps recurring is a hot-tub. So I'll call her. So much for willpower.

If I had a return address for Carlos Detweiller I think I'd drop him a postcard: “Dear Carlos-I know all about covening the powers of Hell. Your Ob'd Servant, Poop-Shit Kenton.”

Why I bother to write all this crud down, or why I keep plowing through the stacks of old unreturned manuscripts in the mailroom next to Riddley's janitorial closet, are both mysteries to me.