7 Steps to Midnight Read Free

dull.”
    “How come you have to work so late then?” Veering prodded.
    Chris glanced at him. The old man’s question grated on him.
None of your fucking business
, he thought.
    He repressed the irritation. Hell, the old guy had been stuck out here for hours. He just wanted a little company, that was all.
    “Just bad luck,” he said.
    “Statistics,” Veering said. “A lot of details.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You a cost analyst?” the old man asked.
    “Something like that.”
    “Defense program?”
    Chris had had enough. “Where you off to?” He changed the subject.
    “Off to nowhere,” Veering said. “Just wandering.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “You wandering too?” the old man asked.
    Chris glanced at him. What the hell did
that
mean? Maybe the old man
was
a little off.
    “Modern man,” Veering said.
    Oh, Christ, Chris thought. A baseball-capped philosopher.
This has really been my night.
    “Have any personal life?” the old man asked.
    Chris felt like saying
What the hell is that to you, you old fart?
But he didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. He was just being garrulous, that’s all. “I work a lot,” he said.
    “Well, there’s the shame.” The old man nodded. “There’s the pity.”
    “Hmm,” Chris said.
I sound like F. Crain now.
The thought amused him.
    “Modern man, so totally absorbed by the mass of details in his existence that he has no time for a personal life.”
    Jesus Christ, I picked up PBS Al
, Chris thought. He didn’t have Muscatel in his bag, he had
The Story of Philosophy
by Will Durant. He’d almost prefer a hatchet. Maybe if he didn’t respond, the old man would let it go.
    The old man didn’t.
    “Is your life meaningful?” he asked. “Do you have time for anything of consequence?”
    Jesus, I am tired
, Chris thought.
Why the hell did I pick him up?
    “That’s the problem, you see,” Veering said. “How to differentiate.”
    What the fuck is he talking about now? Chris wondered.
    “
Reality
,” the old man said. “How do you differentiate reality?”
    From what? Chris thought. He sighed, politely quiet. Oh, well, he’d be at the Village soon. Then he could dump Baruch Spinoza and go to bed.
    “Is your life real or unreal?” the old man continued.
    Chris didn’t try to hide his sigh this time. “Real, I assume.”
    “You
assume
,” the old man responded quickly.
    Jesus God, he’s going to start a seminar, Chris thought.
Give me a break.
    “You
assume
your life is real but how do you
know
it is?”
    Oh, God, a shower, a read and a sleep, Chris thought. Maybe he should dump the old guy now, tell him he had to take a left turn into the desert. “I
don’t
know,” he muttered, unable to disguise the edge of irritation he felt.
    “There’s a crying shame,” the old man said.
    Give me a break!
howled Chris’s mind.
    “An intelligent young man like you not knowing what’s real and what isn’t?” Veering pressed.
    “I s’pose,” Chris said. How far to the Village? Couldn’t be more than nine, ten miles.
    “Do you believe your life is organized?” the old man asked.
    “Organized?” Chris glanced at him impatiently.
    “Everything in place. All the details settled. No surprises.”
    Relax, Chris told himself. Let him blather. “Well, sure, I know what to expect each day,” he said. A little sleep, a lot of work and no solution to the project, his mind completed.
    Veering wouldn’t give it up. “But do you know what
is
and what
isn’t
in your life?” he asked.
    You’re getting on my nerves, you old bastard
, Chris thought.
I pick you up out of the goodness of my heart because you look decrepit and alone in the darkness on a desert highway. And what do you do? Attack me with your Mickey Mouse philosophy.
    “Well?” demanded Veering.
    Be patient, Chris ordered himself. He’s old. Let him think he’s talking sense. “Well,” he said, “to the extent that anyone knows what is or isn’t real in their lives—”
    “Ah!” the