11/22/63: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

get on an airplane these days. He isn’t even asking me to put my shoes on a conveyor.
    I unclipped my phone from my belt and put it on top of a canned tuna carton. I added my wallet, a little fold of paper money, a dollar fifty or so in change, and my key ring.
    “Keep the keys, they don’t matter.”
    Well, they did to me, but I kept my mouth shut.
    Al reached into his pocket and brought out a sheaf of bills considerably thicker than the one I’d deposited on top of the carton. He held the wad out to me. “Mad money. In case you want to buy a souvenir, or something. Go on and take it.”
    “Why wouldn’t I use my own money for that?” I sounded quite reasonable, I thought. Just as if this crazy conversation made sense.
    “Never mind that now,” he said. “The experience will answermost of your questions better than I could even if I was feeling tip-top, and right now I’m on the absolute other side of the world from tip-top. Take the money.”
    I took the money and thumbed through it. There were ones on top and they looked okay. Then I came to a five, and that looked both okay and not okay. It said SILVER CERTIFICATE above Abe Lincoln’s picture, and to his left there was a big blue 5 . I held it up to the light.
    “It ain’t counterfeit, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Al sounded wearily amused.
    Maybe not—it felt as real as it looked—but there was no bleed-through image.
    “If it’s real, it’s old,” I said.
    “Just put the money in your pocket, Jake.”
    I did.
    “Are you carrying a pocket calculator? Any other electronics?”
    “Nope.”
    “I guess you’re good to go, then. Turn around so you’re looking at the back of the pantry.” Before I could do it, he slapped his forehead and said, “Oh God, where are my brains? I forgot the Yellow Card Man.”
    “The who? The what?”
    “The Yellow Card Man. That’s just what I call him, I don’t know his real name. Here, take this.” He rummaged in his pocket, then handed me a fifty-cent piece. I hadn’t seen one in years. Maybe not since I was a kid.
    I hefted it. “I don’t think you want to give me this. It’s probably valuable.”
    “Of course it’s valuable, it’s worth half a buck.”
    He got coughing, and this time it shook him like a hard wind, but he waved me off when I started toward him. He leaned on the stack of cartons with my stuff on top, spat into the wad of napkins, looked, winced, and then closed his fist around them. His haggard face was now running with sweat.
    “Hot flash, or somethin like it. Damn cancer’s screwing withmy thermostat along with the rest of my shit. About the Yellow Card Man. He’s a wino, and he’s harmless, but he’s not like anyone else. It’s like he
knows
something. I think it’s only a coincidence—because he happens to be plumped down not far from where you’re gonna come out—but I wanted to give you a heads-up about him.”
    “Well you’re not doing a very good job,” I said. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
    “He’s gonna say, ‘I got a yellow card from the greenfront, so gimme a buck because today’s double-money day.’ You got that?”
    “Got it.” The shit kept getting deeper.
    “And he
does
have a yellow card, tucked in the brim of his hat. Probably nothing but a taxi company card or maybe a Red & White coupon he found in the gutter, but his brains are shot on cheap wine and he seems to thinks it’s like Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. So
you
say, ‘I can’t spare a buck but here’s half a rock,’ and you give it to him. Then he may say . . .” Al raised one of his now skeletal fingers. “He
may
say something like, ‘Why are you here’ or ‘Where did you come from.’ He may even say something like, ‘You’re not the same guy.’ I don’t think so, but it’s possible. There’s so much about this I don’t know. Whatever he says, just leave him there by the drying shed—which is where he’s sitting—and go out the