We’re at a Burger King shoving down french fries and Ron looks up at me, all forlorn. When he does this, like Bambi's eyes in a snowstorm, I always want to cry.
“I’ve done it,” he says. “I’ve taken the job.”
“What job?” I ask.
“I’ve thought about this long and hard and, really, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask again and by now children, thousands of children, have gathered around us.
“Can’t you see,” he says. “It’s fate.”
And, now, all the kids are droning like zombies.
“All of time,” he continues, “every bit of it has been pointing into this moment.”
The droning’s getting higher and higher and they’ve hoisted him——my Ron!!——up on to their shoulders.
“Adieu, mon ami, mon chere ami,” he waves, cavalierly, as the horde, disappears——still shouldering him, My Ron!!——into a bright red cave.
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