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hange the past； no matter how you try。
He walks across the bridge； and although the wind is a little cold； he still enjoys the sun on his face and the way it breaks into a million bright splinters on the Charles。 He sings a snatch of 'Here es the Sun；' then reverts to the Pointer Sisters： Yes we cancan； great gosh a'mighty。 Swinging his briefcase in rhythm。 His sandwich is inside。 Egg salad。 Mmm…mmmm； Henry said。 SSDD； Henry said。
Here is the saxophonist； and surprise： he's not on the end of the Mass Ave Bridge but farther up； by the MIT campus； outside one of those funky little Indian restaurants。 He's shivering in the cold； bald； with nicks on his scalp suggesting he wasn't cut out to be a barber。 The way he's playing 'These Foolish Things' suggests he wasn't cut out to be a horn…player； either； and Jonesy wants to tell him to be a carpenter； an actor； a terrorist； anything but a musician。 Instead； Jonesy actually encourages him； not dropping the quarter he previously remembered into the guy's case （it's lined with scuffed purple velvet）； but a whole fistful of change … these foolish things； indeed。 He blames it on the first warm sun after a long cold winter； he blames it on how well things turned out with Defuniak。
The sax…man rolls his eyes to Jonesy； thanking him but still blowing； Jonesy thinks of another joke： What do you call a sax…player with a credit card？ An optimist。
He walks on； swinging his case； not listening to the Jonesy inside； the one who has swum upstream from November like some time…travelling salmon。 'Hey Jonesy； stop。 Just a few seconds should be enough。 Tie your shoe or something。 （No good； he's wearing loafers。 Soon he will be wearing a cast； as well。） That intersection up there is where it happens； the one where the Red Line stops； Mass Ave and Prospect。 There's an old guy ing； a wonked…out history professor in a dark blue Lincoln Town Car and he's going to clean you like a house。'
But it's no good。 No matter how hard he yells； it's no good。 The phone lines are down。 You can't go back； can't kill your own grandfather； can't shoot Lee Harvey Oswald as he kneels at a sixth…floor window of the Texas School Book Depository； congealing fried chicken on a paper plate beside him and his mail…order rifle aimed； can't stop yourself walking across the intersection of Mass Ave and Prospect Street with your briefcase in your hand and your copy of the Boston Phoenix … which you will never read … under your arm。 Sorry； sir； the lines are down somewhere in the Jefferson Tract； it's a real fuckarow up there； your call cannot go through…
And then； oh God； this is new … the message does go through！ As he reaches the corner； as he stands there on the curb； just about to step down into the crosswalk； it does go through！
'What？' he says； and the man who was stopped beside him； the first one to bend over him in a past which now may be blessedly canceled； looks at him suspiciously and says 'I didn't say anything；' as though there might be a third with them。 Jonesy barely hears him because there is a third； there is a voice inside him； one which sounds suspiciously like his own； and it's screaming at him to stay on the curb； to stay out of the street…
Then he hears someone crying。 He looks across to the far side of Prospect and oh God； Duddits is there； Duddits Cavell naked except for his Underoos； and there is brown stuff smeared all around his mouth。 It looks like chocolate； but Jonesy knows better。 It's dogshit； that bastard Richie made him eat it after all； and people over there are walking back and forth regardless； ignoring him； as if Duddits wasn't there。
'Duddits！' Jonesy calls。 'Duddits； hang on； man； I'm ing！'
And he plunges into the street without looking； the passenger inside helpless to do anything but ride along； understanding at last that this was exactly how and why the accident happened … the old man； yes； the old man with early…stage Alzheimer's who had no business behind the wheel of a car in the first place； but that had only been part of it。 The other part； concealed in the blackness surrounding the crash until now； was this： he had seen Duddits and had simply bolted； forgetting to look。
He glimpses something more； as well： some huge pattern； something like a dreamcatcher that binds all the years since they first met Duddits Cavell in 1978； something that binds the future as well。
Sunlight twinkles on a windshield； he sees this in the er of his left eye。 A car ing； and too fast。 The man who was beside him on the curb； old Mr I…Didn't…Say…Anything； cries out： 'Watch it； guy； watch it！' but Jonesy barely hears him。 Because there is a deer on the sidewalk behind Duddits； a fine big buck； almost as big as a man。 Then； just before the Town Car strikes him； Jonesy sees the deer is a man； a man in an orange cap and an orange flagman's vest。 On his shoulder； like a hideous mascot； is a legless weasel…thing with enormous black eyes。 Its tail … or maybe it's a tentacle … is curled around the man's neck。 How in God's name could I have thought he was a deer？ Jonesy thinks； and then the Lincoln strikes him and he is knocked into the street。 He hears a bitter； muffled snap as his hip breaks。
2
There is no darkness； not this time； for better or worse； arc…sodiums have been installed on Memory Lane。 Yet the film is confused； as if the editor took a few too many drinks at lunch and forgot just how the story was supposed to go。 Part of this has to do with the strange way time has been twisted out of shape： he seems to be living in the past； present； and future all at the same time。
This is how we travel； a voice says； and Jonesy realizes it is the voice he heard weeping for Marcy； for a shot。 Once acceleration passes a certain point； all travel bees time travel。 Memory is the basis of every journey。
The man on the corner； old Mr I…Didn't…Say…Anything； bends over him； asks if he's all right； sees that he isn't； then looks up and says； 'Who's got a cell phone？ This guy needs an ambulance。' When he raises his head； Jonesy sees there's a little cut under the guy's chin； old Mr I…Didn't…Say…Anything probably did it that morning without even realizing it。 That's sweet； Jonesy thinks； then the film jumps and here's an old dude in a rusty black topcoat and a fedora hat … call this elderly dickweed old Mr What'd…l…Do。 He's wandering around asking people that。 He says he looked away for a moment and felt a thump … what'd I do？ He says he has never liked a big car what'd I do？ He says he can't remember the name of the insurance pany； but they call themselves the Good Hands People … what'd I do？ There is a stain on the crotch of his trousers； and as Jonesy lies there in the street he can't help feeling a kind of exasperated pity for the old geezer … wishes he could tell him You want to know what you did； take a look at your pants。 You did Number One； Q…E…fuckin…D。
The film jumps again。 Now there are even more people gathered around him。 They look very tall and Jonesy thinks it's like having a coffin's…eye view of a funeral。 That makes him remember a Ray Bradbury story； he thinks it's called 'The Crowd；' where the people who gather at accident sites … always the same ones determine your fate by what they say。 If they stand around you murmuring that it isn't so bad； he's lucky the car swerved at the last second； you'll be okay。 If； on the other hand； the people who make up the crowd start saying things like He looks bad or I don't think he's going to make it； you'll die。 Always the same people。 Always the same empty； avid faces。 The lookie…loos who just have to see the blood and hear the groans of the injured。
In the cluster surrounding him； just behind old Mr I…Didn't…Say…Anything； Jonesy sees Duddits Cavell； now fully dressed and looking okay … no dogshit mustache； in other words。 McCarthy is there； too。 Call him old Mr I…Stand…at…the…Door…and…Knock； Jonesy thinks。 And someone else； as well。 A gray man。 Only he's not a man at all； not really； he's the alien that was standing behind him while Jonesy was at the bathroom door。 Huge black eyes dominate a face which is otherwise almost featureless。 The saggy dewlapping elephant's skin is tighter here； old Mr E