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"
How
in
the
name
of
Jesus
can
you
be
?
"
"
There
are
two
things
,
"
I
said
.
"
One
of
them
is
my
shoe
.
"
I
leaned
forward
over
the
table
and
began
talking
.
Mr.
H.
G.
Wells
once
wrote
a
story
about
a
man
who
invented
a
time
machine
,
and
I
have
discovered
that
,
in
the
writing
of
these
memoirs
,
I
have
created
my
own
time
machine
.
Unlike
Wells
's
,
it
can
only
travel
into
the
past
--
back
to
1932
,
as
a
matter
of
fact
,
when
I
was
the
bull-goose
screw
in
E
Block
of
Cold
Mountain
State
Penitentiary
--
but
it
's
eerily
efficient
,
for
all
that
.
Still
,
this
time
machine
reminds
me
of
the
old
Ford
I
had
in
those
days
:
you
could
be
sure
that
it
would
start
eventually
,
but
you
never
knew
if
a
turn
of
the
key
would
be
enough
to
fire
the
motor
,
or
if
you
were
going
to
have
to
get
out
and
crank
until
your
arm
practically
fell
off
.
I
've
had
a
lot
of
easy
starts
since
I
started
telling
the
story
of
John
Coffey
,
but
yesterday
I
had
to
crank
.
I
think
it
was
because
I
'd
gotten
to
Delacroix
's
execution
,
and
part
of
my
mind
did
n't
want
to
have
to
relive
that
.
It
was
a
bad
death
,
a
terrible
death
,
and
it
happened
the
way
it
did
because
of
Percy
Wetmore
,
a
young
man
who
loved
to
comb
his
hair
but
could
n't
stand
to
be
laughed
at
--
not
even
by
a
half
bald
little
Frenchman
who
was
never
going
to
see
another
Christmas
.
As
with
most
dirty
jobs
,
however
,
the
hardest
part
is
just
getting
started
.
It
does
n't
matter
to
an
engine
whether
you
use
the
key
or
have
to
crank
;
once
you
get
it
going
,
it
'll
usually
run
just
as
sweet
either
way
.
That
's
how
it
worked
for
me
yesterday
.
At
first
the
words
came
in
little
bursts
of
phrasing
,
then
in
whole
sentences
,
then
in
a
torrent
.
Writing
is
a
special
and
rather
terrifying
form
of
remembrance
,
I
've
discovered
--
there
is
a
totality
to
it
that
seems
almost
like
rape
.
Perhaps
I
only
feel
that
way
because
I
've
become
a
very
old
man
(
a
thing
that
happened
behind
my
own
back
,
I
sometimes
feel
)
,
but
I
do
n't
think
so
.
I
believe
that
the
combination
of
pencil
and
memory
creates
a
kind
of
practical
magic
,
and
magic
is
dangerous
.
As
a
man
who
knew
John
Coffey
and
saw
what
he
could
do
--
to
mice
and
to
men
--
I
feel
very
qualified
to
say
that
.
Magic
is
dangerous
.
In
any
case
,
I
wrote
all
day
yesterday
,
the
words
simply
flooding
out
of
me
,
the
sunroom
of
this
glorified
old
folks
"
home
gone
,
replaced
by
the
storage
room
at
the
end
of
the
Green
Mile
where
so
many
of
my
problem
children
took
their
last
sit-me-downs
and
the
bottom
of
the
stairs
which
led
to
the
tunnel
under
the
road
.
That
was
where
Dean
and
Harry
and
Brutal
and
I
confronted
Percy
Wetmore
over
Eduard
Delacroix
's
smoking
body
and
made
Percy
renew
his
promise
to
put
in
for
transfer
to
the
Briar
Ridge
state
mental
facility
.
There
are
always
fresh
flowers
in
the
sunroom
,
but
by
noon
yesterday
all
I
could
smell
was
the
noxious
aroma
of
the
dead
man
's
cooked
flesh
.
The
sound
of
the
power
mower
on
the
lawn
down
below
had
been
replaced
by
the
hollow
plink
of
dripping
water
as
it
seeped
slowly
through
the
tunnel
's
curved
roof
.
The
trip
was
on
.
I
had
travelled
back
to
1932
,
in
soul
and
mind
,
if
not
body
.
I
skipped
lunch
,
wrote
until
four
o'clock
or
so
,
and
when
I
finally
put
my
pencil
down
,
my
hand
was
aching
.
I
walked
slowly
down
to
the
end
of
the
second-floor
corridor
.
There
's
a
window
there
that
looks
out
on
the
employee
parking
lot
.
Brad
Dolan
,
the
orderly
who
reminds
me
of
Percy
--
and
the
one
who
is
altogether
too
curious
about
where
I
go
and
what
I
do
on
my
walks
--
drives
an
old
Chevrolet
with
a
bumper
sticker
that
says
I
HAVE
SEEN
GOD
AND
HIS
NAME
IS
NEWT
.
It
was
gone
;
Brad
's
shift
was
over
and
he
'd
taken
himself
off
to
whatever
garden
spot
he
calls
home
.
I
envision
an
Airstream
trailer
with
Hustler
gatefolds
Scotch-taped
to
the
walls
and
Dixie
Beer
cans
in
the
corners
.
