Was he bored? Of course he was, now and then, though not acutely. Anyhow, he was accustomed to the feeling and didn't much mind it; wasn't overly bored by boredom. Depressed? He had his ups and downs, neither of much amplitude; was and had prevailingly been of placid, equable disposition. Lonesome? Not especially, nor reclusive either, just solitary. On any stroll or shopping errand, he would likely exchange cordialities with one or more familiars; if he had no real friends, he had old acquaintances aplenty, some dating back to kindergarten. Happy? Not particularly, but (as afore-established) not unhappy either: more or less content.
And so we find him — one fine mid-May afternoon shortly after the university's spring commencement, when the wholesale exodus of tens of thousands of students leaves the town and campus spookily evacuated until various summer programs kick in — driving his high-mileage chalk-white Toyota Corolla out toward a nearby shopping plaza after lunch, with the aim of picking up a few groceries and maybe a DVD to spectate over the next two evenings, there being nothing listed in the TV Guide of much interest to him. Who can say why, upon reaching the plaza, he canceled his turn signal and drove on past the entrance? Perhaps with the object of replenishing his wine rack first, at the state liquor dispensary a bit farther on? Reaching it, he slowed and resignaled, but once again didn't stop; found himself continuing north another dozen miles through assorted hill and valley villages until the state two-laner T-boned into Interstate 80, which from that point crosses central Pennsylvania, east to New York City and west to Ohio and beyond. On some impulse beyond his articulating, he turned west, set the Corolla's cruise control to (as it happened) approximately the speed matching his age, and, under a fair-weather cumulus-clouded sky, steered through Allegheny hills green with young deciduous leaves, old hemlocks, and newly sprouting farm fields, without wondering (as if on cruise control himself) where he was going or why, or for that matter who it was, exactly, at the wheel.
Not having planned an extended drive, he hadn't topped off the car's fuel tank. Already by exit 22 (Snow Shoe), just a couple of dozen miles along the interstate, its gauge showed barely enough gas remaining to get him back home. He registered that datum, but drove on. He had with him no water bottle or other refreshment, and felt some thirst, but drove on. Not far from where I-80 crosses the winding headwaters of the Susquehanna's West Branch — which loops north and east from there up to Williamsport before commencing its long run south past Harrisburg and down to Chesapeake Bay — in a forested stretch between exits for Clearfield and Du Bois, the Corolla's four-cylinder engine sputtered dry. Fortunately, there was scant traffic just then on that stretch of highway; moreover, he happened to be on a downgrade, with enough momentum to give him ample time to steer out of the traffic lanes without obliging others to slow down or swing out to pass. His foot still uselessly on the accelerator of the stalled engine, he coasted down the wide shoulder until the slope bottomed out and the Corolla rolled to a stop without his having pressed the brake pedal. So as not to endanger vehicles approaching from behind, he activated the hazard flasher, but didn't bother to shift to Park or switch off the ignition. From the roadside woods a lean brown rabbit ran onto the highway shoulder just before him. It paused, sat up on its hind legs, regarded the unmoving vehicle, and scuttled back.
Now I'm in for it, one imagines Phil Blank supposing as he sits there conjuring scenarios of interrogation by the state Highway Patroclass="underline" questions to which he can no more anticipate his response, if any, than he could say just who the "I" is who's "in for it": the creature named by the name on his Commonwealth of Pennsylvania driver's license and the Toyota's registration card, who already now needs to pee, but can't decide whether to exit his car and discreetly wet the ground on its passenger side or simply to stay put and, sooner or later, wet himself. In short, to do nothing — not unlock the car doors or lower its driver-side window or speak or even turn his head when the patrol person or whoever eventually appears. To take no action beyond Taking No Action, and let whatever might happen, happen.
PART THREE: THE THIRD PERSON
Fred "I've Been Told" Story: Question, please?
"Self-Appointed Sidekick" Izzy-the-Teller: Yes?
F. "I.B.T."S.: So what happened next?
"S.-A.S.K."I.-t.-T.: Next? Nothing.
Fred: Whatcha mean, nothing? Something has to happen next! Something always happens next!
Izzy: Nope.
Hitherto Unmentioned Female Third Person [speaking from rear seat of Herocycle: a mid-fortyish, probably once-slender woman, she, bespectacled and bright-serious of expression, clothed in gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and once-white walking shoes, straight black hair cut short in helmet style]: May I clarify? In Real Life, as it's called, something always happens next: the unlikely pants-wetting, the Highway Patrol car, the sister alarmed that her brother's gone missing, various embarrassing and troublesome consequences for poor-fuck Phil — whatever. In Fiction, on the other hand, that's not the case: Phil's story ends when it's finished, and its ending isn't necessarily conterminous in either direction with his imaginable lifespan.
I.: You got that right, ma'am: Next page would be blank, if there were one. Which there isn't.
F.: Much obliged for the fill-in. And who might you be, by the way?
H. U.F.T.P.: Third wheel on this Mythmobile, maybe? Go figure. Question for Teller?
I.: Be my guest — though I've a hunch it's we who're yours.
T.P. [waving off that consideration and tapping sheaf of manuscript pages in left hand]: Two questions, come to think of it. First off, in the lead-in to " — 's Story" you declared, and I quote [finds relevant page in aforementioned sheaf]: "A story that'll serve as Fred's and mine here in Part Two of 'A Story's Story' happens to be that of——…" But I, for one, don't see the connection. Your Phil Blank was never capital-A Anybody: His life and career were just a series of halfhearted attempts to address the teasing imperative of his name, if I may so put it. Pathetic, maybe, but hardly heroic. Fred here, on the contrary — if I may call you that, sir?
E: Shrug.