Сияние

In the Playground

           Ithadalwaysseemedslightlypervertedtohimtoclipandtortureaplainoldhedgeintosomethingthatitwasn’t.AlongoneofthehighwaysinVermonttherehadbeenahedgebillboardonahighslopeoverlookingtheroad,advertisingsomekindoficecream.Makingnaturepeddleicecream,thatwasjustwrong.Itwasgrotesque.

           (Youweren’thiredtophilosophize,Torrance.)

           Ah,thatwastrue.Sotrue.Heclippedalongtherabbit’sears,brushingasmalllitterofsticksandtwigsoffontothegrass.Thehedge-clipperhummedinthatlowandratherdisgustinglymetallicwaythatallbattery-poweredappliancesseemtohave.Thesunwasbrilliantbutitheldnowarmth,andnowitwasn’tsohardtobelievethatsnowwascoming.

           Workingquickly,knowingthattostopandthinkwhenyouwereatthiskindofataskusuallymeantmakingamistake,Jacktoucheduptherabbit’s"face"(upthiscloseitdidn’tlooklikeafaceatall,butheknewthatatadistanceoftwentypacesorsolightandshadowwouldseemtosuggestone;that,andtheviewer’simagination)andthenzippedtheclippersalongitsbelly.

           Thatdone,heshuttheclippersoff,walkeddowntowardtheplayground,andthenturnedbackabruptlytogetitallatonce,theentirerabbit.Yes,itlookedallright.Well,hewoulddothedognext.

           "Butifitwasmyhotel,"hesaid,"I’dcutthewholedamnbunchofyoudown."Hewould,too.

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