"Jerry Davis - Scuba (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

Jack closed his office door behind him, sat in solitude at
his desk with his coffee. He was going to have to start seeing the
psychologist again, he could feel the panic coming on. Deep
breathing and meditation weren't enough anymore; he was out of
control. The sensations of sinking and drowning were coming back.
He sat and stared out the window, fighting it.
It was ghosts, he knew. Real ghosts. Ghosts were the cause of
his problems.
Jack knew there was such a thing as ghosts. He could prove
it, he had physical evidence in his wallet. The money in his
wallet, the money he and his wife spent on groceries, it was ghost
money. It was money that wasn't really there.
His wife Peggy, Miss Cameron Cove of 1992, didn't understand.
She saw money in the account, she saw a deposit that was his
paycheck, and she thought they had money and so she would spend
it. She couldn't understand that it was money that was already
spent, already gone. She spent more. He spent more, because he had
no choice; they must continue living. Now checks were bouncing,
bills were going unpaid for months, and still he kept slipping
behind. It was out of control.
Yesterday a nice young woman came into his office and asked
if he were Jack Buchman. He admitted he was --- he felt no reason
to hide anything from her, he took her to be one of his wife's
friends --- and the woman handed him an envelope and rushed out of
his office as if it were about to explode. It was a summons, he
was being sued. His car payments were behind and the finance
company had lost its patience. It would probably be repossessed
any day now.
Jack had an attack right after the woman had left. He felt he


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couldn't breathe, like he was literally drowning. He came to his
senses sometime later, found himself on the floor behind his desk.
He had passed out.
It was $60 to see the psychologist. Cash, up front. His
psychologist knew why Jack was having problems and didn't intend
on become one of them (he said). Jack figured he could be telling
the truth, but really he believed that the $60 was more important
to the psychologist than Jack's mental stability.

#

Outside his office window it was as murky as Cameron Reef.
Dirty rain poured down on gray concrete leaving gray streaks on
windows, dissolved traces of the building itself. The rain ate
away at the stone, at the pavement; it ate away at Jack's car,
seven months old and already the paint was faded, oxidized from