Good King Sauerkraut by Barbara Paul Read Free Book Online

of him. He took a running start and kicked it lightly, managing to aim it straight down the sidewalk. He was able to keep the rock going for a full block before he lost it in the dark. Jill, Jill. He didn’t know her last name and he’d probably never see her again, unless he went looking for her at Benny’s and similar Hi-I’m-so-and-so places around town. He wondered if he should. She probably wouldn’t even speak to him; her determination to be agreeable couldn’t possibly stretch that far. It didn’t occur to King to wonder whether he’d be so concerned about Jill if Teresa had given him her phone number. But still he felt ashamed of himself, a little. Dennis Cox had once accused him of being careless with people; King admitted his abandoning of Jill just might possibly fit into that category. Not a very kingly thing to do .
    By the time he reached home, King’s mind had slid away from these minor but seemingly insoluble problems, to dwell instead on major ones for which solutions could reasonably be presumed to exist. He fell asleep thinking about his design for a driverless vehicle and awoke six and a half hours later feeling as if he’d been doped. When his head was clear he went out to buy a Sunday paper—and found himself a sideline observer at the Pittsburgh Marathon.
    King was vaguely aware that this thing happened every May, but still it took him by surprise. The enthusiasm of the crowd was contagious, so King lingered a while, standing behind the other spectators and peering over their heads. The runners flew down Walnut Street in Shadyside, all sizes and shapes and ages, both sexes. King was fascinated by one runner who didn’t pass by any too quickly; an older man, bald, shirtless, with a salt-and-pepper beard down to his navel. He was laboring. His face and neck were reddish purple, he was covered with sweat, and he was barely jogging, his feet obviously heavy and his strength gone—a coronary in the making if King ever saw one. The guy was killing himself, but he would not quit. And that kind of determination is undoubtedly admired , King thought wonderingly. Insane . A teen-aged girl in the briefest of shorts passed the bearded man easily.
    King stayed until he started to grow thirsty; but back at home he found he was out of beer. He remembered; Russ Panuccio had taken the last one. Into the car, on to Squirrel Hill and Rhoda’s Deli. He picked up a loaf of bread but decided against a jar of sour pickles. Beer.
    â€œHeineken, right?” the girl behind the counter said.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œThought so.”
    King noticed a little smile playing around her mouth. Pleased with herself—probably wants to be complimented . He cleared his throat. “Now how did you happen to remember that?”
    The smile emerged full-blown. “Oh, I notice faces and I pay attention to what people like and, you know, I remember.”
    Now what am I supposed to say—congratulations? “Well, ah.” He forced a smile.
    The girl gave him his change and told him in the sweetest voice imaginable to have a good one.
    So that’s the way the game was played. King grumbled to himself all the way home, knowing that most people would look upon the little scene he’d just acted out as a simple exercise in common courtesy. But he resented having to pretend to be impressed by a countergirl’s memory just to win her good will.
    With an effort he put aside all thoughts of countergirls and suicidal marathon runners and old women in hospitals and young women with no last names. He spent the rest of the day reading technical journals, and eventually his bad mood passed. It never failed; he was always able to find comfort in a world in which the shortest distance between two points was still one straight unambiguous line.
    Gale Fredericks was waiting for him in the laboratory when he got in Monday morning. “I’ve just been talking to Dennis