King Dork Approximately by Frank Portman Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frank Portman
it’s faith in something. And the idea is appealing: there will be this big explosion, or flood, or computer glitch, after which everything just stops and you no longer know about anything and nothing knows about you; or maybe life would be simply so changed that nothing that went before is worth caring about. It seems like that would be a tremendous relief, and if I believed in it, I’d look forward to it rather than worry about it.
Little Big Tom’s head poked through the door at what seemed like nearly a ninety-degree angle.
“And the weight of the world on his shoulders,” he said, with a little mustache twitch. “You doing okay there, sport?”
I guess I’d been looking pensive, if pensive is the one whereyou’re thoughtful about something and you want to sound important.
“Yes … chief,” I said. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about Y2K.”
Little Big Tom had been squabbling with my mom all morning, according to Amanda’s breathless report, and he was off his game. He had no jaunty commentary to offer concerning Y2K, though I could see on his face evidence that his brain was trying as hard as it could to come up with something. Finally, he gave up and pursed his lips in defeat, dematerializing mournfully. Now I really felt bad, like, seriously, I felt this ridiculous impulse to run after him and hug him, tell him everything would be okay. Not that my strict codes of personal conduct would have permitted anything like such a display. But I resolved to lob him a softball of some kind at the next opportunity. It’s just not fair to spring something weird like Y2K on a guy like Little Big Tom. I’d never seen him give up before, and the spectacle made me conscious of a melancholy void in an area of my chest I hadn’t previously known about. Pretty amazing how many of those there are.
I had just returned from another strange session outside of Linda’s Pancakes on Broadway, sitting on the bus stop bench next to Sam Hellerman, who was once again listening to his tape, making notes, and remaining intensely aloof from Jeans Skirt Girl, except this time she had been wearing actual jeans. Which looked pretty nice, in the way that jeans look nice when worn by females.
She evidently had a daily appointment in the area that ended around one p.m., after which the arrangement seemed to be that she’d wait in front of the 7-Eleven for her mom to pick her up. It was raining, so she had her hood on and the drawstring pulled tight so that there was a little ring of fur almostcompletely encircling her face. That, I had to admit, was pretty fucking cute. Sam Hellerman, on the other hand, was not too smooth-looking, huddled under a big black umbrella with his notepad and headphones and the inscrutable eyes behind his thick, half-fogged glasses.
I had asked Sam Hellerman point-blank why on earth he was stalking this poor girl.
“Not stalking,” he said. “Fieldwork.”
“You do realize, don’t you, Hellerman,” I said, “that if she ever does notice you spying on her she’ll run away screaming and probably call the cops?” I added that he didn’t seem to have fully grasped the meaning of the word “aloof.” It’s not logically possible to remain aloof in any meaningful sense from a person who is unaware that you’re there doing it. “And if she does become aware,” I concluded, with my eyes, “it can only end in your own humiliation and a possible jail term.”
Sam Hellerman didn’t answer. While I was dispensing this sensible advice, he was otherwise engaged, snapping a rapid-fire series of photos of Jeans Skirt Girl with his dad’s little digital camera.
Once again, I had been so distracted by Sam Hellerman’s antics that I’d forgotten to ask about the mysterious letter till I was already halfway home. This was getting out of hand. It was probably nothing at all of consequence, like so many of the other little puzzles that always surround Sam Hellerman like a halo of question
Little Big Tom’s head poked through the door at what seemed like nearly a ninety-degree angle.
“And the weight of the world on his shoulders,” he said, with a little mustache twitch. “You doing okay there, sport?”
I guess I’d been looking pensive, if pensive is the one whereyou’re thoughtful about something and you want to sound important.
“Yes … chief,” I said. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about Y2K.”
Little Big Tom had been squabbling with my mom all morning, according to Amanda’s breathless report, and he was off his game. He had no jaunty commentary to offer concerning Y2K, though I could see on his face evidence that his brain was trying as hard as it could to come up with something. Finally, he gave up and pursed his lips in defeat, dematerializing mournfully. Now I really felt bad, like, seriously, I felt this ridiculous impulse to run after him and hug him, tell him everything would be okay. Not that my strict codes of personal conduct would have permitted anything like such a display. But I resolved to lob him a softball of some kind at the next opportunity. It’s just not fair to spring something weird like Y2K on a guy like Little Big Tom. I’d never seen him give up before, and the spectacle made me conscious of a melancholy void in an area of my chest I hadn’t previously known about. Pretty amazing how many of those there are.
I had just returned from another strange session outside of Linda’s Pancakes on Broadway, sitting on the bus stop bench next to Sam Hellerman, who was once again listening to his tape, making notes, and remaining intensely aloof from Jeans Skirt Girl, except this time she had been wearing actual jeans. Which looked pretty nice, in the way that jeans look nice when worn by females.
She evidently had a daily appointment in the area that ended around one p.m., after which the arrangement seemed to be that she’d wait in front of the 7-Eleven for her mom to pick her up. It was raining, so she had her hood on and the drawstring pulled tight so that there was a little ring of fur almostcompletely encircling her face. That, I had to admit, was pretty fucking cute. Sam Hellerman, on the other hand, was not too smooth-looking, huddled under a big black umbrella with his notepad and headphones and the inscrutable eyes behind his thick, half-fogged glasses.
I had asked Sam Hellerman point-blank why on earth he was stalking this poor girl.
“Not stalking,” he said. “Fieldwork.”
“You do realize, don’t you, Hellerman,” I said, “that if she ever does notice you spying on her she’ll run away screaming and probably call the cops?” I added that he didn’t seem to have fully grasped the meaning of the word “aloof.” It’s not logically possible to remain aloof in any meaningful sense from a person who is unaware that you’re there doing it. “And if she does become aware,” I concluded, with my eyes, “it can only end in your own humiliation and a possible jail term.”
Sam Hellerman didn’t answer. While I was dispensing this sensible advice, he was otherwise engaged, snapping a rapid-fire series of photos of Jeans Skirt Girl with his dad’s little digital camera.
Once again, I had been so distracted by Sam Hellerman’s antics that I’d forgotten to ask about the mysterious letter till I was already halfway home. This was getting out of hand. It was probably nothing at all of consequence, like so many of the other little puzzles that always surround Sam Hellerman like a halo of question