Not a Star and Otherwise Pandemonium by Nick Hornby Read Free Book Online Page B

one arm and small children under another. These people were walking down the steps of a subway station, trying to get underground. The pictures weren’t fuzzy or jerky, though. These people lived in New York City.
     
    I didn’t want to watch it anymore, so I picked up the remote; never in my life have I wanted to see the opening credits of Sabrina so bad. But after a couple of hours of news stuff there was nothing. The TV just stops. Network TV cancelled. I’ve spent most of my time since then trying to see if I can get beyond the static, but I’m not there yet.
     
    Now, all this time, I haven’t spoken to anyone about any of this shit. Not to Mom, not to anyone at school, not to Martha. That’s one thing they get right in stories, even though I didn’t use to think so: You don’t want to talk about spooky stuff. In the stories, there’s always some reason for it, like, I don’t know, the words don’t come out when they try to speak, or the magic thing only works for the guy who’s telling the story, something like that, but the real reason is, it just sounds dumb. When it finally clicked that I could watch NBA games before they happened, then obviously I thought I was going to ask a bunch of guys to come over to watch. But how do you say it? How do you say, I’ve got a video recorder that lets me fast-forward through the whole of TV? You don’t, is the answer, unless you’re a complete jerk. Can you imagine? The only quicker way to get a pounding would be to wear a STA-COOL T-shirt to school. (I just thought of something: If you’re reading this, you might not know about STA-COOL. Because if you’re reading this, it’s way off in the future, after the static, and you might have forgotten about STA-COOL, where you are. Maybe it’s a better world where people only listen to good music, not stupid pussy boy-band shit, because the world understands that life is too short for boy bands. Well, good. I’m glad. We did not die in vain.) And I was going to tell Mom, but not yet, and then when I got to the static…People should be allowed to enjoy their lives, is my view. Sometimes when she gives me a hard time about my clothes or playing my music loud, I want to say something. Like, ‘Don’t stress out, Mom, because in a month or so someone’s going to drop the big one.’ But most of the time I just want her to enjoy her painting, and living in Berkeley. She’s happy here.
     
    When I remembered the guy I bought the machine from, though, I wanted to speak to him. He’d seen the static too; that’s what that conversation in his shop had been all about, except I didn’t know it. He realized why I’d come as soon as I walked in. I didn’t even say anything. He just saw it in my face.
    ‘Oh, man,’ he said after a little while. ‘Oh, man. I never even started my novel.’ Which I couldn’t believe. I mean, Jesus. What else did this guy need to help him understand that time is running out? He’d seen the end of the fucking world on live TV, and he still hadn’t gotten off his stoned ass. Although maybe he’d figured he wasn’t going to find a publisher in time. And he certainly wasn’t going to get too many readers.
    ‘Maybe we’re both crazy,’ I said. ‘Maybe we’re getting it all wrong.’
    ‘You think network TV would stop for any other reason? Like, to encourage us to get more exercise or something?’
    ‘Maybe the thing just stopped working.’
    ‘Yeah, and all those people were going into the subway with their kids because they couldn’t find any childcare. No, we’re fucked, man. I never voted for that bitch, and now she’s killed me. Shit.’
    At least you’ve had a life, I wanted to say. I haven’t done anything yet. And that was when I decided to ask Martha out.
     
    (OK. That was the weird middle. Now I’m going to give you the happy ending: the story of how I got to sleep with the hottest girl in the Little Berkeley Big Band, even though I’m only fifteen, and even