The Wild Things by Dave Eggers Read Free Book Online Page A

musical.
    Max burst out into the cold night and sped down the driveway. He had to think and he could only think while biking or building things, and he wanted to be biking, to think with the blood loudly filling his head.
    He rode one-handed, then no-handed, then with his head slung back, squinting at the emerging stars. He whistled quietly to himself, then louder, then hummed, then sang out loud. It was a quiet night and he wanted to slash it open with his own voice.
    “Aw, shut up, you,” a voice said.
    Max recognized the voice. It was Mr. Beckmann. Max had just passed him and his dog, Achilles.
    Max circled his bike around.
    “
You
shut up, old bones,” Max said.
    Mr. Beckmann laughed out loud. He was an older man, maybe eighty or a hundred, who lived down the road and was often seen walking, slowly and steadily, for hours at a time, through the streets and paths and forests, always with Achilles, a dog easily as big as Max and with an aristocratic bearing. The animal was so perfectly bred and well cared for it looked like a dictionary etching of a German shepard. Achilles knew Max well and was already laying on his side, urging Max to scratch his stomach.
    Max dropped his bike and did so.
    “So Maximilian,” Mr. Beckmann said. “How the hell are you?”
    “Okay I guess,” Max answered. “I got in trouble again.”
    “Oh yeah? What’d you do this time?”
    Mr. Beckmann’s eyes were dangerously alive, punctuated by brows so thick and mischievously arched that he seemed at all times to be plotting a great and dastardly plan.
    Max told him about soaking Claire’s room with the water.
    “What’d you use?” Mr. Beckmann asked. “A bucket?”
    Max nodded.
    “Yeah, I would have used a bucket, too.”
    This is why Max loved Mr. Beckmann: he was an equal. He seemed to have navigated his way through seven or so decades of adulthood without forgetting one moment of his childhood -- what he loved and hated, feared and coveted.
    Max and Mr. Beckmann stood for a long moment, breathing their loud grey breaths into the still night.
    Max had visited Mr. Beckmann’s house a few times, and had walked carefully through, fascinated by his collection of strange old toys and posters. Mr. Beckmann had a thing for King Kong, and had collected various souvenirs and models from the movie’s first incarnation. There were also delicate tin toys, Mickey Mouse and Little Nemo, in glass displays. There were huge books full of paintings and all throughout the house, most of the time, was music, something classical, stringy, and bright.
    The last time Max had been there, Mr. Beckmann had answered the phone and Max had overheard a colorful argument between the old man and one of the street’s new neighbors. This new neighbor apparently was objecting to the run-down barn in Mr. Beckmann’s backyard. It was a barn Max often played in, and where he had stored his wristrocket and M-80s. The man on the phone saw it as an eyesore and was apparently offering to remove it for Mr. Beckmann. Mr. Beckmann did not like the idea so much. “If I hear from you again,” he yelled at the phone, “I’ll hire a crane, pick that barn up, come over to your house, and drop that barn on your head.”
    Max laughed, knowing that would be the end of that particular neighbor’s complaints. Then he and Mr. Beckmann had eaten ice cream sandwiches.

    “So you’re in trouble. So what?” Mr. Beckmann said, his breath visible, cloaking him. “Boys are supposed to get in trouble. Look at you. You’re built for trouble.”
    Max smiled. “Yeah, but Gary said—”
    “What?” Mr. Beckmann interrupted. “Who the hell’s Gary?”
    Max explained who Gary was, or who he thought Gary was. Mr. Beckmann shook his head dismissively.
    “Well I don’t like him already. What kind of name is Gary, anyway? Sounds like a carny. Is he a carny?”
    Max laughed.
    “Gary Schmary,” Mr. Beckmann said. “You want me to sic Achilles on him? He’d swallow Gary Schmary in