Suckers - Jack Kilborn [45]
“Joy.”
“Do you like comics?”
“They’re okay.”
“You can buy comics.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a guy who wanders around quoting TV shows while he’s giving everybody the finger. He’s been doing it since before I was born. You can watch him if you want.”
“So basically, you’re saying that Chamber sucks.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not that bad. We’ve got a movie theatre, and they’re going to be opening this new place called The Blizzard Room that I think is going to be an ice cream shop.”
“So basically, you’re saying that Chamber sucks.”
“Okay, yeah.”
“There aren’t even any cute girls in school, except for Ms. Peckin.”
“Don’t even joke about that. The whole school will beat you up.”
“Did you know my neighbor is a psycho killer?”
I stopped walking, unsure where this sudden shift in the direction of our conversation had come from. “Huh?”
“He is. I think. He wanders around his living room waving a butcher knife and talking to himself.”
“How do you know this?”
“I saw him through my telescope. I was watching his house hoping that Ms. Peckin lived there.”
“I mean it, stop joking about Ms. Peckin. Even the band geeks will kick your ass.”
“I just thought the whole butcher knife thing was kind of weird, that’s all.”
“Well, yeah. Did you call the police?”
“No. They’d just tell me to stop peeking in people’s windows with a telescope.”
“What does he talk to himself about?”
“I don’t know. I can’t read lips. But he’s done it the past couple of nights. He’s quaint.”
“I’d like to see that,” I said. “I’ve never watched a psycho killer rant before.”
“Well, what are you doing this weekend?” Roger asked.
I shrugged. “Watching TV.”
“Anything good on?”
“Does it matter?”
“If you wanted to come over, we could watch TV and my neighbor.”
“Sure. Sounds like fun.”
“How did your skit go?” asked my dad as I walked into the living room.
“That was last week.”
“Well, how did it go?”
“Pretty good.”
“What was it about again?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right.”
“Hey, can I spend the night at a friend’s house tonight?” I asked.
“Which friend?”
“Roger. He just moved here.”
“Is he a miscreant?”
“No.”
“Did you take out the garbage this morning like you were supposed to?”
I hesitated. “Part of it.”
My father sighed. “You really need to get out of the habit of lying, son. Guilt doesn’t make a very fluffy pillow.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Someday you’ll understand. Yeah, you can spend the night, but do the dishes first.”
I peeked into the kitchen. “There aren’t any dishes.”
“Then clean your room.”
“I haven’t messed it up since mom cleaned it yesterday.”
“Then…I dunno, do something to demonstrate responsibility.”
“If you give me some money, I’ll spend it responsibly.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“I wasn’t. I was offering to demonstrate fiscal responsibility.” I didn’t get that C+ on my economics test without learning a few things.
“You know what, Andrew? You’re going to have smartass kids just like you, and they’re going to drive you to an early grave.”
“Yeah, right.”
“And I’ll be having a big ol’ laugh at you from the early grave that you drove me to. Go on, get out of here.”
“No money, huh?”
“Oh, all right. But don’t tell your mother.”
Roger’s second-floor bedroom consisted of a bed, a dresser, a telescope, and lots of unpacked boxes. We’d spent the evening watching television in a pleasant state of zombie-like vegetation, and now I was unrolling my sleeping bag out onto his bedroom floor.
“See anything?” I asked.
“A few naked women having a pillow fight. Ooooh…good hit! That had to hurt!”
“What about your neighbor?”
“He’s just sitting there, reading a book.”
“What if he looks up and sees you?”
“I’ll scream like a girl and faint.”
“Good plan.”
“Thanks.”
We just hung out in his room for a while, chatting about subjects that were awe-inspiring in their lack of substantive content, until finally—
“Oooh, he’s doing something,” said Roger, adjusting the telescope. “He’s walking around, yep, he’s got the butcher knife…take a look at this!”
I peeked through the telescope. Roger’s neighbor,