Kyle standing behind me. He had strong opinions
on the weather, evidently. We looked out at the clouds together for a
while.
“You okay?” I asked eventually.
He nodded. Could be my imagination, but he actually looked a
little older than he had the day before, albeit somewhat wired. He
glanced around, and spoke more quietly.
“Working on closing out the . . . you know,” he said. “And then,
well, I heard what you said. And Becki has sure as hell told me the
same thing.” He looked down. “Thanks, by the way. I didn’t say that
last night, and I should of.”
“You’d had a bad day,” I said.
It was quiet for a while, but I knew he had something else to say.
Eventually he got to it.
“So how come you know how to do . . . that stuff?”
“Didn’t do anything. Just talked to a couple guys.”
“Yeah, right. ‘Talked’ to them.”
48 Michael Marshall
“That’s how I remember it.”
“But you didn’t even know what they were going to be like. You
just walked right in and let rip.”
“I’d asked what your impression of them was.”
“But I could have fucked up. Got it wrong. It’s been known to
happen, right?”
“It all turned out fi ne, Kyle.”
“But—”
“What does Becki think about this?”
“She thinks you helped us out, and we should leave it at that and
go on like it never happened.”
“You could do worse than listen to Becki, on this and pretty much
everything else. She’s a good person to have in your life. You’re a
lucky guy.”
“Yeah,” he said wearily. “I know that.”
“Of course, being lucky can sometimes be a total pain in the ass.
It’s one of life’s major trade-offs.”
He thought about this, smiled, and drifted back toward the oven.
Half an hour later a cheerful English couple rolled up, got bounced
by Ted on account of being falling-down drunk, and that was pretty
much it for the night. We shut up early, a little after nine o’clock.
I shared a joint with Kyle on deck as he waited for Becki, and then
I started for home.
I got home bare minutes before all the water in creation started drop-
ping out of the sky. I rolled the canopy down over the deck and took
a beer and a cigarette out to watch it coming down, listening to wood
and canvas taking it like a barrage of incoming small arms fi re. But I
knew I was just killing time.
I went indoors when I fi nished the beer. As I opened the laptop I
realized it was possible this might be the night when I would be glad
to only receive messages from shysters and pill pushers, leavened with
B A D T H I N G S 49
the revolving aftereffects of viruses unleashed on the world by kids
who didn’t realize how frustrated they were at not being able to make
genuine contact with the world, in the shape of a proper kiss with a
real live girl.
I hit the key combination, and waited.
They were there, these e-mail shadows of the void, with their
usual empty offers and demands.
But that wasn’t all.
C H A P T E R 7
The message was short.
If I don t answer please leave a message. We need to talk.
Ellen Robertson
And there was a phone number.
I was thrown by this, and stared at the digits as if they were a
door marked danger. An e-mail address says that if you type some-
thing to this person, they will (barring server crash, overzealous
spam fi lters, or random strangeness) get it pretty soon. At some
undetermined point in the future they will read it, and at a time
subsequent to that, they may reply. It is time and chance-buffered
communication. A phone number is different. It’s old school. If you
call a phone number there’s a real chance you’re suddenly going to
be talking to a real person, in real time.
The e-mail had been sent at 7:12. The clock on the laptop said it
was now 10:24. Was that too late to call? Did I care? If this person
was determined to throw a hand grenade into my life, did she have
the right to choose the terms of my reaction? The digits
on the weather, evidently. We looked out at the clouds together for a
while.
“You okay?” I asked eventually.
He nodded. Could be my imagination, but he actually looked a
little older than he had the day before, albeit somewhat wired. He
glanced around, and spoke more quietly.
“Working on closing out the . . . you know,” he said. “And then,
well, I heard what you said. And Becki has sure as hell told me the
same thing.” He looked down. “Thanks, by the way. I didn’t say that
last night, and I should of.”
“You’d had a bad day,” I said.
It was quiet for a while, but I knew he had something else to say.
Eventually he got to it.
“So how come you know how to do . . . that stuff?”
“Didn’t do anything. Just talked to a couple guys.”
“Yeah, right. ‘Talked’ to them.”
48 Michael Marshall
“That’s how I remember it.”
“But you didn’t even know what they were going to be like. You
just walked right in and let rip.”
“I’d asked what your impression of them was.”
“But I could have fucked up. Got it wrong. It’s been known to
happen, right?”
“It all turned out fi ne, Kyle.”
“But—”
“What does Becki think about this?”
“She thinks you helped us out, and we should leave it at that and
go on like it never happened.”
“You could do worse than listen to Becki, on this and pretty much
everything else. She’s a good person to have in your life. You’re a
lucky guy.”
“Yeah,” he said wearily. “I know that.”
“Of course, being lucky can sometimes be a total pain in the ass.
It’s one of life’s major trade-offs.”
He thought about this, smiled, and drifted back toward the oven.
Half an hour later a cheerful English couple rolled up, got bounced
by Ted on account of being falling-down drunk, and that was pretty
much it for the night. We shut up early, a little after nine o’clock.
I shared a joint with Kyle on deck as he waited for Becki, and then
I started for home.
I got home bare minutes before all the water in creation started drop-
ping out of the sky. I rolled the canopy down over the deck and took
a beer and a cigarette out to watch it coming down, listening to wood
and canvas taking it like a barrage of incoming small arms fi re. But I
knew I was just killing time.
I went indoors when I fi nished the beer. As I opened the laptop I
realized it was possible this might be the night when I would be glad
to only receive messages from shysters and pill pushers, leavened with
B A D T H I N G S 49
the revolving aftereffects of viruses unleashed on the world by kids
who didn’t realize how frustrated they were at not being able to make
genuine contact with the world, in the shape of a proper kiss with a
real live girl.
I hit the key combination, and waited.
They were there, these e-mail shadows of the void, with their
usual empty offers and demands.
But that wasn’t all.
C H A P T E R 7
The message was short.
If I don t answer please leave a message. We need to talk.
Ellen Robertson
And there was a phone number.
I was thrown by this, and stared at the digits as if they were a
door marked danger. An e-mail address says that if you type some-
thing to this person, they will (barring server crash, overzealous
spam fi lters, or random strangeness) get it pretty soon. At some
undetermined point in the future they will read it, and at a time
subsequent to that, they may reply. It is time and chance-buffered
communication. A phone number is different. It’s old school. If you
call a phone number there’s a real chance you’re suddenly going to
be talking to a real person, in real time.
The e-mail had been sent at 7:12. The clock on the laptop said it
was now 10:24. Was that too late to call? Did I care? If this person
was determined to throw a hand grenade into my life, did she have
the right to choose the terms of my reaction? The digits
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