and jerk off as I read. It seems that every site has the same information about the squip (or SQUIP;
capitalization doesn’t matter): Sony is working on it, but nobody knows what it is. It involves tiny computers that you eat. It’s not out and won’t be for a while. That means
bootleggers must have escaped Japan with it and brought it to central New Jersey, where it took root among scotch-drinking high school kids. That isn’t so far-fetched.
Unfortunately, there’s nowhere I can buy a squip. There are no sites that offer it with a little shopping cart next to it. There’s no way to determine if $600 is a fair price for
one. And there’s no guarantee that it’s safe and won’t take over my brain and turn me into a…I dunno, something worse than I am now, there has to be something, a mongoloid
or—
“Jeremy!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Phone!”
I pick up, knowing it’s Michael before my spittle hits the receiver. “Hi.”
“Are you feeling okay?!” Mom calls again. “It’s
one o’clock
!”
“I’m on the
phone
!”
“Can you talk?” Michael asks, testing.
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“Dance was really weird,” I say. “Christine, whatever, uh…do you remember—” I stop.
“Remember what?”
“No. Forget it.” I think about things for a second. I don’t want to give Michael crucial information that’ll help him get his hands on a squip. He does all right with the
Asian girls at Middle Borough; he ends up talking to ones you never noticed—but are actually pretty hot—and he dated one last year for more than a week. He doesn’t need a
mechanical advantage the way I do. Let him find out on his own.
“Um…okay. So what are you doing?”
I’m masturbating still, watching a video, but it’s not like I’m masturbating
to
Michael. I’m multitasking masturbating. “Checking the Web for some
stuff,” I say.
“Cool. What are you up to the rest of today?”
“I want to go down to the bowling alley in New Brunswick, ask around for some people, you know?”
“‘Some people?’”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “I’ve got this project in mind. You wanna go?”
“No.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Chilling out, listening to music.”
“Michael, you do that every weekend.”
“Yeah…” He stews a while. I click the mouse.
“How about you do something different? Come with me down to the bowling alley. It’ll be fun.”
“Okay, see—” Michael has a lot of protests and it takes a while to convince him, but I do. Once we hang up, I finish with the porn and my garbage can and head out of the house
and swing into Michael’s waiting car. I guess I have more influence on my friend than I thought. I look at his profile as we drive off: he should’ve been at the dance. Somebody would
have dug him. If he had a squip, I’m sure, it wouldn’t just let him sit and listen to Weezer all the time. He might need one after I get mine.
It’s 4 P.M. by the time we get to the B. Bowl-Town bowling alley; the place is clogged with matted, shrill children sending balls down lanes whose
gutters have been filled with blue balloons to prevent failure. Even with these giant bowling prophylactics, kids mess up, aiming for the space between pins 7 and 10 and the unprotected back gutter
or ricocheting their balls slowly off the barriers until they kiss the pins for zero points. The mothers, each of whom seems to be helming her own six-year-old birthday party, must then shelter and
comfort the youngsters and explain that bowling is just a game and it doesn’t matter if Timmy Banana has thirty-seven points when you have twelve.
I stand by the candy machine, one foot pressed against the bowling-alley off-white wall. I like this stance; now that I found it at the dance I’m sticking with it. I keep a lookout for
Rich or, even better, the importer from Ghana who had the squips in the first place. Michael is on the other side of the vending machine.
A textbook
capitalization doesn’t matter): Sony is working on it, but nobody knows what it is. It involves tiny computers that you eat. It’s not out and won’t be for a while. That means
bootleggers must have escaped Japan with it and brought it to central New Jersey, where it took root among scotch-drinking high school kids. That isn’t so far-fetched.
Unfortunately, there’s nowhere I can buy a squip. There are no sites that offer it with a little shopping cart next to it. There’s no way to determine if $600 is a fair price for
one. And there’s no guarantee that it’s safe and won’t take over my brain and turn me into a…I dunno, something worse than I am now, there has to be something, a mongoloid
or—
“Jeremy!” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Phone!”
I pick up, knowing it’s Michael before my spittle hits the receiver. “Hi.”
“Are you feeling okay?!” Mom calls again. “It’s
one o’clock
!”
“I’m on the
phone
!”
“Can you talk?” Michael asks, testing.
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“Dance was really weird,” I say. “Christine, whatever, uh…do you remember—” I stop.
“Remember what?”
“No. Forget it.” I think about things for a second. I don’t want to give Michael crucial information that’ll help him get his hands on a squip. He does all right with the
Asian girls at Middle Borough; he ends up talking to ones you never noticed—but are actually pretty hot—and he dated one last year for more than a week. He doesn’t need a
mechanical advantage the way I do. Let him find out on his own.
“Um…okay. So what are you doing?”
I’m masturbating still, watching a video, but it’s not like I’m masturbating
to
Michael. I’m multitasking masturbating. “Checking the Web for some
stuff,” I say.
“Cool. What are you up to the rest of today?”
“I want to go down to the bowling alley in New Brunswick, ask around for some people, you know?”
“‘Some people?’”
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “I’ve got this project in mind. You wanna go?”
“No.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Chilling out, listening to music.”
“Michael, you do that every weekend.”
“Yeah…” He stews a while. I click the mouse.
“How about you do something different? Come with me down to the bowling alley. It’ll be fun.”
“Okay, see—” Michael has a lot of protests and it takes a while to convince him, but I do. Once we hang up, I finish with the porn and my garbage can and head out of the house
and swing into Michael’s waiting car. I guess I have more influence on my friend than I thought. I look at his profile as we drive off: he should’ve been at the dance. Somebody would
have dug him. If he had a squip, I’m sure, it wouldn’t just let him sit and listen to Weezer all the time. He might need one after I get mine.
It’s 4 P.M. by the time we get to the B. Bowl-Town bowling alley; the place is clogged with matted, shrill children sending balls down lanes whose
gutters have been filled with blue balloons to prevent failure. Even with these giant bowling prophylactics, kids mess up, aiming for the space between pins 7 and 10 and the unprotected back gutter
or ricocheting their balls slowly off the barriers until they kiss the pins for zero points. The mothers, each of whom seems to be helming her own six-year-old birthday party, must then shelter and
comfort the youngsters and explain that bowling is just a game and it doesn’t matter if Timmy Banana has thirty-seven points when you have twelve.
I stand by the candy machine, one foot pressed against the bowling-alley off-white wall. I like this stance; now that I found it at the dance I’m sticking with it. I keep a lookout for
Rich or, even better, the importer from Ghana who had the squips in the first place. Michael is on the other side of the vending machine.
A textbook
Similar Books
