in Chicago and setting world trends in Los Angeles. In six hundred pages or less.
When Mr. Lansberry left, I said to Mr. Hartley, “Does it ever seem odd to you that Mr. Lansberry should be a used paperback freak? I mean, when everything else in his life is shiny new and perfect?”
Mr. Hartley laughed. “Perhaps it’s his one redeeming feature. The crack where his personality slips through.”
Thoughtfully I straightened science fiction.
“Or maybe,” said Mr. Hartley, “all that expensive stuff is bought on credit. Maybe he’s too poor to buy new paperbacks.”
I entertained myself all afternoon by thinking about the Lansberry family and wondering which of the above was true. What it was like for Tim to be a Lansberry and most of all, what it would be like to date a Lansberry like Tim.
Naturally when I met Mother that night for supper at the Rusted Rudder—my father had a school board meeting and couldn’t join us—who should be with her but Tim.
I blushed all evening long, feeling like a low-life spy who’d been peeking in the windows of Tim’s life. “Who’s minding the store?” I said.
“Jeter. She got bored,” Mother told me. “That woman is so unreliable. Anyway she said she’d like to take an evening now and then so Tim and I gave her one.”
Tim and I, I thought. Now how come it’s my mother who gets to be paired up with Tim?
Tim proceeded to place his dinner order. Steak, baked potato, three vegetables, salad, extra rolls, a double Pepsi, and oh, also, the soup du jour.
“Not very hungry, are you?” said Mother, ordering scallops broiled in butter for herself.
For me the day had been too slow to work up an appetite, and worrying about whether to ask Tim to go on a date with Margaret had killed what little appetite I had. “Just soup and crackers, please,” I said.
“Sunny!” said my mother, upset. “You’ll dry up and blow away if you don’t eat more than that.”
That had been my favorite remark to Tim one of those early summers. I thought I was so cool. “Timothy,” I’d say in this cutting voice. “Dry up and blow away.”
I was awful then, I thought. Tim was right to corner me on his dock on June 1st and tell me to shape up this summer. I really have given him just as hard a time as he’s ever given me. It’s just that the things I did were less splashy.
“What’s the matter?” said Tim. He actually paused in the buttering of his fourth roll to consider my emotional state. What a tribute. “You seem kind of down,” he said.
“Hard day.”
Immediately Tim and mother set about telling enough stories to prove to me that their day had been harder than my day.
During the second story I finished my soup and halfway through the third story I waved to the waitress. “I need a bacon-burger to carry me through the rest of the conversation,” I explained.
My mother smiled happily. Mothers of skinny people are very easily pleased. All you have to do is eat.
Tim launched into a long tale about a woman who wanted to try out each style hammock before buying one. “She fell asleep in the cotton weave style,” said Tim, laughing, “and I forgot about her.”
“It turned out she’d left her entire family waiting in the car with the motor idling,” said mother. “After about an hour, the kids and the husband began to wonder just how long it could take to buy a hammock anyway.”
I choked on my bun, laughing.
Tim drained his double Pepsi and ordered another along with his dessert. We had a long argument about whether strawberry pie or rhubarb pie would be better. Tim felt in order to make a good and fair assessment of the merits of each pie, he should have both.
“You’re really enjoying working at Chair Fair, aren’t you?” I said to Tim.
He attacked the mound of whipped cream on the strawberry pie. “Sure am. I hate to be doing nothing. I can’t sit around. It drives my parents crazy. They’re always telling me to relax and rest and take it easy so
When Mr. Lansberry left, I said to Mr. Hartley, “Does it ever seem odd to you that Mr. Lansberry should be a used paperback freak? I mean, when everything else in his life is shiny new and perfect?”
Mr. Hartley laughed. “Perhaps it’s his one redeeming feature. The crack where his personality slips through.”
Thoughtfully I straightened science fiction.
“Or maybe,” said Mr. Hartley, “all that expensive stuff is bought on credit. Maybe he’s too poor to buy new paperbacks.”
I entertained myself all afternoon by thinking about the Lansberry family and wondering which of the above was true. What it was like for Tim to be a Lansberry and most of all, what it would be like to date a Lansberry like Tim.
Naturally when I met Mother that night for supper at the Rusted Rudder—my father had a school board meeting and couldn’t join us—who should be with her but Tim.
I blushed all evening long, feeling like a low-life spy who’d been peeking in the windows of Tim’s life. “Who’s minding the store?” I said.
“Jeter. She got bored,” Mother told me. “That woman is so unreliable. Anyway she said she’d like to take an evening now and then so Tim and I gave her one.”
Tim and I, I thought. Now how come it’s my mother who gets to be paired up with Tim?
Tim proceeded to place his dinner order. Steak, baked potato, three vegetables, salad, extra rolls, a double Pepsi, and oh, also, the soup du jour.
“Not very hungry, are you?” said Mother, ordering scallops broiled in butter for herself.
For me the day had been too slow to work up an appetite, and worrying about whether to ask Tim to go on a date with Margaret had killed what little appetite I had. “Just soup and crackers, please,” I said.
“Sunny!” said my mother, upset. “You’ll dry up and blow away if you don’t eat more than that.”
That had been my favorite remark to Tim one of those early summers. I thought I was so cool. “Timothy,” I’d say in this cutting voice. “Dry up and blow away.”
I was awful then, I thought. Tim was right to corner me on his dock on June 1st and tell me to shape up this summer. I really have given him just as hard a time as he’s ever given me. It’s just that the things I did were less splashy.
“What’s the matter?” said Tim. He actually paused in the buttering of his fourth roll to consider my emotional state. What a tribute. “You seem kind of down,” he said.
“Hard day.”
Immediately Tim and mother set about telling enough stories to prove to me that their day had been harder than my day.
During the second story I finished my soup and halfway through the third story I waved to the waitress. “I need a bacon-burger to carry me through the rest of the conversation,” I explained.
My mother smiled happily. Mothers of skinny people are very easily pleased. All you have to do is eat.
Tim launched into a long tale about a woman who wanted to try out each style hammock before buying one. “She fell asleep in the cotton weave style,” said Tim, laughing, “and I forgot about her.”
“It turned out she’d left her entire family waiting in the car with the motor idling,” said mother. “After about an hour, the kids and the husband began to wonder just how long it could take to buy a hammock anyway.”
I choked on my bun, laughing.
Tim drained his double Pepsi and ordered another along with his dessert. We had a long argument about whether strawberry pie or rhubarb pie would be better. Tim felt in order to make a good and fair assessment of the merits of each pie, he should have both.
“You’re really enjoying working at Chair Fair, aren’t you?” I said to Tim.
He attacked the mound of whipped cream on the strawberry pie. “Sure am. I hate to be doing nothing. I can’t sit around. It drives my parents crazy. They’re always telling me to relax and rest and take it easy so
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