Man? The Buddha? All the girls gotta rub the lucky boner before their tests?”
Perry made a disgusted face, and then shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Have you slept with her?”
Perry looked at Craig for a long time, but from a distance, as if he were counting to ten or twenty before speaking.
“No,” he finally said. “Why?”
“Why not?”
This time Perry turned around and kept his eyes on his computer screen for a long time, waiting for something to materialize, gigabyte by gigabyte, on it. Craig gave up and lay back down, stuck the iPod buds back in his ears.
But that night, waking from a dream in the darkness of the dorm room, he remembered something his brother had said years before at the Petrified Forest. They’d gone there with their father, who was speaking at a writers’ conference in California.
They hadn’t set out to go to the Petrified Forest at all, or even known about it, but on their way to Napa Valley, they’d passed the place, along with six or seven signs urging them to turn left, to see the WONDERS OF THE PREHISTORIC PAST! STEP BACK IN TIME! 3 MILLION YEARS! “Hard to say no to that,” their father had said, slowing down, slapping on the blinker.
Craig was fifteen that summer, and he hadn’t wanted to see the Petrified Forest. He’d wanted to get to the hotel where they were staying, to lie down in a dark air-conditioned room, maybe watch MTV, definitely check his text messages, jerk off in the bathroom if his father and brother went out for burgers. But the next thing he knew, they were standing in a gift shop surrounded by shining rocks and plastic dinosaurs, waiting in line to buy tickets, and then they were walking the red, dusty trail into the Petrified Forest.
It was just past noon, and there was an unnerving insect drone taking place somewhere overhead and, at the same time, all around them. The shadow of a bird crossed the path in front of their own shadows, and made Craig jump backward. He was tired from the drive up from San Francisco, and that insect drone was like having your head inside a computer that was perpetually booting up, or like the feeling you had after a blow by a basketball to the ear. It made him think of bad sleep, the kind of nap you wake up from on a summer afternoon, realizing you’re sick. They stopped in front of a plaque nailed to a post beside a fenced-in pit. The plaque explained that the log lying in the pit had been, millions of years before, a towering “Redwood Giant” that had been knocked down and buried in ash by a volcanic eruption.
Big deal.
After three more pits like it, with logs like the first lying at the bottom, Craig said, “I’ve got to find the crapper.”
His father, standing before a plaque, reading closely, waved him away without looking at him. “Go,” he said.
But Scar, who was eleven then and not yet nicknamed Scar, turned with big kid eyes to Craig and said, “Don’t you think this is cool?”
Craig shook his head. Maybe he rolled his eyes. He said, in a voice that he remembered consciously trying to make sound adult, “Looking at logs that have turned to stone doesn’t seem much different to me than looking at logs.”
As he walked away, toward the gift shop and, hopefully, the restrooms, Scar said to his back, “That’s because you always decide what you think about things before you see them.”
Craig’s father chuckled at that and rested his hand on Scar’s head as if the kid had just performed some good trick. It was how Craig knew his father thought Scar was right, and it crossed his mind then that, possibly, the thing Scar had said was something he’d overheard their father say about Craig to their mother, or to one of his writer buddies: That son of mine, his problem is he always decides what he thinks about something before he sees it .
Craig had turned his back to them both and muttered, “Fuck you,” under his breath, and didn’t bother to go back out to the path and find them after the
Perry made a disgusted face, and then shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Have you slept with her?”
Perry looked at Craig for a long time, but from a distance, as if he were counting to ten or twenty before speaking.
“No,” he finally said. “Why?”
“Why not?”
This time Perry turned around and kept his eyes on his computer screen for a long time, waiting for something to materialize, gigabyte by gigabyte, on it. Craig gave up and lay back down, stuck the iPod buds back in his ears.
But that night, waking from a dream in the darkness of the dorm room, he remembered something his brother had said years before at the Petrified Forest. They’d gone there with their father, who was speaking at a writers’ conference in California.
They hadn’t set out to go to the Petrified Forest at all, or even known about it, but on their way to Napa Valley, they’d passed the place, along with six or seven signs urging them to turn left, to see the WONDERS OF THE PREHISTORIC PAST! STEP BACK IN TIME! 3 MILLION YEARS! “Hard to say no to that,” their father had said, slowing down, slapping on the blinker.
Craig was fifteen that summer, and he hadn’t wanted to see the Petrified Forest. He’d wanted to get to the hotel where they were staying, to lie down in a dark air-conditioned room, maybe watch MTV, definitely check his text messages, jerk off in the bathroom if his father and brother went out for burgers. But the next thing he knew, they were standing in a gift shop surrounded by shining rocks and plastic dinosaurs, waiting in line to buy tickets, and then they were walking the red, dusty trail into the Petrified Forest.
It was just past noon, and there was an unnerving insect drone taking place somewhere overhead and, at the same time, all around them. The shadow of a bird crossed the path in front of their own shadows, and made Craig jump backward. He was tired from the drive up from San Francisco, and that insect drone was like having your head inside a computer that was perpetually booting up, or like the feeling you had after a blow by a basketball to the ear. It made him think of bad sleep, the kind of nap you wake up from on a summer afternoon, realizing you’re sick. They stopped in front of a plaque nailed to a post beside a fenced-in pit. The plaque explained that the log lying in the pit had been, millions of years before, a towering “Redwood Giant” that had been knocked down and buried in ash by a volcanic eruption.
Big deal.
After three more pits like it, with logs like the first lying at the bottom, Craig said, “I’ve got to find the crapper.”
His father, standing before a plaque, reading closely, waved him away without looking at him. “Go,” he said.
But Scar, who was eleven then and not yet nicknamed Scar, turned with big kid eyes to Craig and said, “Don’t you think this is cool?”
Craig shook his head. Maybe he rolled his eyes. He said, in a voice that he remembered consciously trying to make sound adult, “Looking at logs that have turned to stone doesn’t seem much different to me than looking at logs.”
As he walked away, toward the gift shop and, hopefully, the restrooms, Scar said to his back, “That’s because you always decide what you think about things before you see them.”
Craig’s father chuckled at that and rested his hand on Scar’s head as if the kid had just performed some good trick. It was how Craig knew his father thought Scar was right, and it crossed his mind then that, possibly, the thing Scar had said was something he’d overheard their father say about Craig to their mother, or to one of his writer buddies: That son of mine, his problem is he always decides what he thinks about something before he sees it .
Craig had turned his back to them both and muttered, “Fuck you,” under his breath, and didn’t bother to go back out to the path and find them after the
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