Brock Clarke - Exley

GUY 1: Never seen him.

GUY 2: Never heard of him.

GUY 3: Never heard of him or seen him.

GUY 4: Never. wait a minute, is he that guy who also takes the newspaper with him into the john? I hate that guy.

GUY 2: What’s wrong with taking the newspaper into the bathroom with you?

GUY 4: It’s disgusting. It’s not even his newspaper. It’s the Crystal’s. It’s for all of us.

GUY 1: Would it be OK if it were his paper, Miss Manners?

GUY 4: There’s still something very troubling about watching a guy walking into a bathroom with a newspaper. Like he’s announcing to everyone, Hey, I’m going to need something to read because this is going to take a while because I’m a disgusting animal .

GUY 3: An animal who can read the newspaper, apparently.

GUY 1: Miss Fucking Manners.

GUY 4: Anyway, kid, I don’t think I’ve ever seen or heard of him.

M.: Are you sure?

GUY 4: Yeah, I’m sure.

M.: Because just now you said you didn’t think you’d ever seen or heard of him. You didn’t think you had. That didn’t sound like you were sure.

GUY 4: (Long pause.) Wait! I just saw him.

M.: What! Where?

GUY 4: Right outside the window. Quick, I think you can catch him if you hurry up. I’m sure you can.

I ran outside. There was no one out there, not even the guy who’d been sitting on the sidewalk and who’d hit Harold. I walked back inside. The guy who’d told me he’d seen Exley wasn’t there anymore. The other three guys were back to reading the newspaper. I told them I didn’t see Exley or anyone else outside. Not even the guy who was sitting on the sidewalk earlier. Was that the guy their friend was talking about?

GUY 2: Go ask him yourself. He’s in the bathroom.

GUY 1: No, kid. That guy isn’t the guy you’re looking for. That guy’s a bum named U.

GUY 2: U. isn’t a bum. He pumped out my girlfriend’s cellar just last week.

GUY 1: At least someone’s pumping out your girlfriend’s cellar.

GUY 2: What’s that supposed to mean?

GUY 1: Nothing.

GUY 2: No, seriously, what’s that supposed to mean?

GUY 1: (Silence.)

GUY 2: No, seriously.

GUY 1: (Silence.)

GUY 2: No, seriously .

GUY 3: Jesus Christ, it means that at least someone is fucking your girlfriend, because you aren’t. In this particular equation, someone pumping out your girlfriend’s cellar equals someone who is not you fucking your girlfriend.

GUY 2: (Long pause.) In the cellar?

GUY 3: Hey, kid, let me see that book again. (Pause.) You know who he does look like?

GUY 1: Who?

GUY 3: That crazy bastard with the birds. The one at the end of Oak Street.

GUY 2: Hey, wait a second.

GUY 3: ( To Guy 2 .) Shut up. ( To me .) I bet that’s the same guy. Just go all the way to the end of Oak Street until you can’t go anymore. That’s where you’ll find him. Tell him V. sent you.

GUY 5: Miller, your parents know you aren’t in school right now?

I turned around, and there was Mr. D., looking down at me. Mr. D. owned and ran the Crystal. He was friends with my dad, and he knew Mother, too. Mr. D. looked stern, like a judge, with his white apron instead of a black robe and a spatula instead of a gavel.

“Hey, Mr. D.,” I said. I took my book back from Guy 3. “I’m going back to school right now.”

“Good,” he said, and lowered his spatula a little. “Hey, where’s your old man been? Haven’t seen him in forever.”

“He’s in the hospital,” I said.

“Jeez,” Mr. D. said. “Is he all right?”

“I think he’s getting better,” I said.

“Good,” Mr. D. said. “I’ll go visit him.”

“He’d like that,” I said. “He’s in the VA hospital.”

Mr. D. frowned and seemed like he was about to say something when Guy 4 came walking up, flapping his hands. He sat down on the stool and said, “Jesus, there’s no paper towels in the john.”

“That’s because everyone just uses the newspaper,” Mr. D. said, pointing at the section the guy had just picked up. They started arguing about that and I turned to leave. When I did, Mr. D. said, “Next time I see you in here, Miller, I’m going to have to tell your mom.” I told him that I understood. But before I walked out the door, I heard one of the guys ask Mr. D., “Who’s that kid’s father?” Mr. D. told him, and the guy said, “You’re kiddin’ me. That crazy bastard was in the army? ”

Knock, Knock

It was after three o’clock by the time I left the Crystal. School was over at quarter of three. I had missed chemistry and Spanish, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it right then. So I decided to go visit my dad.

I didn’t have any trouble finding the VA hospital this time. But something surprising did happen as I walked down the mossy brick walk toward the automatic doors. Someone called my name. I turned around and saw that it was J., the girl from my class. The one with the zipper scar on her cheek. She had her backpack on. I didn’t have mine. I’d left it at school, in my locker. I felt weird without it. It was like I was naked and J. wasn’t. Maybe that’s why, when J. asked what I was doing there, I told her the truth: “I’m here to see my dad.”

“Me, too,” she said.

After that, we didn’t seem to know what to say. On the first day of class, after we’d told Mrs. T. what we’d read over the summer, we were supposed to say something interesting about ourselves. Half of the class, including J., had said that their dads, or mothers, were in Iraq. When it was my turn, I said that my dad was in Iraq, too. “So what division?” L. wanted to know. It was a dumb question. Everyone knew that Fort Drum was the Mountain Division. “Mountain Division,” I said. “So what number?” L. asked. That, I didn’t know, because my dad had written — in his letter where the number should have been. But I knew L. wouldn’t understand that if I tried to explain it to him (“So what do you mean, — ?”). So I just sat there, trying to think of a good number (I couldn’t: this is why I’m in advanced reading but not advanced math), until J., who was sitting next to me, started writing something on her desk. I could hear the dig of pen on wood. I peeked over and saw that she’d written, “Tenth.” “Tenth,” I said. That shut L. up, until it was R.’s turn to talk about himself. R. said his dad was in Afghanistan. He was the only student in the class whose dad was in Afghanistan, not Iraq.

“So,” L. said, “what’s he doing in Afghanistan? ”

“He’s fighting the war,” R. said.

“So,” L. said, “the war is in Iraq.”

“It’s in Afghanistan, too,” R. said. His face was red and he looked like he was so mad he might cry. R. looked to Mrs. T. to see if she would make L. stop. But Mrs. T. believed that students should speak their mine-duhs. That was one of the first things she’d told us. Already, I could tell that L. was going to be her favorite, because he spoke his so often.

“So I don’t think so,” L. said. “I think you’re confused. I think you’re thinking of Iraq. That’s where the war is. I think they make blankets or something in Afghanistan.”

Anyway, I was talking about J., not L. J. was nice. She wasn’t like K. or Mother. But she was nice.

We walked through the sliding glass doors together. The same woman was sitting at her desk, staring at her computer. She looked up when she heard the doors close. She saw me first and squinted. “Your.,” she started to say to me, but then she noticed J. and said, “Hello, J.”