Read Online Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova - Free Book Online

the left. He’s been repeating the mantra “Odd men are never right” amid a sea of crisscrossing bodies ahead of him. But now that it’s his turn, his right foot jumps out, as if he were an impulsive dog on a leash sniffing out the irresistible aroma of a squirrel over there , and it jerks Joe to the right. This move fucks up the line of officers behind him, as they all copy Joe’s mistake and line up behind him like misplaced dominoes. It also fucks up the progress of the remaining guys in column three, who correctly cut left only to collide with a wall of bodies who weren’t supposed to be there.
    â€œWell, that was ugly,” says Ferolito. “Everyone, back in stack. You’re gonna do it again. O’Brien, you need a lesson in right and left?”
    â€œNo, sir,” says Joe.
    â€œGood, then kindly get your head out of your ass.”
    They all arrange themselves back in stack formation. Sergeant Ferolito keeps them there, pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, saying nothing, holding his order, the corners of his mouth lifted in a devious smile. Meanwhile, Joe is having a hell of a time keeping still. His body is a can of shaken soda, ready to spray in all directions.
    And he can’t stop thinking about the friggin’ tag. The sensation is somewhere between a tickle and an intense itch, but it might as well be a knife stabbing him in the back for all the attention it’s demanding. He’d like to rip the friggin’ tag off his shirt right now. Pedroia had better hit a homer tonight.
    He has to stop thinking about the tag. He stares at the head of the guy in front of him. It’s Ronnie Quaranto’s head. He narrows in on the bulge of fat in the back of Ronnie’s neck and counts to himself, concentrating on each number and Ronnie’s neck pudge and not the tag, holding himself steady. He’s on thirty-six, clenching his fists, his teeth, even his ass, when Sergeant Ferolito finally barks out the command.
    â€œColumn number two, line formation, on me. MOVE! ”
    Ronnie proceeds right, Joe’s cue to move, but the relief in Joe is so overwhelming, he loses focus. He’s supposed to be the mirror image of Ronnie, and so he should cut left and land in a straight new line, but again, his body seems to have an impetuous mind of its own, and Joe steps right. Again, the officer behind Joe is then faced with the dilemma of what to do—go to the right, as he would have if Joe had done what he was supposed to do, or follow the rule and do the opposite of what was done directly in front of him—and he can’t ponder this decision over a leisurely cup of coffee. It must be now, immediately, in precision with fifty pairs of boots and service batons beating against the hangar floor. He chooses to mirror Joe. The formation is fucked up. Again.
    â€œO’Brien,” calls out Sergeant Ferolito. “Are you aiming to be here all day?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œCuz I’m sure as hell not. Let’s do it again.”
    On their way back into columns, Joe makes eye contact with Tommy. Joe answers Tommy’s raised eyebrows with a quick shrug and then finds his spot. Everyone is still, waiting for the sergeant’s order. Everyone but Joe.
    Joe keeps shrugging as if he’s got hiccups in his shoulders, and it’s causing a noticeable swing of his baton, which knocks into the leg of the officer next to him. He tries pulling his wrists down and pinching his shoulder blades together, but his shoulders keep popping up. He can’t stop them.
    Be still, goddamn it . But the effort somehow recruits his feet, and now he’s shrugging his shoulders and shifting back and forth on his feet, dancing in place. He bumps into the guy to his right, then the guy to his left. Good God, if someone doesn’t kick the shit out of him soon, he’s going to do it himself.
    â€œO’Brien, I’m getting tired of hearing