Read Online Not As Crazy As I Seem by George Harrar - Free Book Online
Authors: George Harrar
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teeth. He nods at the magazine in my hands. "This isn't a library, you know."
Crochet World
âwhy am I holding that? "Ah, no, sorry, I guess I don't want this after all." I slip the magazine back into its clip on the awning.
Behind me I hear laughter and turn to see a girl with silver sparkles on her face, shaking a can of whipped cream. She walks up to a guy holding a sign saying "Jesus Saves" and sprays the whipped cream on his head. The religious guy doesn't moveâdoesn't even turn around to see what the girl's doing. He just stands there. I know about being picked on, and this is strange. Why isn't he running away or fighting back? Then it strikes meâthis guy wants to be picked on. He wants everybody to see how bad the kids are. Maybe he even wants to be persecuted, like Jesus.
This is too crazy, even for me. I cross the street and head up Massachusetts Avenue, past the Harvard Coop Bookstore. When I see C'est Bon I get thirsty. I wasn't thirsty
before, but looking through the window at the big, cold bottles of Coke inside suddenly makes my mouth feel dry. I think I'm very suggestible.
When you think about it, "C'est Bon" is a pretty strange name. I mean, in France do they have "This Is Good" convenience stores?
I head for the door. I don't even stop to count the people going in, and I don't know why that is. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn't. New obsessions are like that with meâthey take time to take hold everywhere.
A ragged old man jumps in front of me, which is pretty rude. I wait for him to go in, but he just holds the door open, so I slip in around him. I find a tennis-ball can of barbecue chips and a sixteen-ounce Coke, which Mom won't buy for me because of all the caffeine. I pay the girl at the counter, then head for the door. It opens in front of me, and there's the same ragged man holding the handle. This time he has his hand out.
"Can you spare two quarters for my friend here?" He pulls back his old coat, and there's the smallest orange cat I've ever seen.
I want to pet him, but I'm not sure I should. Who knows what this guy might do?
"Go ahead. He won't bite."
I stick my finger toward the little face, and a paw reaches for it. I don't feel any claws. "What's his name?"
The man shrugs. "I don't know if he has one. I found him in the cemetery up the road last night. If you want to name him, go ahead."
The kitten opens his mouth and licks my finger. His
tongue probably has millions of germs on it, but I don't care. I wouldn't let any person in the world lick my finger, but this is a kitten. "Sasha, why don't you call him Little Sasha."
"Little Sasha. I like that."
I move out of the way to let a couple go past me. The man doesn't open the door for them. I don't know what to do next. I don't normally talk to beggars. Dad says they use your money to buy liquor. This guy doesn't look like a drunk. And he has Little Sasha. I pet the kitten again and then reach into my pocket. I pull out a fistful of change and three dollar bills. I keep two dollars and fifty cents for myself. "I need this to get home on the train, but you can have the rest."
The man smiles, and I'm surprised to see very straight, white teeth. "I don't need that much. Sixty cents will buy a small container of milk."
I drop two quarters and a dime into his hand. I hope he didn't notice I was making sure not to touch him. His hand is kind of curled up, like my grandfather's.
"May I presume on your kindness again, young man?"
"I guess."
"Could you buy the milk for me? They don't let you bring animals inside."
"Okay, or I could hold Little Sasha and you could go in and get what you want." He doesn't say anything. Maybe he thinks I'll run away with the cat. "I wouldn't hurt him. You can trust me."
"Oh, I trust you. But see, they don't really want people like me coming into their store." He sticks his finger
through a hole in his jacket to show what kind of people he means. "And I don't like to go where I'm
Crochet World
âwhy am I holding that? "Ah, no, sorry, I guess I don't want this after all." I slip the magazine back into its clip on the awning.
Behind me I hear laughter and turn to see a girl with silver sparkles on her face, shaking a can of whipped cream. She walks up to a guy holding a sign saying "Jesus Saves" and sprays the whipped cream on his head. The religious guy doesn't moveâdoesn't even turn around to see what the girl's doing. He just stands there. I know about being picked on, and this is strange. Why isn't he running away or fighting back? Then it strikes meâthis guy wants to be picked on. He wants everybody to see how bad the kids are. Maybe he even wants to be persecuted, like Jesus.
This is too crazy, even for me. I cross the street and head up Massachusetts Avenue, past the Harvard Coop Bookstore. When I see C'est Bon I get thirsty. I wasn't thirsty
before, but looking through the window at the big, cold bottles of Coke inside suddenly makes my mouth feel dry. I think I'm very suggestible.
When you think about it, "C'est Bon" is a pretty strange name. I mean, in France do they have "This Is Good" convenience stores?
I head for the door. I don't even stop to count the people going in, and I don't know why that is. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn't. New obsessions are like that with meâthey take time to take hold everywhere.
A ragged old man jumps in front of me, which is pretty rude. I wait for him to go in, but he just holds the door open, so I slip in around him. I find a tennis-ball can of barbecue chips and a sixteen-ounce Coke, which Mom won't buy for me because of all the caffeine. I pay the girl at the counter, then head for the door. It opens in front of me, and there's the same ragged man holding the handle. This time he has his hand out.
"Can you spare two quarters for my friend here?" He pulls back his old coat, and there's the smallest orange cat I've ever seen.
I want to pet him, but I'm not sure I should. Who knows what this guy might do?
"Go ahead. He won't bite."
I stick my finger toward the little face, and a paw reaches for it. I don't feel any claws. "What's his name?"
The man shrugs. "I don't know if he has one. I found him in the cemetery up the road last night. If you want to name him, go ahead."
The kitten opens his mouth and licks my finger. His
tongue probably has millions of germs on it, but I don't care. I wouldn't let any person in the world lick my finger, but this is a kitten. "Sasha, why don't you call him Little Sasha."
"Little Sasha. I like that."
I move out of the way to let a couple go past me. The man doesn't open the door for them. I don't know what to do next. I don't normally talk to beggars. Dad says they use your money to buy liquor. This guy doesn't look like a drunk. And he has Little Sasha. I pet the kitten again and then reach into my pocket. I pull out a fistful of change and three dollar bills. I keep two dollars and fifty cents for myself. "I need this to get home on the train, but you can have the rest."
The man smiles, and I'm surprised to see very straight, white teeth. "I don't need that much. Sixty cents will buy a small container of milk."
I drop two quarters and a dime into his hand. I hope he didn't notice I was making sure not to touch him. His hand is kind of curled up, like my grandfather's.
"May I presume on your kindness again, young man?"
"I guess."
"Could you buy the milk for me? They don't let you bring animals inside."
"Okay, or I could hold Little Sasha and you could go in and get what you want." He doesn't say anything. Maybe he thinks I'll run away with the cat. "I wouldn't hurt him. You can trust me."
"Oh, I trust you. But see, they don't really want people like me coming into their store." He sticks his finger
through a hole in his jacket to show what kind of people he means. "And I don't like to go where I'm
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