Read Online Something Different by T. Baggins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. Baggins
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don't think of me the same way."
"I thought of you as a client," James said softly. "Till you rang me up. Till I said I was out of commission and you asked if we were finished. I felt—I don't know. I thought maybe it would hurt you, wondering why I disappeared. So I met you in the restaurant. Not because I expected you to help me. I just didn't want to leave you in pain." James took a deep breath. "I don't deserve you as a friend."
"I don't deserve you, either," Michael said. It was the most he could manage. There was more inside him, he knew there was, but it was like staring at the white digital page when he tried to write a piece of fiction. A disconnect that made communication impossible. So he kept his silence, finished his coffee and decided to purchase a laptop. He'd need a computer to update his resume and search for a new job.
***
James's first official appointment with Dr. Beckman was scheduled for ten o'clock. He'd been given an information packet with forms to fill in and what looked like written directions to the office from multiple points in the city. James planned to do what he always did—get on the tube, charm people into guiding him, and turn up for his appointment with the forms conveniently forgotten. But Michael opened up the packet and spread the papers across the minimalist IKEA coffee table. "Let's get these done."
Michael filled in most of them from memory, getting a few details from James. Then he bundled them together along with James's test results from the clinic. "Now. How are you at studying schematics? Like fire escape routes in buildings?"
"Fine," James mumbled. He was as embarrassed now as he'd been over his missing teeth. Most people assumed he was stupid, including people he considered pals like Deepak and Kevin. But not one of them had ever deduced just how stupid he really was.
"Take the tube back to Belgravia. There's a McDonald's just outside. Cross the street to the McDonald's and follow this route," Michael sketched a path with several turns, "until you end up at Paul's office. There's a uniformed doorman and some truly hideous potted plants outside."
"Thanks." James took the map, suddenly aware he'd be going back to the office in the same clothes. Would they notice? Would they laugh at him? Pity him?
His throat constricted. Next thing he knew he was crying again, and when Michael put an arm around him, he didn't shrug him off.
"It's why you left school, isn't it?" Michael said.
"It was fucking torture," James choked, sobbing even harder. "A daily exploration of how fucking retarded I am! I just gave up. You must... someone like you must..." More sobs. "I can't believe you write fucking textbooks."
"Well, I sort of gave myself the sack yesterday," Michael said. "So just at the moment, I have no occupation at all." He explained the situation as James pulled himself together. James wasn't stiff about crying when he needed to. Sometimes a good cry was the best remedy, as his mum said, and he tended to agree. But he didn't want to spend every moment pissing and moaning to Michael. The man had problems of his own. And he was the sort of person who liked to help, who liked to feel useful...
"Could you teach me to read?"
"I'm not sure." Michael's tone suggested he was already weighing the question. "Were you diagnosed with dyslexia?"
"Severe," James said. "Rhymes with stupid, just means I get more from being hit over the head with a book than looking at what's inside it. Oh, and they said I have ADD, too." He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, and took a long, grateful drag. "But listen, mate, I once sucked a geezer for twenty minutes to get him off. The clock was just over his shoulder and I timed it. Attention deficit?" He blew out a plume of smoke. "I don't think so."
The appointment was easier than James imagined. The staff was pleasant, he flirted with everyone, including Dr. Beckman, and submitted to the molds, a cleaning and a lecture about flossing with good
"I thought of you as a client," James said softly. "Till you rang me up. Till I said I was out of commission and you asked if we were finished. I felt—I don't know. I thought maybe it would hurt you, wondering why I disappeared. So I met you in the restaurant. Not because I expected you to help me. I just didn't want to leave you in pain." James took a deep breath. "I don't deserve you as a friend."
"I don't deserve you, either," Michael said. It was the most he could manage. There was more inside him, he knew there was, but it was like staring at the white digital page when he tried to write a piece of fiction. A disconnect that made communication impossible. So he kept his silence, finished his coffee and decided to purchase a laptop. He'd need a computer to update his resume and search for a new job.
***
James's first official appointment with Dr. Beckman was scheduled for ten o'clock. He'd been given an information packet with forms to fill in and what looked like written directions to the office from multiple points in the city. James planned to do what he always did—get on the tube, charm people into guiding him, and turn up for his appointment with the forms conveniently forgotten. But Michael opened up the packet and spread the papers across the minimalist IKEA coffee table. "Let's get these done."
Michael filled in most of them from memory, getting a few details from James. Then he bundled them together along with James's test results from the clinic. "Now. How are you at studying schematics? Like fire escape routes in buildings?"
"Fine," James mumbled. He was as embarrassed now as he'd been over his missing teeth. Most people assumed he was stupid, including people he considered pals like Deepak and Kevin. But not one of them had ever deduced just how stupid he really was.
"Take the tube back to Belgravia. There's a McDonald's just outside. Cross the street to the McDonald's and follow this route," Michael sketched a path with several turns, "until you end up at Paul's office. There's a uniformed doorman and some truly hideous potted plants outside."
"Thanks." James took the map, suddenly aware he'd be going back to the office in the same clothes. Would they notice? Would they laugh at him? Pity him?
His throat constricted. Next thing he knew he was crying again, and when Michael put an arm around him, he didn't shrug him off.
"It's why you left school, isn't it?" Michael said.
"It was fucking torture," James choked, sobbing even harder. "A daily exploration of how fucking retarded I am! I just gave up. You must... someone like you must..." More sobs. "I can't believe you write fucking textbooks."
"Well, I sort of gave myself the sack yesterday," Michael said. "So just at the moment, I have no occupation at all." He explained the situation as James pulled himself together. James wasn't stiff about crying when he needed to. Sometimes a good cry was the best remedy, as his mum said, and he tended to agree. But he didn't want to spend every moment pissing and moaning to Michael. The man had problems of his own. And he was the sort of person who liked to help, who liked to feel useful...
"Could you teach me to read?"
"I'm not sure." Michael's tone suggested he was already weighing the question. "Were you diagnosed with dyslexia?"
"Severe," James said. "Rhymes with stupid, just means I get more from being hit over the head with a book than looking at what's inside it. Oh, and they said I have ADD, too." He lit a cigarette, his first of the day, and took a long, grateful drag. "But listen, mate, I once sucked a geezer for twenty minutes to get him off. The clock was just over his shoulder and I timed it. Attention deficit?" He blew out a plume of smoke. "I don't think so."
The appointment was easier than James imagined. The staff was pleasant, he flirted with everyone, including Dr. Beckman, and submitted to the molds, a cleaning and a lecture about flossing with good
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