Read Online The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sherman Alexie
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you hate PCs? They are sickly and fragile and vulnerable to viruses. PCs are like French people living during the bubonic plague."
Wow, and people thought I was a freak.
"I much prefer Macs, don't you?" he asked. "They're so poetic."
This guy was in love with computers. I wondered if he was secretly writing a romance
about a skinny, white boy genius who was having sex with a half-breed Apple computer.
"Computers are computers," I said. "One or the other, it's all the same."
Gordy sighed.
"So, Mr. Spirit," he said. "Are you going to bore me with your tautologies all day or are you going to actually say some thing?"
Tautologies? What the heck were tautologies? I couldn't ask Gordy because then he'd
know I was an illiterate Indian idiot.
"You don't know what a tautology is, do you?" he asked.
"Yes, I do," I said. "Really, I do. Completely, I do."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"How can you tell?"
"Because your eyes dilated, your breathing rate increased a little bit, and you started to sweat."
Okay, so Gordy was a human lie detector machine, too.
"All right, I lied," I said. "What is a tautology?"
Gordy sighed again.
I HATED THAT SIGH! I WANTED TO PUNCH THAT SIGH IN THE FACE!
"A tautology is a repetition of the same sense in different words," he said.
"Oh," I said.
What the hell was he talking about?
"It's a redundancy."
"Oh, you mean, redundant, like saying the same thing over and over but in different ways?"
"Yes."
"Oh, so if I said something like, 'Gordy is a dick without ears and an ear without a dick,'
then that would be a tautology."
Gordy smiled.
"That's not exactly a tautology, but it is funny. You have a singular wit."
I laughed.
Gordy laughed, too. But then he realized that I wasn't laughing WITH him. I was
laughing AT him.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"I can't believe you said 'singular wit.' That's sounds like fricking British or something."
"Well, I am a bit of an Anglophile."
"An Anglophile? What's an Angophile?"
"It's someone who loves Mother England."
God, this kid was an eighty-year-old literature professor trapped in the body of a fifteen-year-old farm boy.
"Listen, Gordy," I said. "I know you're a genius and all. But you are one weird dude."
"I'm quite aware of my differences. I wouldn't classify them as weird."
"Don't get me wrong. I think weird is great. I mean, if you look at all the great people in history—Einstein, Michelangelo, Emily Dickinson—then you're looking at a bunch of weird people."
"I'm going to be late for class," Gordy said. "You're going to be late for class. Perhaps you should, as they say, cut to the chase."
I looked at Gordy. He was a big kid, actually, strong from bucking bales and driving
trucks. He was probably the strongest geek in the world.
"I want to be your friend," I said.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"I want us to be friends," I said.
Gordy stepped back.
"I assure you," he said. "I am not a homosexual."
"Oh, no," I said. "I don't want to be friends that way. I jus I meant regular friends. I mean, you and I, we have a lot in common."
Gordy studied me now.
I was an Indian kid from the reservation. I was lonely and sad and isolated and terrified.
Just like Gordy.
And so we did become friends. Not the best of friends. Not like Rowdy and me. We
didn't share secrets. Or dreams.
No, we studied together.
Gordy taught me how to study.
Best of all, he taught me how to read.
"Listen," he said one afternoon in the library. "You have to read a book three times before you know it. The first time you read it for the story. The plot. The movement from scene to scene that gives the book its momentum, its rhythm. It's like riding a raft down a river. You're just paying attention to the currents. Do you understand that?"
"Not at all," I said.
"Yes, you do," he said.
"Okay, I do," I said. I really didn't, but Gordy believed in me. He wouldn't let me give up.
"The second time you read a book, you read it for its history.
Wow, and people thought I was a freak.
"I much prefer Macs, don't you?" he asked. "They're so poetic."
This guy was in love with computers. I wondered if he was secretly writing a romance
about a skinny, white boy genius who was having sex with a half-breed Apple computer.
"Computers are computers," I said. "One or the other, it's all the same."
Gordy sighed.
"So, Mr. Spirit," he said. "Are you going to bore me with your tautologies all day or are you going to actually say some thing?"
Tautologies? What the heck were tautologies? I couldn't ask Gordy because then he'd
know I was an illiterate Indian idiot.
"You don't know what a tautology is, do you?" he asked.
"Yes, I do," I said. "Really, I do. Completely, I do."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"How can you tell?"
"Because your eyes dilated, your breathing rate increased a little bit, and you started to sweat."
Okay, so Gordy was a human lie detector machine, too.
"All right, I lied," I said. "What is a tautology?"
Gordy sighed again.
I HATED THAT SIGH! I WANTED TO PUNCH THAT SIGH IN THE FACE!
"A tautology is a repetition of the same sense in different words," he said.
"Oh," I said.
What the hell was he talking about?
"It's a redundancy."
"Oh, you mean, redundant, like saying the same thing over and over but in different ways?"
"Yes."
"Oh, so if I said something like, 'Gordy is a dick without ears and an ear without a dick,'
then that would be a tautology."
Gordy smiled.
"That's not exactly a tautology, but it is funny. You have a singular wit."
I laughed.
Gordy laughed, too. But then he realized that I wasn't laughing WITH him. I was
laughing AT him.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"I can't believe you said 'singular wit.' That's sounds like fricking British or something."
"Well, I am a bit of an Anglophile."
"An Anglophile? What's an Angophile?"
"It's someone who loves Mother England."
God, this kid was an eighty-year-old literature professor trapped in the body of a fifteen-year-old farm boy.
"Listen, Gordy," I said. "I know you're a genius and all. But you are one weird dude."
"I'm quite aware of my differences. I wouldn't classify them as weird."
"Don't get me wrong. I think weird is great. I mean, if you look at all the great people in history—Einstein, Michelangelo, Emily Dickinson—then you're looking at a bunch of weird people."
"I'm going to be late for class," Gordy said. "You're going to be late for class. Perhaps you should, as they say, cut to the chase."
I looked at Gordy. He was a big kid, actually, strong from bucking bales and driving
trucks. He was probably the strongest geek in the world.
"I want to be your friend," I said.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"I want us to be friends," I said.
Gordy stepped back.
"I assure you," he said. "I am not a homosexual."
"Oh, no," I said. "I don't want to be friends that way. I jus I meant regular friends. I mean, you and I, we have a lot in common."
Gordy studied me now.
I was an Indian kid from the reservation. I was lonely and sad and isolated and terrified.
Just like Gordy.
And so we did become friends. Not the best of friends. Not like Rowdy and me. We
didn't share secrets. Or dreams.
No, we studied together.
Gordy taught me how to study.
Best of all, he taught me how to read.
"Listen," he said one afternoon in the library. "You have to read a book three times before you know it. The first time you read it for the story. The plot. The movement from scene to scene that gives the book its momentum, its rhythm. It's like riding a raft down a river. You're just paying attention to the currents. Do you understand that?"
"Not at all," I said.
"Yes, you do," he said.
"Okay, I do," I said. I really didn't, but Gordy believed in me. He wouldn't let me give up.
"The second time you read a book, you read it for its history.
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