Read Online The Speed Queen by Stewart O’Nan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stewart O’Nan
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smoking, hands on hips. I stood outside in the pink glow, the movie huge behind me. The music was building again. A fat guy carrying a little kid in pajamas on his shoulders was coming. I pretended to be looking for something I'd dropped, then when he was even with me, I fell in beside him. The girls inside didn't even look. I walked straight past them and into the men's room.
There was one guy at a urinal, but he didn't turn around. I wetted a handful of paper towels and took them to the farthest stall and locked the door. It was so filthy I didn't sit down. I threw the Kleenex in the toilet and the water went red.
As I was wiping my legs, I heard the guy getting some paper towels and then the door closing.
In the mirror I looked the same, maybe a little buzzed, a little tired, but the same girl I'd been before. I didn't think I'd learned anything.
Outside, the girls in line took one look at me and ran for the men's room.
Monty was waiting back at the truck, asking the same questions.
"I'm fine," I said, and let him hold me. Now that I look back on it, he was being as sweet as ho know how. hut right then I hated him.
"Marjorie," he said, real serious, like ho was going to follow it with something big like "I love you" or "I want to marry you."
I didn't give him the chance.
"Hey," I said, "did you leave me any of that Champale?"
That was a weird time tor me, fifteen and sixteen. I think it is for most girls. The world can be so perfect, and then it can just suck. That's unnecessary language, but I've already said it; just don't have me say it in the book. People are mean or dishonest for no reason. It makes you angry, and angry with yourself for being that way sometimes.
I was weird, I know that now. I think my mom blames it on my dad dying right in front of me, but I don't think that's it. Natalie's book tries to say that. That's some of it maybe, but not all. Don't make too big a deal of it.
I read somewhere that your dad left early, so you know how people try to pin everything on that. You know not to fall for it.
The big thing when I was fifteen is that I got a job and started drinking a lot of diet Pepsi. I was a fry man at Long John Silver's. That's what they called me—a fry man. I worked the Fry-o-lator. Actually they call them fryes there. Some other goofy stuff they had were chicken planks and hush puppies and corn cobbettes, which were just frozen ears of corn snapped in half. You had to wear these ugly blue uniforms with this dorky bow at your throat; they were made of polyester and stuck to your sweat. It was boring because no one ever came in besides the dinner rush. When an order did come in, the girl at the counter said it into her microphone, and I tossed a breaded fish square into the grease. You had to jump back fast or it would get your hands. I'd fill up the metal basket with frozen fryes and lower it into the grease. Everything there was frozen. We used to play broom hockey with the filets; they hurt when they hit your shins.
I wasn't really drinking then, not like every day. I'd come in after school, and the first thing I'd do is pour myself a jumbo diet Coke. The biggest cup they had then was 44 ounces, now it's 64. I'd drink two of those before the dinner rush and I'd be flying.
In some ways it wasn't a bad job, compared to some of the ones I've had. You didn't have to do much. The manager's name was Cissy, and when there was nothing to do, she made us sweep. You'd sit down to read a magazine or something — maybe I could be reading The Stand, the original one, because it was about that time. If Cissy saw you sitting down, she'd get on the microphone and say, "Grab a broom." We'd go to the bathroom to read so much that she set a time limit on how long you could be in there. She'd come in and knock on your stall.
I liked the longer version of The Stand. I liked the original one too. Even the miniseries was good, with the guy from Forrest Gump with no legs. I thought his dog was
There was one guy at a urinal, but he didn't turn around. I wetted a handful of paper towels and took them to the farthest stall and locked the door. It was so filthy I didn't sit down. I threw the Kleenex in the toilet and the water went red.
As I was wiping my legs, I heard the guy getting some paper towels and then the door closing.
In the mirror I looked the same, maybe a little buzzed, a little tired, but the same girl I'd been before. I didn't think I'd learned anything.
Outside, the girls in line took one look at me and ran for the men's room.
Monty was waiting back at the truck, asking the same questions.
"I'm fine," I said, and let him hold me. Now that I look back on it, he was being as sweet as ho know how. hut right then I hated him.
"Marjorie," he said, real serious, like ho was going to follow it with something big like "I love you" or "I want to marry you."
I didn't give him the chance.
"Hey," I said, "did you leave me any of that Champale?"
That was a weird time tor me, fifteen and sixteen. I think it is for most girls. The world can be so perfect, and then it can just suck. That's unnecessary language, but I've already said it; just don't have me say it in the book. People are mean or dishonest for no reason. It makes you angry, and angry with yourself for being that way sometimes.
I was weird, I know that now. I think my mom blames it on my dad dying right in front of me, but I don't think that's it. Natalie's book tries to say that. That's some of it maybe, but not all. Don't make too big a deal of it.
I read somewhere that your dad left early, so you know how people try to pin everything on that. You know not to fall for it.
The big thing when I was fifteen is that I got a job and started drinking a lot of diet Pepsi. I was a fry man at Long John Silver's. That's what they called me—a fry man. I worked the Fry-o-lator. Actually they call them fryes there. Some other goofy stuff they had were chicken planks and hush puppies and corn cobbettes, which were just frozen ears of corn snapped in half. You had to wear these ugly blue uniforms with this dorky bow at your throat; they were made of polyester and stuck to your sweat. It was boring because no one ever came in besides the dinner rush. When an order did come in, the girl at the counter said it into her microphone, and I tossed a breaded fish square into the grease. You had to jump back fast or it would get your hands. I'd fill up the metal basket with frozen fryes and lower it into the grease. Everything there was frozen. We used to play broom hockey with the filets; they hurt when they hit your shins.
I wasn't really drinking then, not like every day. I'd come in after school, and the first thing I'd do is pour myself a jumbo diet Coke. The biggest cup they had then was 44 ounces, now it's 64. I'd drink two of those before the dinner rush and I'd be flying.
In some ways it wasn't a bad job, compared to some of the ones I've had. You didn't have to do much. The manager's name was Cissy, and when there was nothing to do, she made us sweep. You'd sit down to read a magazine or something — maybe I could be reading The Stand, the original one, because it was about that time. If Cissy saw you sitting down, she'd get on the microphone and say, "Grab a broom." We'd go to the bathroom to read so much that she set a time limit on how long you could be in there. She'd come in and knock on your stall.
I liked the longer version of The Stand. I liked the original one too. Even the miniseries was good, with the guy from Forrest Gump with no legs. I thought his dog was
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