Read Online We Are Pirates: A Novel by Daniel Handler - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Handler
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Alzheimer’s disease.”
At this point in American history, Alzheimer’s was a brain disease, degenerative, with no cure and no hope, just a slow gray fade. Gwen nodded quickly and tried to look solemn. When she was a child she thought it was “old-timers disease,” which made a horrid sense.
“His condition isn’t full-blown. His attention wanders, and you’ll hear a lot of stories that aren’t true.” She held up the letter. “He writes to the newspaper every day. It’s an accident waiting to happen. He fought against coming here, but after the Fall, of course, he didn’t really have any choice.”
Gwen didn’t have to ask about the Fall. It happened to all old people, the Fall. They fell and then everything changed, seats in the shower, ramps at the front door. They fell and never quite got up again.
“He’s not dangerous, of course,” Peggy said, with a smile that sort of was. “Nor is he likely to harm himself. He’s just getting into small trouble. A little hoarding, a little theft from the terrorists.”
Gwen sat up straighter. “He steals things? From—?”
“Just candy. He has diabetes and can’t eat everything, so you have to watch him when you go out there. We keep snacks.”
Gwen decided that she must have said “terrace.”
“He’s really got the spirit of rebellion, but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. How long are you volunteering with us?”
Gwen didn’t feel it was volunteering, not if she was being made to do it, but all her arguments about this had been chopped off long ago at the knees. “How about five weeks?” her mother had said, and her father just sat there. “That’s a nice even number.”
“Independence Day,” Gwen said. “Until then.” It was so far away, July. Weeks. Time just refused to pass. Gwen’s life stubbornly refused to go on and take her to her own apartment with beanbag chairs in the living room where all her new friends could relax. Naomi was gone. Texts to her had blipped to nowhere, and Gwen had been reduced, in school’s last days, to tailing Naomi trying to catch her eye. It was like grabbing an eel barehanded. If they could roll their eyes together it would mean they were reconciled, at least partway, that Nathan Glasserman was now water under the bridge at the pool. But Naomi even wore sunglasses at her. Every hallway was miles long until school stopped, Naomi far and out of reach. Her first swimming teacher, Miss Crudy, would hold out her hands as Gwen kicked and blew bubbles. “Almost there,” Miss Crudy would say, and hold her hands out. “Almost there, almost there,” but she’d be walking backwards the whole time, until Gwen had been lured the entire length of the pool with the promise that Miss Crudy was just inches away. Liars, Miss Crudy, all of them.
“Of course,” Peggy said, “even after your, um, volunteering span, you’re always welcome here.”
The um meant Peggy knew it was punishment. So everyone knew. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, think of who you’re helping.”
Gwen clenched her hands so she wouldn’t grab a pen.
“I want you to enjoy your time here. Enjoy it! I just need you to sign something.”
If respect is shown toward the rules that were developed in response to the requirements of Federal, State, and Local Law and the requests of our clients, Jean Bonnet Living Center will be a much more pleasant and safer place for all. If rules are not respected, penalties will be assigned. Gwen, dizzied by the way they wrote this, was already penalized. Below the logo for the place, which was a silhouette of whoever the hell Jean Bonnet was, was “A Better Place,” in flouncy letters all curled up like dental floss when you were done with it. She scrawled her name, Gwen Needle, and watched Peggy look at it before gesturing to someone Gwen had not known was in the room, a man with black shiny skin, enormous like a stack of pancakes in white pants and shirt, overflowing on a chair in the corner.
At this point in American history, Alzheimer’s was a brain disease, degenerative, with no cure and no hope, just a slow gray fade. Gwen nodded quickly and tried to look solemn. When she was a child she thought it was “old-timers disease,” which made a horrid sense.
“His condition isn’t full-blown. His attention wanders, and you’ll hear a lot of stories that aren’t true.” She held up the letter. “He writes to the newspaper every day. It’s an accident waiting to happen. He fought against coming here, but after the Fall, of course, he didn’t really have any choice.”
Gwen didn’t have to ask about the Fall. It happened to all old people, the Fall. They fell and then everything changed, seats in the shower, ramps at the front door. They fell and never quite got up again.
“He’s not dangerous, of course,” Peggy said, with a smile that sort of was. “Nor is he likely to harm himself. He’s just getting into small trouble. A little hoarding, a little theft from the terrorists.”
Gwen sat up straighter. “He steals things? From—?”
“Just candy. He has diabetes and can’t eat everything, so you have to watch him when you go out there. We keep snacks.”
Gwen decided that she must have said “terrace.”
“He’s really got the spirit of rebellion, but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. How long are you volunteering with us?”
Gwen didn’t feel it was volunteering, not if she was being made to do it, but all her arguments about this had been chopped off long ago at the knees. “How about five weeks?” her mother had said, and her father just sat there. “That’s a nice even number.”
“Independence Day,” Gwen said. “Until then.” It was so far away, July. Weeks. Time just refused to pass. Gwen’s life stubbornly refused to go on and take her to her own apartment with beanbag chairs in the living room where all her new friends could relax. Naomi was gone. Texts to her had blipped to nowhere, and Gwen had been reduced, in school’s last days, to tailing Naomi trying to catch her eye. It was like grabbing an eel barehanded. If they could roll their eyes together it would mean they were reconciled, at least partway, that Nathan Glasserman was now water under the bridge at the pool. But Naomi even wore sunglasses at her. Every hallway was miles long until school stopped, Naomi far and out of reach. Her first swimming teacher, Miss Crudy, would hold out her hands as Gwen kicked and blew bubbles. “Almost there,” Miss Crudy would say, and hold her hands out. “Almost there, almost there,” but she’d be walking backwards the whole time, until Gwen had been lured the entire length of the pool with the promise that Miss Crudy was just inches away. Liars, Miss Crudy, all of them.
“Of course,” Peggy said, “even after your, um, volunteering span, you’re always welcome here.”
The um meant Peggy knew it was punishment. So everyone knew. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, think of who you’re helping.”
Gwen clenched her hands so she wouldn’t grab a pen.
“I want you to enjoy your time here. Enjoy it! I just need you to sign something.”
If respect is shown toward the rules that were developed in response to the requirements of Federal, State, and Local Law and the requests of our clients, Jean Bonnet Living Center will be a much more pleasant and safer place for all. If rules are not respected, penalties will be assigned. Gwen, dizzied by the way they wrote this, was already penalized. Below the logo for the place, which was a silhouette of whoever the hell Jean Bonnet was, was “A Better Place,” in flouncy letters all curled up like dental floss when you were done with it. She scrawled her name, Gwen Needle, and watched Peggy look at it before gesturing to someone Gwen had not known was in the room, a man with black shiny skin, enormous like a stack of pancakes in white pants and shirt, overflowing on a chair in the corner.
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