Read Online Why Aren't You Smiling? by Alvin Orloff - Free Book Online Page A

act.”
    Jeff added, “Today’s youth are far more political than we were fifteen years ago, and more interested in metaphysics. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
    My mother took a shot. “A book can certainly raise important questions without being great literature.”
    These comments came right on top of each other and Gareth turned his head with theatrical quickness from one speaker to the next, making a show of being besieged. Finally he held up the palms of his hands, signaling everyone to stop. “Look, simplicity is not the same as being simplistic. Sunsets and seagulls are all very fine in and of themselves, and I’m sure nobody is saying Peru wouldn’t benefit from throwing off the shackles of American imperialism, but I’ve been given to understand this book is nothing more than a cynical remarketing of Kahlil Gibran, without any particular literary or philosophical merit.”
    My mother cocked her head to the side quizzically. “Given to understand?”
    A smile played about Gareth’s lips as he hunched down in his seat, scowling at his tetrazzini. “Well, you know, I haven’t actually read the blasted thing.”
    Everyone erupted into another chorus of wine-drenched laughter that I didn’t really feel like joining.
    Becoming a Burnout came neither naturally, nor easily to me. A certain upright, uptight aspect clung to my persona. My wardrobe, in particular, posed a worry. My dress shirts and corduroy slacks were distinctly un-Burnout. I told my mother I needed some new clothes, and after a twenty-minute historical encapsulation of the trauma suffered by America’s youth during the great depression and World War II (new clothes? don’t make me laugh!), she offered to take me to Sears.
    â€œBut, Mom, they have dorky clothes there,” I whined piteously. “Just give me some money and I’ll go get some stuff down by the university.”
    â€œWhat?” She made it sound as if I’d wanted to go to the moon.
    â€œYeah,” I said casually, “I’ll just pick up some jeans and tee-shirts.”
    I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. Leonard = Teenager. “Oh, all right, I suppose.”
    My mother’s concept of how much clothing costs was also stuck in the Depression, and I only got enough money for a couple of outfits. I felt tempted to buy something offensive to protest her frugality (a tee-shirt bearing the image of a droopy-eyed caterpillar on a mushroom smoking a hookah, say), but sensibly restrained myself. If I came home with inoffensive stuff there was a better chance she’d cough up more cash next time. I finally settled on two pairs of denim bellbottoms and a pair of tee-shirts, one emblazoned with a vaguely tropical floral design, the other with a peace sign. Once clad in these, I discovered what amounted to a new super-power, the ability to walk down the street without getting sneered at by my peers. I immediately boxed up my old wardrobe and put it in the basement, even though this meant my new clothes were often dirty and quickly became ragged from continuous wear. That was OK. Dirty and ragged was kind of a cool look.
    I did long for more clothes, though, as well as more posters, a “Save the Whales” belt buckle I’d seen at a street fair, candles, incense, and of course, records. There was nothing to do but get job. Fortunately, the world can always use another paperboy. It meant rising at the crack of dawn and dealing with a manager who spoke exclusively in sports metaphors (so I never had any idea what he was talking about), but at least I had a regular income. Once I’d acquired a few more cool clothes and my room was reasonably cluttered with head shop junk, I started putting my earnings away in an Escape Fund, the money I’d use to get to Oregon. All my childish fantasies of discovering a lost city of gnomes or inventing a time machine gave