Free Lost Between Houses by David Gilmour Page B

“Otherwise I’m going to land in my ketchup.”
    But just then a couple of guys from school walked by, outside the window. Normally I wouldn’t say fuck-all to them, they belonged to a totally different group, guys who took the bus, they lived in parts of Toronto that sounded like different cities, and I always felt a bit sorry for them, being so far from the action and all. But today I waved. One of them, a nice guy with curly hair,Chummer Farina (now where’d he get a name like that, no wonder he lived on Mars), turned around and saw Scarlet. He said something to his pal, who had an equally weird name, and then they both turned around and looked at her, which pleased me a great deal. I imagined they were talking about it as they went away. But you know, that’s the thing with me. I figure people are walking around all day thinking about me. I mean the fact that I hardly ever think about them or when I do it’s for like a split second, well, you’d think that might discourage me. But no, it doesn’t.
    We got back to her place near six. I was pooped. I hadn’t got a lot of sleep and after I ate a sandwich (I couldn’t stop eating now), I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up feeling like you do when you go to sleep in daylight and wake up in the dark, sort of bonkers. I had a terrible taste in my mouth, too. So I went into the bathroom and used her toothbrush again and threw some cold water on my face. When I came out she was sitting by the window, looking out over the city. It was a mighty pretty night, everything just twinkling and you couldn’t hear anything, it was like being in a huge aquarium. We just sat there for awhile, staring out.
    “Do you think you’re going to be famous?” I asked.
    “I don’t know. Maybe,” she said.
    “A famous model?”
    “No, my legs are too short.”
    “I think I’m going to be famous,” I said.
    “How do you know?”
    “I think I look at things like a famous person would look at them.”
    “That’s a bit conceited.”
    “I don’t go around telling people. That would be conceited.”
    “You just go around
thinking
it. That’s worse,” she said.
    “But I think feeling famous is part of what makes you famous.”
    We stared out for awhile longer, not looking at each other, the room getting darker and darker.
    “But you got to be able to do something special,” she said after awhile. “Like be able to sing or something.”
    “I know.”
    “So what can you do?”
    “I don’t know yet. But there must be something. Otherwise it’d be a super cruel joke to feel like this.”
    “My father likes famous people,” she said. “I think he wishes he was famous himself.”
    “Everybody wants to be famous.”
    “No. Not everybody thinks it’s a big deal.”
    “I think you got to be famous to know it’s no big deal. Otherwise you’re cheating. It’s like you’re giving yourself an excuse not to try.”
    “Maybe.”
    I looked over at her. She was very pretty in that dark room, her head resting on her hand.
    “I’m not going to be famous,” she said. “You don’t know that.”
    “No, I do. I’m not good at anything. I’m probably going to end up with somebody famous. That must be why I met you.”
    It was some kind of day, I’ll tell you.

CHAPTER FOUR
    I GOT TO THE STATION around nine-thirty that night and sat around down there, waiting for my train. I had plenty of things to think about, but I don’t have a lot of patience so I kept getting up and wandering around, looking at the newspapers and the magazines and then going into the coffee shop and then going to have a look at myself in the bathroom mirror and take another pee.
    I saw this pretty girl sitting on a bench near me. She looked like a little deer, her hair all short and soft and blond and when her mother went to get something I found myself sort of hoping she’d talk to me. And then I thought, man, I really am a greedy little asshole. Like I just left my girlfriend and here I am, already