Free The Girl on the Fridge: Stories by Etgar Keret Page B

body drop forward, and I grabbed you by the coat collar, a tenth of a second before your face hit the sidewalk.
    “Two–zip,” you said and leaned against me. “We’re good. The sidewalks haven’t got a chance.”

    We kept walking toward your house, and every few steps you let yourself drop to the sidewalk, and every time I’d catch you—by the belt, by the waist, by the hair. Never letting you touch the ground. “Six–zip,” you said, and then “Nine–zip.” The game kicked ass, and so did we. We were unbeatable.
    “Let’s hold them at zero,” I whispered in your ear, and that’s just what we did. By the time we reached your house, we’d scored an amazing twenty-one to nothing. We entered the building, leaving the humiliated sidewalks behind us. Your roommate was there in your apartment, sitting up and watching TV.
    “We fucked them up,” you said as we walked in, and he rubbed his eyes behind his glasses and said we looked like shit. I was about to wash my face, but before I even made it to the sink I threw up in the bathtub. I heard you screaming in the hallway that you weren’t about to piss in that configuration. I came out of the bathroom and saw you staggering, with your pants down to your knees.
    “I’m not going to piss with you holding me up,” you told your roommate. “You I don’t trust. Only him. I want him to hold me,” you said, pointing at me. “Only him.”
    “It’s nothing personal,” I said and smiled at the roommate. “It’s just that we have lots of practice.” I helped you up by the waist.
    “You’re fucking insane.” The roommate shook his head and went back to his show. You finished pissing. I threw up another time. On the way to your bed, you fell once more, and I caught you, just barely, and both of us fell to the floor. “I knew you’d catch me,” you said and laughed.
    “Look,” you said and tried to get up again. “I’ve lost my fear of falling. My fear of falling’s gone.”
    There are these two kids here at your grave, aiming their tennis ball at the tombstones. I think I’ve figured out the rules: if the one they hit is an officer’s, they get a point. If it’s a cadet’s, it’s a point for the cemetery. They hit your tombstone, and the ball rebounded right into my hand. I caught it. One of the kids walked toward me apprehensively.
    “Are you the guard?” I shook my head. “So, can we get our ball back?” He took another step in my direction.
    I handed him the ball. He moved up closer to the tombstone, squinting at it.
    “SFC,” he called out to his friend, who was standing a ways away.
    “What’s SFC?” the faraway one asked. The one with the ball shrugged.
    “Excuse me,” he asked. “Is SFC an officer or just a normal soldier?” “An officer, of course,” I said. “It stands for Super First Commander.”
    “Yes!” he shouted and hurled the ball high in the air. “Eight–seven!” His friend came running and yelled, “We beat the gravestones! We beat the gravestones!” and the two of them started jumping and yelling like they’d just taken the world championship, or better.

Slimy Shlomo Is a Homo
    The sub told them to line up in pairs. Slimy Shlomo Is a Homo was the odd man out. “I’ll be your partner,” the sub said and gave him her hand.
    Then they went for a walk in the park, and Slimy Shlomo Is a Homo looked at the boats in the artificial lake, and at a gigantic sculpture of an orange, and then a bird pooped on his hat.
    “Shit sticks to shit,” Yuval shouted at them from behind, and the other kids laughed.
    “Ignore them,” the sub said and rinsed his hat off under a faucet. Next came the ice-cream man, and everyone bought ice cream. Slimy Shlomo Is a Homo ate his Popsicle, and when he finished, he pushed the stick between the tiles in the pavement and pretended it was a rocket. The other kids were fooling around on the grass, and only Slimy Shlomo Is a Homo and the sub, who was smoking a cigarette and