Free Losing Joe's Place by Gordon Korman Page A

slammed the door so fast that, a second later, it seemed that the whole thing had been merely a hallucination. When the beating of my heart slowed down a little, I steeled myself and knocked politely. “Uh — Rootbeer?”
    â€œYeah?” came the voice from within.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?”
    â€œMaking some prints.”
    â€œYou’re a photographer?”
    â€œA guy needs distraction from all the pressures, you know,” came the voice. “People are dropping like flies from executive burnout.”
    I stared at the closet door. “You’re not an executive.”
    â€œThat makes it even riskier,” Rootbeer replied. “If you’ve got a job, you know what to do every day. But me — no sooner do I get up than the decisions start. I could feel the stress eating away at me.”
    â€œBut all that stuff in there must have cost hundreds!” I protested.
    â€œWorrying about money is the number-one cause of burnout,” said Rootbeer. “So I spent it all. And I feel great! Hey, you can look at my first picture.”
    Watching Rootbeer crawl out of a cramped closet is like when someone opens a suitcase and out comes a full-grown bull elephant. In his hand, he clutched a gleaming wet 8 x 10 glossy and proudly held it out before me.
    â€œIt’s white!” I blurted out.
    Rootbeer examined the blank photograph. “Hmmm. I guess you exposed it when you opened the door.”
    Oh, no! I’d ruined Rootbeer Racinette’s picture. It was as though I’d walked up and infected him with executive burnout. “Sorry,” I quavered.
    â€œOh, don’t worry,” said Rootbeer. “I gotta have a hobby, but nobody says I gotta be any good at it.” He held his picture between his thumb and forefinger and began to blow on it softly.
    His whole roll came out exactly like that, but this first picture was his favorite, so up it went on the wall, right over the stereo. Rootbeer signed it with a green crayon that appeared out of the poncho.
    â€œIt looks great,” I said.
    â€œAnd see how relaxed and happy I am,” added Rootbeer, and he fell into Manchurian Bush Meditation on the spot.
    I mopped as best I could, working around Rootbeer, and by the time I’d taken out the garbage and mailed a couple of letters, it was four-ten, time to go back to the job search. I paused. Four-ten was almost four-fifteen, which was just a quarter hour before four-thirty. Most people are winding down their day by then — some even knock off half an hour early, especially those important enough to be responsible for hiring new guys. In other words, not only would I be wasting my time in applying for anything now, but I’d actually be
hurting my chances
by pestering people so late.
    I should have been disappointed; I felt great. And after all, it wasn’t as though I’d
wasted
the day. The apartment was spotless (another of my mother’s words — watch it, Cardone).
    Speak of the devil — the phone rang. My mother.
    â€œWhat are you doing home? I knew it! You’re sick!”
    I managed a high-pitched giggle. “I’m not sick. It’s my day off.” Every day was my day off.
    â€œWell, I was just going to leave a message on your machine to let you know that your father and I will be at the Murphys’ tonight in case you need us.”
    The meaning was clear. If I happened to decide that I wanted to go home during the two hours that they’d be out, I could call them at the Murphys’ for instant rescue.
    â€œI won’t need you,” I assured her. I glanced at the dead rhinoceros lying on our floor. “Everything’s fine. ’Bye.”
    It was unnerving to be with Rootbeer when he was meditating. Sure, I knew he wasn’t dead, but it was scary to be in the same room with somebody lying there not breathing. So I went for a walk. You can’t spend all day cooped