A 52-Hertz Whale Read Online Free PDF Page A

Corinne, and I loved her.
    That’s crazy about the Navy subs screwing with Salt’s ears. Not cool. That’s the government for you. God, I sound like an old man. Feel like one too, lately.
    D
    From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
Date: September 22, 2012 at 4:59 PM
Subject: Golf ___________, Glee ________, ____________ sandwich
    What goes in those blanks?
    If you guessed “Donkey,” you’re an idiot and probably a member of Lawrence’s sales team, ha! Just j.k.’ing, Law. You da Man. Fo’ real.
    The correct answer was “Club!”
    Oh yeah! This Wednesday, we’re hittin’ da club, One Term Life Insurance Corp style. Hide your kids, hide your wife! (Or in Randy’s case, just don’t tell them!)
    Anyway, I know this is supposed to be our little thing to celebrate hitting our numbers last quarter, but I was wondering if it’d be okay if I invited my roommate out with us. He’s working his way through a tough breakup. And by “working through,” I mean never leaving our apartment except to work, and surviving on ramen noodles and Ken Burns’s Roosevelts documentary. He’s a good dude, just needs a little kick in the ass to get himself back into society. And I believe that if there’s any office in all of One Term Life Insurance Corp that can do it, it’s ours.
    Culver City 4eva,
    Luke
    From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: September 22, 2012 at 11:22 PM
Subject: RE: My condolences
    Dear Darren:
    I’ve been pretty down about Salt lately. I keep listening to whale songs on CD, and I’ll admit, sometimes the humpback voices are pretty ghostly sounding. I almost feel like Salt is trying to talk to me from the other side and it tears me apart.
    Anyway, I guess you’re right that I should talk about his death with someone, but I’m an only child. My dad is a pediatrician, and in med school he had to dissect cadavers. He still talks about this one—a six-year-old kid. My guess is that, given what he’s seen, my dad wouldn’t have much sympathy for a dead whale. Oh, and he’s into seafood—big time. If we ever start serving whale on a bun like they do in Asia, he’ll be all over it. Then there’s my Mom. She’d probably send me to the school counselor, a psychiatrist, AND some kind of marine mammal grief support group. She believes in talking the way some people believe in prayer—the more you do it, the better you feel. You and Mom might get along, come to think about it. As you probably gathered from working with me on the Gabber Aid film, I don’t subscribe to Mom’s theory.
    Anyway, I know you’re busy and you’ve got bigger fish to fry (I actually hate that pun but I am deliriously tired and too lazy to delete) . . . Ceasing and desisting.
    Sincerely,
    James Turner
    From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: September 25, 2012 at 11: 48 PM
Subject: Fish Fry
    Well, you’re in luck, Whale Boy.
    You wanna talk about a dead whale? Let’s talk. Let’s talk about anything. Because as it turns out, I decidedly do not have any bigger fish to fry. I don’t have freakin’ shrimp to fry. Don’t got dang krill to fry! You know why?
    My ex.
    Corinne. That relationship I was talking about moving on from? Her.
    The day after I last emailed you, my roomie invited me out with him and some of his work buddies. I didn’t have to be in until eleven the next morning, a rare reprieve, so I said sure. If you knew the crap (can I just say “shit”? I’m saying “shit,” you’re 14) I go through on a daily basis, you’d understand how excited I was. I was going out on a Wednesday night! I haven’t sniffed fun on a Wednesday night