Best to Laugh: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

down, hard. Like a trapped moth, one question frantically batted around in my feelings of shock and grief: What did I do so wrong to deserve this? and that question, after a few tokes, was muted. That weekend I huddled on a matted square of carpet on the floor of a Dodge van, sharing a pipe and a bottle of Boone’s Farm apple wine with Karen and two guys she worked with at the Red Barn. That helped, too.
    On Monday I quit the swim team. I had already been cast as the dentist’s receptionist in Cactus Flower (“You’ll be hilarious,” the drama club advisor had told me), but before the first rehearsal I told Mrs. Freeburg that I was no longer interested. No extracurricular activities were going to get in the way of my newfound priority, which was to get high.
    Swimming and theater had given me a distinction, a special identity, but after I quit both, I was back to being the only “Oriental” (or at least “Oriental-looking”) kid in a school whose student body looked like a reunion of the Von Trapp Family Singers. And having both a mother and father die—whoa!—that shoved me into a whole new category of weirdness. I was someone people felt both apart from and sorry for, and if that wouldn’t compel you to buy a nickel bag or guzzle wine that tasted like fruit-flavored petrol, I salute your strength.

5
    A LTHOUGH SHE HELD A NIGHTLY COCKTAIL PARTY for herself, my grandmother didn’t set an example of medication by alcohol. She strictly enforced a one-drink-only rule, and while she was prudent with portions, she was lavish with ingenuity and ingredients. Monday she might shake up a martini, Tuesday stir a Manhattan, but what put her into the realm of a true mixologist were her invented drinks. A nippy autumn evening inspired Liquid Apple Crisp, a hot drink combining apple schnapps, rum, and a cinnamon stick; one humid summer night she blended what she dubbed a Banana Sangria Slush.
    It was 5 : 30 when I returned from the pool, which meant it was 7 : 30 back home and Grandma would be mixing up her latest. I had an impulse to call and ask about her newest libation, but my grandmother was old-fashioned and had a slight antipathy/fear of the telephone, especially when long-distance charges were incurred, so instead of bothering the bartender, I changed out of my swimsuit and did what we both promised to do at least weekly: write.
    September 1 , 1978
    7267 Hollywood Blvd., # 3
    Hollywood, CA 90067
    Dear Grandma,
    Just to get you situated: Peyton Hall is on the corner and shares a long block with several apartment buildings, one house, and a vacant lot. It’s on the residential part of Hollywood Boulevard; the “razzle-dazzle” part starts a couple blocks to the east. I took a stroll down the Walk of Fame yesterday (thinking of you every time I passed the star of one of your favorites—hello, Ray Milland, hello, Tyrone Power!). A woman wearing a stained turban that slid over one eyebrow asked me for a quarter, and when I gave it to her she yelled, “Cheap skate!” and I had to sidestep this tall, blank-eyed guy who motored by like a purposeful zombie. Twice at street corners I smelled “eau de piddle”—not my idea of a Hollywood Boulevard perfume!
    But Charlotte’s apartment is really cool. There are embossed palm trees on the dining room walls (painted over by some lout, but the shapes are still visible) and a rattan wallpaper covers the ceiling, making me feel like I’ve taken shelter in a Tiki hut. There’re all sorts of 8 x 10 pictures of Charlotte on the wall, and enough mirrors to make you think you’re in some low-budget psychological thriller. Plus all the clothes she didn’t take with her she left on the floor. (And no, I’m not tattling; just reporting . . .)
    My intention to write a nice chatty two-or-three-pager was stopped by the increasingly loud and snarly growls of my empty stomach. On my way to the kitchen, I remembered that the eggs I’d fried for breakfast had emptied my cousin’s