Reality Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

see it above the heads of the people waiting in line. After our short break to eat leftover chicken and fries from the matinee at the PEC Center, it’s time to get ready for the five o’clock hockey game, and there are seventy people waiting in front of us.
    The hour before the game starts is a blur of large Pepsis, five-dollar Molsons, pretzels, fries, hot dogs, and nachos. All the while, I’m eating ice cream in Gersday because I can live in two days at once. This is another advantage I have over lesser humans.
    When Nichols comes back, he’s still flipping me the bird as he approaches my register.
    “Hey, Crapmeister. Can I have a Molson?” He throws down a five-dollar bill.
    I stare at him. I imagine how easy it would be for me to pull him over the counter, drag him behind the fry table, and press his face into the hot dog rollers. How fun it would be to dunk his head into the deep-fat fryer.
    “Dude. Did you hear me?” he yells, too loudly. I can feel Beth’s attention from the other side of the stand, and I know there is no way Nichols is getting his Molson.
    “I heard you. Sorry. My Molson is tapped,” I say.
    “I just saw her tap one a minute ago!” He points at Register #6 Lady. My hand reaches out toward him just a little and he sees it. His expression changes. I can’t tell if it’s fear or anger, but suddenly my heart rate goes up and I get ready to pounce. Everything goes silent in my head.
    “Is there a problem here?” Beth asks.
    Nichols smiles. “No. No problem. I was just asking this young man to get me a beer,” he says. Like a bigger moron than the moron he already was.
    “Can I see your ID?” Beth asks.
    It’s nice to see Nichols scurry off like a scared insect.
    Beth says, “Do you know him?”
    I say no, but she can tell I’m lying, and then she has to go over to #2 to check a hundred-dollar bill with her magic pen. I watch her walk away and catch myself staring at Register #1 Girl as she works. She even works beautiful.
    I face the next customer. “Can I help you?”
    “Can I have a pretzel?”
    “Sure,” I say. “That’ll be four dollars.”
    The kid fumbles with a handful of quarters and hands me sixteen of them.
    Nichols shows up at the side of my register, now with Todd. “Yo, Crapper. How about that Molson now?”
    “Excuse me. We’ve been waiting for five minutes,” the lady in front of me says to him. She’s in her full hockey-fan outfit, complete with this year’s new jersey, a pair of stonewashed jeans, and a pair of shit-kicker construction boots.
    “Yeah, well, I waited, too, and now I’m back,” Nichols says, leaning into my face, right over the counter. I lean into him—so close I can feel his breath. You can’t bully a bully. I’m the Crapper.
    I feel my right arm tense up. My fingers tingle. My adrenaline has already left the building. It’s heading to my fist, which is ready to fire in three… two… one…
    Hockey Lady grabs Nichols by the collar and says, “Little prick,” and pulls him back to the end of the line. Then she returns and smiles at me.
    “Thank you,” I say. I flex my right fist to get the feeling back. My insides feel woozy from the rush.
    “No problem,” she answers. “They should know not to mess with hockey fans. We don’t take any shit.”
    This makes me want to become a hockey fan. I would love to not take any shit.
    She orders a bunch of stuff and while she’s waiting on thebuffalo wings, she scoots over so the next person can go. While I’m filling that person’s drink refill, the buffalo wings appear on the hot tray and I reach back and grab them. Then, as I’m handing them to the hockey lady, Nichols pops up in the back of the crowd. “I hope he crapped on those wings for you, bitch! That’s what the Crapper does best!”
    She looks at me and I can tell—she recognizes me. I avoid eye contact, but she doesn’t go away. When I look back at her, she has this look on her face. I can’t describe it.
    I hand