Schrodinger's Gat Read Online Free PDF Page B

buzz.
    The novel isn’t bad. None of them are bad. They just aren’t good. I’m not aiming for Dickens, mind you. I write genre stuff, mysteries mainly. The trick in writing a novel, I’ve learned, is to find the proper balance of order and chaos. You’ve got to let things get a little bit out of hand to keep the reader’s interest, but you can’t get too crazy or you’ll never wrap things up satisfactorily. You have to allow your characters some freedom so they seem real, but you also have to find a way to somehow guide them inexorably to their doom (or happily ever after, if that’s your sort of thing. It’s not mine.) The problem is that I work so hard to tie up everything nicely that the characters become cardboard cutouts. They’re not real people; they’re just puppets of doom. Or I let them do whatever they want and the whole plot falls apart. I can’t ever seem to get the balance right. Anyway, you don’t care about this shit.
    I have another drink and go to bed. Bed being an air mattress on the floor.
    The next morning I awaken to the sound of my phone ringing. The school again. I put it on silent and go back to sleep. I’ve already got five missed calls from them since I didn’t show up yesterday. I didn’t bother to call in sick; I figured I’d let that fat ass of a vice principal earn his pay by scrambling to find a replacement or, God forbid, fill in for me himself. That was my nod to the cause of mayhem, I guess. I am become death, irritant of public school bureaucrats.
    The buzzing of the phone on the box where I had set it wakes me up again an hour later. So much for “silent.” The phone’s display reads Mom . I sigh and answer it.
    “ Paul?” says my mom’s voice. “Aren’t you at school?”
    Flashes of playing hooky in junior high. “Took the day off,” I reply. “Why are you calling if you didn’t think I would answer?”
    “ I was just going to leave you a message. Don’t you already get a lot of days off? Do you have extra vacation days?”
    “ I just needed some time to unpack,” I say.
    “ Why don’t you unpack on Saturday? You can’t just take days off whenever you want, you know.”
    “ I know, Mom.” Because I’m thirty-six fucking years old . “What do you need?”
    “ What do I need ?”
    “ I’m sorry, Mom. How are you.” It’s supposed to be a question, but I don’t quite manage the little lilt in my voice.
    “ I’m fine, Paul. I was hoping you could come over and help me with something. I was thinking this Saturday, but since you’re not doing anything …”
    “ I just told you I was unpacking.”
    “ Well, how much can you have to unpack?”
    “ What do you mean? It’s everything. Everything I own, except the furniture.”
    “ Is that a good idea?”
    “ I don’t … what do you mean is it a good idea?”
    “ To move everything, I mean. That woman is going to think you’re never coming back.”
    “ Her name is Deb, Mom. And I’m not coming back. We’re splitting up. She made that pretty clear.”
    “ Well, she can’t just do that. Don’t you have any say in the matter?”
    “ What do you want me to do, Mom? I can’t force her to stay with me.”
    “ A marriage is a two person arrangement, Paul. One person can’t just end it. You need to make sure she understands that.”
    “ OK, Mom.” It’s easier just to go along than to argue when she gets like this.
    “ And why do you have to move out if she’s the one with the problem?”
    “ The kids are staying with her.”
    “ Pfft,” she says. This is the noise my mother makes when the conversation has veered toward a subject she doesn’t want to talk about. My mother has no interest in my kids. I’m not sure if this is because she doesn’t like Deb or because having grandchildren makes her feel old. Probably a little of each.
    “ So what did you need my help with, Mom?”
    “ Oh, it’s just this thing for your father, this award. They need some pictures of him for the