Stoner & Spaz Read Online Free PDF

about Colleen. What she’s doing. Who she’s with. Smoking dope, probably. With Ed. And they’re not sitting with their hands folded waiting for the lunch Bristol Farms delivered. Ed’s probably speeding and scarfing down greasy burritos that turn into even more muscles.
    “Ben?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    In the kitchen Grandma opens a bottle of chardonnay (C.P. and corkscrews don’t go together) for Marcie. I manage to pour the spring water Grandma likes. While I take a little relish tray into the dining room, Grandma gets the brunch together, zapping stuffed baby eggplant, portabella mushrooms, and twice-baked potatoes in the microwave. Then I help her transfer everything to platters and bowls.
    As we carry things in and out, Grandma asks where Marcie went to college. Like it’s a foregone conclusion that she did. Like she’s that sort of person. Our kind of people.
    “Pitzer.” She points east, toward Pomona.
    Grandma watches me sit down and unfurl a napkin. “Ben’s going to Stanford, aren’t you, dear.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And then where?”
    “I’ll take Harvard Business School for a thousand, Alex.”
    Marcie scrutinizes me. “You look the part, but that doesn’t mean much. I looked like a dutiful wife.”
    That takes me by surprise. I think,
Man, I know what you mean. This is just a costume. I’m only pretending to be dutiful, too.
But before I can blurt out anything, Grandma darts into the conversation like someone catching an elevator just before the door closes. “Do you live alone?”
    “I’m divorced.”
    Grandma looks down at her perfect fingernails. “I’m sorry.” Then she fingers the damask tablecloth.
    Marcie takes a long swallow of wine. “Don’t be. I wasn’t merry enough for Tom, so we agreed to go our separate ways.”
    That stops Grandma for a second. Then she rallies. “How do you stay so thin, dear?”
    “I have to watch what I eat. I had bypass surgery before I was forty.” Marcie touches her smock. “I look like the bride of Frankenstein under here.”
    Reaching for some parsley potatoes, I say, “That was just down at the Rialto.”
    Marcie nods. “I know; I saw it. I love that actress with the original big hair.”
    “Elsa Lanchester. Do you like the movies?”
    “Enough to make one. Or to try, anyway.”
    That makes me stop chewing. “You’re kidding.”
    Marcie sits back. “When Tom left me I had one of those episodes that some call a dark night of the soul. So I did two things: I prayed and I took classes. I now know the difference between a sestina and a villanelle; I can tell a Warhol from a Lichtenstein, and I can use a Sony three-chip.”
    “What kind of movie did you make?”
    “A little documentary. About people who’d had heart transplants. I was in Cedars recovering from this”— she points to her chest again —“when I heard these two middle-aged men talking. One of them said, ‘I hope I didn’t get some queer’s heart. I don’t want to start looking at sailors.’ And the other one said, ‘I was thinking maybe I got mine from some Chinese kid, because all of a sudden I can balance my checkbook.’”
    “And you made a movie about that?”
    “Uh-huh.” She drains her glass of wine. “When the teacher told us to start thinking about a semester project, I remembered those two men. Their new hearts meant a new life for them. But it sounded to me like they were still operating inside the traditional norms of class and gender.
    “I thought I’d investigate that. All I had was a bypass, and I couldn’t be the same afterward. I didn’t want to be the same. I wanted to know if that was unusual. So I talked to a lot of people, shot the whole thing in about a month, and edited it on my iMac. Got a B minus.”
    “Can I see it?”
    She waves half a roll at me. “Oh, I don’t think you want to do that. It’s not very good.”
    “I don’t care. I never knew anybody who actually made a movie before.”
    “Well, you’re in luck.