The 25th Hour Read Online Free PDF

mother say when you got that?’
    ‘Got what?’
    ‘Your tattoo,’ says Jakob, pointing.
    Mary studies her wrist for a moment. ‘She said, “Where’d you get the money for that?”’
    ‘Oh. And?’
    ‘And what did I say or where did I get the money?’
    ‘Well, what did you say, I guess.’
    ‘I said the guy did it for free.’
    ‘Did he?’
    ‘No. Why do you care so much?’ she asks, more surly than suspicious.
    ‘Just curious.’
    ‘So you’re not going to change the grade?’
    Jakob shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not changing the grade.’
    ‘Great.’ She rises from her chair and pushes a lock of limp hair away from her forehead. ‘That was a big waste of time.’
    ‘Look, instead of worrying about the grade so much, why don’t we talk about the actual story, okay? Do you have it here? I’ll show you what I thought didn’t work and you can—;’
    ‘I’ve got rehearsal,’ she says, stomping out of the classroom. Jakob listens to her combat boots thumping down the hallway.
    What that girl needs, thinks Jakob, staring at his own awkward scrawls on the blackboard, is a good spanking. He grins at the illegal thought.
    An hour later he sits on a bar stool next to LoBianco, blowing on the head surfacing his glass of beer. It’s one of the last of the vintage saloons on Amsterdam Avenue, complete with a stamped-tin ceiling, wood paneling sooted from decades of cigarette smoke, and frosted windows. Women rarely make an appearance here. Jakob supposes that the old men lounging about the room are gay, but this place is far from a pickup joint. More like a waiting room, except Jakob’s not sure what they’re waiting for.
    ‘What’s today,’ he asks, ‘Thursday? January’s almost over. Four more months till June.’ Jakob wears a scuffed Yankees cap and continually tugs on the brim, like a third-base coach signaling for a hit-and-run.
    ‘Cheers to that,’ says LoBianco, drinking deeply from his iced vodka. ‘Counting the days till summer, hmm?’
    Maybe LoBianco was handsome once, but it’s gone now, lost to alcohol and the pallor of a lifetime lit by fluorescent bulbs. His face rarely changes from an expression of weary disdain, as if he had just finished sneering, or was about to start sneering, or had decided that a sneer was simply too much effort to waste on the cretins surrounding him. Jakob believes the old man might have auditioned a variety of looks years ago, standing before the mirror – Withering Contempt, Half-Concealed Irritation, Condescending Amusement – and finally settled on Weary Disdain as the best of the lot.
    As a former student of LoBianco’s, Jakob knows how intimidating the expression can be. Students in LoBianco’s classes fall into two camps: the silent masses, too fearful of mockery to speak aloud, and the courageous few, who raise their hands and daringly venture their views on the current text. The greatest reward offered to this latter group consists of LoBianco’s observing the speaker for a moment, examining the ceiling, and then granting a quick nod of approval and sometimes – rarely – murmuring, ‘Yes, there’s something to that. Interesting.’ Such an endorsement would make the young Jakob froth with excitement, and he would carefully transcribe his own comment into his notebook, marking it with a star to denote particular brilliance.
    Jesus, what a geek, he thinks now, appraising his reflection in the mirror behind the stacked bottles of liquor, his small pointed face peering out between bars of whiskey. His own expression, he notes unhappily, suggests Nervous Agitation. I look like a ferret, he decides, a prepubescent ferret in a Yankees cap. He wrinkles his nose and bares his teeth. A definite rodent.
    ‘Are ferrets rodents?’ he asks.
    ‘Are ferrets rodents? How did we get from June to ferrets?’
    ‘Do you think I look like a ferret?’
    LoBianco studies Jakob’s face and nods. ‘A bit.’
    ‘A bit like a ferret. Great. Thank you.’