The Amazing Absorbing Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

side of the container, two overturned carts. Even in this cold weather two boys were riding their bikes. One of them slammed against the container like if it was a stunt and he tumbled on the curb. The other boy stopped and seemed to be laughing. A police car swung out from behind another building that was boxy and stumpy and had only three floors. The car was driving real slow like one of the sharks from
Jaws
. The two boys rode away in a hurry. I dashed back inside.
    I opened the bedroom door once more as if my father might be hiding inside the big cupboard. This time I did not shut the door; instead I walked from the kitchen to the bedroom like a madman, over and over again. I must have travelledclose to two miles if I counted all my footsteps, and on this little journey I noticed a baby cockroach scrambling up the cupboard, two hand-sized holes in the kitchen wall, a puddle coming from somewhere under the fridge, a watermark that looked like a plucked chicken on the ceiling, and a cord trailing from somewhere behind the couch. The cord was attached to a phone on top of an empty overturned aquarium. I wondered why my father had hidden the phone there and the purpose of the numbers written on the back of a handbill advertising swimming pool cleaning. My father, if he had written the note, had taken his time because FOOD BANK was spelt in neat block letters just like all the numbers on the right side of the sheet. It took a while before I actually made the call and even when I heard the man on the other side, I had no idea what I could say to him. Finally I gathered up the courage to ask if he had food there.
    “Yes, sir.”
    My heart sank fast. Why did he call me “sir”? This was a trap for sure. But it was too late to back out. “What kind?”
    “Are you asking about the types of food we have here?”
    “Yes. Dried goods or ground provisions?” This was going badly. I tried to recall what the television Canadians ate and rattled out the list that came into my head.
    “Yes sir, we do have bacon and tins of sardine but you will have to get your whisky elsewhere.”
    “And all of this free?’
    “Hold on.” I heard him talking to a woman about a pickup. He seemed harassed and I pictured a thin beaky man witha few grains of trembling hair on top his head. I put down the phone. My suitcase was resting against the living room wall and I was tempted to take out some money but I didn’t know if I should leave the apartment in my father’s absence, and in any case, I had no idea if there were groceries or parlours like Miss Bango’s nearby. In Mayaro there was always food in the cupboards and fruits in the backyard but this place was bare. I felt like calling Uncle Boysie on the phone and explaining this Canadian affair was a big mistake. Tell him that I was returning to pile pliers and can openers and fishhooks in his shop. Then I remembered he had packed away currant rolls and cassava
pone
and plastic packets of pickled mangoes in the suitcase’s outer pocket. They were squashed and stale but had never tasted better. The next morning it took about two or three minutes before I digested where I was. But I decided that I would not remain all day hideaway or chook up in the apartment. I put on two sweaters and followed some dark Chinese-looking people to the elevator in the outside hall. The elevator bounced a bit at each floor and by the time it reached the ground level, it was full-up with a good crop of plump children. Three of them were so alike I felt they could have been made from a fat little mould. As I walked about, I discovered a small park and webs of little roads all over the place. But the interesting thing was that on some of these roads I saw old Indians in turbans and on others, some black men in big puffed-out coats, and a little distance away these real Canadian people with their fat apple cheeks. Each group stuck to their own paths and as I pushed through asmall gate leading to another set of red