These Things Happen Read Online Free PDF

of Wrath , which seems to obsess everyone in my orbit but me. Mr. Frechette is making us read a term's worth of books that will make us better people, as he feels the bitter, sarcastic irony that he often hears from us is something you should only come to in the autumn of your years, to use his words, when you have earned it from your swim in the harsh sea of life.
       I take a grape, the kind I hate; with seeds. As I spit them out the phone rings.
       "That's Dad," I tell the air, and I'm right.
       "Wesley?"
       "Hey, Dad."
       "Wesley?" he says again; people are always saying my name again. "I got your voice mail. Is everything all right?"
       He asks this every day, like he's waiting for something not to be. My mom's the same, unlike Ben and George, who assume things are good unless you bleed or throw up in front of them.
       "Basically."
       " 'Basically'? What does that— shit, I'm in a bad spot. Hello? Wesley?"
       He's sort of shouting now, the way people do in old movies when they're calling long distance. Maybe he thinks shouting makes bad spots good.
       "I'm here, Dad."
       "So when you say, 'basically,' what do you mean?"
       "Well," I say, feeling sort of angry, suddenly, "we're still fighting useless wars, our so-called system is like totally broken, and one in fifty kids in America is homeless." I get like this, sometimes. I can't help it; certain things just disturb me. "So, for the sake of argument, one might say, when I say, 'basically,' I mean—"
       "Are you getting shit at school?"
       I laugh, in a fairly weary way. "Ha! Why would I?"
       He doesn't say anything. I don't know if he's in a bad spot again, or thinking. Then I hear him.
       "Because of us. Because we're—"
       He wants to say gay. He says gay all the time, when he's talking
    about a group of people. When it comes to himself, though, he always stops right before the word.
       "I'm okay, Dad."
       "You're sure? Because George just called. He said you need to talk, to both of us?"
       "I do. That is, if you can. Because if you can't—"
       "The thing is—"
       "So you can't, then," I say. " Which is good, Dad. I don't mean it's good. I mean it's not a problem."
       "Oh, God, Wes," he says, "I hate to ask this, but can it wait till morning?"
       What can I say here? It can't? I didn't know how amazing my dad was until I've been here with him and George. It even scares me, a little; how does a person become like that? Was he ever like me, schlepping along, as my stepdad says, foolish and disappointing and finding the world that way, too? In the kitchen I see flowers, vegetables, fruits. George goes to Green Markets. Everyone always knows him. People save things, special little somethings, that they think he'll like. And I think: how does a person become like that? How does a person become anything?
       "Wes? Are you there?"
       "It can wait, Dad."
       "You're sure?"
       I don't know how, exactly, but something tells me his phone will die before I can answer his question. And it does; I'm occasionally psychic, about phones. He calls back right away, and because I'm fucked up I let it ring through to voice mail. I'll listen later, to what I'm sure will be an interesting explanation, like the one last week where a crisis broke out on the gay block at Rikers Island and my dad spent the night defusing it; George said he pictured prison ers taking hostages and demanding to see Elaine Stritch, this old actress who comes to the restaurant a lot. The phone rings one more time, and once more I just let it.
       And it's okay, because even though I want to keep my promise to Theo I have plenty of homework to do. This means the only tv I'll watch is the scene in The Wire where Jimmy and Bunk check out a crime scene and communicate only through the word fuck ; I watch this daily, and always feel better afterward. Then I'll go down to the restaurant to see if I can help