White Man's Problems Read Online Free PDF Page A

an Italian card player.
    â€œWe live in Stuckley, Mrs. Tremblay.”
    â€œWhat is Stuckley? What is zees, Lizbet?”
    Liz rolls her eyes. “Mama. It is the place by the mall. Where you like to go for the cheeseburgers.”
    â€œOh, yes, yes. Where zey have Burger King and toolayshows.” I don’t know what “toolayshows” are, but Liz does, and she nods.
    â€œMama, we’re going into the den.”
    â€œDo you want chocalat?” asks Mrs. Tremblay.
    It takes me a minute before I realize she is offering us hot chocolate. We stay in the kitchen as she makes it. Liz gets annoyed and looks at the crossword puzzle her father left incomplete on the table. Mrs. Tremblay is drinking a glass of red wine she poured from a bottle with a cork. I make small talk, but there are moments when it’s impossible to understand her. Liz chimes in when I need bailing out. I ask for the bathroom, and there are two toilets in there. One just has a faucet in the middle—I don’t know what the hell these people do with that. I make a decision and go American.
    We get our hot chocolate and go into the den, which is a big room with tons of books, a piano, two couches, a coffee table, white marble ashtray, and a deep-brown shag carpet. It looks more like a place to have tea with the Black Panthers than a place for kids to hang out. We plop down on the couch, and Liz sits facing me with her back against the arm and her legs crossed in front of her.
    â€œLet me read your palm,” she says, reaching out to grab my hand. I shift toward her till I am up against her legs. I’m still trying to stay calm, trying to not think about where I am right now and the eight thousand ways I can make a goddamn fool of myself with one wrong move.
    â€œYour life line is long…” She is really focused, like a doctor going over an X-ray. “But something happens right here, in the middle.” She holds my palm up to my face. I have no idea what she’s talking about. Me, Roman Budding, confused by two beautiful French women within twenty minutes. More importantly, though, the reading is finished, and it’s not clear where, exactly, my hand should go. Right then and there, I realize I don’t know how much longer I can live with myself without at least trying something. So I interlace my fingers with hers.
    She doesn’t scream. In fact, she seems to be fine with it. We sit there and don’t say anything for a while. I can’t resist rubbing my thumb up and down her ring finger once, but I stop because I don’t want to call too much attention to the fact that she is holding hands with me. I’m scared she will wake up any second, come to her senses, and pull her hand away. But she doesn’t.
    She breaks the silence by pointing at my jeans. “What happened?” My pant leg has run up, and the burns can be seen.
    â€œOh God. Wrestling,” I say.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” She is giggling a little, which is very cute.
    â€œUgh. It’s the worst. Getting smothered by Peter Logatelli trying to sit-out.”
    â€œHow do your legs get burnt?”
    I look around and see an opening on the shag beyond the coffee table. “Here, let me show you.” She follows me over to the carpet. “Ok, you’re me and I’m Peter. You start off like this.” I show her how to take the bottom position, on hands and knees. Then I loop my arm under her waist and hold her left arm above the wrist. She smells incredibly great. She has a green sweater made out of fancy wool, which is softer than my pillow. It bunches up above her waist and I can see the top of her panties: orange and very distracting. They’re sticking out of her corduroys, which are a different color green and go nicely with the sweater and her flowered shirt. And, of course, I look real quick at her butt, the derriere extraordinaire.
    â€œWhen the whistle blows, you’re supposed to