UR - By Stephen King Page 0,17
could have done without that. No offense, Robbie, but stick your birthday up your ass.”
They watched his diminishing taillights and Robbie said thoughtfully, “Nobody ever told me to stick my birthday before.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to take it personally. And he’s probably right about the Kindle, you know. It’s fascinating—too fascinating—but useless in any practical sense.”
Robbie stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re calling access to thousands of undiscovered novels by the great masters of the craft useless? Sheezis, what kind of English teacher are you?”
Wesley had no comeback. Especially when he knew that, late or not, he’d probably be reading more of Cortland’s Dogs before turning in.
“Besides,” Robbie said. “It might not be entirely useless. You could type up one of those books and send it in to a publisher, ever think of that? You know, submit it under your own name. Become the next big thing. They’d call you the heir to Vonnegut or Roth or whoever.”
It was an attractive idea, especially when Wesley thought of the useless scribbles in his briefcase. But he shook his head. “It’d probably violate the Paradox Laws…whatever they are. More importantly, it would eat at me like acid. From the inside out.” He hesitated, not wanting to sound prissy, but wanting to articulate what felt like the real reason for not doing such a thing. “I would feel ashamed.”
The kid smiled. “You’re a good dude, Wesley.” They were walking in the direction of Robbie’s apartment now, the leaves rattling around their feet, a quarter moon flying through the wind-driven clouds overhead.
“You think so?”
“I do. And so does Coach Silverman.”
Wesley stopped, caught by surprise. “What do you know about me and Coach Silverman?”
“Personally? Not a thing. But you must know Josie’s on the team. Josie Quinn from class?”
“Of course I know Josie.” The one who’d sounded like a kindly anthropologist when they’d been discussing the Kindle. And yes, he had known she was a Lady Meerkat. Unfortunately one of the subs who usually got into the game only if it was a total blowout.
“Josie says Coach has been really sad since you and her broke up. Grouchy, too. She makes them run all the time, and kicked one girl right off the team.”
“That was before we broke up.” Thinking: In a way that’s why we broke up. “Um…does the whole team know about us?”
Robbie Henderson looked at him as though he were mad. “If Josie knows, they all know.”
“How?” Because Ellen wouldn’t have told them; briefing the team on your love-life was not a coachly thing to do.
“How do women know anything?” Robbie asked. “They just do.”
“Are you and Josie Quinn an item, Robbie?”
“We’re going in the right direction. G’night, Wes. I’m gonna sleep in tomorrow—no classes on Friday—but if you drop by Susan and Nan’s for lunch, come on up and knock on my door.”
“I might do that,” Wesley said. “Goodnight, Robbie. Thanks for being one of the Three Stooges.”
“I’d say the pleasure was all mine, but I have to think about that.”
.
Instead of reading ur-Hemingway when he got back, Wesley stuffed the Kindle in his briefcase. Then he took out the mostly blank bound notebook and ran his hand over its pretty cover. For your book ideas, Ellen had said, and it had to’ve been an expensive present. Too bad it was going to waste.
I could still write a book, he thought. Just because I haven’t in any of the other Urs doesn’t mean I couldn’t here.
It was true. He could be the Sarah Palin of American letters. Because sometimes longshots came in.
Both for good and for ill.
He undressed, brushed his teeth, then called the English Department and left a message for the secretary to cancel his one morning class. “Thanks, Marilyn. Sorry to put this on you, but I think I’m coming down with the flu.” He added an unconvincing cough and hung up.
He thought he would lie sleepless for hours, thinking of all those other worlds, but in the dark they seemed as unreal as actors when you saw them on a movie screen. They were big up there—often beautiful, too—but they were still only shadows thrown by light. Maybe the Ur-worlds were like that, too.
What seemed real in this post-midnight hour was the sound of the wind, the beautiful sound of the wind telling tales of Tennessee, where it had been earlier this evening. Lulled by it, Wesley fell asleep, and he slept deeply and long. There were no dreams, and when he woke up, sunshine was flooding