The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘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 his bedroom. For the first time since his own undergraduate days, he had slept until almost eleven in the morning.

V – Ur Local (Under Construction)

He took a long hot shower, shaved, dressed, and decided to go down to Susan and Nan’s for either a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever looked better on the menu. As for Robbie, Wesley decided he’d let the kid sleep. He’d be out practicing with the rest of the hapless football team this afternoon; surely he deserved to sleep late. It occurred to him that, if he took a table by the window, he might see the Athletic Department bus go by as the girls set off for the Bluegrass Invitational, eighty miles away. He’d wave. Ellen mightn’t see him, but he’d do it anyway.

He took his briefcase without even thinking about it.

He ordered Susan’s Sexy Scramble (onions, peppers, mozzarella cheese) with bacon on the side, along with coffee and juice. By the time the young waitress brought his food, he’d taken out the Kindle and was reading Cortland’s Dogs. It was Hemingway, all right, and one terrific story.

‘Kindle, isn’t it?’ the waitress asked. ‘I got one for Christmas, and I love it. I’m reading my way through all of Jodi Picoult’s books.’

‘Oh, probably not all of them,’ Wesley said.

‘Huh?’

‘She’s probably got another one done already. That’s all I meant.’

‘And James Patterson’s probably written one since he got up this morning!’ she said, and went off chortling.

Wesley had pushed the Main Menu button while they were talking, wanting to hide the Ur-Hemingway novel. Because he was feeling guilty about what he was reading? Because the waitress might get a look and start screaming That’s not real Hemingway? Ridiculous. But just owning the pink Kindle made him feel a little bit like a crook. It wasn’t his device, after all, and the stuff he had downloaded wasn’t really his, either, because he wasn’t the one paying for it.

Maybe no one is, he thought, but didn’t believe it. He thought one of the universal truths of life was that, sooner or later, someone always paid.

There was nothing especially sexy about his scramble, but it was good. Instead of going back to Cortland and his winter dog, he accessed the UR menu. The one function he hadn’t peeked into was Ur Local. Which was under construction. What had Robbie said about that last night? Better watch out, traffic fines double. The kid was sharp and might get even sharper, if he didn’t batter his brains out playing senseless Division Three football. Smiling, Wesley highlighted UR LOCAL and pushed the Select button. This message came up:

ACCESS CURRENT UR LOCAL SOURCE? Y N

Wesley selected Y. The Kindle thought some more, then posted a new message:

THE CURRENT UR LOCAL SOURCE IS MOORE ECHO ACCESS? Y N

Wesley considered the question while eating a strip of bacon. The Echo was a rag specializing in yard sales, area sports, and town politics. The residents scanned those things, he supposed, but mostly bought the paper for the obituaries and Police Beat. Everybody liked to know which of their neighbors had died or been jailed. Searching 10.4 million Moore, Kentucky, Urs sounded pretty boring, but why not? Wasn’t he basically marking time, drawing his breakfast out, so he could watch the players’ bus go by?