GRAY MATTER Read Online Free Page B

f-fine,” the kid said in a thin voice, and returned to the cartoons.
    Martin watched the kid. The book was a large hardbound tome of Walt Disney animations, and he was flipping through the pages rapidly as if trying to find something.
    A few minutes later, Angie delivered the pancakes and a small rack of
syrups. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin noticed the kid remove the tops of the syrups and sniff each one. He was not casually taking in the aromas but deeply inhaling and processing the scents like a professional perfume tester. Dissatisfied, he then poured a little of each into his coffee spoon and continued smelling then testing each with his tongue. It was bizarre.
    This went on until Angie took notice and marched up to the kid’s booth, her large red face preceding her like a fire truck. “You got a problem here?”
    The kid looked up, startled. “Oh, no. N-no problem.”
    “So what are you doing with the syrups?”
    “Well, I’m just trying to find the … I’m just w-w-wondering if … Do you have any others … other syrups?”
    “You got five different syrups right there. What else do you want, tartar sauce?”
    “Do you have any ma-ma-ma-maple syrup?”
    She pulled one out of the rack and turned the top toward him. “Whaddya think this is?”
    “Well, I meant, you know … real maple syrup?” He sniffed the small carafe. “This is actually corn syrup with water and artificial f-f-flavors. Also, c-caramel coloring. I mean real m-maple syrup, one h-hundred percent, no additives.”
    Angie took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, working to steady herself, aware that the whole place was watching and wondering if she were going to blow. “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said in a mock-apologetic whine. “We don’t have real m-m-maple syrup, so I’m afraid you’re gonna have to settle for the cheap imitation shit.” She spun around and huffed away.
    The kid looked around to notice everybody staring at him. He put his hand to his brow and began nibbling on his pancakes, pretending to lose himself in the cartoons. He only ate a mouthful, occasionally sniffing the different syrups when Angie wasn’t looking.
    He was clearly disturbed, Martin told himself, and operating on another level of reality. Every so often he would snap his head around as if picking up a stray scent like an animal. When he got up to go to the toilet, Martin could see that he was a tall overweight kid with a boyish face and a confused lumbering manner. He loped his way as Angie stood behind the counter wiping coffee mugs and watching him with that flat red face. On his return, he rounded the far end of the counter when something stopped him in his tracks: Blondie’s half-eaten cake in the next booth. In disbelief, Martin watched the
kid slip onto the seat and lower his face to the dish, sniffing like a dog screening leftovers on the dinner table.
    “Shit!” Angie muttered as she rolled past Martin toward the kid. “You gonna eat my garbage now, huh?”
    The kid straightened up, and the whole place held its breath. “What kind of cake is this?” His face was intense, his pupils dilated. The earlier deferential manner had hardened into some weird purpose.
    She pulled the dish away and walked around the counter and dumped it into a bin without a word.
    “I said, what kind of cake is that?” The kid rose from the booth. His eyes were fixed on the woman.
    The fireman at the counter sat straight up. Everybody in the place was now looking at the big bear-bodied boy pressing Angie for an answer. She seemed taken aback by his intensity. “Butter almond cake.”
    “Butter almond cake,” he said as if taking an oath. “Like real almonds?”
    “Yeah, real almonds and real almond extract,” she said sarcastically.
    “Do you have any more?”
    Angie looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, one piece.”
    The kid’s eye clapped on the display case where the cakes sat. “I’ll have it.”
    “What about your pancakes over