Joe College: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

with someone different for a change.”
    I climbed onto the stool next to hers and played a little drumroll on the bar, feeling unexpectedly calm and in control.
    “It is nice. How come we didn’t think of this a month ago?”
    She reached down and squeezed my leg just above the knee. It was a ticklish spot, and I jumped in my seat.
    “I’ve been waiting for this all summer,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
     
     
    I wouldn’t have predicted it, but Cindy turned out to be a talker. She drank three glasses of rose with dinner and held forth on whatever popped into her head—her indecision about buying a car, her crush on Bruce Springsteen, a bad experience she once had eating a lobster. She had so many opinions my head got tired from nodding in real or feigned agreement with them. She believed it was better to die in a hospice than a hospital and thought tollbooths should be abolished on the parkway. She disapproved of abortion, loved trashy novels, and was angered by the possibility that rich people might be able to freeze their bodies immediately after death, remaining in a state of suspended animation until a cure was found for whatever had killed them.
    “It doesn’t seem fair,” she said. “When you’re dead you should just be dead.”
    “That’s right. It should be available to everyone or not at all.”
    “I want to travel,” she blurted out. “I don’t just want to rot around here for the rest of my life.”
    I looked up from my Mexi-burger, startled by the pleading in her voice. She smiled sheepishly.
    “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not usually such a chatterbox. I hope I’m not boring you to death.”
    “Not at all. I’m happy to listen.”
    And I was, too, at least most of the time. Even when she recounted in minute detail a complex dispute her mother had had with the cable company, or tried to convince me that I needed to read The Late, Great Planet Earth , I still found myself diverted by the unexpectedness of Cindy and touched by her need for my approval. I wasn’t used to thinking of myself as someone other people needed to impress. Until quite recently, in fact, I had generally felt the obligation moving in the opposite direction.
    “Do I sound stupid to you?” she asked.
    “What makes you think that?”
    “I’m just going on and on. I’m not even sure if I’m making sense.”
    “It’s nice,” I said. “I’m having a good time.”
    She stuck one finger into her wineglass, stirring the pink liquid into a lazy whirlpool. Then she transferred her finger from the glass to her mouth, sucking contemplatively for a few seconds.
    “You’re sweet,” she said finally, as if pronouncing a verdict. “You’re sweet to even put up with me.”
     
     
    She decided she was too tipsy to drive and happily accepted my offer of a ride home. We maneuvered our way through the crowded parking lot, bodies brushing together accidentally on purpose as we walked. It was still muggy, but the night had cooled down just enough to be merciful. I reached into my pocket and fished around for the keys.
    “Oh my God,” she said, grabbing me roughly by the wrist. “You’re driving me home in this?”
    I had spent so much of my summer in and around the Roach Coach I didn’t really notice it anymore. But her startled laughter made me look at it as if for the first time: the gleaming silver storage compartment with its odd, quilted texture, the old-fashioned cab, the grinning cockroach on the passenger door, emblem of my father’s rapidly fading dream. The roach was a friendly-looking, spindly-legged fellow, as much person as bug, walking more or less upright, with white gloves on his hands and white high-top sneakers on his feet. He seemed to be in a big hurry to get wherever it was he was going. DANTE’S ROACH COACH, said the bold yellow letters arching over his head. Beneath his feet, a caption read, COMIN’ ATCHA!
    “It’s all I have,” I said. “My