The Unknowns Read Online Free Page A
Author: Gabriel Roth
infant and a big Akita. I’m standing closer to the elevator doors than is customary, and I must look pretty bad. The mother flinches protectively toward the boy’s stroller.
“Papers,” I say, displaying them, and try to smile reassuringly.
When I get back to the apartment I drop the papers on the island and glance unstoppably at the laptop’s screen, where nothing has changed.
In the bathroom I clean up, gargle, assess the situation. Looking in the mirror is always disappointing—it’s strange that something can be
always disappointing;
you’d imagine that eventually you’d adjust your expectations downward to the point where they’re congruent with reality—but today it’s even more disappointing than usual. My skin is ghastly pale, and my hair has flattened and swollen in random whorls and eddies. The real problem, though, is not these contingent features but the face itself. When we say someone has a big nose, we’re usually talking about the third dimension, the degree to which the nose protrudes into the outside world. My nose, in contrast, is big in the first two dimensions, the x- and y-coordinates. (This corresponds to greater negative space in the nostril area as well.) But my nose is just the most dramatic symptom of a deeper problem: there isn’t enough room on my face. When I was a boy myfeatures could coexist in peace, but as I emerged from puberty they began to manifest expansionist aims and struck out into the neutral territory between them. I am surveying the battlefield when a chime sounds in the other room, and hope spikes into my heart, and I defer the brushing of my teeth and exit the bathroom to check my email.
I haven’t spoken to my father since I left Denver more than three years ago, and I thought we were both committed to falling out of touch. But there it is:
[email protected]
.
Eric, Im going to be in San Fran next month. Thought we might get together if your free. Got something BIG to spring on you. I’ll be the the 7 to the 16, hope that’s good for you. Barry (dad).
Sic passim. His signature takes up seven lines and lists his job title, employer, mailing address, and phone number, none of which has changed in a decade.
I spend most of the following weeks surfing the Internet to no purpose. I wake in the early afternoons with no memory of any dreams. I compose a brief reply to my father, suggesting that he call me when he arrives. The program coordinator for the Digital Future Conference emails again, and this time I accept the invitation. In the evenings I rotate my three most reliable culinary options: the hamburger place, the burrito place, and spaghetti. Christmas and New Year’s occur without me.
I’m not sure exactly how much time has passed since my last unwise attempt at social contact, but the number of days modulo three must equal two because I’m getting a burrito. The taqueria is painted in kindergarten shades of red and yellow, and the jukebox plays Mexican pop music at an excruciating volume, and the lighting makes everyone more animated than usual. I walk up the aisletoward the counter and there, at a table on the left, is Maya, and my heart is suddenly audible to the entire restaurant. She’s listening intently to a pale, pierced girl who is talking loudly and gesturing with her hands. Does Maya see me? I lock my eyes on the far wall and walk past her, trying to maintain a natural pace and gait. The possibilities start branching: Either she saw me or she didn’t. If she saw me, did she see me see her? If she saw me see her, does she think I didn’t recognize her? Is it possible she doesn’t recognize me? And this:
What does she know about me
?
The guy taking the orders calls me
amigo
, which he only started doing a month ago and which usually makes me feel good but not today.
I’ve never been able to figure out how much girls tell each other. I used to assume that information is a status symbol in GirlWorld, and so anything you tell a
“Papers,” I say, displaying them, and try to smile reassuringly.
When I get back to the apartment I drop the papers on the island and glance unstoppably at the laptop’s screen, where nothing has changed.
In the bathroom I clean up, gargle, assess the situation. Looking in the mirror is always disappointing—it’s strange that something can be
always disappointing;
you’d imagine that eventually you’d adjust your expectations downward to the point where they’re congruent with reality—but today it’s even more disappointing than usual. My skin is ghastly pale, and my hair has flattened and swollen in random whorls and eddies. The real problem, though, is not these contingent features but the face itself. When we say someone has a big nose, we’re usually talking about the third dimension, the degree to which the nose protrudes into the outside world. My nose, in contrast, is big in the first two dimensions, the x- and y-coordinates. (This corresponds to greater negative space in the nostril area as well.) But my nose is just the most dramatic symptom of a deeper problem: there isn’t enough room on my face. When I was a boy myfeatures could coexist in peace, but as I emerged from puberty they began to manifest expansionist aims and struck out into the neutral territory between them. I am surveying the battlefield when a chime sounds in the other room, and hope spikes into my heart, and I defer the brushing of my teeth and exit the bathroom to check my email.
I haven’t spoken to my father since I left Denver more than three years ago, and I thought we were both committed to falling out of touch. But there it is:
[email protected]
.
Eric, Im going to be in San Fran next month. Thought we might get together if your free. Got something BIG to spring on you. I’ll be the the 7 to the 16, hope that’s good for you. Barry (dad).
Sic passim. His signature takes up seven lines and lists his job title, employer, mailing address, and phone number, none of which has changed in a decade.
I spend most of the following weeks surfing the Internet to no purpose. I wake in the early afternoons with no memory of any dreams. I compose a brief reply to my father, suggesting that he call me when he arrives. The program coordinator for the Digital Future Conference emails again, and this time I accept the invitation. In the evenings I rotate my three most reliable culinary options: the hamburger place, the burrito place, and spaghetti. Christmas and New Year’s occur without me.
I’m not sure exactly how much time has passed since my last unwise attempt at social contact, but the number of days modulo three must equal two because I’m getting a burrito. The taqueria is painted in kindergarten shades of red and yellow, and the jukebox plays Mexican pop music at an excruciating volume, and the lighting makes everyone more animated than usual. I walk up the aisletoward the counter and there, at a table on the left, is Maya, and my heart is suddenly audible to the entire restaurant. She’s listening intently to a pale, pierced girl who is talking loudly and gesturing with her hands. Does Maya see me? I lock my eyes on the far wall and walk past her, trying to maintain a natural pace and gait. The possibilities start branching: Either she saw me or she didn’t. If she saw me, did she see me see her? If she saw me see her, does she think I didn’t recognize her? Is it possible she doesn’t recognize me? And this:
What does she know about me
?
The guy taking the orders calls me
amigo
, which he only started doing a month ago and which usually makes me feel good but not today.
I’ve never been able to figure out how much girls tell each other. I used to assume that information is a status symbol in GirlWorld, and so anything you tell a
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