Kurts

George is in a funk.

“Kurts”

 

 

         “Here’s your Kurt Vonnegut novel back.” Gorge said, as he handed Toby a well-worn copy of Breakfast of Champions. It was the first time he had left his room in a number of days.

         Toby eyeballed the book for a minute. The spine was very creased and some of the pages were folded and tattered. It was practically brand new when he lent it to George; he liked the way it looked now better, though.

         “Did you like it?” Toby asked.

         “Loved it.” George replied, rummaging through the refrigerator. “F****n’ genius.”

Toby’s spirits were lifted: this was the most animated George had seemed since the funeral.

         “So, buddy, are we gonna do anything today?” Toby asked.

         George replied with a non-committal “ehh”. Toby took it as a “no”, but still, it as better than an actual “no” or being ignored, like the replies he had gotten the past couple of days. George was depressed, and who could blame him? His friend did die, after all. Toby tried to respect that he was in a funk (laying in bed all day long, listening to Nirvana’s In Utero on loop). Still, Toby was in a town here he didn’t really know anyone and was stuck inside all day hanging out with George’s grandparents, because of all the rain they had been getting. Not to mention, Toby had to share a bed with George, who hadn’t showered since the day of the funeral.

         “Dude, do me a favor today.” Toby said. “Please, take a f*****g shower… you’re killing me here.”

         “… I’ll think about it.” George replied, smirking a little, and popping the tab on a can of Dr. Pepper (a beverage Toby usually made fun of him for drinking because he said it was a senior citizen brand of soda, like Diet Rite and Tab).

         George returned to the dark of his room. Toby did notice, however, that he had finally changed the CD: The Pixies – Doolittle: less depressing. That was progress.

 

[end]