laughing AT him.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"I can't believe you said 'singular wit.' That's sounds like fricking British or something."
"Well, I am a bit of an Anglophile."
"An Anglophile? What's an Angophile?"
"It's someone who loves Mother England."
God, this kid was an eighty-year-old literature professor trapped in the body of a fifteen-year-old farm boy.
"Listen, Gordy," I said. "I know you're a genius and all. But you are one weird dude."
"I'm quite aware of my differences. I wouldn't classify them as weird."
"Don't get me wrong. I think weird is great. I mean, if you look at all the great people in history—Einstein, Michelangelo, Emily Dickinson—then you're looking at a bunch of weird people."
"I'm going to be late for class," Gordy said. "You're going to be late for class. Perhaps you should, as they say, cut to the chase."
I looked at Gordy. He was a big kid, actually, strong from bucking bales and driving
trucks. He was probably the strongest geek in the world.
"I want to be your friend," I said.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"I want us to be friends," I said.
Gordy stepped back.
"I assure you," he said. "I am not a homosexual."
"Oh, no," I said. "I don't want to be friends that way. I jus I meant regular friends. I mean, you and I, we have a lot in common."
Gordy studied me now.
I was an Indian kid from the reservation. I was lonely and sad and isolated and terrified.
Just like Gordy.
And so we did become friends. Not the best of friends. Not like Rowdy and me. We
didn't share secrets. Or dreams.
No, we studied together.
Gordy taught me how to study.
Best of all, he taught me how to read.
"Listen," he said one afternoon in the library. "You have to read a book three times before you know it. The first time you read it for the story. The plot. The movement from scene to scene that gives the book its momentum, its rhythm. It's like riding a raft down a river. You're just paying attention to the currents. Do you understand that?"
"Not at all," I said.
"Yes, you do," he said.
"Okay, I do," I said. I really didn't, but Gordy believed in me. He wouldn't let me give up.
"The second time you read a book, you read it for its history. For its knowledge of history.
You think about the meaning of each word, and where that word came from. I mean, you read a novel that has the word 'spam' in it, and you know where that word comes from, right?"
"Spam is junk e-mail," I said.
"Yes, that's what it is, but who invented the word, who first used it, and how has the meaning of the word changed since it was first used?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Well, you have to look all that up. If you don't treat each word that seriously then you're not treating the novel seriously."
I thought about my sister in Montana. Maybe romance novels were absolutely serious
business. My sister certainly I bought they were. I suddenly understood that if every moment of a book should be taken seriously, then every moment of a life should be taken seriously as well.
"I draw cartoons," I said.
"What's your point?" Gordy asked.
"I take them seriously. I use them to understand the world. I use them to make fun of the world. To make fun of people. And sometimes I draw people because they're my friends and family. And I want to honor them."
"So you take your cartoons as seriously as you take books?"
"Yeah, I do," I said. "That's kind of pathetic, isn't it?"
"No, not at all," Gordy said. "If you're good at it, and you love it, and it helps you navigate the river of the world, then it can't be wrong."
Wow, this dude was a poet. My cartoons weren't just good for giggles; they were also
good for poetry. Funny poetry, but poetry nonetheless. It was seriously funny stuff.
"But don't take anything too seriously, either," Gordy said.
The little dork could read minds, too. He was like some kind of Star Wars alien creature with invisible tentacles that sucked your thoughts out of your brain.
"You read a book for the story, for each of its words," Gordy said, "and you draw your cartoons for the story, for each of the words and images. And, yeah, you need to take that seriously, but you should also read and draw because really good books and cartoons give you a boner."
I was shocked:
"You should get a boner! You have to get a boner!" Gordy shouted. "Come on!"
We ran into the Reardan High School Library.
"Look at all these books," he said.
"There aren't that many," I said. It was a small library in a small high school in a small town.
"There are three thousand four hundred and twelve books here," Gordy said. "I know that because I counted them."
"Okay, now you're officially a freak," I said.
"Yes, it's a small library. It's a tiny one. But if you read one of these books a day, it would still take you almost ten years to finish."
"What's your point?"
"The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don't know."
Wow. That was a huge idea.
Any town, even one as small as Reardan, was a place of mystery. And that meant that
Wellpinit, that smaller, Indian town, was also a place of mystery.
"Okay, so it's like each of these books is a mystery. Every I look is a mystery. And if you read all the books ever written, it's like you've read one giant mystery. And no matter how much you learn, you just keep on learning there is so much more you need to learn."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," Gordy said. "Now doesn't that give you a boner?"
"I am rock hard," I said.
Gordy blushed.
"Well, I don't mean boner in the sexual sense," Gordy said. "I don't think you should run through life with a real erect penis. But you should approach each book—you should approach life—with the real possibility that you might get a metaphorical boner at any point."
"A metaphorical boner!" I shouted. "What the heck is metaphorical boner?"
Gordy laughed.
"When I say boner, I really mean joy," he said.
"Then why didn't you say joy? You didn't have to say boner. Whenever I think about boners, I get confused."
"Boner is funnier. And more joyful."
Gordy and I laughed.
He was an extremely weird dude. But he was the smartest person I'd ever known. He
would always be the smartest person I'd ever known.
And he certainly helped me through school. He not only tutored me and challenged me,
but he made me realize that hard work—that the act of finishing, of completing, of
accomplishing a task—is joyous.
In Wellpinit, I was a freak because I loved books.
In Reardan, I was a joyous freak.
And my sister, she was a traveling freak.
We were the freakiest brother and sister in history.
My Sister Sends Me an E-mail
-----Original Message-----
From: Mary
Sent: Thursday, November 16, 2006 4:41 PM
To: Junior Subject: Hi!
Dear Junior:
I love it here in Montana. It's beautiful. Yesterday, I rode a
horse for the first time. Indians still ride horses in Montana.
I'm still looking for a job. I've sent applications to all the
restaurants on the reservation. Yep, the Flathead Rez has about
twenty restaurants. It's weird. They have six or seven towns,
too. Can you believe that? That's a lot of towns for one rez!
And you know what's really weird? Some of the towns on the rez
are filled with white people. I don't know how that happened.
But the people who live in those white towns don't always like