I stopped walking, unsure where this sudden shift in the direction of our conversation had come from. "Huh?"
"He is. I think. He wanders around his living room waving a butcher knife and talking to himself."
"How do you know this?"
"I saw him through my telescope. I was watching his house hoping that Ms. Peckin lived there."
"I mean it, stop joking about Ms. Peckin. Even the band geeks will kick your a.s.s."
"I just thought the whole butcher knife thing was kind of weird, that"s all."
"Well, yeah. Did you call the police?"
"No. They"d just tell me to stop peeking in people"s windows with a telescope."
"What does he talk to himself about?"
"I don"t know. I can"t read lips. But he"s done it the past couple of nights. He"s quaint."
"I"d like to see that," I said. "I"ve never watched a psycho killer rant before."
"Well, what are you doing this weekend?" Roger asked.
I shrugged. "Watching TV."
"Anything good on?"
"Does it matter?"
"If you wanted to come over, we could watch TV and my neighbor."
"Sure. Sounds like fun."
"How did your skit go?" asked my dad as I walked into the living room.
"That was last week."
"Well, how did it go?"
"Pretty good."
"What was it about again?"
"Shakespeare."
"Oh, yeah. That"s right."
"Hey, can I spend the night at a friend"s house tonight?" I asked.
"Which friend?"
"Roger. He just moved here."
"Is he a miscreant?"
"No."
"Did you take out the garbage this morning like you were supposed to?"
I hesitated. "Part of it."
My father sighed. "You really need to get out of the habit of lying, son. Guilt doesn"t make a very fluffy pillow."
"I don"t even know what that means."
"Someday you"ll understand. Yeah, you can spend the night, but do the dishes first."
I peeked into the kitchen. "There aren"t any dishes."
"Then clean your room."
"I haven"t messed it up since mom cleaned it yesterday."
"Then...I dunno, do something to demonstrate responsibility."
"If you give me some money, I"ll spend it responsibly."
"Don"t be a smarta.s.s."
"I wasn"t. I was offering to demonstrate fiscal responsibility." I didn"t get that C+ on my economics test without learning a few things.
"You know what, Andrew? You"re going to have smarta.s.s kids just like you, and they"re going to drive you to an early grave."
"Yeah, right."
"And I"ll be having a big ol" laugh at you from the early grave that you drove me to. Go on, get out of here."
"No money, huh?"
"Oh, all right. But don"t tell your mother."
Roger"s second-floor bedroom consisted of a bed, a dresser, a telescope, and lots of unpacked boxes. We"d spent the evening watching television in a pleasant state of zombie-like vegetation, and now I was unrolling my sleeping bag out onto his bedroom floor.
"See anything?" I asked.
"A few naked women having a pillow fight. Ooooh...good hit! That had to hurt!"
"What about your neighbor?"
"He"s just sitting there, reading a book."
"What if he looks up and sees you?"
"I"ll scream like a girl and faint."
"Good plan."
"Thanks."
We just hung out in his room for a while, chatting about subjects that were awe-inspiring in their lack of substantive content, until finally- "Oooh, he"s doing something," said Roger, adjusting the telescope. "He"s walking around, yep, he"s got the butcher knife...take a look at this!"
I peeked through the telescope. Roger"s neighbor, a slightly overweight, balding guy who looked about forty, was indeed pacing around his room, waving a butcher knife.
"Holy cow," I said. "He"s gone nutzo."
"I told you. Can you figure out what he"s saying?"
I stared at his mouth, but there was no way to translate. He was speaking very quickly and animatedly, poking the air with his butcher knife for emphasis.
"He"s saying, "Roger...Roger...the time of reckoning is at hand...sweet, delicious Roger, I"ve killed for our love and will do so again...""
"Shut up," said Roger, laughing.
"He"s got your picture tattooed on his chest."
"Seriously, what"s he saying?"
"I can"t tell. Something funky, I bet."
"So is that weird or what?
"Pretty weird. But it doesn"t mean he"s a killer. He could just be a torturer."
"We should go over and get a closer look."
"Yeah, right. What if we get caught?"
"Death. Dismemberment. Extra ch.o.r.es."
I peeked through the telescope again. "We"d better not. There"s definitely something wrong with this guy. At least there"s no blood on the knife. That"s a good sign."
"Let"s go over."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don"t do dumb things that will get me in trouble."
"Oh, come on. Don"t be such a wuss."
"I"m not a wuss."
"You"re a large, large wuss."
"I"m not sneaking over there," I said. "Especially not with you. I barely even know you. You could have bodies stacked in your closet. Here, open your closet so I can make sure there aren"t any bodies stacked in there."
"Fine, whatever," said Roger with a sigh. "I didn"t want to go over there anyway. I hope he gets the part."
"What part?"
"The play part."
"What play part?"
"He"s practicing for a play audition. Something about a serial killer who paces around with a butcher knife."
I gaped at him.
Roger grinned.
"You dork!" I said. "You made this all up?"
"No, I was absolutely serious when I said that he was practicing for a play audition."
I looked around for something to throw at him, preferably something with jagged edges and an internal combustion engine, but there wasn"t anything. I settled for calling him a dork again.
"Don"t blame me," said Roger. "It"s your sorry excuse for a town that forced me to resort to this kind of entertainment."
"There"s nothing wrong with Chamber."
"Where else have you lived?"
"Chamber. But there"s nothing wrong with it."
"Well, then what should we do?"
"We could watch some more TV."
Two hours of quality television later, Roger chugged the last of his can of soda and let out a belch that freaked out his cat. "I was lying about him auditioning for a play," he said.
"No, you weren"t."
"Okay."
I finished off my own drink and emitted my own, less-effective belch. "You know what would be funny? If somebody thought he really was a psycho killer and called the cops."
"Wanna do it?"