Losers by Matthue Roth Page B

paintings, treating the place like it was a museum. There was a girl sitting at a desk (tied-back black hair, sleeveless dress) who kept shooting glances at me, as if to say that it wasn’t a place for museumgoers like me. I found a flyer for a concert the weekend after next, this band I’d never heard of. All the flyers were made from linoleum woodcuts, a full round moon and the silhouettes of a werewolf and a country preacher. They looked unbelievably cool.
    I started to rethink Devin’s invitation to watch movies with a bunch of friends Friday night, which I’d just turned down. I started to wonder if the girl of my dreams wasn’t just as likely to be hiding underneath a set of perfectly globular, slightly protrusive breasts, inflated slightly by a mercilessly tight baby-tee, still olive from a lingering August tan, lurking backstage at a concert of a band called Prowler.
    But first I had to get through the week.
    Monday night was spent at home with my parents, the farthest scene from a Prowler concert that I can imagine. I picked at my dinner, not in the mood for it. Not in the mood for any of this.
    â€œThe warehouse it was a crazy-people place today,” said my father. “Two new factory want to order from us, and we are already behind on three factory order. If we say yes, we lose the order we already have. If no, then we may not to get another chance.”
    â€œYeah, Dad,” I said, rolling my peas through the spears of a fork. “It’s a conundrum.”
    I used the word even though I was well aware that he probably didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know why he was talking about this, not with me at the table. I mean, my mom alreadyknew all the details, and he had to know that I didn’t care. And it was true; I really didn’t. What was it going to affect me whether we moved to somewhere that was even colder and trashier than this? If there was anywhere in the entire city worse than this place, it was hard to imagine.
    â€œAnd the owner he say, if too much business, they may need more space.”
    â€œBig deal,” I said. “So, they buy another warehouse down here or something. Maybe they’ll have another family move in and be the foremen of that place. Maybe they’ll have a hot daughter or something, and there’ll finally be someone for me to hang out with.”
    Wow. I couldn’t believe I’d said that. The words hot daughter —even if my parents, with their limited English proficiency, interpreted it literally—were dangerous words, a veritable invitation to inquire into the workings of my social life. It would be just about the worst conversation topic ever…except maybe for the subject that we were currently talking about. It was moments like these that turned me into a believer, that had me reaching out with my mind and trying to conjure God. Please, change the conversation topic. Please, change the conversation topic…
    My mother glared sideways at me for a second, but then she put up her hand to keep me quiet. Her gaze was locked on my father.
    â€œVaclav, what are you talking about?” she said. “What do you mean?”
    He bowed his head, staring the coleslaw on his plate head-on.
    â€œI am thinking they will ask us to move,” he said.
    The next morning, I walked down the dirty, aluminum-can-lined block as usual, and waited at the graffiti-encrusted bus shelter. My parents paid next to nothing to the company for renting the warehouse, but they also earned next to nothing. It was a trade-off. They would never have a chance to earn enough to get themselves off their feet, but they would never need to, either.
    The bus came. I dropped my token into the slot and probed my wallet, counting the amount of tokens I had left. Four. Two days before I would have to ask my parents for money to buy another pack. Even at the reduced rate, it was still eleven bucks a week they were paying. For me to