of all, she read the fillers.
"I love fillers!" she exclaimed.
"What are fillers?" I said.
She explained that fillers are little items that are not considered important enough to be a story or to have a headline. They're never more than one column wide, never more than an inch or two deep. They are most commonly found at the bottoms of inside pages, where the eye seldom travels. If the editors had their way, they would never use fillers. But sometimes a reporter doesn't write quite enough words, and the story doesn't reach all the way to the bottom of the page. The paper can't have a blank space there, so the editor dumps in a filler. A filler doesn't need to be "news." It doesn't need to be important. It doesn't even need to be read. All it's asked to do is take up space.
A filler might come from anywhere and be about anything. It might tell how many pounds of rice a typical Chinese person eats in a lifetime. Or say something about beetles in Sumatra. Or the filler might come from down the street. It might mention that so-and-so's cat is missing. Or that so-and-so has a collection of antique marbles.
"I search through fillers like a prospector digging for gold," she said. "So that's it?" I said. "You read the papers?"
"No," she said, "that's not all. There's also the place where I get my hair cut. I always overhear good stuff there. And of course there're bulletin boards. Do you know how many bulletin boards there are in town?"
"Sure," I said facetiously, "I count them every day."
"So do I," she said, not kidding. "So far, I'm up to forty-one."
Offhand, I couldn't think of one, except the plywood roadrunner. "What do you learn from bulletin boards?"
"Oh...somebody just opened a business. Somebody lost a dog. Somebody needs a companion."
"Who advertises for a companion?" I said. "Who needs one that bad?"
"Lonely people," she said. "Old people. Just somebody to sit with them for a while."
I pictured Stargirl sitting in a dark room with an old woman. I couldn't picture myself doing the same thing. Sometimes she seemed so far from me.
We were passing Pisa Pizza. "There's a bulletin board in there," she said.
It was just inside the door. It was smothered with business cards and notices. I pointed to one that said "Odd Jobs-Ask for Mike," call this number. "So what's that tell you?" I said, with more challenge in my voice than I intended.
She read it. "Well, it could be that Mike lost his regular job and can't find another, so he's hiring himself out. Or even if he has a regular job, it's not enough to make ends meet. He's either not very neat, or he can't afford a whole piece of paper. This is just a scrap."
"So what would you do for him?" I said.
"Oh, I don't know. My parents might have an odd job they need done. Or maybe I do. Or maybe I could just send him a card." "What kind of card would he get?"
"A Keep-your-chin-up card." She poked me. "Hey, want to play a card game?"
I had a feeling she wasn't talking about poker. "Sure," I said.
She said she invented it. "All you need is your eyes and one other person. I pick somebody on the street, the mall, a store, wherever, and I follow them. Say it's a her. I follow her for fifteen minutes, not a minute more. I time myself. The game is, after fifteen minutes of watching her, I have to guess what kind of card she needs."
"But how can you get it to her?" I said. "You don't know where she lives."
"True. That's as far as it goes. That's why it's just a game. It's just for fun." She snuggled into me. She whispered in my ear, "Let's play."
I said sure.
She said we needed a mall. I usually steered us away from the Mica Mall-too many silent-treatment MAHS kids hanging around there. We drove ten miles to the Redstone Mall. It was a Saturday afternoon.
We picked out a woman. Lime-green skort. White sandals. We guessed her age was early forties. She was buying a soft pretzel-regular, salted-at Auntie Anne's. She carried the pretzel in a little white paper bag. We
"I love fillers!" she exclaimed.
"What are fillers?" I said.
She explained that fillers are little items that are not considered important enough to be a story or to have a headline. They're never more than one column wide, never more than an inch or two deep. They are most commonly found at the bottoms of inside pages, where the eye seldom travels. If the editors had their way, they would never use fillers. But sometimes a reporter doesn't write quite enough words, and the story doesn't reach all the way to the bottom of the page. The paper can't have a blank space there, so the editor dumps in a filler. A filler doesn't need to be "news." It doesn't need to be important. It doesn't even need to be read. All it's asked to do is take up space.
A filler might come from anywhere and be about anything. It might tell how many pounds of rice a typical Chinese person eats in a lifetime. Or say something about beetles in Sumatra. Or the filler might come from down the street. It might mention that so-and-so's cat is missing. Or that so-and-so has a collection of antique marbles.
"I search through fillers like a prospector digging for gold," she said. "So that's it?" I said. "You read the papers?"
"No," she said, "that's not all. There's also the place where I get my hair cut. I always overhear good stuff there. And of course there're bulletin boards. Do you know how many bulletin boards there are in town?"
"Sure," I said facetiously, "I count them every day."
"So do I," she said, not kidding. "So far, I'm up to forty-one."
Offhand, I couldn't think of one, except the plywood roadrunner. "What do you learn from bulletin boards?"
"Oh...somebody just opened a business. Somebody lost a dog. Somebody needs a companion."
"Who advertises for a companion?" I said. "Who needs one that bad?"
"Lonely people," she said. "Old people. Just somebody to sit with them for a while."
I pictured Stargirl sitting in a dark room with an old woman. I couldn't picture myself doing the same thing. Sometimes she seemed so far from me.
We were passing Pisa Pizza. "There's a bulletin board in there," she said.
It was just inside the door. It was smothered with business cards and notices. I pointed to one that said "Odd Jobs-Ask for Mike," call this number. "So what's that tell you?" I said, with more challenge in my voice than I intended.
She read it. "Well, it could be that Mike lost his regular job and can't find another, so he's hiring himself out. Or even if he has a regular job, it's not enough to make ends meet. He's either not very neat, or he can't afford a whole piece of paper. This is just a scrap."
"So what would you do for him?" I said.
"Oh, I don't know. My parents might have an odd job they need done. Or maybe I do. Or maybe I could just send him a card." "What kind of card would he get?"
"A Keep-your-chin-up card." She poked me. "Hey, want to play a card game?"
I had a feeling she wasn't talking about poker. "Sure," I said.
She said she invented it. "All you need is your eyes and one other person. I pick somebody on the street, the mall, a store, wherever, and I follow them. Say it's a her. I follow her for fifteen minutes, not a minute more. I time myself. The game is, after fifteen minutes of watching her, I have to guess what kind of card she needs."
"But how can you get it to her?" I said. "You don't know where she lives."
"True. That's as far as it goes. That's why it's just a game. It's just for fun." She snuggled into me. She whispered in my ear, "Let's play."
I said sure.
She said we needed a mall. I usually steered us away from the Mica Mall-too many silent-treatment MAHS kids hanging around there. We drove ten miles to the Redstone Mall. It was a Saturday afternoon.
We picked out a woman. Lime-green skort. White sandals. We guessed her age was early forties. She was buying a soft pretzel-regular, salted-at Auntie Anne's. She carried the pretzel in a little white paper bag. We
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