"I was in Washington State, at a small-town YMCA, when a boy wandered into the lap lane and popped his head, seal-like, out of the water. I would later learn that he was nine, but at the time he was just this kid, slightly pudgy, with a stern haircut. It's like he went to a barbershop with a picture of Hitler, that's how severe it was. We got to talking, and when I told him I wasn't a very good swimmer, he challenged me to a race. I think he assumed that, like most adults, I'd slow down and intentionally let him win, but he didn't know who he was dealing with. I need all the confidence I can get, and one victory is just as good as any other. Thus I swam for my very life and beat the pants off him. I thought this was it - he'd accept his defeat and move on with his life - but five minutes later he stopped me again and asked me if I believed in God. "No," I told him. "Why?" I thought for a second. Because I have hair on my back, and a lot of other people, people who kill and rob and make life miserable, don't. A real God wouldn't let that happen."
— David Sedaris
6 comments:
That's pretty funny. Love ya
Don't you just love this book?
Though she'd promised that no one would ever notice, you could always tell when I'd been clothes shopping with Amy. I was the guy at the crowded steak house, removing the jacket with a label reading Sassy Sport. That was me with the darts in his shirt, the fabric slack where it should be filled with breasts. I'd step up to the restroom urinal and remember that these particular pants zipped up the back. At this point people noticed.
Sweet book. I got it for Christmas.
This author, and this book, have been on my book wish list for a bit of time now...with the additional excerpts I've got to get it...I can hardly wait!
I smelled trouble the moment her car pulled up, a piece of junk driven by a guy with no shirt on. He looked just old enough to start shaving, and remained seated as the figure beside him pushed open the door and eased her way out. This was Mrs. Peacock, and the first thing I noticed was her hair, which was the color of margarine and fell in waves to the middle of her back. It was the sort of hair you might find on a mermaid, completely wrong for a sixty-year old woman who was not just heavy but fat, and moved as if each step might be her last.
"Mom!" I called, and, as my mother stepped out of the house, the man with no shirt backed out of the driveway and peeled off down the street.
"Was that your husband?" my mother asked, and Mrs. Peacock looked at the spot where the car had been.
"Naw," she said. "That's just Keith."
Not "my nephew Keith" or "Keith, who works at the filling station and is wanted in five states," but "just Keith," as if we read a book about her life and were expected to remember all the characters.
She'd do this a lot over the coming week, and I would grow to hate her for it.
seriously i miss you and the famliy so much! love you and bye..
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