Christopher Paul Curtis Read Free Page B

can be a pretty good substitute.
    It took me a while when I was young to know how important philosophy is. I stayed away from it because so many philosophers have those long, foreign, impossible-to-pronounce names. That can be kind of embarrassing if you're having a conversation and you want to throw in a philosopher's name to try to sound a little more intelligent than you are.
    I can never forget the pain and heartache that scarredthe emotions of a certain young, naive philosophy lover, whose name we won't call, when his burned-out old teacher'd said, “I've never heard of a thirteen-year-old being so interested in philosophy, why do you like it so much?”
    The student had stroked his chin like he had a bad little goatee going and said, “Now, I can't be exactly sure if it was Sew-crates or Ar-is-totally who said, ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’”
    The teacher looked confused. “Who said that?”
    The poor student repeated the names.
    The teacher gave a hating smile and only halfway tried not to die laughing. “I believe they're pronounced
‘Sah
-cruh-tees’ and ‘
Air
-is-tott-ul.’ ”
    After something like that all your credibility is shot. Stand in line and get your capital “I” 'cause that's what you look like, a giant idiot.
    I learned to say, “This reminds me of what that great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said….” It keeps your conversation flowing along real nice.
    That's why you'll never find Luther T. Farrell looking down on somebody just because they have a little trouble with the pronunciation of a messed-up name. Another reason why it's easy to see that Luther T. Farrell has found a home in science and a haven in philosophy.

The next day the Sarge said, in a voice deeper than mine, “I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? Your teachers have always said what a bright boy you are, and you do have that unusual knack for philosophy, so why should I have to draw pictures for you in regards to something as simple as this?”
    I let her sarcastic remark about philosophy slide right by me and looked over at the dried-up little surprise that was waiting in the bed across the room from mine.
    I asked her, “How come he's gotta stay in my room? Why can't we move him in with Mr. Baker?”
    She was in a pretty good mood—she decided to give me an answer. It was weak, but it was an answer.
    She patted the man's medication chart, which to her is kind of like putting your hand on the Bible, and said, “This is a special case, we need to take extra care to make sureeverything's properly documented and thoroughly charted with him.”
    Which translated into English that nothing could look fishy if this old dude died.
    I looked back at her. She was staring. “Need I say more?”
    She gave me that look that was supposed to let me peer into the depths of her soul. I don't know what I was supposed to see when I looked there, but whatever it was it sure didn't seem deep and it didn't have anything to do with soul.
    I said, “No.”
    Her left eyebrow arched in a way that I'd practiced for years but couldn't quite do. She said, “No?”
    I said, “I mean ‘No, you don't have to say anything more.’”
    “Good.” And she was gone. I hope she headed back over to her place.
    I bent over to get a good look at this little old man.
    His eyes were closed and his eyeballs were moving side to side under lids that couldn't've been more than two or three molecules thick. Even though the rest of him was perfectly still, those roving eyeballs made it seem like he was looking hard for someone. Or like he was being chased by something and couldn't tell from which direction it was about to snatch him.
    I picked up the medication chart that hung from a nail in the footboard of his bed. “Chester X Stockard” was written across the top. His name was followed by five “A”s.
    Snap! I'd never seen anyone with more than three before. The “A”s were a part of the Sarge's