Read North of Boston for Free Online Page B

and Internet all in the same place. And your iPod—you just load it in. Books, too. Boom, just like that. You’re reading William fucking Shakespeare while you’re waiting for your Big Mac. Or your oil change. Whatever you want. One click, and it’s all happening.”
    Noah looks at the guy thoughtfully, trying to figure him out. Reverts to manners when he has no luck. “Thank you very much, but I don’t want an upgrade right now.”
    â€œIt’s free if you give me your old phone.”
    â€œI told you, I don’t have it. My mom said I couldn’t take it ’cause she didn’t want me playing video games.”
    â€œYou didn’t leave it in the car, did you?”
    Noah shakes his head.
    â€œWell, it’s a shame you can’t get your hands on it, because you just missed the deal of a lifetime.” The guy sweeps the new phone off the table and stows it in his pocket. “I would have traded fair and square. And, hey, when you find the old one, I still will. OK, little man? That a deal?”
    â€œHey, Noah,” I say, eyeing the guy. “Who’s your friend?”
    â€œMax,” Noah says heavily, as if the one syllable is one too many.
    Max stretches out his hand, and we shake over Noah’s head, but it’s perfunctory. The fingers barely clutch mine.
    â€œPirio,” I tell him, though he didn’t ask.
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œPirio.” I enunciate slowly.
    Max nods like he gets it, but looks bothered by the nominal challenge, and turns his attention back to Thomasina, who’s chatting with others at the table.
    Noah is drawing the stages of evolution in a notebook he brought with him. So far he’s done one-cell organisms, amoebas, and some strange-looking fish.
    â€œThat one needs a mustache,” I say, pointing.
    â€œWhiskers, maybe,” he says, humoring me.
    â€œWait. Do fish have whiskers?” I’m actually not sure.
    â€œPirio—” This could mean either yes or no.
    â€œI think I saw whiskers on a fish in the aquarium. A blue, bulbous, bug-eyed guy with droopy jowls. Looked just like my uncle Fred.”
    â€œYou don’t have an Uncle Fred.”
    â€œHow do you know? I could have six Uncle Freds back in Russia. All kick-dancing on the steppes, yelling
Oie!
”
    â€œOie?”
he repeats, squinting.
    â€œRussian for ‘Hey, pretty lady, will you marry me?’”
    Noah smiles.
    It’s work to get a smile from him, but worth the effort, because his face softens and turns beautiful.
    â€œYou want to go home now?” I ask.
    He looks at me gratefully. “Yeah.”
    â€”
    Two hours later Murphy’s Pub is emptying out. Only three big round tables are still occupied by reveling mourners. The DJ is playing sad-sack tunes; the same couple has been shuffling on the dance floor for an hour, collapsed into each other, either drunk or half asleep; and two disheveled women are in the corner crying loudly like it’s a job they’ve been hired to do. Only crumbs are left on the buffet table—cake plates with nothing on them but plastic knives coated with sticky clumps of icing, salad bowls with limp, oil-smeared lettuce clinging to the rims. A half hour ago the bartender put about twenty shots of Irish whiskey on the bar for whoever wanted one—his spiritual offering to his old pal Ned. A bunch of people gathered round, raised the glasses, took a big religious swallow, and felt the holy burn.
    Thomasina, Max, Johnny, some other people, and I are sitting together at a big table. Noah’s been dropped at home with a babysitter, and Thomasina’s slipped off her high-heeled boots and long since switched to vodka on the rocks. The guy sitting next to me leaves. Larry approaches the table, asks if he can sit down. I say sure and ask what took him so long. He says he was waiting for a seat to open up next to me. An answer worthy of respect.
    We give