《ur》(4)

That sent a minor chill through Wesley. He became aware that most of his Intro to American Lit class was watching him. As a thirty-five-year-old, Wesley supposed it was hard for them to decide if he was Old School (like the ancient Dr. Wence, who looked remarkably like a crocodile in a three-piece suit) or NewSchool (like Suzanne Montanari, who liked to play Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" in her Introduction to Modern Drama class). Wesley supposed his reaction to Henderson's Kindle would help them with that.

"Mr. Henderson," he said, "there will always be books. Which means there will always be paper and binding. Books are real objects. Books are friends."

"Yeah, but!" Henderson had replied, his sweet smile now becoming slightly sly.

"But?"

"They're also ideas and emotions. You said so in our first class."

"Well," Wesley had said, "you've got me there. But books aren't solely ideas. Books have a smell, for instance. One that gets better - more nostalgic - as the years go by. Does this gadget of yours have a smell?"

"Nope," Henderson replied. "Not really. But when you turn the pages...here, with this button...they kind of flutter, like in a real book, and I can go to any page I want, and when it sleeps, it shows pictures of famous writers, and it holds a charge, and - "

"It's a computer," Wesley had said. "You're reading off the computer."

The Henderson kid had taken his Kindle back. "You say that like it's a bad thing. It's still 'Paul's Case.'"

"You've never heard of a Kindle, Mr. Smith?" Josie Quinn had asked. Her tone was that of a kindly anthropologist asking a member of New Guinea's Kombai tribe if he had ever heard of electric stoves and elevator shoes.

"No," he said, not because it was true - he had seen something called SHOP THE KINDLE STORE when he bought books from Amazon online - but because, on the whole, he thought he would prefer being perceived by them as Old School. New School was somehow...mediocre.

"You ought to get one," the Henderson kid said, and when Wesley had replied, without even thinking, "Perhaps I will," the class had broken into spontaneous applause. For the first time since Ellen's departure, Wesley had felt faintly cheered. Because they wanted him to get a book-reading gadget, and also because the applause suggested they did see him as Old School. Teachable Old School.

He did not seriously consider buying a Kindle (if he was Old School, then books were definitely the way to go) until a couple of weeks later. One day on his way home from school he imagined Ellen seeing him with his Kindle, just strolling across the quad and bopping his finger on the little NEXT PAGE button.

What in the world are you doing? she would ask. Speaking to him at last.

Reading off the computer, he would say. Just like the rest of you.

Spiteful!

But, as the Henderson kid might put it, was that a bad thing? It occurred to him that spite was a kind of methadone for lovers. Was it better to go cold turkey? Perhaps not.

When he got home he turned on his desktop Dell (he owned no laptop and took pride in the fact) and went to the Amazon website. He had expected the gadget to go for four hundred dollars or so, maybe more if there was a Cadillac model, and was surprised to find it was cheaper than that. Then he went to the Kindle Store (which he had been so successfully ignoring) and discovered that the Henderson kid was right: the books were ridiculously cheap, hardcover novels (what cover, ha-ha) priced below most trade paperbacks. Considering what he spent on books, the Kindle might pay for itself. As for the reaction of his colleagues - all those hoicked eyebrows - Wesley discovered he relished the prospect. Which led to an interesting insight into human nature, or at least the human nature of the academic: one liked to be perceived by one's students as Old School, but by one's peers as NewSchool.

I'm experimenting with new technology, he imagined himself saying.

He liked the sound of it. It was NewSchool all the way.

He also liked thinking of Ellen's reaction. He had stopped leaving messages on her phone, and he had begun avoiding places - The Pit Stop, Harry's Pizza - where he might run into her, but that could change. Surely I'm reading off the computer, just like the rest of you was too good a line to waste.

Oh, that's small, he scolded himself as he sat in front of his computer, looking at the picture of the Kindle.That is spite so small it probably wouldn't poison a newborn kitten.

True! But if it was the only spite of which he was capable, why not indulge it?

So he had clicked on the Buy Kindle box, and the gadget had arrived a day later, in a box stamped with the smile logo and the words ONE-DAY DELIVERY. Wesley hadn't opted for one-day, and would protest that charge if it showed up on his MasterCard bill, but he had unpacked his new acquisition with real pleasure - similar to the pleasure he felt when unpacking a box of books, but sharper. Because there was that sense of heading into the unknown, he supposed. Not that he expected the Kindle to replace books, or to be much more than a novelty item, really; an attention-getter for a few weeks or months that would afterward stand forgotten and gathering dust beside the Rubik's Cube on the knickknack shelf in his living room.

It didn't strike him as peculiar that, whereas the Henderson kid's Kindle had been white, his was pink.

Not then.

CHAPTER II Ur Functions

When Wesley got back to his apartment after his confessional conversation with Don Allman, the message light on his answering machine was blinking. Two messages. He pushed the playback button, expecting to hear his mother complaining about her arthritis and making trenchant observations about how some sons actually called home more often than twice a month. After that would come a robo-call from the MooreEcho, reminding him - for the dozenth time - that his subscription had lapsed. But it wasn't his mother and it wasn't the newspaper. When he heard Ellen's voice, he paused in the act of reaching for a beer and listened bent-over, with one hand outstretched in the fridge's frosty glow.