California his freshman year. He also believed that the large coat worked to
conceal his size. The coat, its ridiculous scale, only made him look smaller
and more childlike.
That is to say, Sam Masur at age twenty-one did not have a build for
pushing and shoving and so, as much as possible, he weaved through the
crowd, feeling somewhat like the doomed amphibian from the video game
Frogger. He found himself uttering a series of “excuse mes” that he did not
mean. A truly magnificent thing about the way the brain was coded, Sam
thought, was that it could say “Excuse me” while meaning “Screw you.”
Unless they were unreliable or clearly established as lunatics or scoundrels,
characters in novels, movies, and games were meant to be taken at face
value—the totality of what they did or what they said. But people—the
ordinary, the decent and basically honest—couldn’t get through the day
without that one indispensable bit of programming that allowed you to say
one thing and mean, feel, even do, another.
“Can’t you go around?” a man in a black and green macramé hat yelled
at Sam.
“Excuse me,” Sam said.
“Dammit, I almost had it,” a woman with a baby in a sling muttered as
Sam passed in front of her.
“Excuse me,” Sam said.
Occasionally, someone would hastily leave, creating gaps in the crowd.
The gaps should have been opportunities of escape for Sam, but somehow,
they immediately filled with new humans, hungry for diversion.
He was nearly to the subway’s escalator when he turned back to see
what the crowd had been looking at. Sam could imagine reporting the
congestion in the train station, and Marx saying, “Weren’t you even curious
what it was? There’s a world of people and things, if you can manage to
stop being a misanthrope for a second.” Sam didn’t like Marx thinking of
him as a misanthrope, even if he was one, and so, he turned. That was when
he espied his old comrade, Sadie Green.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her at all in the intervening years. They
had been habitués of science fairs, the Academic Games league, and