GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

Inside the bag were two new stiff pairs of indigo children’s jeans, two yellow sweatshirts, and a lilac-colored baseball cap that said across the brim HOME RUN BOY. Broximon’s eyes first widened in outrage and then sunk down through dismay into resigned disgust. But he didn’t say a word in protest because he knew that Vincent was right.

“Around the house you can wear whatever you want, but when we go out this should be your uniform.”

“Anything else, Commander?”

“Yes.” Ettrich picked up a sheaf of papers that had been under the bag of clothes. “When anyone asks why you’re so small, tell them you have Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome.” He offered the papers to Brox who eyed them suspiciously. “I downloaded a couple of articles on the disease from the Internet. It’s all in there.”

“What am I supposed to have?”

“Progeria is a very rare genetic disease that ages a person seven times faster than normal. Kids who get it die of old age at thirteen. I know about it because my agency was hired to do an advertising campaign for one of their research foundations. When we are out on the street and anyone asks, tell them you’re my son and that you have progeria.”

Broximon looked at Ettrich like maybe this whole thing was a joke and he was about to hear the punch line. On realizing that Vincent was entirely serious, Brox exploded. “Get the fuck out of here! Are you out of your mind? Progeria. I thought you made that name up. Do you really think anyone is going to believe that I’m your son and I have a disease that sounds like a planet in a science fiction movie?”

“Well, Brox, no more than they believe seeing a two-foot-tall man dressed in a double-breasted suit and Gucci loafers.”

Broximon looked down at his beautiful Gucci loafers, each the size of a large mouse. While he looked, his lips were all over the place with emotion. He knew Vincent was right about everything but that only made it worse.

He had come here to help save Isabelle but failed immediately. He couldn’t go home to Haden’s world, and there was nothing for him to do now but fret, watch Austrian TV, and take naps. Broximon had never slept so much in his entire life.

Worse was yet to come. The backpack was the last straw. Broximon was so bored staying inside the apartment that he went out with Ettrich every chance he got. Vincent didn’t object because he felt sorry for the little guy, but sometimes he wished he could do certain things alone. Another real problem with going out together was Broximon was so small that he had a hard time keeping up, even when Vincent walked slowly. Crossing a wide busy street as quickly as he could, Broximon still moved at the speed of an old woman. Cars were impatient and unforgiving. Their horns followed him everywhere. Hurrying along, he would look up furious at their loud obnoxiousness but all he would see were the menacing silver smiles of car grilles.

Ettrich longed to say Look, just let me pick you up and help you here. As soon as we get to the other side of the street I’ll put you down again—it’s no big deal. But having lived with Brox for even this short amount of time, he knew that the little man was vain, argumentative, and not so secretly scared of this world.

But one day when they were crossing Schonbrunnerstrasse he was hit. By a bicycle, thank God, and only a glancing blow. Some bike messenger wearing silver sunglasses and dressed all in orange swerved between cars, didn’t see Broximon in the hurly-burly, and hit him. The messenger felt only a slight bump when it happened but nothing more. He kept going.

Broximon, shocked and shaken, got up slowly off the pavement. He knew now for sure that he would have to accept drastic changes here or else this place would eat him up. He didn’t leave the apartment or his room for two days after that, nor would he speak.

Ettrich knew what had to be done and did it. He came home one afternoon with another bag from Sports Experts but put this one in the hall closet. He waited for Broximon to reemerge and bring up the subject. Three days later he did in a most truculent way but Ettrich was ready. He went to the closet, got the bag and brought it into the living room. He put it down on the floor near Broximon without a word and left the room again.

Five minutes later while he was standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of cold grapefruit juice, Ettrich heard a wail followed by a long-drawn-out cry of “Noooooo!” come from the living room. He did not react. He waited to see if anything else came from in there. When it didn’t, he drank some more juice and looked out the window at the small garden planted in the Hof downstairs.

More time passed until eventually someone cleared his throat behind him. Vincent turned and saw Broximon standing on the other side of the doorway holding the thing in both hands. It looked very much like he had been crying. Ettrich was so touched and embarrassed to see this that he averted his eyes.

“You cannot be serious with this thing.”

“Do you have a better idea, Brox? You’re the one who got run over. We have to do something.”

“I wasn’t run over. I was knocked down.”

Ettrich drank the last of the juice and smacked his lips before replying. “Yeah well, so the next time you’ll be run over, okay?”

It was a backpack. But one of those specially designed backpacks used to carry small children in. The kind you pop junior into so that the baby can come along and see the world when you’re going out for a walk or a bike ride on a sunny day. The awfullest