The Anglophile Read Online Free Page A

met even one American named Nigel. I have a brief vision of Nigel and his so-far nameless brother reading Sports Illustrated taking turns tending a raging peat, stoking it with an antique poker topped with a family crest.
    I guess I was smirking again because he says, “Humorous stuff, is it?”
    â€œNo, uh, I was just thinking that you’d love what Gary does for a living. He’s an executive on the Bulls account, and has season passes.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œYou’re making me bloody jealous here. I tried to get tickets to tonight’s game, but my concierge told me even nosebleed is like asking him for front row seats to Oprah.”
    â€œI’m going tonight.”
    â€œ Really! Brilliant!”
    â€œThe girl Gary was supposed to go with came down with chicken pox from her cat—sounds weird, I know—and when I called him to tell him I was in town—”
    Gary slides into the conversation as soon as he hears his name, a bag of donuts and cocoa in his hand: “I told her it was her lucky day.”
    I playfully poke Gary. “I’m not so sure about her story.”
    â€œWhy?” asks Gary.
    â€œWho ever heard of cat pox?”
    Gary shrugs. “I’ve never heard of it either. But it’s exactly what she said to me.”
    I turn back to my Brit, who is still looking amused: “I told him my work here kicks off tomorrow, so yes, I’d love to go to the game.”
    â€œSo you like Notre Dame basketball?” the Brit asks.
    Gary is floored. “You follow ND in England?”
    â€œWell, I’ve heard of it of course—”
    â€œMy dad went to ND. Fucking loved it.”
    Now I remember the whole issue with Gary’s father’s “enchanted” college years, one of the big topics of conversation during our epic road trip. Gary’s rejection from the school still was a sore spot for him. How could it have happened? He was a legacy applicant with a ninety-one percent high school average. Either of those qualifications alone should have gotten him in. Garyhad been wait-listed to no avail. His theory was that he was rejected because he was coming out of a public school and he asked for financial aid. Gary’s father wasn’t big money like so many other legacy applicants; his Dad had attended ND in the sixties on scholarship. Yet Gary still refused to say a bad word about the school.
    Gary’s family was richer than mine, but that’s not saying much. In his mind he was poor.
    To keep alert on the eighteen-hour drive from Binghamton to Notre Dame, Gary needed someone like me along, a chronic talker. I calmed down about being abducted once we left the New York State border, and dutifully kept the conversation going through Ohio Amish territory, Cincinnati and Gary, Indiana, Michael Jackson’s hometown. Gary stopped the car there for a corny photo op, which was of course Gary standing in front of a big green Welcome to Gary sign banked up with snow. Back in the car I sang, “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, Gary Indiana, let me say it once again!” A private joke with myself: “Gary, Indiana” was the song that most annoyed my oldest brother, Gene. Our mother listened to the original Broadway cast soundtrack album of The Music Man at least twice a week, humming along as she painstakingly ran over our old living room rug with a carpet sweeper. The music wormed its way into Gene’s brain. I’m not sure how I escaped its insidious power.
    The Brit speaks again: “So there’s a story going around that you abducted this young lady for one of their basketball games.”
    Gary snorts, and then a distant memory washes overhis face. “I forgot all about that road trip! I friggin’ kidnapped you!”
    â€œThere was nine inches of snow in Indiana! You were insane to make me go!”
    Gary can’t talk for laughter. Finally: “Man! What a trip that