Contents ( 42)
- The Art of Breathing
- Part One: How We Became Who We Are
- Prologue: Or, Where the Kid Hears the Word of the Day
- 1. Where Tyson Learns to Breathe
- 2. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
- 3. Where Tyson Graduates and Bear Freaks Out
- 4. Where Tyson Says Good-Bye
- 5. Where Tyson Gets the Mail
- Part Two: Coming Home
- 6. Where Tyson Comes Home
- 7. Where Tyson Gives a History Lesson
- 8. Where Tyson Attends the Most Awkward Party Ever
- 9. Where Tyson Plans Attends a Protest
- 10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested
- 11. Where Tyson Gets His Ass Handed to Him
- 12. Where Tyson Writes Bad Poetry and Gawks at Frat Boys
- 13. Where Tyson Decides to Man the Fuck Up
- 14. Where Tyson Asks Some Questions
- 15. Where Tyson Remembers Theresa Jean Paquinn
- 16. Where Tyson Learns the Benefit of Therapy
- 17. Where Tyson Meets the Man Who Becomes Helena Handbasket
- 18. Where Tyson Gets Screwed at His Own Birthday Party (And Not in a Good Way)
- Part Three: Just Breathe
- 19. Where Tyson Goes to Helena Handbasket’s Sex Dungeon
- 20. Where Tyson Beholds the Awesome Wonder That Is Paul Auster
- 21. Where Tyson Receives Advice from the Six Sages
- 22. Where Tyson Makes a Phone Call
- 23. Where Tyson Hears the Inevitable
- 24. Where Tyson Meets His Match
- 25. Where Tyson Says Hello, Where Tyson Says Good-bye
- 26. Where Tyson Touches upon the Inevitable
- 27. Where Tyson Faces the Music
- 28. Where Tyson Breathes
- 29. Tyson And Dominic
- 30. The Art Of Breathing
- Epilogue: Or, Bear’s Perspective, As It Were (Yeah, He’s Gonna Freak)
- Author’s Note
- Excerpt
- Prologue: Or, Where Bear Answers the Door
- More from TJ Klune
- Readers love the Bear, Otter, and the Kid Chronicles by TJ Klune
- By TJ Klune
In the moments when all hell is breaking loose, when it seems like the world is crashing down and things are blowing up in your face, the absolute worst thing you can do is think to yourself, Well, this can’t possibly get any worse, because God or Whoever is watching over us will hear your thought and say, “Aha! You shouldn’t have thought that, you stupid mortal! I am about to fuck up your day a whole lot more!”
So, naturally, hearing the chanting behind me, swimming in my own sticky stress sweat, holding the microphone so close to my mouth it probably looks like I’m going to eat it, Katie Rhine pressing up against me with her perfume that smells like she is blossoming from the inside out, I think to myself, Well, this can’t possibly get any worse.
The next moment is caught on camera. One of the hippies, so caught up in the rush of protesting (justifiably so; he’s a beach hippie, and I think they don’t see much excitement), so high on life (and also probably on a mixture of weed and shrooms smoked out of the hollowed core of an apple), so enchanted by the chants (which have now switched to “YEAR OF THE DOG, MY EYE! HOW MANY MORE ANIMALS HAVE TO DIE?”), that he picks up a large stone from the parking lot, a pretty thing with a quartzite strip. I have time to think, This is about to get worse, as he pulls his arm back as far as it could go. This is about to get a whole lot worse, and then he heaves that pretty rock through the front window of the home of the HeartSlammer. The shattering of glass is so impressive that it seems to be the loudest sound to have ever been created in the history of the world. It’s followed almost immediately by the loudest silence to have ever been created in the history of the world.
“Righteous,” one of the hippies whispers. I think her name is Morning Star. Or Sun Leaf. Or Beach Vagrant. I don’t know. All I know right now is that she turns to the rock-thrower and jumps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips. She starts kissing him all over his face, and I swear to God, her tongue goes up his nose for a moment. “That was so righteous,” she breathes between the long licks of her tongue bath. “I can’t wait to get back to the tent, Cornflower. I want you to stick it in me so bad. I want babies.”
Oh, Jesus. Fucking hippies.
Cornflower (whose name undoubtedly is really John and is probably a former CPA) grins at her, a dopey stoned smile that shows yellow teeth. “I’m going to put six babies in you,” he promises her as she licks his eyeball. “We’ll get high and I’ll give you a whole clan of babies.”
For a moment, I think about Bear and Otter’s predicament, and I wonder if Cornflower and Beach Vagrant would be willing to part with one of their stoned hippie babies so two loving homosexuals could have him or her. I don’t ask because I’m afraid they’d say yes right away and nine months from now, there’d be a knock at the Green Monstrosity and a child left on the doorstep in a basket made of hemp and smelling of patchouli.