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I ordered a big breakfast for us—we had never had room service before! While I took a shower, he wrote a little more in the diary.

“HE DOESN’T KNOW WHY HE’S HERE, AND I DON’T DARE TELL HIM,” Owen wrote. “I DON’T KNOW WHY HE’S HERE—I JUST KNOW HE HAS TO BE HERE! BUT I DON’T EVEN ‘KNOW’ THAT—NOT ANYMORE. IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE! WHERE IS VIETNAM—IN ALL OF THIS? WHERE ARE THOSE POOR CHILDREN? WAS IT JUST A TERRIBLE DREAM? AM I SIMPLY CRAZY? IS TOMORROW JUST ANOTHER DAY?”

“So,” I said—while we were eating breakfast. “What do you want to do today?”

He smiled at me. “IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT WE DO—LET’S JUST HAVE A GOOD TIME,” said Owen Meany.

We inquired at the front desk about where we could play basketball; Owen wanted to practice the shot, of course, and—especially in the staggering midday heat—I thought that a gym would be a nice, cool place to spend a couple of hours. We were sure that Major Rawls could gain us access to the athletic facilities at Arizona State; but we didn’t want to spend the day with Rawls, and we didn’t want to rent our own car and look for a place to play basketball on our own. The guy at the front desk said: “This is a golf and tennis town.”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER,” Owen said. “I’M PRETTY SURE WE’VE PRACTICED THAT DUMB SHOT ENOUGH.”

We tried to take a walk, but I declared that the heat would kill us.

We ate a huge lunch on the patio by the swimming pool; we went in and out of the pool between courses, and when we finished the lunch, we kept drinking beer and cooling off in the pool. We had the place practically to ourselves; the waiters and the bartender kept looking at us—they must have thought we were crazy, or from another planet.

“WHERE ARE ALL THE PEOPLE?” Owen asked the bartender.

“We don’t do a lot of business this time of year,” the bartender said. “What business are you in?” he asked Owen.

“I’M IN THE DYING BUSINESS,” said Owen Meany. Then we sat in the pool, laughing about how the dying business was not a seasonal thing.

About the middle of the afternoon, Owen started playing what he called “THE REMEMBER GAME.”

Owen asked me: “DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU MET MISTER FISH?”

I said I couldn’t remember—it seemed to me that Mr. Fish had always been there.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN,” Owen said. “DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT YOUR MOTHER WAS WEARING WHEN WE BURIED SAGAMO

RE?”

I couldn’t remember. “IT WAS THAT BLACK V-NECK SWEATER, AND THOSE GRAY FLANNEL SLACKS—OR MAYBE IT WAS A LONG, GRAY SKIRT,” he said.

“I don’t think she had a long, gray skirt,” I said.

“I THINK YOU’RE RIGHT,” he said. “DO YOU REMEMBER DAN’S OLD SPORTS JACKET—THE ONE THAT LOOKED LIKE IT WAS MADE OF CARROTS?”

“It was the color of his hair!” I said.

“THAT’S THE ONE!” said Owen Meany.

“Do you remember Mary Beth Baird’s cow costumes?” I asked him.

“THEY WERE AN IMPROVEMENT ON THE TURTLEDOVES,” he said. “DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE STUPID TURTLEDOVES?”

“Do you remember when Barb Wiggin gave you a hard-on?” I asked him.

“I REMEMBER WHEN GERMAINE GAVE YOU A HARD-ON!” he said.

“Do you remember your first hard-on?” I asked him. We were both silent. I imagined that Hester had given me my first hard-on, and I didn’t want to tell Owen that; and I imagined that my mother might have given Owen his first hard-on, which was probably why he wasn’t answering.

Finally, he said: “IT’S LIKE WHAT YOU SAY ABOUT MISTER FISH—I THINK I ALWAYS HAD A HARD-ON.”

“Do you remember Amanda Dowling?” I asked him.

“DON’T GIVE ME THE SHIVERS!” he said. “DO YOU REMEMBER THE GAME WITH THE ARMADILLO?”

“Of course!” I said. “Do you remember when Maureen Early wet her pants?”