it? The grade?"
"They say they can, but I'm not writing them, so it really doesn't matter, does it?"
"I'll write them if you want," he offered like it was the most casual thing in the world.
I stopped and stared at him.
"What?"
"You don't even know what they're about."
"It doesn't matter. You just sling it the right way. The words, I mean," he added.
"I know..." It just knocked me out, that Brian could just write a paper like that, just "sling it" when the only thing I knew how to sling was cow poop. Maybe I was a moron.
"Hey," Brian offered, "at least you don't have Jimmy Ott telling everyone what a bum you are."
And that cheered me upâit really did. It reminded me of how Jimmy sent Brian over in the first place, and how much Jimmy liked me and all of us Schwenks even though we don't talk much and can't write about Shakespeare.
At that moment what I really wanted was for Brian to put his arm around my shoulders the way they do in TV ads. But that pretty clearly wasn't going to happen, so instead I punched him, right there at the bottom of his deltoid where it felt nice and solid, and then Smut came tearing down the road to see us and Brian left for the day. For his big senior year college trip, while I stayed on the farm doing nothing.
I kind of figured that once he left my brain would go back to the I-am-a-cow business, and sure enough it did. It started right away at dinner, when I noticed how tired Mom looked. Now that I thought about it, she was a cow too. Just as much as me or the checkout ladies at the supermarket. She didn't want that extra job, but when they asked her to do it she took it without even thinking she could say no. She walked right into that milking stall of a principal's office.
That made me really depressed, as depressed as the thought of me as a cow, I guess because it didn't give me much to look forward to. It's one thing thinking that you're a cow when you're a teenager or a farmer, or a checkout lady. But Mom had a real job, with a real officeâat least until they hired the permanent principalâand a real classroom she taught in, and her life sounded even worse than mine. She'd had all that time to find something to do with her life, and this is what she ended up with?
So you can see how cheery I was.
Then in bed I started thinking about Win and Bill and
their
lives, what I knew about them, anyway. It sounds stupid at first, but when you think about it, football players don't have it much better. They do what you tell them to do, they stand where you tell them to stand, and the whole point of it is to produce something for other people. No one plays football just because they love the game. I mean, they do love it, but anyone could do that, even guys who stink. Football players play so people can watch them and get excited and buy tickets and clothing and stuff. So people will have something to talk about on Monday mornings. And it's not like football players get treated any better than cows do. Sure, they get doctors just like cows get vets. But when they're old and hurt like my dad is, there's not some big old wallet of money from people saying, Thank you for feeding us all that excitement and tickets and stuff to watch on TV Last year Bill was friends with a tackle who tore up his knee, and they kicked him right out of college. He couldn't feed them anything anymore. If that's not the same as leading a cow into a cattle dealer's truck, I don't know what is.
Then I started thinking that maybe everyone in the whole world was just like a cow, and we all go along doing what we're supposed to without complaining or even really noticing, until we die. Stocking groceries and selling cars and teaching school and cashing checks and raising kids, all these jobs that people just one day start doing without even really thinking about it, walking right into their milking stall the way that heifers do after they've had their first calf and start getting milked for the first time.
"They say they can, but I'm not writing them, so it really doesn't matter, does it?"
"I'll write them if you want," he offered like it was the most casual thing in the world.
I stopped and stared at him.
"What?"
"You don't even know what they're about."
"It doesn't matter. You just sling it the right way. The words, I mean," he added.
"I know..." It just knocked me out, that Brian could just write a paper like that, just "sling it" when the only thing I knew how to sling was cow poop. Maybe I was a moron.
"Hey," Brian offered, "at least you don't have Jimmy Ott telling everyone what a bum you are."
And that cheered me upâit really did. It reminded me of how Jimmy sent Brian over in the first place, and how much Jimmy liked me and all of us Schwenks even though we don't talk much and can't write about Shakespeare.
At that moment what I really wanted was for Brian to put his arm around my shoulders the way they do in TV ads. But that pretty clearly wasn't going to happen, so instead I punched him, right there at the bottom of his deltoid where it felt nice and solid, and then Smut came tearing down the road to see us and Brian left for the day. For his big senior year college trip, while I stayed on the farm doing nothing.
I kind of figured that once he left my brain would go back to the I-am-a-cow business, and sure enough it did. It started right away at dinner, when I noticed how tired Mom looked. Now that I thought about it, she was a cow too. Just as much as me or the checkout ladies at the supermarket. She didn't want that extra job, but when they asked her to do it she took it without even thinking she could say no. She walked right into that milking stall of a principal's office.
That made me really depressed, as depressed as the thought of me as a cow, I guess because it didn't give me much to look forward to. It's one thing thinking that you're a cow when you're a teenager or a farmer, or a checkout lady. But Mom had a real job, with a real officeâat least until they hired the permanent principalâand a real classroom she taught in, and her life sounded even worse than mine. She'd had all that time to find something to do with her life, and this is what she ended up with?
So you can see how cheery I was.
Then in bed I started thinking about Win and Bill and
their
lives, what I knew about them, anyway. It sounds stupid at first, but when you think about it, football players don't have it much better. They do what you tell them to do, they stand where you tell them to stand, and the whole point of it is to produce something for other people. No one plays football just because they love the game. I mean, they do love it, but anyone could do that, even guys who stink. Football players play so people can watch them and get excited and buy tickets and clothing and stuff. So people will have something to talk about on Monday mornings. And it's not like football players get treated any better than cows do. Sure, they get doctors just like cows get vets. But when they're old and hurt like my dad is, there's not some big old wallet of money from people saying, Thank you for feeding us all that excitement and tickets and stuff to watch on TV Last year Bill was friends with a tackle who tore up his knee, and they kicked him right out of college. He couldn't feed them anything anymore. If that's not the same as leading a cow into a cattle dealer's truck, I don't know what is.
Then I started thinking that maybe everyone in the whole world was just like a cow, and we all go along doing what we're supposed to without complaining or even really noticing, until we die. Stocking groceries and selling cars and teaching school and cashing checks and raising kids, all these jobs that people just one day start doing without even really thinking about it, walking right into their milking stall the way that heifers do after they've had their first calf and start getting milked for the first time.
Similar Books
