inside him.
He went stiff as a poker, then soared up and over backward in a complete flip, arcing a stream that caught the afternoon sun so I swore I could see a rainbow in it.
Nor did the spectacle end when he hit the ground. He landed on his side, both legs pumping, then sprung to his feet, running in tight circles holding himself and hissing:
"Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-oh . . ."
All in all it was well worth the investment and when he finally settled, leaning against the barn wall holding his business, panting loudly, I reached under my shirt to give him the two pictures.
It was not to be, and the exact responsibility of who owed whom pictures would plague us the rest of the summer and perhaps does yet.
As I held the pictures toward Harris and he released his groin long enough to reach for them a
shadow fell over us and I turned to see Louie standing there.
He reached down with a crooked, filthy hand and took the pictures, held them up to the light, smiled toothlessly, and walked away toward the granary, putting the pictures in the top pocket of his bibs.
"Damn." Harris spoke quietly and his voice was shaking. "You owe me two pictures."
"It wasn't my fault. I held them out to you. Louie took them."
"They wasn't halfway." He hissed like a snake. "They wasn't even close to halfway."
"They were over halfway."
"You liar."
"I'm not lying. I handed the pictures over to you and you were reaching for them when Louie grabbed them. I did what I was supposed to do."
"You did?" He sneered, or grimaced in pain, it was hard to tell the difference. "I peed on the wire ..."
Later that night, lying in bed in the darkened room, listening to the drone of mosquitoes fighting the screen, I remembered him hitting the wire and started laughing.
"It ain't funny," he said from the other bed. "I'm all swoll up. It's like my business was hit by lightning."
"It is too funny. You ran in little circles yelling,
'Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God . . .' " I had to bury my face in the pillow to hold the sound of laughing down so it wouldn't wake the grown-ups.
For a time there was silence, then he giggled. "I think I saw him."
"Who?"
"Jesus, you dope. But he wasn't in no peach tree . . ."
And still later, when the giggling had subsided and we were nearly asleep, through a half doze I heard him one more time:
"You still owe me two pictures."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"Don't."
"Do."
just to ride up and back on the quarter-mile driveway.
initially I had in mind a fantasy involving getting a bike fixed and then pedaling the four miles to Elaine's farm. I had seen her once since the night she'd learned about my brain being late getting into the light, at another Saturday night dance. And while I apparently still loved her with all my heart—or so it felt, judging by my breathing and pulse—she only smiled, again not unkindly, but otherwise ignored me completely.
Love is persistent, however, at least in the imagination, and my brain—light enfeebled as it may have been—would not stop thinking of her golden hair, blue eyes, even smile, and soft voice.
So the fantasies ran. I would fix a bike, I would pedal to her farm—though I had no idea where it was—and coming out to the mailbox she would see me pedaling by and stop and talk to me and find out that my brain was all right and smile at me the other way and we would kiss and we would marry and we would . . .
All this until we actually got the bikes working and pedaled the length of the driveway and back, grinding along, the wheels so out of line they wobbled, the tires bulging at the sides. After one loop I thought less of love and more of the possible
terminal effects of trying to pedal four miles, and that had brought us to Harris's trenchant remark, which he now repeated.
'Too slow. We need something to get these gooners moving. We need some kind of motor . . ." He stood with his hands in the pockets of his bibs, studying the yard, and I think had actually scanned it twice when he
He went stiff as a poker, then soared up and over backward in a complete flip, arcing a stream that caught the afternoon sun so I swore I could see a rainbow in it.
Nor did the spectacle end when he hit the ground. He landed on his side, both legs pumping, then sprung to his feet, running in tight circles holding himself and hissing:
"Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-oh . . ."
All in all it was well worth the investment and when he finally settled, leaning against the barn wall holding his business, panting loudly, I reached under my shirt to give him the two pictures.
It was not to be, and the exact responsibility of who owed whom pictures would plague us the rest of the summer and perhaps does yet.
As I held the pictures toward Harris and he released his groin long enough to reach for them a
shadow fell over us and I turned to see Louie standing there.
He reached down with a crooked, filthy hand and took the pictures, held them up to the light, smiled toothlessly, and walked away toward the granary, putting the pictures in the top pocket of his bibs.
"Damn." Harris spoke quietly and his voice was shaking. "You owe me two pictures."
"It wasn't my fault. I held them out to you. Louie took them."
"They wasn't halfway." He hissed like a snake. "They wasn't even close to halfway."
"They were over halfway."
"You liar."
"I'm not lying. I handed the pictures over to you and you were reaching for them when Louie grabbed them. I did what I was supposed to do."
"You did?" He sneered, or grimaced in pain, it was hard to tell the difference. "I peed on the wire ..."
Later that night, lying in bed in the darkened room, listening to the drone of mosquitoes fighting the screen, I remembered him hitting the wire and started laughing.
"It ain't funny," he said from the other bed. "I'm all swoll up. It's like my business was hit by lightning."
"It is too funny. You ran in little circles yelling,
'Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God . . .' " I had to bury my face in the pillow to hold the sound of laughing down so it wouldn't wake the grown-ups.
For a time there was silence, then he giggled. "I think I saw him."
"Who?"
"Jesus, you dope. But he wasn't in no peach tree . . ."
And still later, when the giggling had subsided and we were nearly asleep, through a half doze I heard him one more time:
"You still owe me two pictures."
"No, I don't."
"You do."
"Don't."
"Do."
just to ride up and back on the quarter-mile driveway.
initially I had in mind a fantasy involving getting a bike fixed and then pedaling the four miles to Elaine's farm. I had seen her once since the night she'd learned about my brain being late getting into the light, at another Saturday night dance. And while I apparently still loved her with all my heart—or so it felt, judging by my breathing and pulse—she only smiled, again not unkindly, but otherwise ignored me completely.
Love is persistent, however, at least in the imagination, and my brain—light enfeebled as it may have been—would not stop thinking of her golden hair, blue eyes, even smile, and soft voice.
So the fantasies ran. I would fix a bike, I would pedal to her farm—though I had no idea where it was—and coming out to the mailbox she would see me pedaling by and stop and talk to me and find out that my brain was all right and smile at me the other way and we would kiss and we would marry and we would . . .
All this until we actually got the bikes working and pedaled the length of the driveway and back, grinding along, the wheels so out of line they wobbled, the tires bulging at the sides. After one loop I thought less of love and more of the possible
terminal effects of trying to pedal four miles, and that had brought us to Harris's trenchant remark, which he now repeated.
'Too slow. We need something to get these gooners moving. We need some kind of motor . . ." He stood with his hands in the pockets of his bibs, studying the yard, and I think had actually scanned it twice when he
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