he possibly mean?
“Aw, come on,” said Tom, glancing back at the three smoking teenagers who still stood swaying. Tom sighed and raced his mismatched eyes over the boys before retreating them back to the dirt. “I been giving freebies all day. I ain’t doing this for my health.”
James fought to make sense of it. How could something as unique as the Monster exist in the same universe as dollars and cents? “We bought orange sodas” was all he could think of to say.
This appeared to make sense to Tom. He grimaced and ran a hand over his neck, then nodded as if he had expected this, as if he had heard it a million times before.
“Well get over there and see it,” Tom said. “But I ain’t doing this for my health. A guy’s gotta make some cash, right? How about next time you pay double? I’m not asking for a lot, but it’s summer.” Understanding dawned in James. Maybe it cost money to be a part of this world, to drive a car, wear these kinds of clothes, associate with girls. Maybe there were fees connected to growing up that he had yet to consider. He had a sudden urge to discuss it with Reggie, for it seemed possible that Reggie knew of these fees and had begun payment.
But then they were looking down at the Monster, the three of them, and for a while they were silent. The teenagers beside them drifted away after a time but the boys did not notice. They looked, blinked, looked again, and tried to understand what they were seeing.
Willie was the first to speak. “Where did it come from?”
Tom dragged himself closer, glancing at the Monster almost disdainfully. He snorted and spit and stared off into a patchy field where several skinny horses stood motionless. When Tom spoke, it was quick, like something memorized.
“My grandpoppa died last winter and he used to own this land, all of it, far as you can see. Raised horses mainly. When he died we got to go through his things and he had stuff in his attic, crazy stuff, stuff you would probably pay
ten
dollars to see.” Tom glanced at them and added ominously, “He was in the
war
.“
Tom continued. “This was up there in a big trunk. I can’t say for sure what it is or where he got it, but my grandpoppa, he went all over the world, saw all kinds of stuff, so there’s really no telling. My guess is that this is from Africa. Or Asia. I guess it don’t really matter.”
There was a weird buzzing from the teenagers and James turned to look at them—he had forgotten they were there. The young men exchanged looks and stifled what sounded like laughter, while the girls frowned at them in reproach. Tom heard these noises and saw these looksand he dropped his slanted gaze to the ground, then back to the horizon’s horses.
James turned back to the Monster.
One thing was clear. It was dead. Tossed onto a bed of straw and crammed into the fractured remains of lid-less apple box, James almost felt bad for it. This was nothing like the coffin that Greg Johnson’s body had merited, nor was it as acceptable as the dirt and grass of the pet graves that James had seen in his lifetime. There was something rushed and makeshift about it, and James tried to convince himself that the Monster deserved it.
“It’s got wings,” said Willie.
“Look at its teeth,” said Reggie.
Tom sighed again, and gazed out at the horses with what looked like a muddle of longing and hatred. James could imagine Tom leaping onto one of the animals and riding away. He could also imagine Tom taking a knife to the horses, or a club, or a gun. It seemed as if Tom himself could not decide what to do and so stood there, sweating, fists in pockets, somehow set apart from the unimpressed teenagers who gathered only a few feet away.
“Guy named Mel Herman ever come here?” asked Reggie. Tom shrugged and nodded, and the boys were not surprised. Mel’s roving feet surely would have brought him to Tom’s months ago.
James squatted down, brought his face closer to the Monster, sniffed
“Aw, come on,” said Tom, glancing back at the three smoking teenagers who still stood swaying. Tom sighed and raced his mismatched eyes over the boys before retreating them back to the dirt. “I been giving freebies all day. I ain’t doing this for my health.”
James fought to make sense of it. How could something as unique as the Monster exist in the same universe as dollars and cents? “We bought orange sodas” was all he could think of to say.
This appeared to make sense to Tom. He grimaced and ran a hand over his neck, then nodded as if he had expected this, as if he had heard it a million times before.
“Well get over there and see it,” Tom said. “But I ain’t doing this for my health. A guy’s gotta make some cash, right? How about next time you pay double? I’m not asking for a lot, but it’s summer.” Understanding dawned in James. Maybe it cost money to be a part of this world, to drive a car, wear these kinds of clothes, associate with girls. Maybe there were fees connected to growing up that he had yet to consider. He had a sudden urge to discuss it with Reggie, for it seemed possible that Reggie knew of these fees and had begun payment.
But then they were looking down at the Monster, the three of them, and for a while they were silent. The teenagers beside them drifted away after a time but the boys did not notice. They looked, blinked, looked again, and tried to understand what they were seeing.
Willie was the first to speak. “Where did it come from?”
Tom dragged himself closer, glancing at the Monster almost disdainfully. He snorted and spit and stared off into a patchy field where several skinny horses stood motionless. When Tom spoke, it was quick, like something memorized.
“My grandpoppa died last winter and he used to own this land, all of it, far as you can see. Raised horses mainly. When he died we got to go through his things and he had stuff in his attic, crazy stuff, stuff you would probably pay
ten
dollars to see.” Tom glanced at them and added ominously, “He was in the
war
.“
Tom continued. “This was up there in a big trunk. I can’t say for sure what it is or where he got it, but my grandpoppa, he went all over the world, saw all kinds of stuff, so there’s really no telling. My guess is that this is from Africa. Or Asia. I guess it don’t really matter.”
There was a weird buzzing from the teenagers and James turned to look at them—he had forgotten they were there. The young men exchanged looks and stifled what sounded like laughter, while the girls frowned at them in reproach. Tom heard these noises and saw these looksand he dropped his slanted gaze to the ground, then back to the horizon’s horses.
James turned back to the Monster.
One thing was clear. It was dead. Tossed onto a bed of straw and crammed into the fractured remains of lid-less apple box, James almost felt bad for it. This was nothing like the coffin that Greg Johnson’s body had merited, nor was it as acceptable as the dirt and grass of the pet graves that James had seen in his lifetime. There was something rushed and makeshift about it, and James tried to convince himself that the Monster deserved it.
“It’s got wings,” said Willie.
“Look at its teeth,” said Reggie.
Tom sighed again, and gazed out at the horses with what looked like a muddle of longing and hatred. James could imagine Tom leaping onto one of the animals and riding away. He could also imagine Tom taking a knife to the horses, or a club, or a gun. It seemed as if Tom himself could not decide what to do and so stood there, sweating, fists in pockets, somehow set apart from the unimpressed teenagers who gathered only a few feet away.
“Guy named Mel Herman ever come here?” asked Reggie. Tom shrugged and nodded, and the boys were not surprised. Mel’s roving feet surely would have brought him to Tom’s months ago.
James squatted down, brought his face closer to the Monster, sniffed
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