hampered by his cowboy boots, tried vainly to stop him. Jimbo skidded around a corner. Darnell plunged after him. We heard the screeching of tires and Darnell emerged seconds later, Jimbo following close behind like the Hound of Heaven with deliberate speed, majestic instancy.
The chase ended when Darnell bolted back toward the great cloud of witnesses in the hallway and Jimbo failed to negotiate the turn. The go-cart slid through the open doors of the library, past a startled librarian, and slammed into a shelf, bringing down a rain of books. One of them hit the throttle and killed the engine. Silence washed through the school.
Then, from the sea of silence, a wailing, inarticulate ululation emerged. It gradually resolved into a litany of curses emanating from Darnell as he dug his way through the mound of books, disinterring the object of his fury. The breadth of his vocabulary was impressive—informed, as it was, by his dad, the trucker. The principal pulled Darnell aside, revealing the figure of Jimbo sitting motionless, like a lawn jockey in a pile of leaves, transcendent joy shining from his face. Not even the principal in all his administrative glory could fail to be taken aback by the ecstatic bliss newly awakened on that perpetually impassive face. It was as though Jimbo heard the distant trumpet sounds from the hid battlements of Eternity.
Then the mists closed round the half-glimpsed turrets and Fred, Texas, reasserted itself. I blinked as if awakening from a dream. The hand of authority that was not restraining Darnell delved into the fallen chaos of literature, drew Jimbo forth, and delivered him unto the halls of justice for a proper reckoning. But even the administration of the dreaded paddle failed to remove the glow from Jimbo’s countenance. It took several days for the fading glory of his mountaintop experience to completely dissipate, and by that time, school was out.
CHAPTER TEN When summer arrived, I found myself isolated at the parsonage. I would see Ralph and the Culpeppers at church, but there were six long days between, and I might go the entire week without seeing anyone under thirty. Except for my sisters, who didn’t count.
I used my spare time, an item I had in shameful abundance, to upgrade the tree house. I added some embellishments, most notably a secret compartment where I hid a waterproof metal can I had picked up at the Army surplus store in Beaumont. In it I stored the AM radio, my journal, and the Oscar book, which still held Pauline’s Bible and the newspaper clipping.
The only two stations I could pick up on my cheap radio were almost at the same frequency. One was a country station; the other, a college station that played just about anything known to man, and some that weren’t. The radio tended to vacillate between them. It made for strange and unintended medleys.
I spent much of the summer in the tree house, which I christened the Fortress of Solitude, after the Arctic refuge of Doc Savage, Man of Bronze. (This must be spoken with a deep, masculine, ringing voice. It’s a rule.) I pondered life’s imponderables while sequestered in my Fredonian equivalent of an attic hideaway. Half a year had passed, and I still felt like a poster boy for a carnival sideshow.
Then I discovered
Grit
, the newspaper—a weekly publication of human interest stories, jokes, recipes, and puzzles. The ad described how I could amass wealth beyond my wildest dreams at twenty-five cents a whack. Before you could say “Horatio Alger,” I was cutting the string from a bundle of
Grit
papers and foisting them on unsuspecting Fredonians. I hoped that the pen was mightier than the hammer and would crack the adamantine surface of this alien culture.
I began by hitting the few dozen houses actually between the city limit signs on the highway and made several sales. Encouraged by my initial success, I ventured south past the city limits and came upon a mailbox that looked like a miniature house,
The chase ended when Darnell bolted back toward the great cloud of witnesses in the hallway and Jimbo failed to negotiate the turn. The go-cart slid through the open doors of the library, past a startled librarian, and slammed into a shelf, bringing down a rain of books. One of them hit the throttle and killed the engine. Silence washed through the school.
Then, from the sea of silence, a wailing, inarticulate ululation emerged. It gradually resolved into a litany of curses emanating from Darnell as he dug his way through the mound of books, disinterring the object of his fury. The breadth of his vocabulary was impressive—informed, as it was, by his dad, the trucker. The principal pulled Darnell aside, revealing the figure of Jimbo sitting motionless, like a lawn jockey in a pile of leaves, transcendent joy shining from his face. Not even the principal in all his administrative glory could fail to be taken aback by the ecstatic bliss newly awakened on that perpetually impassive face. It was as though Jimbo heard the distant trumpet sounds from the hid battlements of Eternity.
Then the mists closed round the half-glimpsed turrets and Fred, Texas, reasserted itself. I blinked as if awakening from a dream. The hand of authority that was not restraining Darnell delved into the fallen chaos of literature, drew Jimbo forth, and delivered him unto the halls of justice for a proper reckoning. But even the administration of the dreaded paddle failed to remove the glow from Jimbo’s countenance. It took several days for the fading glory of his mountaintop experience to completely dissipate, and by that time, school was out.
CHAPTER TEN When summer arrived, I found myself isolated at the parsonage. I would see Ralph and the Culpeppers at church, but there were six long days between, and I might go the entire week without seeing anyone under thirty. Except for my sisters, who didn’t count.
I used my spare time, an item I had in shameful abundance, to upgrade the tree house. I added some embellishments, most notably a secret compartment where I hid a waterproof metal can I had picked up at the Army surplus store in Beaumont. In it I stored the AM radio, my journal, and the Oscar book, which still held Pauline’s Bible and the newspaper clipping.
The only two stations I could pick up on my cheap radio were almost at the same frequency. One was a country station; the other, a college station that played just about anything known to man, and some that weren’t. The radio tended to vacillate between them. It made for strange and unintended medleys.
I spent much of the summer in the tree house, which I christened the Fortress of Solitude, after the Arctic refuge of Doc Savage, Man of Bronze. (This must be spoken with a deep, masculine, ringing voice. It’s a rule.) I pondered life’s imponderables while sequestered in my Fredonian equivalent of an attic hideaway. Half a year had passed, and I still felt like a poster boy for a carnival sideshow.
Then I discovered
Grit
, the newspaper—a weekly publication of human interest stories, jokes, recipes, and puzzles. The ad described how I could amass wealth beyond my wildest dreams at twenty-five cents a whack. Before you could say “Horatio Alger,” I was cutting the string from a bundle of
Grit
papers and foisting them on unsuspecting Fredonians. I hoped that the pen was mightier than the hammer and would crack the adamantine surface of this alien culture.
I began by hitting the few dozen houses actually between the city limit signs on the highway and made several sales. Encouraged by my initial success, I ventured south past the city limits and came upon a mailbox that looked like a miniature house,
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