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Show Throwing the Bread Butch and Fenn Stories 89 "I can't hear you down here." So, I walk down and around and stand face to upside-down face with him. "It's in the book. Five cents." I hold out my hand. "I guess, I could accept a can of mandarin oranges." Even upside-down he looks desparate and I know I'll have my way again. Butch has a shirt draped over his head; he has freckles and hates this sun business. Even so, I can sense he's frowning. This time, when Fenn returns, he has no oranges. He hands me a loaf of bread. "What's this?" Fenn looks at Butch. "What do you mean," he says. "It's bread. I can't take any more oranges; there are only a few cans left." I look at the bread, holding it up and hefting it in my hand like a swollen baseball. "Bread," I say. "What do I want with bread? I can eat bread at my house." Butch is crossing out the debt in the book. "Wait a minute!" I yell. "Don't cross that out. I don't accept this!" "Too late," Butch says. "It's done. Besides, it's more than an even trade." There is something wrong. I am in the baseball park holding a loaf of bread. It just isn't right. I squeeze the loaf in my hand. |
