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Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 53 "Six now." "Hey, Parley." Fenn says. Everybody nods at everybody else. Parley's chin is still way out there. Then we don't know what to do: there's no more room on the fence. Finally we sit on the ditch bank. The clump of rocks in my pocket gouges at my leg; this is so obviously a mistake. "Hey, Lannie. Hey, Cling," I say- Cling is dangerous; he barks at cars. No one knows where he lives. You never see him on the same bike. He's got a tattoo on his neck, the left side. It's just a circle, but everytime I see it I think of a bolt and just how his head is fastened on. I'm scared of Cling. He's always looking at my clothes. Lannie comes over. He falls on the grass. A slash of black hair falls across his eyes. He and Cling are the only guys we know who smoke. "You guys ready?" Butch says: "Sure." I shrug a who knows, which means: not really. Lannie sharpens the hot cone of his cigarette on a blade of grass, and offers: "Throw low, that's all you gotta do." His head swivels freely. Lannie speaks from way back in his throat. "Get it to skip off the road." He leans back on an elbow and gurgles a low laugh: "Throw low. Bother them." For the first time in a long time, first time this summer, I'm sick. My throat is closed and I cannot swallow. I sit stock still though I am slowly turning inside out in a very sickening way. Parley leans against the fence like a young cowboy, lean and loose, ready to rockfight. |