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Show Why We Cry Butch and Fenn Stories 145 the woman. I could hear the photographer pleading, "Come on, now lean forward and flop your tits up on the table and take a rest." "They showed me how to do it. They did it for me the first time. It's great; it makes you feel all lit up." "I'll bet." "And then you can go back whenever you want and see the magazines. "If you join." "Yeah, you have to join, but it's great." We're about to step off the asphalt playground and go down the grassy slope to the walkbridge across the river, when there's a friction noise and a bicycle slips by in front of us. There is no rider. It runs in a slowing curl and finally clatters to the pavement. I already know that it's Butch's bike because the front wheel is smaller than the other, but Fenn calls, "What the hell?" Then I see Butch clear back across the painted asphalt, hanging by his hands on the chinning bar where he dismounted like a cowboy on a branch, sending his bike after us. I can barely see him; he looks like a brown flag. "Hey, Butch!" I call. "Better get on to the party, boys!" he cries back. Then I see that he's not coming over as he lifts a knee through his hanging arms, and swings himself up onto the bar. |
