Bootstrapper: From Broke to Badass on a Northern Michigan Farm Read Online Free PDF Page A

then he is almost to me. This is an arm that never sees the sun, never works in a garden. There is an ornate cross tattooed on the arm, and letters—a word?—on the knuckles of the big white hand.
    The white hand that just ripped Luke’s tickets out of his small one and is stealing them away. Tickets I bought with the thirty dollars I can’t afford—we can’t afford.
    The knuckle word is spelled A-V-E-D.
What is A-V-E-D?
I wonder.
Some drug gang?
Click, click, click, goes the View-Master. I see gold necklaces swaying in the V-neck of the thief’s basketball jersey.
    Then I feel more than see that jersey gripped in my own fist. A man’s chin is level with my forehead, and my eyes meet his shoulders. I’m tall, but I have to look up to be face-to-face with this pale, pimpled skinhead with a scar on his neck and a lip ring.
    He smells bad. Of liquor—something sweet, like peppermint schnapps—and old sweat.
    “Shit, lady!” he shouts, trying to jerk away. He doesn’t release the tickets, though, and I don’t let go of his jersey. My whole hand hurts. Or maybe it’s just my finger.
    “Give my son … back his tickets,” I say. Quiet, because I don’t want to upset my sons. I don’t want to cause a scene that could ruin this good day.
    My sons are twenty feet away, still in line for the ride, but theireyes aren’t on the cars, they’re on me. They look scared now, not confused anymore.
    “What the fuck! It was just a joke!”
    The skinhead is trying to jerk away. Really, really trying. And he is strong, but not that strong.
    “Give my son … back his tickets.”
    My hand
really
hurts now. Bumper cars are stopped. Strangers are looking at us, then looking away. Nearby, a ride shaped like giant strawberries is still spinning around in its well-ordered circle. Happy music plays.
    Then this person, this skinny, stinking person, looks around, and for the first time maybe registers that we are in a crowd. He throws the strip of tickets toward Luke, mutters “Bitch,” and when he lets go I see that his thumb is part of that word, that knuckle word. There is an
S
tattooed on it. The letters on his thumb and fingers spell out S-A-V-E-D.
    From what?
I wonder. Then think,
From us, if you’re lucky. From me
.
    If I have ever felt this kind of rage before, I don’t remember it. We are fine for the rest of this month and most of the next as long as nothing breaks and needs repair, nothing wears out and needs replacement, no one gets sick or hurt and nothing unforeseen happens. This is something unforeseen.
    The tickets are on the ground now, about to be stepped on and probably torn and ruined, but they’re too far away for me to pick them up. Even if they were close enough, my hands tremble so badly that I couldn’t do it anyway. Owen can, though, and he walks over, grabs the tickets off the ground, and hands them back to Luke.
    My sons stare at me, openmouthed. One minute their motheris talking to them about regional agriculture, the next she is a second away from pressing her green thumbs into a thief’s offending eyeballs.
    I unclench my fists and look down at my hands. The ring finger on my right hand is beginning to swell, and half the nail is torn completely off. The place where it was a few moments ago is white for a second, then the blood rushes to the surface and pools. I didn’t feel it tear off and have an odd thought of wondering where it is. I turn my hand over and see that the nail is stuck, whole, into the skin of my palm. I was gripping that basketball jersey so tightly I tore out my own fingernail.
    The gate for the bumper-car ride swings open, but my sons are still staring at me. They step aside and let the rest of the people in line go ahead. Luke is holding his tickets with both hands and the snake he won is still wrapped over his shoulders. I put my right hand behind my back so they won’t see the blood, nod a couple of times, and try to give him a smile.
    Go on
, I motion,
go on the