Flyers (9781481414449) Read Online Free PDF Page B

about the Irish, and his favorite one fell out of our own family tree. It concerned hisgrandfather, whom he never knew due to a job-related mishap that took place when Pop’s mother was still a little girl. The way the story goes, our dear departed great granddad somehow managed to fall headfirst into an open vat of beer at the South Troy brewery where he worked, and died a few days later of complications resulting from breathing in the toxic gases. This part is family history and no one disputes it. Many of the relatives do dispute Pop’s version, though, which holds that upon being pulled from the vat, the guy punched and wrestled himself free and then hopped back in. They also deny another of Pop’s claims—that he was buried with a gigantic smile on his face.
    â€œAt any rate,” Pop said, running a hand through my unscalped scalp, “you look good to me just the way you are.” Then he ran a hand through Ethan’s hair. “And we wouldn’t want to change anything on you now either, would we, Ethan?”
    â€œGabe told Jeremy there was a rattlesnake near his sleeping bag,” Ethan said proudly.
    â€œI’m sure Jeremy was delighted to receive that piece of information,” Pop said, smiling and rubbing Ethan’s head some more.
    Ethan laughed. “He was mad,” he said.
    â€œRaaah, raah!” Pop roared. “Yes, I’ll bet he was at that.”
    Pop then led us into the kitchen and made us his Saturday morning specialty, what he called his world-famous, Tex-Mex-style western omelet. Between Jennie’s cooking during the week, and the things Pop made or brought home on the weekends, it’s a wonder Ethan and I weren’t real tub scouts, but we were anything but. Pop was lean as a post too, but then hedidn’t eat the way we did, or at least not the way I did. Not even close.
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    Back in my room, after a long, leisurely shower where I tried to wash the lingering dampness of the great outdoors away, I went to grab my favorite pair of jeans. The only thing was they weren’t there. I knew for a fact they’d been in a pile of clean clothes Jennie had folded and left on the stairs a few days earlier, along with my gray Key West henley and some socks and underwear and things. I almost remembered carrying the pile up to my room, but that didn’t mean much. I almost remembered doing a lot of things I never did. I padded out to the hall and checked the stairs. No luck. Next I checked Ethan’s room, and then Pop’s, in case my things had somehow gotten mixed in with theirs. No luck there either. None of this surprised me. I sometimes think I spend half my life looking for things I’ve been busy losing during the other half. It was no big deal. My missing stuff generally turned up on its own when it was good and ready, so I never got too bent out of shape unless it was something I absolutely needed that minute, which I didn’t this time. I threw on another pair of jeans and then dug out an old green-and-white rugby shirt.
    I was eager to get back to the Emerson book Pop had bought me. I’d managed to read a little of it around the campfire the night before. Jeremy, after studying me like a hawk, had announced I’d better not be going off on another of my kicks and driving everybody crazy. I responded by throwing a marshmallow at him, even though I’m the first to admit I do go off the deep end from time to time. A few years earlier I went through a phase where I tried to convince everybodythat Brian Wilson was an underrated musical genius. It didn’t stop me that no one else my age even knew who Brian Wilson was—or cared. I’d learned about him from a documentary on the Disney Channel and decided everyone else should know about him too.
    After that played itself out, I spent two solid months studying old racing forms that Art saved me from the newsroom, trying to