Please Don't Go Read Online Free PDF

response from men and women of The Eyeball’s age, upon finding out that he was not only more than a boy, but that he had a name that did not fit their standard list of proper Christian names. They did not understand the world’s array of “goofy hippie names,” and explaining it to them was as difficult as speaking to a deaf mute. They would often stare at him with blank confusion, as though their cat had just died and they were not quite sure what to do next, always asking him to repeat the name... louder, sonny . “Well, I guess my parents were a bit free-spirited. In a way, they were hippies, but not like you would imagine. It’s not Zipper, it’s Zephyr . Zephyr was a Greek god, and it refers to a western wind,” he said to the man in the door, already preparing for the eventual confusion and conversational banter that would follow.
    Wind? WIND? Did I break wind? And what did you say about God? God’s not Greek! He’s American.
    “ You don’t think I know what a zephyr is? I know we just met, but do I look like a buffoon? I knew the word zephyr before you were even born, little hippie boy. You best watch your mouth around me,” The Eyeball warned in a huff, then changed the subject over to his requested grocery store booty, “Did you get everything I asked for, hippie? You get the toilet paper?”
    “ Yes, sir,” Zephyr replied, resentful that the condescending curmudgeon had now settled upon calling him little hippie boy instead of his actual name, which was far easier to say than little hippie boy . He might have even preferred plain old boy to little hippie boy . “I picked up everything, just like your list said, to the letter.”
    “ Good. Good. Three cans of black pearl olives? Sliced?”
    “ Yes.”
    The Man Who Must Be Rattup cleared his throat, squelching out a bumpy cough through the crack of the door. A bit of mucus landed on Zephyr’s left sneaker, but he chose not to address it just yet. He would be happy enough with completing his delivery and going home, of removing himself from the door of the frigid old bag of wind. Rattup asked, “Cough drops? You’ve got my lemon honey cough drops, right? I’ve got a nasty cough most of the year, and if I don’t have eight cough drops a day, I’ll drop dead, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” In his brief description of his daily cough drop regiment, Zephyr found that his dislike for The Eyeball was growing, much like the little foam wrestlers he would buy as a boy , which grew to one hundred times the size when left in a watery fish bowl for three days.
    “ Yep.” He hesitated, stumbling over his words, “I mean yes, I have your cough drops. And no, I don’t want you to drop dead.” But that wouldn’t be so bad , he thought to himself with a hidden grin.
    The door swung open, almost popping the bags of groceries from Zephyr’s grasp. “Well, then get your hippie butt inside, my friend!” the man announced, throwing his hands out in a welcoming gesture, grinning wild and big like a madman who had just escaped a shackled padded cell. “Welcome to the Rattup home,” Mr. Rattup greeted, bowing with a polite moment of honor that Zephyr would not have expected from the cantankerous coot who had initially peeked his judgmental reddish eyeball through the door’s crack only minutes earlier. “Good sir,” he stated, pulling off to the side to allow Zephyr’s entry. “Please, enter.”
    Zephyr stepped through the doorway, thankful that the man had two working eyeballs, after all. Those eyeballs stayed focused on Zephyr as he made laborious round trips back and forth to his vehicle. Rattup’s observant eyes looked as though they were tired (red and veiny), but they also had a deeper fabric of thought to them, like Zephyr imagined an old hound dog would have.
    After retrieving from his car each of the five bags of food that had been requested, the gray-haired (balding in spots, but a fair amount of hair remained, sweeping back