Page 16 of Guitars and Cages

Great, now I had an audience.

“I don’t know, dear,” a bored voice responded as a second batch of honking drowned out the first.

What the hell? Okay, seriously; I glanced back over my shoulder and two of those little bastards were chasing me.

“I think you should give them the ball; it’s kinda falling apart anyway,” Rory called out as I passed him again. At this point, I was beginning to agree with the kid, even if stubborn pride wouldn’t let me give in. That was, until I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed another goose swimming our way.

“Okay, enough is enough!” I yelled. “You little bastards can have the goddamned ball, just leave me the fuck alone!”

With that I tossed it out into the pond and watched the geese chase after it, honking and flapping and waddling all the way.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, using that kind of language in front of children!” the bored mother said with a huff as she scooped her daughter up and stalked away.

“Yeah, thanks for the help, lady!” I yelled at her retreating back.

She turned and flipped me the bird where her daughter couldn’t see it. Like that was setting so much better of an example. Fucking hypocrite! I cast a sheepish glance at Rory, who was still laughing at me.

“So not funny,” I muttered.

“Was so,” he said back.

“Was not.”

“Was so.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was...” I began.

A kindly grandmother-type with the remains of a bread bag she’d been feeding the ducks from chose that moment to interrupt. “Sir?”

“Yes, ma’am?” I responded. See, I’ve still got some manners left.

“I don’t think that’s an argument you can win.”

I thought about it a moment, and then started laughing myself. She was right; there was no winning that. Guess I really didn’t know when to quit.

“Thank you,” I told her, still grinning as she headed on her way. Rory and I took the Frisbee and left the park. It was about time to get dinner anyway, and at least there wouldn’t be any geese to chase me for my meal. We each had a burger, fries, and a milkshake before heading to the derby. I was pretty sure I’d be hungry later, but there was lunch meat and bread in the fridge at home. We found awesome seats with a view of the whole track and kicked back to enjoy the show, each of us picking a car to root for from each heat before it began, cheering loudly when the car scored a hit and booing furiously when it was rammed.

The truck event was the best of all, seven big pickups crashing and smashing one another to the delight of the fans. Three times the race went to red flag and had to be stopped: the first time when flames shot out from beneath the hood of a red Dodge, the second when a silver Ford half went over the barricade, and the third when a black Chevy started dragging too many parts and pieces to be considered safe. Number 73, a green GMC Sierra, won that event and went on to the finals, where a cracked-up hearse and a battered wood-panel station wagon ganged up on it and beat it into submission. The old hearse won the overall and it was time to head home, Rory’s excitement livening up the trip as we talked about the event the entire way.

For one brief moment, as we were nearing the gate on the way out, I’d caught sight of Morgan with one of his buddies, chugging beer from a red plastic cup. He lifted the cup in salute, a grin lifting his bushy mustache, and all I could do was smile and nod in thanks for the advance; all in all, it had turned out to be a pretty good day, despite the inauspicious start. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I’d gotten myself into, trying to look after this smart-assed kid. So far I’d lost the only shred of a relationship I’d had in a year and was on thin ice with my Super. If it weren’t for the new band, I’d be thinking this kid was an omen of doom. I guessed only time would tell.

Chapter Seven

Ring.

“Where the fuck is the goddamned phone,” I growled, clothes flying as I sifted through the pile I kept meaning to take to the wash.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“For the love of God, Rory, help me look. It might be your mom, and she’ll have my head for not answering!”