“How ‘bout ya play somethin’ we know, Checkie!” someone yelled from the back of the old warehouse depot. I couldn’t see who, but it sounded a lot like Eightball.
“It’s Czechie, ya igmo!” I yelled back. “Ya gotta get your tongue all up ‘gainst the roof of ya mouth to say it right! Cizzz-ZHECK-ee! Like that – did ya hear it?”
A bald, grease-smudged head popped up from behind some wooden pallets that we’d stacked up to block some of the wind comin’ off the lake. Just like I thought, it was Eightball. He had his ugly face all pinched up like he always did whenever he got mad. I knew he didn’t see me right away ‘cause he didn’t say nothin’. He just blinked his big eyes at Czechie, who stood on some rocks just outside the shelter on the lakeshore. Czechie didn’t see him and probably hadn’t heard him either since he kept on playin’ that same foreign tune on his trumpet. I was sittin’ a little off to the side, up beside one of the rusty supports for the depot’s shingled roof, with my legs dangling off the side into the weeds. I had to wave to get Eightball to see me.
“How ‘bout I stick my foot ‘gainst the roof of yer mouth? Huh, Ajax?” he yelled, spraying spit all into the air ‘round him. “How ‘bout that, huh? I weren’t talkin’ to ya noways, so why don’t ya keep yer big mouth shut!”
I snorted and leaned back on my palms. I didn’t look at him, just stared straight up at the sky through one of the holes in the roof, and said, “Ah, go wash yer bald head, ya filthy monkey!”
Eightball cussed, and I heard him hock up a big mouthful of snot. I twisted and looked just as he reared his skinny neck back like a copperhead and spit at me. The big glob of yellow snot spun in the air but barely cleared the pallets. It didn’t get nowhere close to where I sat, and I just shook my head sad-like.
“That was just sorry. I’m shamed to have ya as a brother if ya can’t spit better than that,” I said, tryin’ to sound like I remember our dad’s voice bein’ when he was mad at us.
Eightball cussed again and ducked back behind the pallets out of sight.
Maybe half a minute later, he shouted from back there, “Whyn’t ya go wash yerself! Ya stink, ya dirty gorilla!”
I couldn’t help but bust out in a big laugh. Growin’ up, my brother never had been good at tradin’ insults, and now that we was out on our own, he still stunk at it. He must have heard me laughin’, even over Czechie’s foreign music, because he started bangin’ around and bein’ all noisy with somethin’ back behind those pallets. He probably had his collection of plastic bottles stashed back there. We took most to the ‘cycling plant to get money, but Eightball always liked savin’ the green ones for some reason or other. When winter came, those’d have to go with the rest.
I probably sat and laughed for five minutes, banging both my heels against the crumbling concrete the whole time, before I got real bored. I had always enjoyed makin’ Eightball mad, at least ever since he got old enough that Mama didn’t care when he cried anymore.
I was hopin’ that he’d come back out to yell at me some more, but he was still poutin’or maybe he dozed off.
That just left Czechie. He’d been livin’ with us in the old depot for nearly a year but kept to his part of the shelter most of the time. He was a lot older than me and my brother, but I didn’t mind him much. He’d been a lot of help, collectin’ food and addin’ old plywood and boxes to keep the wind and rain out of our place. It seemed no one but us cared ‘bout this place ‘cause no one ever came ‘round and messed with it. I was glad of that, but it did make life pretty borin’ most of the time.
Czechie’s foreign music was getting’ me pretty bored, too. I felt like I wanted to sing somethin’, but I couldn’t sing to what he was playin’. It was too foreign for me to even try to make up words, too. I needed somethin’ old and familiar to really get my voice movin’ and my blood stirred up. It was almos’ time to go down the lake and walk the fencerow to see what people tossed out on the overpass.
“Hey, Czechie!” I said, sayin’ it right and sayin’ it loud in case my brother might be awake after all. I cupped one hand on the side of my mouth and said it again even louder. “Hey, I’m talking to ya, Czechie!”
I had to yell a third time before he stopped playin’ and looked at me. I waved and drummed my heels against the concrete as I made my offer.
“Czechie, I wonder if ya can play ‘Oh Say Can You See’ on that goofy foreign trumpet? I’ve got half an orange I’ll give ya if ya can play it good and loud.”
The old man licked his lips a few times, then hocked and spit something brown into the weeds off to the side of where I sat. He cocked his head and rubbed the grey whiskers on his cheek with one hand. He looked at his horn, and then he looked at me.
“This,” he said, cradling the instrument in one hand like it was made of gold ‘stead of tarnished and dented, “This is not trumpet – this is rozhok … like me from Czechia … and my name is Bretislav Svoboda …not Cizz-sheki as you try to say … and as for your ‘Say Can You See’ song…”
He looked away and lifted his horn to his lips. I heard snickerin’ from back behind the pallets. I opened my mouth to say somethin’ smart but didn’t get out a word before the song started. Oncet the first note played, I couldn’t do nothin’ but sit with a dumb look on my face until the whole thing was over. Blamed if the foreigner didn’t play the song better than I’d heard at any ball game or parade in my whole life. I didn’t even mind when Eightball came out and sat down beside me to listen.
“It’s Czechie, ya igmo!” I yelled back. “Ya gotta get your tongue all up ‘gainst the roof of ya mouth to say it right! Cizzz-ZHECK-ee! Like that – did ya hear it?”
A bald, grease-smudged head popped up from behind some wooden pallets that we’d stacked up to block some of the wind comin’ off the lake. Just like I thought, it was Eightball. He had his ugly face all pinched up like he always did whenever he got mad. I knew he didn’t see me right away ‘cause he didn’t say nothin’. He just blinked his big eyes at Czechie, who stood on some rocks just outside the shelter on the lakeshore. Czechie didn’t see him and probably hadn’t heard him either since he kept on playin’ that same foreign tune on his trumpet. I was sittin’ a little off to the side, up beside one of the rusty supports for the depot’s shingled roof, with my legs dangling off the side into the weeds. I had to wave to get Eightball to see me.
“How ‘bout I stick my foot ‘gainst the roof of yer mouth? Huh, Ajax?” he yelled, spraying spit all into the air ‘round him. “How ‘bout that, huh? I weren’t talkin’ to ya noways, so why don’t ya keep yer big mouth shut!”
I snorted and leaned back on my palms. I didn’t look at him, just stared straight up at the sky through one of the holes in the roof, and said, “Ah, go wash yer bald head, ya filthy monkey!”
Eightball cussed, and I heard him hock up a big mouthful of snot. I twisted and looked just as he reared his skinny neck back like a copperhead and spit at me. The big glob of yellow snot spun in the air but barely cleared the pallets. It didn’t get nowhere close to where I sat, and I just shook my head sad-like.
“That was just sorry. I’m shamed to have ya as a brother if ya can’t spit better than that,” I said, tryin’ to sound like I remember our dad’s voice bein’ when he was mad at us.
Eightball cussed again and ducked back behind the pallets out of sight.
Maybe half a minute later, he shouted from back there, “Whyn’t ya go wash yerself! Ya stink, ya dirty gorilla!”
I couldn’t help but bust out in a big laugh. Growin’ up, my brother never had been good at tradin’ insults, and now that we was out on our own, he still stunk at it. He must have heard me laughin’, even over Czechie’s foreign music, because he started bangin’ around and bein’ all noisy with somethin’ back behind those pallets. He probably had his collection of plastic bottles stashed back there. We took most to the ‘cycling plant to get money, but Eightball always liked savin’ the green ones for some reason or other. When winter came, those’d have to go with the rest.
I probably sat and laughed for five minutes, banging both my heels against the crumbling concrete the whole time, before I got real bored. I had always enjoyed makin’ Eightball mad, at least ever since he got old enough that Mama didn’t care when he cried anymore.
I was hopin’ that he’d come back out to yell at me some more, but he was still poutin’or maybe he dozed off.
That just left Czechie. He’d been livin’ with us in the old depot for nearly a year but kept to his part of the shelter most of the time. He was a lot older than me and my brother, but I didn’t mind him much. He’d been a lot of help, collectin’ food and addin’ old plywood and boxes to keep the wind and rain out of our place. It seemed no one but us cared ‘bout this place ‘cause no one ever came ‘round and messed with it. I was glad of that, but it did make life pretty borin’ most of the time.
Czechie’s foreign music was getting’ me pretty bored, too. I felt like I wanted to sing somethin’, but I couldn’t sing to what he was playin’. It was too foreign for me to even try to make up words, too. I needed somethin’ old and familiar to really get my voice movin’ and my blood stirred up. It was almos’ time to go down the lake and walk the fencerow to see what people tossed out on the overpass.
“Hey, Czechie!” I said, sayin’ it right and sayin’ it loud in case my brother might be awake after all. I cupped one hand on the side of my mouth and said it again even louder. “Hey, I’m talking to ya, Czechie!”
I had to yell a third time before he stopped playin’ and looked at me. I waved and drummed my heels against the concrete as I made my offer.
“Czechie, I wonder if ya can play ‘Oh Say Can You See’ on that goofy foreign trumpet? I’ve got half an orange I’ll give ya if ya can play it good and loud.”
The old man licked his lips a few times, then hocked and spit something brown into the weeds off to the side of where I sat. He cocked his head and rubbed the grey whiskers on his cheek with one hand. He looked at his horn, and then he looked at me.
“This,” he said, cradling the instrument in one hand like it was made of gold ‘stead of tarnished and dented, “This is not trumpet – this is rozhok … like me from Czechia … and my name is Bretislav Svoboda …not Cizz-sheki as you try to say … and as for your ‘Say Can You See’ song…”
He looked away and lifted his horn to his lips. I heard snickerin’ from back behind the pallets. I opened my mouth to say somethin’ smart but didn’t get out a word before the song started. Oncet the first note played, I couldn’t do nothin’ but sit with a dumb look on my face until the whole thing was over. Blamed if the foreigner didn’t play the song better than I’d heard at any ball game or parade in my whole life. I didn’t even mind when Eightball came out and sat down beside me to listen.
No comments:
Post a Comment