Read Online The Boy from Earth by Richard Scrimger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Scrimger
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the well of knowledge, aren't you, Ding-Dog.
“Crime Dog. My nickname is Crime Dog. Geez, do you think they'll want to know stuff like that?” I check the card in my pocket. “I play first base, bat left, and throw left.”
–
Come to think of it, Ding-Dog might be a good nickname for you.
“Shut up.”
–
Sounds like a doorbell with a cold. Ding-Dog. Ding-Dog. Heu-heu-heu
. He keeps chuckling all the way to the lobby.
The WELCOME FRED MCGRIFF! banner stretches right across the room. The noise level is high, and getting higher. The frog ladies and gentlemen and children are croaking at once. They all want to shake my hand and get my autograph. Then they want to feed me. I say thank you, and take bite after bite, sip after sip. Soon I'm full of Jupiter grapes, Jupiter artichokes, and Eye of Jupiter, which looks like fried eggs but tastes way better.
My favorite thing is an almond cake, maybe because it's served by an apparition – an incredibly beautiful girl. She looks like a model. What is she doing here? She stands out among the frogs like a unicorn in a pack of gophers. Everything about her is long: she's got long blonde hair spilling out from under her ball cap, long eyelashes, and long long tanned legs. I quickly look away.
“Hi, there!” she says brightly, coming right up to me, holding out a golden square in her long tapered fingers. Her voice is clear and bright.
I stare at her eyes. Blue as cornflowers. I don't dare stare for long anywhere else. Like the rest of the crowd, she's naked. In a magazine, she'd be modeling perfume, or suntans. Or else she'd be a centerfold.
“We can be friends!” she says, pushing the dessert into my mouth.
I nod vigorously.
Beside her stands Wilma from the front desk. “It's an old family recipe,” she explains to me. “Jupiter aligned with marzipan.”
“It's great!” I say, swallowing. “Could I have some more?”
“I can do that!” The girl hastens away.
“Thanks for being so nice to Barbara,” Wilma whispers to me. “She's my special child.”
“She's your daughter?” I say. “But she doesn't look like … I mean she's really … nice,” I finish, lamely.
Wilma smiles. “She's very special. I cried when she was born, but I'm used to her now. I love her for who she is, poor homely thing.”
“Ho-homely?” Remember, Wilma is a myopic frog, squatting waist high and belching cigarette smoke like a factory chimney. I guess it's all a question of context.
“She's so … hairy.” Wilma shudders. “And her skin is that pasty golden color, and her legs are scrawny.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I say, staring across the room. Barbara has her back to me. Her legs go right up, and her hair goes right down.
“It's okay, Crime Dog. You already told me you like 'em big. Ho-ho-ho.” Wilma stretches her own left leg out. It's as long as she is. She waggles her long webbed toes. “Now
that's
big,” she says.
Two guys hop up to me – one with a cigar and one with a porkpie hat instead of the usual ball cap. “Hey, Crime Dog,” says Cigar. “Settle a bet here. Wes and I were arguing about which pitcher you've had the most success against.”
Porkpie is Wes, I guess.
I go blank. I cannot recall the name of a single major-league pitcher. Not one. “Grunewald,” I say, at length.
They frown at each other. “Grunewald?”
“One game I hit four home runs in a row off him,” I say. I don't explain that it was in our backyard, and we were using a beach ball and a tennis racket. Grunewald is my friend Victor's last name.
“Grunewald plays for Cleveland, right?” asks Wes. His porkpie hat is the same pale yellow color as his underbelly.
I try to think how to put it. “I'm pretty sure he's
heard
of Cleveland,” I say.
I leave them muttering to each other, and go after Barbara. I find her standing in front of the cake. Here, at Bogway Park Lodge, they do things big. Big toilets, big beds, big cakes. This marzipan thing is like a section of
“Crime Dog. My nickname is Crime Dog. Geez, do you think they'll want to know stuff like that?” I check the card in my pocket. “I play first base, bat left, and throw left.”
–
Come to think of it, Ding-Dog might be a good nickname for you.
“Shut up.”
–
Sounds like a doorbell with a cold. Ding-Dog. Ding-Dog. Heu-heu-heu
. He keeps chuckling all the way to the lobby.
The WELCOME FRED MCGRIFF! banner stretches right across the room. The noise level is high, and getting higher. The frog ladies and gentlemen and children are croaking at once. They all want to shake my hand and get my autograph. Then they want to feed me. I say thank you, and take bite after bite, sip after sip. Soon I'm full of Jupiter grapes, Jupiter artichokes, and Eye of Jupiter, which looks like fried eggs but tastes way better.
My favorite thing is an almond cake, maybe because it's served by an apparition – an incredibly beautiful girl. She looks like a model. What is she doing here? She stands out among the frogs like a unicorn in a pack of gophers. Everything about her is long: she's got long blonde hair spilling out from under her ball cap, long eyelashes, and long long tanned legs. I quickly look away.
“Hi, there!” she says brightly, coming right up to me, holding out a golden square in her long tapered fingers. Her voice is clear and bright.
I stare at her eyes. Blue as cornflowers. I don't dare stare for long anywhere else. Like the rest of the crowd, she's naked. In a magazine, she'd be modeling perfume, or suntans. Or else she'd be a centerfold.
“We can be friends!” she says, pushing the dessert into my mouth.
I nod vigorously.
Beside her stands Wilma from the front desk. “It's an old family recipe,” she explains to me. “Jupiter aligned with marzipan.”
“It's great!” I say, swallowing. “Could I have some more?”
“I can do that!” The girl hastens away.
“Thanks for being so nice to Barbara,” Wilma whispers to me. “She's my special child.”
“She's your daughter?” I say. “But she doesn't look like … I mean she's really … nice,” I finish, lamely.
Wilma smiles. “She's very special. I cried when she was born, but I'm used to her now. I love her for who she is, poor homely thing.”
“Ho-homely?” Remember, Wilma is a myopic frog, squatting waist high and belching cigarette smoke like a factory chimney. I guess it's all a question of context.
“She's so … hairy.” Wilma shudders. “And her skin is that pasty golden color, and her legs are scrawny.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I say, staring across the room. Barbara has her back to me. Her legs go right up, and her hair goes right down.
“It's okay, Crime Dog. You already told me you like 'em big. Ho-ho-ho.” Wilma stretches her own left leg out. It's as long as she is. She waggles her long webbed toes. “Now
that's
big,” she says.
Two guys hop up to me – one with a cigar and one with a porkpie hat instead of the usual ball cap. “Hey, Crime Dog,” says Cigar. “Settle a bet here. Wes and I were arguing about which pitcher you've had the most success against.”
Porkpie is Wes, I guess.
I go blank. I cannot recall the name of a single major-league pitcher. Not one. “Grunewald,” I say, at length.
They frown at each other. “Grunewald?”
“One game I hit four home runs in a row off him,” I say. I don't explain that it was in our backyard, and we were using a beach ball and a tennis racket. Grunewald is my friend Victor's last name.
“Grunewald plays for Cleveland, right?” asks Wes. His porkpie hat is the same pale yellow color as his underbelly.
I try to think how to put it. “I'm pretty sure he's
heard
of Cleveland,” I say.
I leave them muttering to each other, and go after Barbara. I find her standing in front of the cake. Here, at Bogway Park Lodge, they do things big. Big toilets, big beds, big cakes. This marzipan thing is like a section of
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