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Authors: David James Duncan
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Everett says that if God had done that, though, brothers would have had to marry their sisters and the kids would’ve turned out to be mutants. So maybe it’s for the best the way things are. Then again, it might be all right being some sort of mutant, lolloping down the street doffing your hat at all the other lolloping mutants, all of whom you knew loved you like a brother or sister, and all of whom you loved. Then again, it might not be so great. I don’t know. Some things you can’t figure out until you do them.
R oger Maris takes a ball, then a strike, then poles one of his typical boring high fly balls out into right. Harvey Kuenn gathers it in. One out.
I open Everett’s letter:
Dear Everybody but Gomorrah,
My counsellor is making us write to say we’re fine and dandy and learning oodles of wholesome Adventist propaganda, but the fact of the matter is a terrible thing has occurred to us. Our beloved Irwin was killed and eaten this morning by a cougar this morning, and iswith Jesus now, unless he is in “Heck.” Oh well. No big loss, except sizewise. But we’re all pretty concerned about the cougar.
Wolverton Lake is pretty. Pretty lousy fishing, that is. I would of took canoeing but can’t paddle with this stupid arm which by the way itches like a dirty bottom (ask the twins if you can’t understand what I’m saying here, guys), so I took Trekking. So did Pete. We’re learning to read maps and compasses today, and how to follow the ol’ Drinkin’ Gourd if our compass busts (provided it’s night and not raining and we’re stupid enough to hike in the dark, which our counsellor definitely is). We’ve found two secret lakes already though, and will be climbing a mountain 9,383′ high (big deal).
The food is the usual vegetarian dog-doodoo, especially the “meat,” which is fake of course. But the loss of Irwin more than makes up for a few inconveniences.
That’s it for now. Until next week, I remain your lovely son (or brother where applicable),
Everett
Mama isn’t going to like Everett’s letter. She believes Jesus and “Heck” are not joking matters. I pass it to Papa, but he just sticks it in his shirt pocket. “In a minute,” he says. “One out, nobody on. The Yanks have just about had it …”
For some reason, I blurt, “No they haven’t.”
Papa looks at me. “Huh?”
I feel almost embarrassed about it, but all of a sudden I have this odd feeling. “The Yankees will win,” I say calmly.
Papa smiles. I’ve never predicted anything before and he knows it. But I’ve never felt like this before, either. It’s weird. I’ll bet Mama felt just like this the day she said
Yum!
about the yak butter. “Is that so?” Papa says.
“It’s so,” I say—and my yak butter feeling agrees. “It’s in the bag.”
Then I glance at the TV, see Tony Kubek coming to bat, and start having doubts right on top of my certainty. The TV says he’s 0 for 3, and hitting .258. If in doubt, Everett says, act tough. “Wanna bet on it?” I snarl at Papa.
“You’re so sure,” he says, “I’d just be throwing away good money.”
“Darn tootin’,” I tell him.
Kubek takes a slider. The ump calls it a strike. Papa says it’s the exact same pitch Mudcat threw Mantle earlier, but Kubek’s not Mantle so now it’s a strike. I shrug, acting tough.
Peter’s postcard is of a mountain called Three-fingered Jack, though I only see one finger. All the card says is, “HIYA. LOVE, P.A.C.E.” P.A.C.E. stands for Peter Arthur Chance Esquire. Pete likes to put on the dog a little sometimes.
Kubek takes a fastball high and inside. One and one. Everett calls him The Kube. He says The Kube is from outer space, same as Roger the Martian. Everett’s odd that way. Anybody he doesn’t like, he says they’re from outer space and makes up a planet that explains them. The Kube’s from a planet where everybody’s head is made out of a block of wood, he says. He says if Kubek ever gets beaned
R oger Maris takes a ball, then a strike, then poles one of his typical boring high fly balls out into right. Harvey Kuenn gathers it in. One out.
I open Everett’s letter:
Dear Everybody but Gomorrah,
My counsellor is making us write to say we’re fine and dandy and learning oodles of wholesome Adventist propaganda, but the fact of the matter is a terrible thing has occurred to us. Our beloved Irwin was killed and eaten this morning by a cougar this morning, and iswith Jesus now, unless he is in “Heck.” Oh well. No big loss, except sizewise. But we’re all pretty concerned about the cougar.
Wolverton Lake is pretty. Pretty lousy fishing, that is. I would of took canoeing but can’t paddle with this stupid arm which by the way itches like a dirty bottom (ask the twins if you can’t understand what I’m saying here, guys), so I took Trekking. So did Pete. We’re learning to read maps and compasses today, and how to follow the ol’ Drinkin’ Gourd if our compass busts (provided it’s night and not raining and we’re stupid enough to hike in the dark, which our counsellor definitely is). We’ve found two secret lakes already though, and will be climbing a mountain 9,383′ high (big deal).
The food is the usual vegetarian dog-doodoo, especially the “meat,” which is fake of course. But the loss of Irwin more than makes up for a few inconveniences.
That’s it for now. Until next week, I remain your lovely son (or brother where applicable),
Everett
Mama isn’t going to like Everett’s letter. She believes Jesus and “Heck” are not joking matters. I pass it to Papa, but he just sticks it in his shirt pocket. “In a minute,” he says. “One out, nobody on. The Yanks have just about had it …”
For some reason, I blurt, “No they haven’t.”
Papa looks at me. “Huh?”
I feel almost embarrassed about it, but all of a sudden I have this odd feeling. “The Yankees will win,” I say calmly.
Papa smiles. I’ve never predicted anything before and he knows it. But I’ve never felt like this before, either. It’s weird. I’ll bet Mama felt just like this the day she said
Yum!
about the yak butter. “Is that so?” Papa says.
“It’s so,” I say—and my yak butter feeling agrees. “It’s in the bag.”
Then I glance at the TV, see Tony Kubek coming to bat, and start having doubts right on top of my certainty. The TV says he’s 0 for 3, and hitting .258. If in doubt, Everett says, act tough. “Wanna bet on it?” I snarl at Papa.
“You’re so sure,” he says, “I’d just be throwing away good money.”
“Darn tootin’,” I tell him.
Kubek takes a slider. The ump calls it a strike. Papa says it’s the exact same pitch Mudcat threw Mantle earlier, but Kubek’s not Mantle so now it’s a strike. I shrug, acting tough.
Peter’s postcard is of a mountain called Three-fingered Jack, though I only see one finger. All the card says is, “HIYA. LOVE, P.A.C.E.” P.A.C.E. stands for Peter Arthur Chance Esquire. Pete likes to put on the dog a little sometimes.
Kubek takes a fastball high and inside. One and one. Everett calls him The Kube. He says The Kube is from outer space, same as Roger the Martian. Everett’s odd that way. Anybody he doesn’t like, he says they’re from outer space and makes up a planet that explains them. The Kube’s from a planet where everybody’s head is made out of a block of wood, he says. He says if Kubek ever gets beaned
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