and again he went back to how next time Train better “come down here with something on his person.”
And then he heard Plural. “That’s it,” he said. “The boy has had enough.”
And as quick as it started, it stopped. Sweet straightened up, looking at Train from two sides, like a paint job he just finished, then turned around and walked back into the cage and locked the door.
“That’s it,” Plural said.
Train lay still, getting himself right. He pushed himself up and lost his balance and rolled over on the floor. The other caddies watched him, and watched Sweet, and Plural, and nobody cared to help him up. Henry Disharoon sniffed at his finger and Plural seem to go to sleep.
Train become aware again of the blood on his arm and on his hand. It was pooled near him on the floor, and he saw that he’d slipped in it when he tried to rise off the floor. He sat up, getting his arms around his knees. The room seem to come up with him, like it was stuck to his head. He looked around at the other caddies, couldn’t remember nobody’s name. He dropped his head onto his arms and waited, and when the room stopped moving on him he pushed himself up on his feet.
Train walked back to his spot in the corner slowly, his hand touching the lockers along the wall for balance, and sat down. His head was suddenly too heavy for his neck to hold it, and he leaned back into the wall. A little later he felt blood dripping onto his shoulder. He thought it was an insect at first.
He was suddenly thirsty. He lifted his head to see if things was cleared enough to walk, and then got up and weaved over to the soda machine. It occurred to him that no one had said a word since Sweet went back into the cage. In all that time— how much time was it?— he hadn’t heard nothing but an empty hum, like the background noise when the operator called long-distance.
He put a nickel in the machine and pulled out a grape Nehi. He took a sip, which tasted different than it should, and then held the bottle against his forehead and walked back to the corner. On the way he glanced sideways and caught Sweet staring at him through the cage. Sweet looked away; Train dropped back onto the bench and then lay down.
The Nehi was cold and sweet going down and stung his nose coming back up. When that happened, the other caddies moved further away. Some of them even got closer to Plural. Train got up again and rinsed out his shirt with the hose where they all drank water.
The phone rung and Sweet answered. He listened a moment, then called out two of the caddies and told them to report to the first tee. His voice turned nicely cheerful, like he was trying to line up everybody on his side.
Train glanced at the clock; it was only 8:30.
All morning long, Sweet sent caddies to the first tee. By eleven o’clock, there was nobody left in the shed but Train and Sweet. An hour later, the first caddies out came back in, and some of them waited around to see if they would get another tote. Train stayed where he was. There was a big lump over his ear— felt like he was growing another head— and the skin was ripped open and crusty to the touch.
He waited to see if Sweet would let him work.
He found himself thinking about dogs, how they come back humble after they been beat. The reason didn’t matter, if the man was drunk and mean or he just come home in a mood to beat the dog, the dog was still sorry. It never crossed their mind it wasn’t their fault. And then suddenly it came to him that Mayflower had beat Lucky so bad he couldn’t walk. And that his mother knew what happened too.
Arthur had gone out early, and now he came back in and sat down to eat lunch. He opened his thermos and peeled the wax paper off his sandwich, mayonnaise leaking out the sides and through the bottom, looked like it weighed five pounds. Every fly in Los Angeles County was
And then he heard Plural. “That’s it,” he said. “The boy has had enough.”
And as quick as it started, it stopped. Sweet straightened up, looking at Train from two sides, like a paint job he just finished, then turned around and walked back into the cage and locked the door.
“That’s it,” Plural said.
Train lay still, getting himself right. He pushed himself up and lost his balance and rolled over on the floor. The other caddies watched him, and watched Sweet, and Plural, and nobody cared to help him up. Henry Disharoon sniffed at his finger and Plural seem to go to sleep.
Train become aware again of the blood on his arm and on his hand. It was pooled near him on the floor, and he saw that he’d slipped in it when he tried to rise off the floor. He sat up, getting his arms around his knees. The room seem to come up with him, like it was stuck to his head. He looked around at the other caddies, couldn’t remember nobody’s name. He dropped his head onto his arms and waited, and when the room stopped moving on him he pushed himself up on his feet.
Train walked back to his spot in the corner slowly, his hand touching the lockers along the wall for balance, and sat down. His head was suddenly too heavy for his neck to hold it, and he leaned back into the wall. A little later he felt blood dripping onto his shoulder. He thought it was an insect at first.
He was suddenly thirsty. He lifted his head to see if things was cleared enough to walk, and then got up and weaved over to the soda machine. It occurred to him that no one had said a word since Sweet went back into the cage. In all that time— how much time was it?— he hadn’t heard nothing but an empty hum, like the background noise when the operator called long-distance.
He put a nickel in the machine and pulled out a grape Nehi. He took a sip, which tasted different than it should, and then held the bottle against his forehead and walked back to the corner. On the way he glanced sideways and caught Sweet staring at him through the cage. Sweet looked away; Train dropped back onto the bench and then lay down.
The Nehi was cold and sweet going down and stung his nose coming back up. When that happened, the other caddies moved further away. Some of them even got closer to Plural. Train got up again and rinsed out his shirt with the hose where they all drank water.
The phone rung and Sweet answered. He listened a moment, then called out two of the caddies and told them to report to the first tee. His voice turned nicely cheerful, like he was trying to line up everybody on his side.
Train glanced at the clock; it was only 8:30.
All morning long, Sweet sent caddies to the first tee. By eleven o’clock, there was nobody left in the shed but Train and Sweet. An hour later, the first caddies out came back in, and some of them waited around to see if they would get another tote. Train stayed where he was. There was a big lump over his ear— felt like he was growing another head— and the skin was ripped open and crusty to the touch.
He waited to see if Sweet would let him work.
He found himself thinking about dogs, how they come back humble after they been beat. The reason didn’t matter, if the man was drunk and mean or he just come home in a mood to beat the dog, the dog was still sorry. It never crossed their mind it wasn’t their fault. And then suddenly it came to him that Mayflower had beat Lucky so bad he couldn’t walk. And that his mother knew what happened too.
Arthur had gone out early, and now he came back in and sat down to eat lunch. He opened his thermos and peeled the wax paper off his sandwich, mayonnaise leaking out the sides and through the bottom, looked like it weighed five pounds. Every fly in Los Angeles County was
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