Read Online What's eating Gilbert Grape? by Peter Hedges - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Hedges
Tags: Young men, City and Town Life
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fifteen times with my eyes closed. When I come to a stop at the very top, I open them and look out. The sun is down. The lights from the rides make this night colorful. From up here I can see our tired house, my old school, and the Dairy Dream. Far away I can even make out the glow from the Food Land parking lot. Peering over the side I see below me a little boy and his mom being helped off the ride. The carnie picks up a bucket of water and splashes it across their seat. One of them must have thrown up. I check around me for any vomit remnants, but fortunately this car or basket or whatever it's called is as spotless as these rides ever get. Stuck up here for the time being, I continue my look around. I notice a rip in the merry-go-round's tent roof. Les should be told about this. At the dunk tank. Tucker is still dry and no one is throwing. There's a long line for the Tilt-
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
A-Whirl, but that's always the case. Some kids are playing the balloon game and the basketbcill toss and the cranes.
I'm checking on the status of the puke cleanup when I see a bicycle coast past, a boys' bike, with a certain girl on it. She wears a white T-shirt and blue jeans and her black hair blows like a horses mane. The wheel starts up with a sudden jolt. 1 follow the girl as she coasts past the games, past the kiddie cars. As I go by the operator I say, "I'm ready to get out now," but he waves like I paid him a compliment or something. She zips over to the Octopus and passes the Scrambler, the popcorn booth and the Pillow House. "Let me off! Let me off!" 1 scream, trying to remain nonchalant but failing. The carnie rubs the tip of his nose with a knuckle and spits.
I'm at the bottom and going back up. The girl is pedaling toward the Ferris wheel. She stops and studies it. When I come down in front, I'm all set to wave some gesture, but she's gone.
She's gone.
It's another five minutes before I'm finally let ofiF.
I thank the operator for a "marvelous" ride and under my breath utter, "You asshole." The girl from Michigan has left the grounds, I can feel it. I check all over anyway. There is no sign of her. No bike tracks, even.
"Thanks for watching him," I say, pointing to the rip in the tent. Les nods like he knows. "Okay, Arnie, time to let the horse rest."
"But my horse isn't tired. ..."
"Arnie!"
"But . . . but . . . !"
"Say goodnight."
Arnie gives his horse a hug and starts to kiss its nose.
"Arnie, no!"
I take him by the hand and pull him off the ride.
We're walking out after buying him some taffy when I hear amplified: "GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN! GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN!"
It's Tucker and still no one has nailed him. I flip him the bird from about seventy-five yards.
PETER HEDGES
"REAL TOUGH, YOU RAISIN YOU! REAL TOUGH OF YOU!" Arnie is running around wondering where the sound is coming from, people are looking at me, and in hopes that the Becky girl might be watching from some hiding place, I walk real cool-like toward Tucker. Arnie tags along.
"OH. HERE COMES MR. TOUGH! OOOOOO—I'M SCARED!" It's three balls for a dollar and I pay five bucks' worth, giving me fifteen throws. The first six throws miss. A crowd is gathering. No sign of the girl yet. Tucker talks faster and faster; he's getting meaner and meaner. The seventh ball 1 throw right at him. The chicken-wire screen protects him, but it feels good to have scared him. The people watching are getting loud, half of them want Tucker wet, the other half don't. Balls eight through eleven aren't even close. Ball twelve hits dead on, but Tucker doesn't drop. "YOU GOT TO THROW IT HARDER, YOU WIMP! YOU GIMP!" This has become an exercise in humiliation. Everybody is laughing and I'm suddenly angry. Tucker is having a field day with my name and the length of my hair and the rust on my truck. Normally I could ignore it, but not in this situation, not today, not now. Ball thirteen slips out of my hand. I bend down to pick it up, when Arnie ducks
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
A-Whirl, but that's always the case. Some kids are playing the balloon game and the basketbcill toss and the cranes.
I'm checking on the status of the puke cleanup when I see a bicycle coast past, a boys' bike, with a certain girl on it. She wears a white T-shirt and blue jeans and her black hair blows like a horses mane. The wheel starts up with a sudden jolt. 1 follow the girl as she coasts past the games, past the kiddie cars. As I go by the operator I say, "I'm ready to get out now," but he waves like I paid him a compliment or something. She zips over to the Octopus and passes the Scrambler, the popcorn booth and the Pillow House. "Let me off! Let me off!" 1 scream, trying to remain nonchalant but failing. The carnie rubs the tip of his nose with a knuckle and spits.
I'm at the bottom and going back up. The girl is pedaling toward the Ferris wheel. She stops and studies it. When I come down in front, I'm all set to wave some gesture, but she's gone.
She's gone.
It's another five minutes before I'm finally let ofiF.
I thank the operator for a "marvelous" ride and under my breath utter, "You asshole." The girl from Michigan has left the grounds, I can feel it. I check all over anyway. There is no sign of her. No bike tracks, even.
"Thanks for watching him," I say, pointing to the rip in the tent. Les nods like he knows. "Okay, Arnie, time to let the horse rest."
"But my horse isn't tired. ..."
"Arnie!"
"But . . . but . . . !"
"Say goodnight."
Arnie gives his horse a hug and starts to kiss its nose.
"Arnie, no!"
I take him by the hand and pull him off the ride.
We're walking out after buying him some taffy when I hear amplified: "GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN! GILBERT GRAPE IS A RAISIN!"
It's Tucker and still no one has nailed him. I flip him the bird from about seventy-five yards.
PETER HEDGES
"REAL TOUGH, YOU RAISIN YOU! REAL TOUGH OF YOU!" Arnie is running around wondering where the sound is coming from, people are looking at me, and in hopes that the Becky girl might be watching from some hiding place, I walk real cool-like toward Tucker. Arnie tags along.
"OH. HERE COMES MR. TOUGH! OOOOOO—I'M SCARED!" It's three balls for a dollar and I pay five bucks' worth, giving me fifteen throws. The first six throws miss. A crowd is gathering. No sign of the girl yet. Tucker talks faster and faster; he's getting meaner and meaner. The seventh ball 1 throw right at him. The chicken-wire screen protects him, but it feels good to have scared him. The people watching are getting loud, half of them want Tucker wet, the other half don't. Balls eight through eleven aren't even close. Ball twelve hits dead on, but Tucker doesn't drop. "YOU GOT TO THROW IT HARDER, YOU WIMP! YOU GIMP!" This has become an exercise in humiliation. Everybody is laughing and I'm suddenly angry. Tucker is having a field day with my name and the length of my hair and the rust on my truck. Normally I could ignore it, but not in this situation, not today, not now. Ball thirteen slips out of my hand. I bend down to pick it up, when Arnie ducks
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