East of Denver Read Online Free Page A

didn’t have enough kids for separate schools so they built one exactly halfway between the two towns and, after much discussion, decided that “Dorton” rolled off the tongue more easily than “Kearsey.” Kindergarten thru twelfth grade. Even with two towns, they were lucky to pull in ten students per grade.
    The kids from Keaton said, “Guard your horsey when you ride thru Dorsey.” The kids from Dorsey said, “The people in Keaton need a beatin’.” Of course, since the majority of us were farmers, most of the kids didn’t actually live in Dorsey or Keaton. But you picked a town for yourself and stuck to it.
    ----
    Even though there was no scoreboard, it was obvious the bank was getting their ass handed to them.
    Someone slapped me on the back of the head. “Shakespeare Williams!”
    D.J. Beckman, a balding, red-faced, thick-necked jackass sat down next to me.
    I’d known D.J. since we were both kindergarteners. That didn’t mean I liked him. He came from Keaton. Okay basketball player. He could dunk but he couldn’t pass.
    He punched my shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”
    â€œI’m hanging out with Pa.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œâ€™Til I find an excuse to leave.”
    â€œSo you’re here for good.”
    â€œHere for something.”
    We watched the game. The pitcher for the Keaton State Bank was a fat girl I didn’t recognize. She couldn’t toss for anything. She was wearing a boob tube. Her face was goopy with makeup.
    I asked D.J. who she was.
    â€œClarissa McPhail.”
    Another classmate. I said, “Wow. Last time I saw her, she was a skinny little thing.”
    He winked. “Believe it or not, she’s still single.”
    â€œShe’s not much of a pitcher.”
    â€œOh, she’s a hell of a pitcher.”
    She threw another pitch. It flew over the catcher’s head. The batter took a base on balls.
    I said, “No, she’s not.”
    â€œYou’re watching wrong. Keep your eye off the ball.”
    Next pitch, I watched Clarissa McPhail. Her boobs heaved.
    D.J. gee-geed like Roscoe P. Coltrane. “If you wait long enough, a nipple will hop out.”
    I said, “She know you’re leering at her?”
    D.J. stood up, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, McFailure! Shakespeare wants to know if you know we’re leering at you!”
    Clarissa stuck her tongue out and tossed another shitty pitch.
    ----
    Pa and I got hamburgers at the concession stand and climbed back to our seats next to D.J. Dad ate his hamburger wrong. Took off the top half of the bun and ate it. Then he ate the burger. Then the bottom half. I wiped his face with a handkerchief. It shouldn’t have been embarrassing. Everyone knows Dad is sick.
    D.J. pulled a flask out of his back pocket, took a sip, handed it to me.
    I drank, gagged, spit between my legs. Some of it splashed on the kids who were playing in the sand under the bleachers.
    D.J. said, “It’s a work in progress. I’m mixing corn, rye, and wheat. I’m gonna call it Nitro Whiskey. Whaddya think?”
    I wiped my finger over my teeth. “Kitty Dukakis wouldn’t drink that shit.”
    Dad said, “Watch your language.”
    â€œWho’s Kitty Dukakis?” said D.J.
    Who the fuck is Kitty Dukakis? Good question. I said, “I gotta take a leak.” I wanted to be somewhere else. Being in public with Dad always made me want to be somewhere else. But, things being how they were, if I went somewhere else, I had to take him with me. We walked to the outhouse, which was in the shadows beyond the outfield lights.
    It takes Dad forever to piss. I stood outside and waited. When Dad finally finished, we took the long way back to the bleachers. Past a row of parked cars. We were approached by the preacher from the church Mom used to go to.
    â€œSee you on Sunday?”
    â€œProlly