Read Online The Middle of Somewhere by J.B. Cheaney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J.B. Cheaney
Ads: Link
pumped, his feet stamped, his whole body twirled around.
There were a few he couldn't imitate even if he wanted to because—well, let me just say they were both politicallyincorrect and anatomically incorrect. The guy who made them didn't seem to like anybody in government. Or out of it.
Pop slowly opened his door and slid out, taking his camera. I followed, and watched him get close to one of the whirligigs to take a picture. Then he lowered his camera and just looked at Gee. Here was a cutout of a skinny guy in running shorts, legs turning like a pinwheel, and there was Gee, pinwheeling. Here was a crazy chicken with its head bobbing up and down—and there was Gee, bobbing. Pop turned to me. “He
can't
stop, can he? Any more than they can.”
I was afraid this would happen. “He's getting better, really. He just got through second grade with no teacher crack-ups.”
That didn't come out right. I meant that no teachers had insisted Gee be transferred to other classes because they couldn't take it anymore. But Pop just said, “They never understand.” Then he raised his voice to call out, “Gee! Five minutes, and we're back on the road.”
Dodge City is still a cow town, by the smell of it. We had to crawl right through the middle to reach Historic Front Street, competing with cattle trucks and pickups. Pop was getting grouchy about stoplights and drivers who pulled out in front of him and then drove too slow. Gee was getting antsy and I was about to go back and sit on him when we finally pulled into a parking space. Just ahead of us was a high wooden fence, and between the slats of the fence I could see a row of buildings that looked like “the town” inevery Western movie ever made: General Outfitters. Livery Stable. Long Branch Saloon. “Is this for real?” I asked.
“The street is real,” Pop told me. “But the buildings come right out of
Gunsmoke
.”
Gee hit the sidewalk and went straight to the fence. Pop pulled him down. “No more climbing. Remember yesterday?” At the admission gate, he got grouchy again. “Eight bucks apiece?!” he exclaimed. “Just to walk around a fake TV set?”
My grandfather is maybe on the cheap side of thrifty.
“I'm free,” Gee said, pointing to the sign.
“No you're not,” I corrected him. “It says children under seven, not children seven and under. But there's a family rate, Pop—we're family.”
“Twenty-five,” he grumbled. “That won't save us anything.”
“Well, as long as we're here we could check out the gift shop. You said it was worth seeing.” Though I wasn't likely to find bedsheets, unless they had lassos and spurs on them.
It's not true that if you've seen one gift shop you've seen them all. I can personally testify that if you're into Western, Front Street is the place for you: hats, boots, sheriff's badges, guns and holsters, cattle skulls, and kid versions of all that. Plus cowhide rugs, rawhide whips, ranch and farm sets, furniture and picture frames made out of cattle horns, leather everything. Plus posters, books, videos, and DVDs of every Western your grandfather grew up with, and tapes and CDs of every song they played onthose shows. There was even a song about Wyatt Earp— seriously.
We were in luck at first, because Gee found another kid his age to play gunfight with, while I perused the postcards. There was one of the whirligigs—“wind sculptures,” according to the caption—and one of the gunfighters on Front Street. I snapped those up right away, but then something different caught my eye. It was a little girl standing before a field of sunflowers. If she were standing
in
the field, she would have been invisible, because their fat yellow faces towered over her. Monster flowers! They reminded me of the giant jackrabbit, except for being real.
Gee's friend went out the side door with his family to visit Front Street, leaving Gee to me until Pop was ready to go and I could ask to stop at Wal-Mart. “How about a hat?
There were a few he couldn't imitate even if he wanted to because—well, let me just say they were both politicallyincorrect and anatomically incorrect. The guy who made them didn't seem to like anybody in government. Or out of it.
Pop slowly opened his door and slid out, taking his camera. I followed, and watched him get close to one of the whirligigs to take a picture. Then he lowered his camera and just looked at Gee. Here was a cutout of a skinny guy in running shorts, legs turning like a pinwheel, and there was Gee, pinwheeling. Here was a crazy chicken with its head bobbing up and down—and there was Gee, bobbing. Pop turned to me. “He
can't
stop, can he? Any more than they can.”
I was afraid this would happen. “He's getting better, really. He just got through second grade with no teacher crack-ups.”
That didn't come out right. I meant that no teachers had insisted Gee be transferred to other classes because they couldn't take it anymore. But Pop just said, “They never understand.” Then he raised his voice to call out, “Gee! Five minutes, and we're back on the road.”
Dodge City is still a cow town, by the smell of it. We had to crawl right through the middle to reach Historic Front Street, competing with cattle trucks and pickups. Pop was getting grouchy about stoplights and drivers who pulled out in front of him and then drove too slow. Gee was getting antsy and I was about to go back and sit on him when we finally pulled into a parking space. Just ahead of us was a high wooden fence, and between the slats of the fence I could see a row of buildings that looked like “the town” inevery Western movie ever made: General Outfitters. Livery Stable. Long Branch Saloon. “Is this for real?” I asked.
“The street is real,” Pop told me. “But the buildings come right out of
Gunsmoke
.”
Gee hit the sidewalk and went straight to the fence. Pop pulled him down. “No more climbing. Remember yesterday?” At the admission gate, he got grouchy again. “Eight bucks apiece?!” he exclaimed. “Just to walk around a fake TV set?”
My grandfather is maybe on the cheap side of thrifty.
“I'm free,” Gee said, pointing to the sign.
“No you're not,” I corrected him. “It says children under seven, not children seven and under. But there's a family rate, Pop—we're family.”
“Twenty-five,” he grumbled. “That won't save us anything.”
“Well, as long as we're here we could check out the gift shop. You said it was worth seeing.” Though I wasn't likely to find bedsheets, unless they had lassos and spurs on them.
It's not true that if you've seen one gift shop you've seen them all. I can personally testify that if you're into Western, Front Street is the place for you: hats, boots, sheriff's badges, guns and holsters, cattle skulls, and kid versions of all that. Plus cowhide rugs, rawhide whips, ranch and farm sets, furniture and picture frames made out of cattle horns, leather everything. Plus posters, books, videos, and DVDs of every Western your grandfather grew up with, and tapes and CDs of every song they played onthose shows. There was even a song about Wyatt Earp— seriously.
We were in luck at first, because Gee found another kid his age to play gunfight with, while I perused the postcards. There was one of the whirligigs—“wind sculptures,” according to the caption—and one of the gunfighters on Front Street. I snapped those up right away, but then something different caught my eye. It was a little girl standing before a field of sunflowers. If she were standing
in
the field, she would have been invisible, because their fat yellow faces towered over her. Monster flowers! They reminded me of the giant jackrabbit, except for being real.
Gee's friend went out the side door with his family to visit Front Street, leaving Gee to me until Pop was ready to go and I could ask to stop at Wal-Mart. “How about a hat?
Similar Books
