My Pretty Pony, 1993 by My Pretty Pony 1993

Author:My Pretty Pony, 1993
Language: rus
Format: epub

You'd give your soul for some my pretty pony time then, let alone short time. If you was to tell Gramma what I'm gonna tell you now, Clivey, she'd call me a blasphemer and wouldn't bring me no hot-water bottle for a week. Maybe two."

Nevertheless, Grandpa's lips twisted into a bitter and unregenerate jag.

"If I was to ask that Reverend Toddman the wife sets such a store by, he'd trot out that old one about how we see through a glass darkly or that chestnut about how God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, but I'll tell you what I think, Clivey. I think God must be one mean old son of a bitch to make the only long times a grown-up has the times when he is hurt bad, like with crushed ribs or stove-in guts or something like that. A God like that, why, he makes a kid who sticks pins in flies like that saint who was so good the birds'd come and roost all over him. I think about how long them weeks were after the hay-rick turned turtle on me, and I wonder why God wanted to make living, thinking creatures. If He needed

something to piss on, why couldn't He have just made Him some sumac bushes and left it at that? Or what about poor old Johnny Brinkmayer, who went so slow with the liver cancer last year."

Banning hardly heard that last, although he

remembered later, on their ride back to the city, that Johnny Brinkmayer, who

had owned what his mother and father called the

grocery store and what Grandpa and Gramma still

both called "the mercantile," was the only man Grandpa went to see of an evening . . . and the only man who came to see Grandpa of an evening. On the long ride back to town it came to Banning that Johnny Brinkmayer, whom he remembered only vaguely as a man with a very large wart on his forehead and a way of hitching at his crotch as he walked, must have been Grandpa's only real friend. The fact that Gramma tended to turn up her nose when Brickmayer's name was mentioned (had once, in fact, when Banning was in the entryway, hanging up his jacket and thus out of sight, told Grandpa, "That man smells like a nigger") only reinforced the idea.

Such reflections could not have come then,

anyway, because Banning was waiting breathlessly for God to strike Grandpa dead. Surely He would for a blasphemy. No one could get away with calling God the Father Almighty a mean old son of a bitch, or suggest that the Being who made the universe was no better than a mean third-grader who got his kicks (a word that had just come into vogue that year; "kicks"

were something juvenile delinquents got when they were out breaking windows or shooting each other with "zip guns" or doing some vague thing or things with their "debs"---things Banning equated for some reason with Patty's Peter-Pinches) sticking pins into flies.

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