Trip the Runner by Andrew Rolston

Author:Andrew Rolston
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781543955699
Publisher: BookBaby

Chapter VI

Trip was sure he would never get a good night’s sleep in that old shed, but somehow he dropped off. When he was awakened by a hard shove to his shoulders, he gasped at the sight of the dark, shadowed figure next to his bed.

“Wake up,” a raspy voice said to him. “It’s work time.”

Trip blinked, completely lost. “It’s dark out. What are we doing?”

“Farming.” The figure, Clem, turned and left, no further explanation on offer. Still bleary-eyed and very tired, Trip managed to pull on his pants and get one shoe on. He carried the second. Clem scowled at the loose shoe in his new farmhand’s grip and then scrutinized the man’s face.

“I guess you should go ahead and wear two shoes today. We’ll be walkin a guddamn lot.”

A big yawn found its way out of Trip and he stretched the shoe up to the sky while Clem crossed his arms over his old, sunken chest. “Now, cowboy,” the man ordered, and Trip rolled his eyes.

He was a cranky old man, but Trip wasn’t worried. Once Clem saw just how talented and steady a farmhand Trip could be, there wouldn’t be any more of this nonsense. Instead, there would be tables laden with big, country breakfasts, barn dances full of pretty girls, and heroic horse rides into the sunset. A smile took over his face as he pictured it all and looped the vision into his laces. It would be safe there.

Clem led the way to the barn. There, the two pitched hay with giant, heavy pitchforks. Trip had no trouble for about five minutes, after which his shoulder began to hurt. He halted a moment to roll it around a little and found that yes, it was far too tight. He set his fat tool down to stretch it, but the sight of a basic stretch was more than Clem could handle.

“Hey! Whatcha guddamn doin?”

Trip continued massaging and rolling the offending joint. “Sorry, it’s my shoulder. I just need to stretch it a minute. Keep going, I’ll catch up.”

The old farmer shook his head and threw the pitchfork down into the hay like a trident. It stood straight up and matched Clem’s posture. His mouth worked itself into a twist, and he glared at Trip just as his father had that last day in the house.

“Son,” the farmer said, “every time you take a break, I take a break. And I’ll tell you something else.” He took a step toward Trip, his foot sliding along the old barn floor like an upside down hatchet. “We don’t complete our chores today, and you don’t eat. And I can guess by the look of this,” he shoved a hard, gnarled finger into Trip’s chubby stomach, “that you are fond of your food.”

How dare he! Trip looked at the long, hardened digit stabbed into his stomach with an open mouth. “Hey! I’m trying not to get goddamn injured.” Trip said. “That all right with you?”

A derisive sniff came out of Clem as he shoved the pitchfork back into Trip’s hands.

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