Hymn From A Village by Nigel Bird Read Free Book Online Page A

a long snout with two sausage ears.
    “You always been a clown, Stevie?”
    He takes his time to answer and his eyes go misty. Maybe it’s all the puffing and blowing.
    The yellow balloon fills with air. He ties a knot in the end. Looks at it for a moment and smiles again.
    “Just the way it turned out.” The yellow balloon squeaks as he works it.
    “Tell us, Stevie,” Joey says. “Tell us the story.”
    We know he will. He tells it the same every Sunday when we stop on the way home from practice.
    This time I don’t even listen. Don’t have to. I look down at Joey and see the wonder in his eyes. It’s like Stevie’s Christ and we’re his disciples.
    Story goes he was signed up for the Yankees on account of him being a big hitter at college. Nobody had seen anyone like him since ‘Babe’ the way he tells it.
    First time at the Yankee Stadium he scored two home runs. Flew right over the fence. Guy called Bill Addler dislocated his shoulder trying to catch him. Shouldn’t have bothered according to Stevie.
    Asked Pops about Addler. Remembers it cos he was there. Fine player, Pop says. A real terrier.
    So was Stevie. Real potential. Shame the way it happened to him.
    After the game, Stevie’s the hero. They go celebrate even though they’ve told the coach they’re heading home. Ends up in a bar at the end of the earth and takes a lift with some old lush.
    Lush runs a light. Gets himself killed.
    Gets Stevie a glass eye and a bit of brain damage.
    Stevie always takes his eye out when it gets to that part. Let’s us have a play so long as our hands are clean.
    Feels warm like it’s alive.
    He hands over the giraffe to me and leans down to Joey.
    “What’ll it be today?”
    One of the geeks walks right between us, almost knocks Stevie over. Brushes the giraffe from my hands.
    He never looks where he’s going.
    Always dress the same, him and his mates. Ripped jeans, leather jackets and hair like girls. Not a spare ounce on their bodies.
    Spend half their time hopped up on glue – I seen ‘em with their bags out on the stoop. The other half they’re making tunes. Don’t pay no attention to us, normally.
    Pop says that guys like them should be drafted into the army. They’d learn ‘em a thing or two.
    I don’t know about that.
    I’ve heard ‘em play down in the garage. Make me feel good, their songs. Like they wanna be somewhere else or somebody else or something. I think I understand.
    Stevie shouts over.
    “Careful where you go, son,” he says in a nice voice, like he’s trying to be kind.
    The boy looks up. Can’t see his eyes cos of his shades and the flop of hair.
    “Sorry,” he says and takes his hands out of his pockets. Comes back and picks up the giraffe and gives it to me. “Sorry kid.”
    He puts his hands back in his pockets and gets on his way again. I wonder where he’s headed. Then he looks round. Speaks.
    “How you doin’ Stevie?” He says it like they know each other, but not well.
    “Same old things, Little Man. Same old things.”
    Stevie leans down to Joey.
    “A dog in a heart, please.”
    He picks out two pink balloons, same as always, one dark one light.
    ––––––––
    S he’s so fucking hot, man. Melting.
    Debbie. Hell rhymes with that? Heavy?
    Debbie / she’s so heavy / ba ba ba ba, ba ba.
    Makes her sound fat. Definitely not the way into her skirt.
    That skirt. Shit. It’s like she’s tellin’ us to come and get it. Gotta get me a piece of the action or I’ll die a fucking monk.
    What about that place in sunny Afrique?
    Entebbe. With the hijack. Could work.
    Like the folk on the planes down in Entebbe / I’m a hostage to love with a girl called Debbie / ba ba ba ba, ba ba.
    Hotdog!  A million fucking dollars.
    Better get me a pen.
    And glue. My head feels tight. Need to loosen things up in there.
    Fuck was that?
    “Careful where you go, son.”
    I ain’t nobody’s son. Not anymore. If I ever see that bastard, I’ll suck his lungs out through a