enter one’a them derbies when I was a boy, but Ma and Mother Superior always conspired against me.” I gave him my best faux-caring look, hoping he’d buy it, but then I remembered that humans cannot read a goat’s emotions. “This one time, Ma ‘accidentally’ dropped a globe fixture from a ladder while I was helping her change the bulb. It just so happened that it
Paul Pfeuffer - Soapbox Derby Dreams
was on the day of the race, and I had to miss the derby because Ma said I couldn’t tie an icepack to my head and take on those S.O.B.’s.” He lifted the bottle until it was vertical, attempting to force the burning strawberry zinfandel down his throat. Chuck belched, chuckled, and turned the bottle to my face. “Care for some of Idaho’s finest, Boo Radley?” Chuck had taken to calling me Boo Radley early on in our time in the meadow because he joked that I never responded to him and he always had to search the bushes to find me, labeling me a recluse. Unfortunately, middle aged men in black pickup trucks never throw copies of To Kill a Mockingbird from the highway, so I never had the chance to read about my namesake. I’m also illiterate. Tilting the bottle to my lips, Chuck poured the heady spirit into my mouth, making me light-headed. Screw proper dining etiquette. Chuck lay back in the pasture, the bottle drained. “What about you, goat? You ever had any dreams?” “For a long time I wanted to fly to Hawaii and write bar and grill reviews, but that was ages ago,” I replied. Chuck bolted upright. “You can talk!” His eyes were so wide they 23