GENRE: MG Adventure
Earphones in, Tyler Zoetemelk swept ground hominy into a pile of gold in the grain barn. That song about the end of the world played and Tyler bobbed his head in time with the song’s artillery drum pattern.
His body was marooned in nowhere central Texas, on a farm. But in his mind, he was a rock star. On a stage with fans screaming below, he towered over hot chicks dying to get a piece of T-dog (his awesome nickname he gave himself just now but would later re-think) and he sang along. Knowing the right words was beside the point. But, singing them loudly---that was everything. He readied himself for his patented rock-and-roll-splits-jump in which he’d strum the broom, pop a tiny ground clearance and spread-eagle in a not attractive way, when he was hit at the base of his skull. With keys.
Tyler rubbed the back of his head---it didn’t hurt really, it just felt like a tennis ball rolled around in there. But who would do that? He turned to face the key thrower. It was Sid Strayhorn, the walrus of a man who’d sold them the farm earlier that summer.
Strayhorn pantomimed removing the ear buds and Tyler complied.
“I was saying, I forgot to give these to your dad.”
“You know, keys. To the shed. Anybody home upstairs?” Only cicada song filled the void. “Answer your elders, people will think you’re a sucker or something. Well, see you around, kid.” Strayhorn mock-saluted.