Free A Conversation with the Mann by John Ridley Page B

things should be any other way.
    Apparendy it should have. Dax waved me over to a spot next to him. “C'mon over heyah, Jackie. Eat outside, tha flies'll git
     in yer food.”
    As I sat down, as I cut into my steak and chewed on the first hearty mouthful, I remember Dax's hand coming down firm on my
     back.
    “Funny as hell, boy. Where'd you learn to get so funny?”

    T HE AMATEUR SHOW was four or five days in the past. I was working a skid trail trying to keep my mind on the boss and off the applause that
     was still ringing in my ears and the taste of the steak that was resurrected with my every swallow. As I worked at that chore,
     a Jeep came around driven by one of the camp managers. He stopped below my station, called me down from the line. I went to
     him, smiling, thinking he had something good to say about my act. Five days later and I'd still been getting the warm hand
     from people who'd seen me. Not this time. When I got close enough to read the manager's face, it told me and told me plain
     that whatever he had for me wasn't pleasant.
    “Get in.” Two words. To the point. And when the second I spent trying to figure out why was too long in passing: “Well, c'mon,
     boy. Get in. Let's go,” the camp manager prompted again whip-cracking-style.
    I started climbing into the Jeep. The manager barely waited for me to finish before pulling away.
    I got ridden back to the administration building. I got walked to an office. Inside was another camp manager, looking less
     happy than the one who'd driven me. With him were a couple of frowning policemen.
    “These here men are from the police,” the manager told me in case their blues, badges, and guns weren't hint enough. “Your
     father's looking for you. Says you run off from home.”
    Most of the time Pop was too lit up and strung out to find his way from the couch to the floor. But somehow across the length
     of the country that smoker was able to stretch out and point a finger at me.
    The manager said: “These officers are going to take you back to Seattle, put you on the first train for—”
    “I don't want to go home.” I tried to sound firm about it, but the only thing greater than the begging in my voice was the
     pleading. “If I go back home my pop's going to—”
    “You're not eighteen.” The manager didn't care a thing for my plight. He demonstrated his non-caring by not so much as looking
     my way. “You're not eighteen, you can't work. We'll get you on the train, we'll get you home.” To further elaborate on his
     non-caring, the manager picked up some papers from his desk, stared at them. His furrowed brow indicating that the papers,
     and not me, now had his full attention.
    I started to go with the policemen.
    I stopped.
    I asked the manager: “Where do I go to get my money?”
    “You're not eighteen, you can't work. You can't work, you can't get paid.”
    Jammed between the two cops like a public enemy, I got walked to their prowl car and put in back. It was a long drive to Seattle,
     and on the whole of it there was no conversation among me and the officers. Once there, at the train station, I was left with
     a ticket for New York. Probably the lumber company paid for it. Taken out of what they owed me, they got off cheap.
    Nearly three days back to the city. Outside the Vista-Dome, mountains melted into desert, which blended into … I had no money.
     A porter took pity on me, snuck me some leftovers from the dining car.
    At the changeover in Chicago I gave consideration to getting off the train and running off to somewhere to do … something.
     Then I thought about how well I'd get along in an alien city, pockets empty, no one to feel sorry for me and slip me food.
     I got on my train and finished my ride to New York.
    When I got to Penn Station there was no one there to meet me. I had no change for the subway and was too scared to try fare-jumping.
    I walked home.
    When I got to our apartment my father was high or drunk or some