Pat could c-him, distant, the broad band of the Bob Hawking off auld lang syntax textrabooks. Wither jester yesture guestsur he tearned, face dampen down, and said, “Haven’t seen ya for a long while, Pat m’dear, and you’ve been rumbling and ranting ‘bout that longone padre o’yours, you damn cantancher. What’ve you for me today, so a bitch in time saves me and mine?”
Old Patold him where he oughta shove it (“shovel shit”) since his heyteenth mirthplay’d gun and con that mourning mother and another of his had whyed and crept and scented him out of the hours tangoed with the sound and about of her rememberiscience. “They grow up so fast, Charlie,” she’d hobknobbled, “I recall the days when Pat was but a little boy bobbing buoy in the sweat o’my brow and now look at’im. Look at ‘im now!”
Our fresh-faced, faced-off, far-off, frowned-off proandcontagonit’s truantics ley in the frying line of the gothernmeant well off ice and on. To be specopsific, he sooked and feeled and got over his bioillogical father when a boy, but on retching the adage of clayteen, the mantra’d courton, and Pat was thentitled to the name and attrestament of his grayish garish oldman.
Towin the laine Pat whent. Gregorhe, or summat’thematic similhard, was the clark’s neighm who grave Pat the deat what ailed him of his debeerd old dad. Maid his chambermhoneypot in dime oneds rather than texpertise – app arent’lyke a well-off sort and set, in a grated cheesed-off commudity. Taspite the tenshin in his chest o’drawers, Pat waulked. Cumin acrid across the rheight home, and the smelter furn ace something else beside itself. In fact, vOI! says so leud thatpat hearded them in mined and tri’d like quiet to turn quarterback. But, stealing himself, ironing himself, bronzing himself, he walk Don.
A notch on the dour and a man lukedwarm out. “Be with ya in a moment.” Backside he went. Whazzat, Pat’s dad? He was having a toughfull inside, Patsaw shortstraw – a political argwhatyoument. “I’ll be Bach in a moment,” he shouted outed threw the drawer, and slammed a great white Whig shark bang on his skelp. Clannad no choice but to waight himself on a nearbyebye parliar-meant seat, and not iced, he was swetting himself in anthillmancipation. A feelthy guardhen Noam grazed in his general’s dire action from the guar den. The hoelp lease was rather rundown, impointerfact. Fineally, his father Camout – a find speckimen a’dirt a’shirt. “You Pat?” For he’d called aheed.
“I am,” Pat steered at him, the goldman he’d newlymet for good times and bad. Gnomatter how dirty his home, it would be Path’somelogically now, and so he oughta get fused to it. Sumparta the son arta deconcertoed Pat – woody like his new dad? Or waspy two differ, rent the newholme in half-and-half? Not four the frostheim, Pat innerfought he mighty’ve maid a missteak, and earned himself a lwhyfetime of trubble. He’d maid his bedseethe’drest in it.
verso folio 