Bobby Bushay Jersey Novels & Stories

But though my morning proved uneventful—I took a few fares to ordinary destinations, and nothing strange happened at all—that afternoon the dyke I’d built in my head sprung another leak, and I officially ran out of fingers. *** Around two o’clock I parked before Clifton Heights First Methodist. One of my regulars, Bobby Watson, was standing on the curb, bags of food pantry goods huddled at his feet. Standing six foot four, weighing enough to make my cab sag on its shocks, Bobby must’ve been quite the physical specimen once. Though his pendulous gut hung over his belt, his chest sagged and his face was puffy and soft, his arms and legs were the size of tree-trunks, and his hands looked like t

I screamed as she dumped a can of soapy mop water on me. "Oops," she gloated and walked out feeling all high and mighty while I tried to clean up and dry the white round neck that was already hugging me. But nothing worked so by debate time, I was barely holding it together as Madison's words echoed in my head. "Okay, team." Coach Dax clapped his hands. "Let's run through the affirmative case. Mae, you want to deliver the first constructive?" I stood up, pulled out my flow, and started reading but halfway through, I lost my pace.

Bobby asked him, handing him a child-sized blue Rangers jersey, a miniature of the one he was wearing. Tyler grinned broadly. "Yes, sir!" he nodded, taking the jersey and quickly pulling it on. His mother helped him with the buttons. "Now somebody told me that you're coming back to the stadium tonight for the game," Bobby said. The boy nodded furiously. Bobby grinned. "They'd like for you to throw out the first pitch. Maybe you and I could practice a little. Would you like to toss a ball with me for a while?"