Favorite Sons Read Free Page B

fourteen-year-old in 1971.
    The last time Pepper was in my bedroom and saw the numerous cans and jars of arrowheads scattered about, he asked, “Why don’t you sell those? You’d get a lot of money for ’em.”
    â€œI’m going to wait until I’m older. Then they’ll be worth even more.”
    Pepper shook his head and said, “No, no, no. That’s not the way you do it. Sell ’em now, put the money in the bank, and start earning interest. It’ll compound and you’ll make a lot more money.”
    How many fourteen-year-olds could explain the intricacies of compound interest? Adrian and Pepper’s dad was the president of the Glass Works Bank and Trust Company. Obviously, Pepper had been paying attention to his father’s lessons and was way beyond therest of us in the area of fiscal management. None of us doubted that he would someday be ridiculously rich.
    After three hours of exploration in Marty Postalakis’s feed-corn fields, we ended our search on the east bank of the Little Seneca Creek, the sun high overhead, our shirts clinging to moist skin, the tang of testosterone in the air. We washed our treasures in the clear stream, compared our finds, bragged a little, then followed a furrow that snaked along the tree line back toward Chestnut Ridge. As we neared the end of the path that cut through a coppice of chestnut trees at the edge of the Postalakis property, Pepper was ragging on Deak, who had found only two points, although one was by far the best point of the day, a gray and maroon flint spear tip in near perfect condition. “I think the spear point should count for more than one, since it’s in such good shape,” Deak said.
    â€œI agree,” Pepper said. “I’ll give you one and a half for it.”
    Deak thought for a minute. “That still makes me the low man.” Pepper grinned. “I know.”
    I had six arrowheads for the day, Pepper five, and Adrian three, though he also had the prize find, a maul made of red quartzite. The maul was used by Indians as a hammer head. It was about the size of a tennis ball and had a groove worked into the middle so the user could get a solid grip when using it for pounding. It was in pristine condition, without nicks or chips. The fact that it was made of red quartzite, which is not found in eastern Ohio, meant a Mingo Indian had once traded for the maul, probably with a tribe in the northern United States. It was a valuable piece.
    As we walked, Adrian was rolling the maul around in his left hand, admiring his find, and said, “Maybe I’ll just keep this.”
    â€œIf you do, you have to pay me half its worth,” Pepper quickly chimed in. “We have a deal, remember? We sell everything we find and split the money.”
    â€œThat’s just on arrowheads,” Adrian countered.
    â€œReally? Then how about the axe head I found last fall? How come we didn’t have an arrowheads-only rule when I sold that?”
    You were not going to beat Pepper Nash in an argument about money. Adrian muttered something unintelligible, and I was laughing at the end of our single file line, enjoying the brotherly squabble.I was still grinning when the column emptied into a clearing atop Chestnut Ridge and Adrian abruptly halted, causing a chain-reaction collision of teenage boys. Standing at the side of the clearing under the shade of an oak tree, blocking the path leading back down to the school, was Petey Sanchez.
    He spotted us immediately and was yammering before we began walking again. “What are you guys doing up here, huh? Queers. Faggots. You up there jerkin’ each other off, huh? Havin’ a circle jerk, I bet. Circle jerk. Circle jerk. You’re a bunch of fuckin’ queers, aren’t you? Queers. Queers. Queers.” Drool fell from his lips as he spoke, and he spread his legs, bent his knees, and made a masturbating motion with his right hand.