||battah, full-time, hard-working, pitching, Whaddya, whap, lower, tears, kids, onto, burger, freight, mill, jobs, quitting, sounds
||Rusty Johnson, Uncle Harvey, Aunt Shirley, Fort Peck
"Hey, battah, battah!" The kid with the bat scrunched his hat down and crouched at the plate. The pitch floated out slow and easy, like a sailboat on a sunny day. The kid swung. Whap! The ball sailed way out past the fence. I shook my head and turned away.
Better get to work. Nothing to see here. I picked up my bag of papers. My baby sister could throw a ball better than Rusty Johnson. But his dad owned the grocery store. He didn't have to sell papers. I stepped out on the corner. "Get your paper here!" I yelled.
I said the same thing a million times a day. But it'd be a good hour till I'd have any sort of crowd. I read ads in the store window. Ladies' hose -- $1.50 a pair. Pretty lame stuff. Bread -- 8 cents a loaf. Hamburger -- 15 cents a pound. I pictured a hot, juicy burger.
Yum, I thought. Why in the world you would buy a buck-fifty pair of fancy socks when you could get - let's see - ten whole pounds of meat for the same price? Didn't make sense to me. It'd been a year or two since I'd even smelled a hamburger.Paragraphs 5 to 15:
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