boxterjulep

John the retard.

That's what everybody called him.

John the retard that rode a three-wheeled bike around town.

Everyone would make fun of the bike. It looked like it had been assembled in a machine shop somewhere out of scrap pieces. Green and rust colored it was. It had a big old metal basket on the back too. I don't think the guy could ride a regular two-wheeled bicycle. He had two sisters that rode three-wheeled bicycles as well. Runs in the family.

So John the retard would ride his three-wheeled bike around town with a broken bat in the metal basket...

Once, I ran into him on this mustard gravel road that passed by a farm I had lived on just outside of town. The one time I really had a chance to talk to him one-on-one. It was around dusk. He had stopped in the middle of the road for some reason. I was in the front yard by some maple trees collecting furry caterpillars and putting them in a jar. Since he was just sitting there I asked him, "Hey John. Why do you go around with a broken bat on the back of yer bike? You gonna do somethin with that thing?" He stared at me or so it seemed, it was always hard to tell where or what his eyes were focusing on. Maybe he didn't hear me so I asked him again. His reply was a kind of shallow bellow. He couldn't articulate words well but then again maybe he was just moaning. You just never knew.

John the retard who rides his three wheeled bike around town with a broken bat in the metal basket and moans at people.

Then, before I could ask him again, he reached into the basket and grabbed the broken bat, this jagged, rotted looking thing, and held it over his head like a calvary man ready to charge into the field. He moaned again, but louder and longer than before, the sound slowly fading out to a groan then nothing. He stayed locked in that position for quite a while, his mouth gaping open as if the battle cry was still coming out at a pitch I couldn't hear anymore.

John the retard, who rides his three-wheeled bike around town with a broken bat in the metal basket and moans at me, silently, while holding a broken bat over his head.

I then noticed my dogs off to the side of the road. Okay, he's afraid of my dogs. "It's okay, John. They won't bite!" I yelled to him. John would have none of this. He motioned the bat at me. What for? I dunno. Then, he motioned towards my dogs with a check swing. Bad move. They called his bluff and went after him. So I was wrong. The dogs would attack. Oh well. I tried to talk to him at least. Maybe some other day.

There goes John the retard who rides his three-wheeled bike around town with a broken bat in the metal basket, who moans battle cries and flees from my dogs down a gravel road towards the river until he's just plain out of sight.

John the retard, what can I tell you?
I could tell you a little bit more...