Eddie Proffit has lived up to his last name, turning a handsome one (profit, I mean) on T-shirts and bumper stickers reading LEVITICUS SUCKS, though he did get a three-day vacation and had to come up with a written apology for wearing the prototype T-shirt, which he borrowed from Montana West, to school. He’s offered Montana a fifty-percent cut. They’re working out the details. His written apology was long and rambling and hardly an apology at all, but since it came with a promise not to wear the T-shirt to school anymore, he is reinstated.
I’m ready to go. Eddie has his feet on the ground, is running like a champ and filling his life with new friends (he’s even edging toward Montana West with lust in his heart), many of them the kinds of friends most people warn their kids away from—but the word is out that he might be Jesus, and he has attained antihero status among kids who wear Montana’s colors. Our next run will be my last. He’ll ask me to stay, and I’ll say he knows everything he needs to know now and I’ll just be in the way. He’ll beg me, I’ll tell him okay, I’ll stay until he gives me permission to leave, and the moment he knows he’s in control, he’ll let me go. I’m not predicting the future; I just know my friend.
As I look back over this story, I believe more than ever it ought to be part of the stable of banned literature at Bear Creek High School, though I have been careful not to take the name of the universe in vain or use bodily or sexual functions as verbs or adjectives. The content alone will get the job done.
I can’t get it published under the name of Billy Bartholomew, because he’s just another dead white guy, but I can say all I know about what it’s like being dead and not alter world philosophy one bit if I put it under Chris Crutcher’s authorship. I mean, who’s going to believe he has the inside intellectual track on anything? The vast majority of the world’s readership doesn’t know who he is. When I burrowed into his mind to catch up on his books, I found him mired in the quicksand of writer’s block. He hasn’t completed anything in more than two years, and though his editor is a picture of patience on the outside, she’s wondering if he’s run out of stories. So I will this story into his Word files, but at twenty-one grams, I can’t find a way to hit the send icon. I take it back out and pop it into his editor’s computer under his name.
Imagine how surprised Chris Crutcher is to get this e-mail.
Chris,
My goodness, I didn’t even know you were working on this. I made a few small changes, but I have to say it’s the cleanest first draft you’ve ever turned in. Read my changes and get back to me. You must have had real focus. Very clever, sticking yourself into the story. You’ll be famous yet.
Virginia
Crutcher reads the story, glances at the pile of Chapter One, Page Ones on the floor beneath his keyboard, recognizes this as similar to the ploy he used to get through high school, and fires off an e-mail.
Virginia,
What did you think I was doing? Sitting on my skinny—
I promised not to use those words in my story.
Chris
Good-bye, Eddie Proffit, Dad, Ms. Lloyd, Chris Crutcher. I’m off to explore newly formed galaxies and black holes and experience the breathtaking power and grace of the universe. I’ll bump against all of you soon. You probably sooner than the others, Chris Crutcher.
About the Author
CHRIS CRUTCHER is wrestling with writer’s block. He lives in Spokane, Washington.
www.aboutchriscrutcher.com
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OTHER BOOKS BY CHRIS CRUTCHER
Whale Talk
Ironman
Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes
Athletic Shorts
Chinese Handcuffs
The Crazy Horse Electric Game
Stotan!
Running Loose
King of the Mild Frontier:
An Ill-Advised Autobiography
Credits
Jacket art © 2005 by Photo Alto
Jacket © 2005 by HarperCollins Publishers
Jacket design by Chad W. Beckerman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SLEDDING HILL. Copyright © 2005 by Chris Crutcher. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196849-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Chris Crutcher, The Sledding Hill
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