Page 147

By Jack Joseph Smith

I think I am going to get back to my picnic. I think, that's a good idea. Thomas, ain't you going to stomp that white boy? Now you hush up. You get going boy. I got enough on my hands. Let's go, clowns and what ever else there is around. I was running down the hill, with the rest of the maniacs, when I heard his voice loud through the yellow blazing sun. Hey boy. Yeah, I answered turning. You pretty fast. I laughed, standing there watching him high on the hill, bigger than hell and shimming black with sweat. Your pretty big, I yelled. I heard him laughing, as I began jogging up the hill. This particular day continued with much drinking and secretly talked about love making. It was a usual Sunday afternoon, and I was happy that my once a week enter prize was going well. Beaver was there and so was Wendell Sabastian. Shades of the Lincoln bums passing through my dreams, as I lay on green grass without a care. Wendell Sabastian. Well, a man my age, already upon the scrolls of the Lincoln bums. Much discussion would go on, and I would mock it all spouting lines from plays. A new game for me to play. Who needs to know the rules? Just play play play. This always annoyed O'Dandy and company, and they would heckle me considerably. Maybe I should take a bow. To much trouble, I thought. A twinkle would come into my eyes. I think I shall. Sweeping low. Ha ha, they hated it. They are shouting me

Original Scan

Page 147

AI Interpretation

GPT

Leaving Thomas on the hill and returning to an afternoon of drinking, grass, Beaver, Wendell Sabastian, and Lincoln-bum talk, the narrator keeps mocking O'Dandy and the others with bows, lines from plays, and showy little gestures that sharpen the heckling against him.

The picnic settles back into its usual disorder, but now artifice is being used almost like a blade. He enjoys making O'Dandy's crowd feel stupid, and the theatrical flourishes become another form of domination and self-display.

Claude

The Thomas exchange resolves with a shout across the hill - Thomas 'shimming black with sweat' calls 'You pretty fast,' the narrator answers 'Your pretty big' - before he jogs back to rejoin 'my once a week enter / prize.' The afternoon settles into drinking, Beaver, and Wendell Sabastian, already 'upon / the scrolls of the Lincoln bums,' while the narrator mocks the talk by 'spouting lines from plays' - 'A new game for me to play. Who needs to know the rules?' - drawing heckling from O'Dandy and company, then pushes further with a mock bow ('Sweeping low') that only deepens their scorn ('they hated it'). One overtyped phrase near 'a man my age, already' does not support a stable reading and is omitted from this account.