Life In Dearth 694828

LIFE IN DEARTH

Barry F. Schnell

Copyright © 2016 by Barry F. Schnell.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908867 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-5245-0547-9 Softcover 978-1-5245-0546-2 eBook 978-1-5245-0545-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/09/2016

Xlibris 1-888-795-4274 www.Xlibris.com 743166

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Dedicated to the inventors of pizza, foot rubs, and plus-sized boxer briefs, in that order.

1

“What store are we going to?” Po’ Zeke asked. His father, Baldwin, a man of few words even when he did speak, did not respond straight away and continued spit polishing his golf clubs amidst the lowest level of the lime green, tri-level tract house that was now more Stachybotrys mold than habitable family room. The other thing vying for Baldwin’s attention was the old, young Mae West film airing on the decade old, 19-inch color television propped up across the room on Aunt Molly’s old Queen Anne boudoir dressing table, now spray painted green to match the outside of the house, more or less. “Are we going to the hardware store?” Hack-ptoo! Hack-ptoo! The caked earth embedded deep into the grooves of the mashie apparently needed a double dose of Baldwin’s cheek cleanser. “What store we going to?” Baldwin laughed at something happening on the television. Po’ Zeke glanced at the television but didn’t get it. Perhaps his eleven year-old brains didn’t fully grasp what adults perceived as humor yet. A ring of the doorbell finally caused Baldwin to make eye with Po’ Zeke. Baldwin nodded in the direction of the front door, one half-level up. “Go see who it is,” Baldwin said. “Then get me a diet soda. A diet. A diet.” Always compliant, Po’ Zeke dashed up the eight steps to the foyer level of the house. Waiting to be let in was the community’s only Chinese girl, Yip-kow Yang, age 15.

Po’ Zeke said nothing. Yip-kow said nothing. Po’ Zeke pushed open the rusted, cracked glass screen door which now only opened forty-five degrees from the door jamb. Yip-kow stepped inside and then bounded upstairs to the second level of the house and positioned herself at the saloon battered, spinet piano facing the southern wall of the living room that was painted higgledy-piggledy with a single coat of “lunar turquois” semi-gloss from Sears. “Mom! Student’s here!” Po’ Zeke shouted. Po’ Zeke then went back downstairs and sat on the always damp basement floor next to Baldwin’s golf bag. “What store are we going to?” “Where’s my diet?” Upstairs, Yip-kow cracked her knuckles and softly air-played her scales on a floating keyboard above her head waiting for her teacher, who perennially ran seven to fourteen minutes behind the rest of the world, to her. Finally, six minutes after Yip-kow arrived, Ethyl Pullman stepped out of the nearby kitchen with a coffee cup in one hand and a backup, metal canister full of hot coffee in the other. Ethyl was lithe and, despite never being on time, always two steps ahead of the fashion world. This day she was elegant in an orange and white Chanel ribbonweave, fitted and pleated dress. She placed her coffee mug and hot beverage canister prominently atop the right side of the keyboard and took a seat on the leather hassock already rolled up into place next to the piano bench. “How are you, Yip-kow? Have you been practicing?” Yip-kow shrugged without looking up or answering out loud. “I see, it’s going to be one of those days, eh?” Ethyl said. Her tone was whimsical as she reached up and retrieved her mug of coffee from off the piano. Downstairs, Po’ Zeke could hear Ethyl take two long, sustained, satisfying slurps of her coffee. The way Ethyl brewed it, to a consistency likened to that of a chocolate malted, long, sustained slurps were the only way to get the hot, piping sludge from the cup and over the lips.

Yip-kow had her long, black hair pulled over the top of her head. It covered her face to below her chin. “Maybe if you brushed the hair out of your eyes you could see where your fingers should be pressing down on the instrument?” Ethyl said. Begrudgingly, Yip-kow pulled her hair down and back to its natural position. She turned to face Ethyl. There was a single tear on each of Yip-kow’s bulbous cheeks, and a gargantuan, pus engorged blemish on the bridge of her nose. “The boys made fun of me today,” Yip-kow said. “It was awful. ‘Pizza-nose’ they called me. They wouldn’t stop. I want to die. I just want to die!” “Would you like some coffee?” Ethyl said. Yip-kow declined. She turned away from the piano, straddling the bench, and faced Ethyl. “What should I do?” Yip-Kow asked. “I can’t go to my parents with this. They are already shamed. I am their shame, I know I am.” Ethyl took another loud slurp of caffeinated alluvium then propped her coffee cup on her knee. She looked to the sky, then back at Yip-Kow, then at her coffee cup, and then back to the sky. “Proverbs 31:30 says, ‘Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” Ethyl said. Yip-Kow said nothing but inched herself closer towards Ethyl by scooting her butt along the piano bench. “There’s also this boy. I really like him. He doesn’t know. My parents say I’m too young for a boyfriend. You know so much. What should I do?” “Is he musical? Or rather, can he play an instrument?” “He sings a lot to himself.” “Choir counts. He sounds like a good boy.”

Ethyl emptied her coffee cup into her mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. She put the empty mug on the piano bench and refilled it by vigorously slapping the opened, upside-down hot beverage canister over it. “I was your age not so long ago,” Ethyl said. “In fact, I it like it was just last week…” Ethyl launched into her tale of pre-marital yore, and Yip-Kow became enraptured listening with her hands folded beneath her chin. Down in the lowest level of the house, Po’ Zeke’s tros had soaked up too much moisture from the floor while he waited for Baldwin to finish up cleaning his clubs. He slogged up the stairs to the top floor of the tri-level where his sanctuary, a 110 square foot bedroom, occupied the northeast corner of the house. The best part of the location was that it would be the last room gutted during the traditional path of most tornados. Otherwise, it was the smallest of the three bedrooms and absorbed most of the street noise and winter air gusts through the rotted pine windowsills. But this was Po’ Zeke’s Fortress of Solitude. Before he got around to changing his pants, Po’ Zeke lost himself in an Incredible Hulk comic book (issue #180—introduction of The Wolverine) and curled up atop his twin mattress to relive the magic for the sixtieth time. He never bothered to close his door, as he knew there would be no noise coming from the piano to interrupt his trance—not when his mother was giving lessons. And Fiona-Jo was down the street at her friend Jolene’s house, so there was no fear of her coming in and thrashing her younger, waifish brother about for no good reason as she was wont to do when there were no other distractions about. It wasn’t but five minutes later when Baldwin appeared in the doorway to Po’ Zeke’s bedroom. “Forget the diet. Let’s go!” Baldwin said. “To the store? Are we going to the store? What store are we going to?” Baldwin turned around and marched downstairs towards the garage side door entrance located perpendicular to the front door of the house.

Pants still damp, Po’ Zeke tossed his comic book on his desk and bounced down the steps after his father. Baldwin lit up a smoke and looked around the garage cluttered with three generations of newspaper clippings, broken tools, and deflated sports balls of every shape and size. He opened the driver’s side door of his pride and joy, a 1975 Trabant painted brown and white to look like a cow, just as Po’ Zeke scampered into the garage. “I want you to clean up the garage this week. And why in the hell are your pants all wet?” He kind of wanted to know, and he kind of didn’t. Baldwin descended down into the car and slammed the door shut before Po’ Zeke could answer him. He turned the engine over and threw the vehicle into reverse before Po’ Zeke could get in. Once out on the driveway, Baldwin ceased backwards motion. Po’ Zeke walked out of the garage and tugged on the Trabant’s enger side door four times with all his might before it opened. Finally, the door opened. Po’ Zeke climbed in. Seatbelts were never encouraged. Baldwin tuned the radio to the last station in town that still played polka songs. He extinguished his cigarette, lit another, and they were on their way. As they rolled through stop sign after stop sign exiting the subdivision onto Aurelio Way, the feeder street that led to the main drag into town, Baldwin either tailgated or acted as impedance to other motorists depending on the wind behind the Trabant. The wet bottom was becoming an irritant to Po’ Zeke, but he very well couldn’t ask Baldwin to turn around now that they were already headed towards wherever it was they were headed. Po’ Zeke learned from his mistakes; some bridges he just didn’t want to cross again. They sputtered along for a couple of miles and turned to the north once Aurelio Way connected to Vesuvio Drive, the official main drag in the sleepy, cramped bedroom swapping community of Dearth, Illinois. Baldwin extinguished and lit another cigarette. The ashtray of the Trabant was

filled with half-smoked cigarettes. In recent years, Baldwin often only smoked the first half of a cigarette, because he felt that’s where all the “rush” was. It also enabled him to legitimately boast to others that he’d ‘…really cut down on his smoking since grammar school.’ Within seven minutes, they’d arrived at their destination: Futzman’s gas station. Futzman and Baldwin went back to just before high school and had remained lifelong friends. Futzman opened his filling station in Dearth at the same time everyone else in town fled the old neighborhood out of self-preservation. Baldwin even had a hand in brokering the deal as his realtor friend, Moose, told him about the property where Futzman’s gas station now sits. Baldwin sold Futzman on getting the land while the getting was good, and the rest is fullservice fueling and minor car repair history. Baldwin parked near the rarely used pump #8 which was on the far side of the station away from most of the action. He exited the car, tossed his cigarette into the trashcan adjacent to the gas pump, lit up another cigarette, and proceeded inside to talk to his old friend. Po’ Zeke remained inside the car not wanting to have to put up a fight with the door again. The sun beat down on Po’ Zeke through the candy glass windshield like a sparing partner way out of his weight class. Inside the garage, Futzman was in the middle of changing the oil on a rust ravaged Plymouth sedan. Baldwin whistled like he was whistling at a new, pretty shoe girl at the bowling alley. “Sweet ride,” Baldwin said. “Whose car?” Futzman slid out from beneath the Plymouth. He, too, was smoking a cigarette— but neither of them smoked the same brand. “Reverend Googler’s. Only eight years old. Got sixteen hundred miles on it. I guess Widow Irmisher left it to the church. The pastor wants a full grease and oil on of it’s never been done.” “I just got done cleaning my clubs.” “Yeah, I’ve got to do that.”

“Moose and Deuce are going to meet us at the place for breakfast at five-thirty, and we’re off the tee at eight-fifteen.” “Sounds right.” “Want to go hit some balls?” “Can’t,” Futzman said nodding his head towards the Plymouth. “Oh yeah.” Baldwin said and took a super long drag off of his cigarette thinking it would spark a scheme to get Futzman out of the garage. “I’ve got the boy with me, but I figure he could stay here and watch things while we’re at the range so he’s got something to do.” “Still can’t.” Futzman disappeared beneath the Plymouth. Baldwin reed Po’ Zeke in the Trabant. Ninety seconds later, they were in the parking lot of Pergler’s Hardware not too far down the street from the gas station. Po’ Zeke left the car this time as walking around the hardware store might make for a good place to dry out his drawers. Baldwin was two half-puffs into the store when he just stopped in his tracks and marveled at the spectacle of it all: shiny hammers, clean shelves, that new rubber hose smell. Po’ Zeke had seen Baldwin’s eyes gloss over inside Pergler’s Hardware many times before; it was a trip they’d taken about every two months since Po’ Zeke was born. Baldwin rarely purchased anything, but he just loved the feeling of all the clean, new, manly merchandise seeping into his bones. Baldwin inhaled deeply. “Don’t you just love it in here? A man could spend all day in here. God, I love it in here.” Baldwin said. Back at the house, Ethyl held open the screen door to its structural limit while Yip-Kow skipped out of the house and out to her father’s idling, late model Audi sedan in the street. She smiled at Ethyl before she got inside the car. Ethyl waved back.

Down the street Ethyl could see Henri Gorney approaching from about eight houses away. She’d have just enough time to reload her hot beverage canister in preparation for the next lesson.

2

Just as they were leaving, something caught Po’ Zeke’s eye that he had never seen inside Pergler’s Hardware store before: a brand new, 24”, shiny yellow BMX bicycle with white-wall, knobby tires and a chrome plated kickstand. It was the kind of ride every other guy on the block already had while Po’ Zeke was relegated to his rusty, black penny-farthing bike handed down from his great grandfather. The penny-farthing had undergone a myriad of cut-rate, household mechanic modifications down through the generations but still managed to maintain the discomfort, lack of style, and difficulty in navigation qualities as the original. The bike was on display right by the front entrance. Po’ Zeke was so lost in rolling up his wet pant legs above his knees when they first entered the store, he didn’t even notice it. But Po’ Zeke noticed it now, and how. Baldwin noticed the drool forming on Po’ Zeke’s lower lip and assumed that he finally was appreciating the hardware ambiance in an inherited way. But Po’ Zeke only saw the BMX bicycle. He looked all around for a price tag but could find none. “Let’s go. I want to sock some balls before Lawrence Welk comes on.” Baldwin said. “Dad, wait.” “What? “How much do you think a bike like that costs?” “What do you care? You’ve got a bike—and a damn good one. I rode it. My father rode it. His father rode it. It’s the family bike.” “But what if I got a paper route or something, could I buy it?” “If you get a paper route you’re going to start contributing to the water bill every

month. Every day you kids take a shower! You and your sister are hygiene-ing me into the poor house.” Po’ Zeke stood still transfixed on the bike. Baldwin threw his cigarette to the floor, snuffed it out with his tippy toe, and lit another. He was going to let Po’ Zeke have this moment figuring he’d forget about it soon enough. In Baldwin’s estimation, it was just another toy for the boy to play with one day and then forget the rest of his life. A clerk for Pergler’s Hardware happened by. Completely out of character, Po’ Zeke worked up the nerve to speak to the stranger. “Mister? How much is that bike?” Po’ Zeke said, his voice cracking every second word. “Oh, we just got that in. They’re all the rage with kids your age. Lots of people are asking about it, I can tell you that. That one there goes for eighty-four dollars, because we already assembled it. It’s ten dollars cheaper unassembled.” “Eighty-four dollars!” Baldwin said. “I didn’t spend that much on your mother’s engagement ring.” As the clerk strolled away, Baldwin began laughing aloud with his cigarette holding hand atop his belly. “What if I didn’t ask for anything for my birthday or anything else for a whole year?” Po’ Zeke said, his eyes wide and hopeful. “You think we’ve got eighty-four dollars just laying around to spend on something you’ll play with for an hour then forget about? We’ve already got a house filled with crap like that—including that cat.” “Summer is coming, Dad. I’ll ride it every day. The family bike—it hurts between my legs so much. And it really hurts when I fall off—and I can’t ride as fast as everybody else.” “Enough with the crazy talk. Let’s go hit some balls. The Erectors Duff Club father-son tourney is in eleven weeks. We both need the practice. This year, I may let you hit a couple. I don’t want to be embarrassed again.”

Baldwin stepped out of the store blowing a smoke ring into the sky outside. Po’ Zeke sulked out behind him taking one last look at the BMX bike before the Pergler’s Hardware glass and steel, automatic sliding doors kissed closed on the nips of his heels in what felt like an intentionally taunting manner. “Eighty-four dollars,” Baldwin said chuckling to himself on the way back to the car. “Yeah, and I want a new set of fairway woods with diamond studded grips and a back rub from Myrna Loy.” So they drove to the local Stop n’ Sock on the edge of town where the farmland dominated the landscape surrounding the petite, 225 yard driving range and mini-golf course. After parking the car, Baldwin reached into the back seat where he stashed his three-wood, mashie, and a putter – the three clubs he used almost exclusively unless occasional tournament rules dictate he play with a “full” bag of clubs. The driving range was full of duffers sculling and hooking balls every which way. It was a given that any cars parked nearest the driving tees would sustain some type of ball dings or cracked glass. Scratch golfers wouldn’t go near the place. It was purely a place for the general public to work out swing affectations and general domestic frustrations. Baldwin strapped on his golf shoes, refreshed his cigarette, and handed three quarters to Po’ Zeke. “Go over to the pop machine and get me a diet. A diet. A diet.” Po’ Zeke nodded. En route to the Stop n’ Sock, he’d said nothing more about the BMX bike even though Baldwin muttered and chuckled “eighty-four dollars!” every time he lit up a new cigarette. As Po’ Zeke rounded the corner near the main property club rental and snack shack, Baldwin yelled out one more time loud enough to cause every practice swinger to turn around and look Po’ Zeke’s direction. “A diet!” While Baldwin settled himself down at the end of the driving range furthest away from the club rental and snack shack, Po’ Zeke made his way to the pop machine on the other side of the structure to get his father a diet soda. It was

easier than having to transact with a live person at the snack shack. Baldwin wasn’t going to throw good money after bad and pay $5.00 for a bucket of range balls when he could just venture ten or fifteen feet out into the shaggy grass just off the tee boxes and score a couple dozen of muffed balls for free. Casually, he strolled out five paces from the tee boxes looking towards the sky or horizon feigning an interest in something. This was Baldwin at his smoothest. He then kicked the balls in the direction of his tee box, sometimes dodging a shanked ball smacked slipshod from a nearby tee, and then placed all of the seized balls into a nice, neat pile with his foot near his clubs. Po’ Zeke daydreamt of riding the new, yellow BMX bike up and down the block while his best friend, Pinchy Hannigan, begged and begged him for a turn to try it out. Po’ Zeke was popping wheelies, riding with his feet up on the handlebars, piloting with no hands—all of the tricks he couldn’t do on his stupid old pennyfarthing. Oh, how the girls would swoon, too. Plus, he’d finally get to jump the ramps daredevil-style like all of the other guys did on the dead end street just a couple of blocks from the house. One day last summer, Pinchy and the guys double-dared Po’ Zeke to try and jump what they referred to as ‘the wimp ramp’—a two-foot long, two-by-six plank ed up at one end by a three-inch thick red brick. Po’ Zeke mounted his penny-farthing (nicknamed “Feuerball” by his great grandfather) a half-block away from the ramp, got his legs cranking around as mightily as he could and worked the old gal up to about four miles per hour when he hit the base of the ramp. The misaligned, larger front wheel struggled up the plank shifting right, then left, then right again before plummeting with whump straight down sending the small rear wheel up and over Po’ Zeke’s head, and Po’ Zeke, with a face plant into the asphalt. Feuerball was no worse for wear, but Po’ Zeke had a tremendous gash along his chin which he decided to conceal from his parents by donning a rubberized, JFK Halloween mask at the supper table for two weeks. Neither Baldwin nor Ethyl ever noticed the gash or asked about the mask dismissing it merely as a phase of puberty. Po’ Zeke figured his daredevil days were over, stupid penny-farthing. Back in reality, Po’ Zeke had no trouble finding Baldwin as he usually opted to sock balls from the same place every time. When Po’ Zeke returned with the can of pop, Baldwin scowled and slammed the head of his putter into the dirt.

“I said ‘diet!’ Didn’t you hear me say, ‘diet?’ Diet!” Po’ Zeke looked at the can. Sure enough, he was too entranced in his BMX glory daydream to notice that he had purchased a full sugar can of pop. His heart sank. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes if he was going to ever raise the subject of getting a new bike again. Po’ Zeke looked down at his shoes. “Piss! Piss! Piss!” Baldwin said, opening the pop can and taking a big swig. “I can’t drink this!” Baldwin set the can down and resumed hitting balls as hard as he could with full swings of his putter. “Sit down behind me.” Baldwin said. “I’ll let you hit a few in a while, that is, if you don’t get lost.” Po’ Zeke complied and felt bad for being so stupid. His lack of follow-thru on the diet pop would resonate in his cluttered mind for the remainder of the day that was for sure. Baldwin paused mid-swing to light up a new cigarette. “You know why I’m using a putter?” He didn’t wait for Po’ Zeke to answer. “Because sometimes you get in a predicament on the course when no other club will do. The putter keeps the ball low and steady with enough oomph to get you out of a jam like no other club can. Plus, then you don’t have to carry so many clubs. I can play eighteen holes with just three clubs. Nobody else does that. Nobody.” Baldwin bent over and picked up the can of pop. He took three hearty swigs, a puff off of the cigarette, and then balanced the burning smoke on the top of the pop can before resuming whacks with his putter. Po’ Zeke could feel ants biting at the small of his back where the tail of his Wild & Crazy Guy T-shirt wasn’t long enough to cover over the waistband of his denim cut-offs. He shifted further back away from the hitting tee box and watched his father hit every ball and then wander out into the grass with his can

of pop and cigarette to round up another couple dozen victims with his sweet swinging foot wedge. Back at the Pullman house, Henri sat in the brown, velour loveseat just behind the piano. His piano books were stacked up on the piano bench, pristine and unopened. Ethyl sat opposite Henri on her trusty hassock and slurped away at her homebrewed gloop. “Horoscopes can be funny,” Ethyl said. “One day, they’re right on. And the next day, you don’t even know if they’re talking about you or not. So, don’t put all of your faith in them.” “But,” Henri said, “how will I know the difference? What if the day I don’t think the horoscope is talking about me is the day it is actually singling me out?” Ethyl looked contemplatively into her coffee cup. “Have you talked to your wife about all this?” “Helen has no use for me anymore. That’s why I started lessons with you six weeks ago. I thought if I could fill the house with music there would be something pleasant to hear besides her voice.” “I’m a Virgo, with Scorpio on the cusp. So I can understand what you are saying. I take lessons, too, and much for the same reasons. I have three teachers—one for classical, one for jazz, and one for strictly technique.” “You take lessons?” “I must. How else can I be expected to teach?” They sit quietly for a long minute. Henri cracks his knuckles. He watches what he believes to be the family cat dragging a bird’s nest from the kitchen up the stairs towards the bedroom level of the house. “Shall we begin?” Henri said. “We’re almost out of time, I’m afraid. Why don’t we just do a quick oral review from last week?”

“Okay.” “Do you where middle ‘C’ is?” “Yes.” “If I were to say to you, ‘Every Good Boy Does Fine,’ does that mean anything to you as far as the keyboard goes?” Henri shuts his eyes tight and ponders. Ethyl takes a sludge slurp. Henri’s blank expression turns to a frown. He is at a loss. “Right hand…” Ethyl says. Henri shakes his head and opens his eyes. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” “Those are the lines of the treble clef—E, G, B, D, F. Every Good Boy Does Fine.” “Yes. Yes! Now I .” “Okay, you’ve got my number here, right?” Henri stands and collects his books off of the piano bench. “I do.” “Call me if you need to work anything out while you’re practicing. I know I’ve given you a lot to . Put in thirty minutes each day, but take one day off for yourself—I’d suggest Tuesday since that is our lesson day.” “I will.” Ethyl showed Henri out of the front door and went into the kitchen to brew up a fresh pot of coffee-sediment. Po’ Zeke and Baldwin returned from their appointed rounds. Baldwin made a beeline for the basement and the television. He fired up The Lawrence Welk Show on the local Dearth, IL UHF channel and eased into his comfy, black vinyl

viewing chair with a bag of un-cracked walnuts. The television could be heard 1.5 levels up in the kitchen where Po’ Zeke ed Ethyl who was hypnotized by her coffee percolator. “Turn it down!” Ethyl shouted. “Po’ Zeke!” Baldwin shouted back. “Come down here.” Po’ Zeke galloped downstairs hopeful that Baldwin had ruminated over the BMX bike at Pergler’s Hardware, and after what his father felt was a triumphant outing on the driving range, had a change of heart about purchasing the awesome two-wheeler for his son. “Yeah, Dad?” “Turn down the volume like your mother said. If I get up I’ll spill my nuts.” Po’ Zeke complied then stood beside Baldwin’s chair looking at him. “What?” Baldwin asked. “Was there anything else?” Baldwin pursed his lips and looked over at his chair-side lamp table next to his chair. “Yeah. Empty my ashtray, and bring me a diet. A diet this time. Diet.” Once all his tasks had been completed, Po’ Zeke sat on one of the two rusted, circa 1948 backless barstools that comprised the kitchen dinette set along with great-aunt Wilma’s old chicken plucking table—now precariously hinged to the wall as a makeshift dining counter. Ethyl sat on the other barstool slurping from her mug. “Mom?” “What?” “How can I get eighty-five dollars, no, probably ninety-dollars really fast?” “Matthew 6:21 says, ‘For where your treasure is, your heart is there also’.”

“Church? Are you saying the money is at church—if I volunteer to clean up after this weekend’s cookie time or something?” “What on earth would you want eighty-five or ninety dollars for?” “Well, when Dad and me were out, I saw this way groovy BMX bike at Pergler’s Hardware. It was yellower than the sun. If everybody in town saw me on that, I’d be one of the cool kids! Oh, and plus, I could ride up to the store and help out with the groceries, stuff like that. You know how we’re always running out of toilet paper in the dead of night and stuff. And it was only eighty-five dollars— but the guy at the store says I’d need a little extra to cover the tax and maybe something called ‘assembly fees’. Or was that the assembled price? I can’t for sure.” “You have a bike.” “I know—but it’s so hard to get on. And whenever I fall off, it hurts real bad. And I can’t do wheelies. And everybody is making fun of me. I’ve never seen anyone else ride a bike like that—not even on any of Dad’s old TV shows.” “I’m sorry, Stinkybean. You know money is kind of tight this year since Daddy left his job. I’m paying out more for piano lessons than I’m taking in, so I might have to cut back on one of my teachers, too. And your sister just borrowed forty dollars so she and Jolene can go to some rock and roll concert in three weeks. Since she promised to pay me back with babysitting money, I loaned it to her. But it was the last of our expendable income for, I don’t know, probably a few months, anyway.” Po’ Zeke looked down at his feet and sighed. “I’m never going to be one of the cool kids,” he said. “For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses himself?” “Luke 9:25.” Po’ Zeke said. “I know, I know.” Fiona-Jo, Po’ Zeke’s elder sister by 3.5 years, barreled her way through the front door, kicking off her clog shoes on two different ascending steps, and then stomping her way into the kitchen. She buried her head into the refrigerator without acknowledging her mother or brother. After a fat minute, Fiona-Jo

emerged from the icebox with some past-its-prime chocolate cake and a can of lemon-lime pop. “What’s for dinner?” Fiona-Jo asked. “I thought we’d go out. But I haven’t asked your father yet,” Ethyl replied. Fiona-Jo stomped on Po’ Zeke’s left foot and gave him a menacing glare. “Get up!” she said. “I want to have a snack!” Po’ Zeke complied and limped off up the next level of stairs towards his 10-foot by 11-foot comic book sanctuary above the garage. Think. He needed to think. What could he invent? What chores could he do? What ways were there for an eleven year-old with no documented track record in the business world to make some big money as fast as possible? Po’ Zeke fell backwards onto his bedding absent, twin box spring and missed crushing Hamilton, the family cat, by a whisker. Lying on his back, Po’ Zeke picked Hamilton up and placed the cross-eyed, black hairy beast on his chest. Hamilton spun two revolutions and then plopped straight down on his matted, furry belly. The faithful feline was asleep again atop his master-by-default within two seconds. Po’ Zeke scratched his best buddy about the ears, and Hamilton’s purr almost—almost—drown out the sound of Fiona-Jo cutting loose with a lumberjack quality belch down in the kitchen. “You should have seen it, Ham.” Po’ Zeke said. “It was more yellow than the sun, and it had these tires that looked like your claws when they come out. I bet I could jump four milk crates off the ramp with plenty of room to spare on that bike.” Hamilton showed no reaction. Like always, it just made Po’ Zeke feel better to unburden himself of whatever was on his mind. “And I’d rig up a basket or something, maybe a board with some really thick carpet on it, right there on the handlebars, so I could take you with me. I’d show you the town, take you over to Pinchy’s house, maybe even drive by the pet store so you could look in the window at all of the birds and mice. And everybody would ask me questions about my bike. Nobody would mess with me anymore and try and knock me over like they do on that crummy old bike I got now.”

3

Po’ Zeke didn’t falling asleep. The next thing he knew, a pillow was placed over his face and he could hear the Trabant’s car horn being leaned on outside down in the driveway just below his bedroom window. The car horn made a distinctive sound in that it made more of a loud, gurgling cauldron sound than actual horn noise. Po’ Zeke pushed the pillow away with all his might. Fiona-Jo stood over him smirking and twisting her mood ring on her paper clip necklace given to her by her current boyfriend, Rolf Sulo, to commemorate their three-week going steady thing. “C’mon, Twirpfreak! Everybody’s in the car!” Just coming out of the indigo zone, Po’ Zeke took several deep breaths before he could answer her. “What? Where?” “We’re going for supper. And hurry up about it. Jolene and me are going to look at Rolf’s new pool. It’s a five-footer, and no, you’re not invited.” Fiona-Jo stomped off. Hamilton was long gone, probably enticed away by the sound of somebody putting fresh scraps into his bowl down in the kitchen while Po’ Zeke was asleep. The sun was setting on a lovely May, Friday evening. It would have been a perfect night to drive with the car windows rolled down. But both car windows were rolled up tight. Baldwin was smoking. Ethyl was drinking coffee in an open, glass mug with the Third Commandment printed on it. Po’ Zeke was wedged into the backseat of the Trabant with Fiona-Jo who chewed gum the way most people chatter their teeth outside in a blizzard. “Watch the corners,” Ethyl said. “This is still piping hot—fresh from the maker.”

Baldwin nodded out of rote reflex for Ethyl’s tone, but all he heard was “blah, blah, blah.” The destination for the evening was the Olympic Safari, a modestly priced family restaurant where Baldwin could post-date a check for fourteen days and convince Stavros, the owner, not to cash it with the promise that once Baldwin started working again, he’d get the t free advertising in the newspaper. Print/ink advertising—that was Baldwin’s trade—though he hadn’t practiced it in a while. At Olympic Safari, there was also no separate section where smokers were banished to, and Baldwin could sit anywhere he wanted. More and more places were putting in separate “non-smoking” sections, or banishing smokers from restaurants altogether; and that left a bad taste in Baldwin’s mouth. “They’re cutting off their peckers to spite their face!” Baldwin said time and time again. “First you stop catering to smokers—then what, kids and the infirmly? Next thing you know everybody will be eating at home, and all of these places will close.” Po’ Zeke could often predict what everyone would be eating right off when they went to Olympic Safari. The hostess always dropped off menus, but no selfrespecting Pullman needed a menu to know what was good. All of it was good. What only mattered was what somebody was in the mood for on a given night and/or if any fillings had popped out of a back tooth. Since it was Friday night, Po’ Zeke would be having his usual pancakes, sausage, and root beer. Fiona-Jo would have the waitress write down, then scratch off, three different entrees before always settling on the Gulf of Mexico crab legs and mashed potatoes with double gravy. Ethyl ordered the same thing regardless of the night or restaurant every time: a wedge of iceberg lettuce and one skinless chicken thigh, well done, with a side of dry pinto beans. Baldwin was all about the pork. He didn’t care what shape or texture it came in. And tonight he was out of smokes, so he had the waitress follow him over to the cigarette machine in the outside foyer so he could dictate his order: pork loin,

rare, with minced red cabbage and a baked potato, hold the skin, lethal dollop of sour cream. Ethyl asked a couple of times who wanted to hear about her day then just started filling everyone in on the latest gossip in the world of piano teaching. As she talked, Baldwin held his cigarette in his cupped hands with his elbows on the table that he assumed to be a good listener’s posture from an outside observer’s perspective. Every now and then he’d wave at somebody inside the restaurant by extending his fingers upwards but not actually moving his hand or lifting his elbow. Po’ Zeke would spin around to see who his father was waving at, but he never saw anyone waving back—or even looking their direction. “Can I have a dollar for the pay phone?” Fiona-Jo asked, interrupting Ethyl’s story about Henri and his clumsy thumbs. “What for?” Baldwin asked. “I have to call Jolene and tell her to call Rolf and let him know there’s a chance I might be late if the food doesn’t come fast.” Baldwin reached his non-smoking hand into his pants and gave things a token jiggle. “I don’t carry that kind of cash.” He said. “Well, I do, but I just bought my cigarettes. You saw me.” “Mom?” Ethyl lifted her purse atop the table. It was made of surplus rabbit fur and bigger than a bowling bag. The clasp at the top of the purse was caked thick with dust. As quickly as she brought it up to the table, Ethyl lowered her purse back to the floor. “You tell Jolene that if she’s going to make me rush through my one night out after a long day of lessons she’s got another thing coming.” “I will! Just give me the coins.” “Shush. Our food will be here in a minute.”

Fiona-Jo kicked the table stanchion causing significant spillage from everyone’s water glass. She folded her arms on her chest and slunk down in the chair. “I hate this,” she muttered. Given what he had just witnessed, Po’ Zeke assessed it would be terrible time to start talking about the gleaming yellow BMX bike and his urgent, looming need for ninety dollars. He’d keep it cool, speaking only when spoken to. Even then, he’d have to calculate how every reply might be construed in relation to his short-term goal of procuring the best bike on the planet. After aggressive digesting of the procured meals, Baldwin went over to the counter, where Stavros always sat on a stool nearest the front entrance biting a plastic straw, to “settle up” for the meal. Fiona-Jo disappeared into the bathroom under the guise of wanting to check her hair, but she was really rifling through the ladies room couch looking for spare change that could be rifled into the pay telephone. Ethyl and Po’ Zeke went outside to wait by the car and enjoy the fresh smelling air. The sun had set, but there was still a faint glow in the west that would linger for another twenty minutes. Fiona-Jo came out of the restaurant first and ed her mother and brother by the car. She struck out finding the wayward coinage. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go already! I’m sure Jolene is already waiting at the house for me.” Fiona-Jo said. “Why such a rush?” Ethyl asked. Before Fiona-Jo could answer, Po’ Zeke made it a point to speak up first. It would be revenge for the pillow-smothering incident before dinner. “’Cause Rolf just got a new pool!” Po’ Zeke punctuated his pronouncement by making kissing noises. He only got four away before Fiona-Jo stomped on his left foot, hard and centered. “Liar!” Fiona-Jo said. Po’ Zeke knew that their mother didn’t approve of pools, bodies of water,

hayrides, or anywhere children could get exposed to fecal germs. He uncorked so Fiona-Jo would get a tongue-lashing. “What?” Ethyl said, gasping. She fell backwards against the Trabant activating the gurgling car horn mechanism under the hood. Po’ Zeke’s eyes welled up with tears from the foot stomping. That one really hurt. He threw his arms around Ethyl and wept. “He’s lying, mother. He’s lying.” Fiona-Jo said, with a hand twist of her own hair. “He’s just trying to get me in trouble!” “Why would he do that?” “Because he’s a psycho booger-eating loser!” “I don’t believe that.” “Jolene and me are supposed to go over to Rolf’s and meet his grandfather. That’s it. His grandfather used to play the clarinet—no, no—the Theremin, and in the Boston Symphony.” She threw that last bit in thinking it would blow Ethyl’s coffee mug to the sky. “Is he Jewish?” “Rolf’s grandfather?” “No, this Rolf.” “He could be. They’re always talking about moving to a better neighborhood.” Baldwin emerged from the restaurant tucking two additional packs of cigarettes into his pants. From his perspective, all hell was breaking loose. His son was crying. The car was gurgling. Fiona-Jo was pacing back and forth huffing and puffing. And the pork wasn’t sitting right. “What’s going on out here?” Baldwin said before kicking the front left tire to silence the car. “Why are you crying? Why is nobody in the car?” “’Cause psycho poop stain lied!” Fiona-Jo said.

“I didn’t!” “Enough!” Baldwin said, unlocking the driver’s side door of the Trabant with a stiff knee to the keyhole. “This is your mother’s big night out. You’re all giving me an ulcer. If I have to hear another word, I’m going to start with the groundings.” Baldwin looked at his watch. “Dammit, Kojak is coming on!” Baldwin said, jumping behind the wheel as if he was getting shot at. “In the car!” The short ride home was long and silent. Po’ Zeke’s left foot throbbed with all sorts of orthopedic catastrophe. Fiona-Jo scowled at her brother the entire ride home pantomiming that she was going to break him in two with her bare hands over and over again. Back home, Hamilton left a headless mallard to greet everyone as soon as the side garage entrance door swung open. How the mallard got in the house nobody speculated upon; it could’ve been thriving in the laundry room for months just on the crumbs always crammed in the pockets of Fiona-Jo’s jeans. Ethyl nearly fainted though managed to step over the carnage before making her way to the coffee percolator to brew up a fresh, thick batch to calm her nerves. “Oh, Christ, give me a break. Just once I’d like to come home to a house without a lifeless something.” Baldwin said, also stepping over the floor gore while removing his shoes and heading down to the lower level for his rendezvous with Kojak. The others listened to Baldwin’s loud, frantic, squishy footsteps in the basement as they ascended the upper staircase single file. There was no remote control for the television, so Baldwin always had to walk up to the appliance to push the power button, adjust it to the correct channel manually, and then backpedal to his chair with his gaze fixed on the screen. He had the whole process from front door to chair down to a ballet science. After a quick survey inside the kitchen refrigerator and coming up empty, FionaJo started back down the steps towards the front door. “I’m going to Jolene’s!” Fiona-Jo shouted. “Be back around nine-thirty!”

No one answered her, and she punched Po’ Zeke hard in the right kidney on her way out the door. Po’ Zeke grabbed for his kidney and sat down on the second to lowest step bending over and wincing. He rubbed his foot with his left hand and his kidney with his right. Hamilton came up from downstairs where the cat box was located beneath the utility sink in the laundry room and rubbed up against Po’ Zeke’s left calf with his mallard gunk encrusted vibrissae. Po’ Zeke moved his hand off of his foot and rubbed Hamilton about the ears. “I’m not cleaning that up!” Ethyl shouted from the kitchen. “What?” Baldwin shouted back. Ethyl took one step closer towards the staircase, but dare not an inch more. “I said I’m not cleaning that up!” “Maybe at the commercial.” Baldwin said. After a short pause, he beckoned for Po’ Zeke. “Slick,” (Baldwin’s sometimes nickname for Po’ Zeke), “bring me down some paper towels. Get that lighter fluid from the garage. And a diet, bring me a diet, a diet.”

4

Saturday morning, Po’ Zeke knew all of his friends would be out on their bikes tooling around. That’s what he really hated about Saturday morning, so he always woke himself up early on Saturdays in order to get over to Pinchy’s house before any of the other kids could on their cool bikes. If Po’ Zeke got there first, he could try and get Pinchy engaged in some other type of activity like baseball catch or setting up some five-thousand plastic army man figures for battle on Pinchy’s front porch—two adolescent pastimes where bikes had no cachet. “Ohhhhh Pinch-cheeeeeee!” Po’ Zeke yelled out on Pinchy’s front porch in lieu of knocking on the aluminum frame of the storm door or fingering the doorbell. “Ohhhh Pinch-cheeee!” Po’ Zeke uncorked his cry every fifteen seconds for the next ten minutes until somebody came to the door. Finally, Pinchy did, with his hair all mussed and backwards pajama shirt hanging from his svelte torso. They’d been friends as long as Po’ Zeke could , which was since kindergarten for anyone scoring at home. Pinchy was well liked by all, had a thick crop of auburn hair, and always wore a broad smile … except whenever Po’ Zeke was cramping his style around the ladies. Pinchy was the best friend Po’ Zeke ever had. Po’ Zeke assumed the feeling was mutual, but he never actually got any confirmation. “Mom says it’s too early to play and make noise,” Pinchy said. “Oh. What time is it?” “Six-thirty. Mom says I can’t come out until after breakfast. And I can’t play for too long, neither, because Dad is taking us on a picnic for his work.” “Oh,” Po’ Zeke said, trying to process it all rolling his eyes round and round.

He really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. It’s possible he got there a little earlier than he usually did on most Saturdays, but he didn’t sleep well with the foot and kidney pains. That could have screwed up his body clock some. “So you can’t play then?” Po’ Zeke said, looking down at his feet. “Like I said, in a couple of hours, but not for real long.” “Should I wait out here on the porch?” “I’ll go ask.” Pinchy disappeared. Po’ Zeke could hear him stomping up the staircase just beyond the other side of the screen door towards his parents’ bedroom. Across the street from Pinchy’s house, and two doors down from Jolene’s, the Flabberson’s doublewide garage door slowly lifted open courtesy of one of those chain-drive, quarter horsepower electronic openers. There was all sort of activity going on inside. All four Flabbersons—Maw, Pops, Brianna, and Brian—were bustling about setting up tables, piling items atop of them, and dragging their other belongings out onto the asphalt driveway. After ten minutes, Po’ Zeke cried for attention again. “Ohhhh Pinch-cheeeeeeeeeee!” He was loud enough to get all of the Flabberson’s to briefly look his way but then quickly resume what they were doing. It was just the scrawny, scruffy Pullman boy out howling ‘Wolf’ again. Pinchy trotted down the steps and stood on the other side of the screen door eating a banana. “Did you find out?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Oh, I forgot to ask. I guess it’s okay though.” “Okay.”

They looked at one another. “What’s going on over there?” Po’ Zeke said, indiscriminately pointing over his left shoulder with his right thumb. “Where?” “The Flabberson’s.” “Oh, yeah. I heard Mom and Mrs. Flabberson talking last night after the ice cream truck left. Mrs. Flabberson wanted to know if Mom had anything she wanted to put over there on of they’re having a garage sale.” “A garage sale? They’re selling that part of their house?” “That’s what I thought, too. But, no, Mom says. They just sell all of the stuff inside their garage—or their whole house even—that they don’t want.” “I’ve never heard of that.” “It’s like going to the store, but you don’t have to drive.” “So,” Po’ Zeke said, “is that your breakfast?” “No. Mom says waffles when she wakes up.” Pinchy closed the main, wooden front door. Po’ Zeke plopped down on the top step of the porch and watched the Flabberson’s blow dust off of things, wipe down paintings, stick masking tape torn price tags onto toothbrushes, and stack up clothes neatly on blankets along the lawn. The sun was out for a second rare springtime appearance beating down on Po’ Zeke’s paler-than-average face. Even though it burned a little, it felt good. Po’ Zeke didn’t get much sun inside the friendly womb of his boy-cave above the garage with its north facing windows. The air smelled untainted, too, which was another uncommon, pleasing trait from life otherwise inside the boy-cave. An hour later there was still no sign of Pinchy coming out. The Flabberson’s garage sale was up and running. The block was finally waking up with the dog walkers, and sadly, the kids on their cool bikes tooling up and down the street.

Angry Matt, Schwantz, Booger Larry, and Filipino Goob—they navigated from one sidewalk to the other in meandering fashion down the middle of the road looking like the Blue Angels on their fancy BMX bikes with the tricked out handlebars and skinny seats. Po’ Zeke felt he’d never know such joy. No matter what activity anyone was initially engaged in upon coming outside, one-by-one they all wound up at the Flabberson’s examining the unwanted objects with the keen eyes of a jeweler. No matter what price was written down on the price ticket tape stuck to an item, everyone seemed to ask to pay less. And Mr. and Mrs. Flabberson always let them, but still seemed happy as less and less junk was piled up inside the garage and on the driveway with each ing hour. At 10:30 AM, Pinchy burst forth through the front door. Po’ Zeke couldn’t have been more excited. His stomach growled heartily, but he couldn’t bail on Pinchy now. “Want to set up the soldiers?” Po’ Zeke asked. Po’ Zeke loved little plastic soldiers, and Pinchy had the most expansive collection in town. He actually had two brigades worth. Po’ Zeke and Pinchy had counted them the previous summer. There were tanks, boats, and planes of all sizes to go along. Usually the duo would take an hour setting everything up in two opposing armies and then three minutes knocking them all down with rocks, baseballs, skateboards—or the most visually explosive artillery—dirt clods. “We’re going to be leaving in fifteen minutes for the picnic, Dad says. But we can probably go for a quick bike ride around the block a couple times.” Pinchy looked around the sidewalk and bushes where Po’ Zeke usually parked his penny-farthing. “Where’s your bike?” Pinchy asked. “I dunno. I guess I walked it.” Pinchy didn’t know how to react. Po’ Zeke’s house was a full eleven dwellings down the street to the north. Granted, it was on the same side of the street—but still, eleven houses down. He didn’t know if either of them had voluntarily

walked that far before. “Is it broke?” “Nah, I just, I don’t know. I had some pains when I woke up in my back and foot. I didn’t want to make anything worse.” “So, what do you wanna do?” “Soldiers?” “I’d probably have to leave while we were still setting everyone up.” “What if we just make it a mini-battle?” “Nah.” Pinchy said, looking bored and irritated. “Hey, let’s go check out the Flabberson’s. Maybe we can find some stuff.” Po’ Zeke’s eyes widened; he’d never been to a garage sale. Pinchy filled his head with all sorts of possibilities on the 150-foot march across the street: baseball cards, comic books, more toy soldiers, even bikes could be had for pennies on the dollar. “Do you think they’ll have any bikes?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Maybe. Brian is probably ready to get rid of his since he’s moving up to high school next year. When you’re in high school, Dad says you get a car and a woman.” Baldwin sat straight up in bed like Nosferatu rising from his sarcophagus and plucked a fresh cigarette from the crumpled pack off of the nearby nightstand. With eyes closed, he lit the smoke with little problem and scratched himself in as many places he could think of before standing up. He staggered into the upstairs lavatory and slammed the door behind him. Ethyl was already up, downstairs preparing some fresh coffee, and getting ready to leave the house. Saturday was her busiest day of the week. First she had to go forty miles to the east, through the biggest swath of undesirables in the metropolitan area, for her jazz piano lesson with Gershwin “Blinko” O’Brien. Blinko was 98 years old and still gave lessons out of his home—but only to

students he felt showed promise in keeping jazz alive or those who brought him baked goods or unwanted medications. Ethyl felt confident she fell into the first group but always kept a couple of kolaches in her purse, beside her travel hot beverage canister clogged with coffee, just in case. After two hours at Blinko’s house, Ethyl drove sixty miles south to take a lesson with her classical piano teacher, Lumpeta Blech. Lumpeta was humorless and intolerant of any music composed after 1790. She loathed that Ethyl would waste her talents with a jazz pianist when she could otherwise invest the extra time in becoming one with Pachelbel. Ethyl remained a loyal student of Blinko and Lumpeta as they were the best teachers at their respective crafts for hundreds of miles. Ethyl respected them both, for different reasons, and was too loyal to ever break off and find another teacher a little less expensive or closer to home. Investing in the best was an investment in herself. After her two lessons, Ethyl would stop at the Shantyass Mall, two towns over from Dearth, where she would give lessons to eight students whom alleged they otherwise had no means of transportation to come to Ethyl’s house. Ethyl was able to rent studio space in the small piano store wedged in between a recalcitrant teen clothing store and an ice cream shop. For each $5.00 lesson she gave, Ethyl had to kick back $2.80 to the piano store’s owner, Ralph Bruce. Ralph threw in two free piano lessons to anyone who bought a new piano or organ, and that’s how he kept the heavy rotation of new students coming in at the studio. After the two free lessons, seventy-five percent of the students typically would drop off. Ethyl found it curious that all of these people buying pianos had no means of transportation. But since they kept replicating, it ensured Ethyl could keep herself in fresh coffee grounds with the extra income earned every week. “I’m leaving for the day,” Ethyl said to Baldwin with the lavatory door in between them. “Try and give the kids breakfast. And lunch. I’ll pick up some calf’s liver at the market on my way home for supper.” “Can you get some nice knockwurst?” Baldwin said. “I’m in the mood for knockwurst.” “Knockwurst is a dollar eighty-nine a pound! I’m getting liver—we’ll all eat for

a quarter of that price. I’ll get salad and some Jerusalem artichokes to go with it.” There was no response from Baldwin. Ethyl trotted down the steps and out of the house. “Should I feed the kids breakfast?” Baldwin asked, as Ethyl backed the Trabant out of the driveway and sputtered away down the street. Inside the lavatory, Baldwin was lost in an article from last Sunday’s newspaper about the dismal job prospects for out-of-work employment seekers who had eclipsed their thirtieth birthday. At forty-five, Baldwin was well past that. He grimaced as ash burnt off of his cigarette and fell down onto the newspaper angrily creased across his lap. “Commie jerks.” He said to himself. A pounding on the lavatory door startled Baldwin causing his entire cigarette to drop out of his mouth and down to his bare groin. He jumped up fast launching the newspaper and cigarette into the adjacent bathtub. “What?” “I need to take a shower!” Fiona-Jo said. “Jolene and I are going to the mall for elephant ears.” “Gimme a minute.” Fiona-Jo heard a flush and then what sounded like rug being slammed repeatedly against the wall mounted towel bar. “What’s happening?” Fiona-Jo said. “I smell smoke. Should I call the—those guys that come with the water truck hose?” “Everything is fine. Go back to bed.” “I need to take a shower!” “Gimme a second. What’s wrong with the downstairs shower?

“Gross me out the door!” A half-minute later, Baldwin opened the lavatory door, fresh cigarette in mouth, holding the powder room waste bucket in his hands. Inside of it, something smoldered. “What happened?” Fiona-Jo asked. “Nothing serious. Just taking out the trash cans—something your brother is supposed to be taking care of, by the way. Where is he?” “I dunno. Probably under his bed eating his snot.” Baldwin exited the lavatory. Fiona-Jo entered, slammed the door, and cranked up the hot water within three seconds. “Not too long!” Baldwin said. “Yesterday you were in there ninety minutes.” No response. Baldwin went downstairs into the kitchen to fix some breakfast. After giving it a two-minute joyride in the toaster, he smeared some butter and chives onto a piece of Stollen he’d hidden in the freezer several months earlier that was left behind at the church’s Christmas bake sale. He ran the tap water, hot, but the hot supply was definitely on the wane with Fiona-Jo commandeering it all for her shower. His pewter chalice, ed on by Aunt Brunhild, filled with slightly warmer than tepid liquid, and Baldwin mixed in some freeze dried coffee crystals and a half-teaspoon of hot Bavarian mustard. Soon, Baldwin was planted in his lounging chair in the bottom level of the house alternating between taking puff of his smoke, a bite of his Stollen, and a sip of his coffee. Sometimes, he’d still have lingering nicotine on his tongue when the butter and chives from the Stollen combined with a sip of coffee, and Baldwin thought it was just about the best taste he’d ever had in his mouth. When he tried to replicate the cocktail, he’d fail. It always happened on accident or when Baldwin was distracted while rotating one of the indulgences past his lips. Timing was everything; there had to be just enough nicotine still dancing on the tongue while a glob of chive infused butter was licked of the corner of the mouth a half-second before the coffee was sipped in.

The TV was on one of the local UHF s airing an old Sydney Greenstreet movie. A sunbeam snuck in through the one clean window perched just above ground level facing south and radiated off of Baldwin’s recently polished putter in his golf bag standing in the only corner of the room where the precipitation that leaked in never seemed to pool too high just adjacent to the TV table. There was a slight hump in the foundation there, attributed to poorly leveled concrete, so it seemed the logical place for Baldwin to keep his golf bag. While he only utilized and traveled with three clubs he felt got the job done, the golf bag was necessary for show around the clubhouse. Yes, it was shaping up to be a great Saturday. Just as Baldwin finished off his last bite of Stollen, the water pipe that carried the hot water through the laundry room and up to the upstairs bathroom burst. It was a three year-old affordable tract home just out of warranty, so it was just begging to happen. Water quickly covered the floor and continued to spray out into the direction of the family room in between Baldwin’s line of sight from the chair to the television. “Slick?” Baldwin called out. “Slick? Are you here? Come down here. Are you here? Slick? Slick?” There was no response. Baldwin had no idea the boy had left the house some four hours earlier and was down the block at the Flabberson’s ogling slightly used wares he’d never be able to afford. Baldwin shook his head, picked his lit cigarette up from the ashtray, and marched over in the direction of the television. First, he hoisted up his golf bag and moved it over to the staircase that ascended the next half-level towards the front door. He placed it two steps up from the basement floor. That wouldn’t be a permanent spot, he thought, but the bag would be out of harm’s way if he didn’t figure out this leaking water deal. Next, bending at the waist and cursing with every foot drag, he slid the table holding up the television a couple of feet further out of the path of the hot water streaming into the room from eight feet above in the ading laundry room. Satisfied with his initial damage control, he sat back down in his chair. At least the path of the spraying water was out of his line of vision to the television. Now he had to reckon with the burst pipe. He reached over and plucked the brown

desk phone, with its fancy push button dialer gizmos, off of the chair side table and placed it on his lap. He pounded out the seven memorized digits and puffed his cigarette waiting for a connection. He’d give it three rings; any more than that would be hopeless. “Yeah, Futzman, it’s me… Listen, you ever have something called a Jerusalem artichoke? ...I don’t know. Ethyl says she’s making it for supper… Hey, they’re running at Jefferson Park tonight…. No, the trotters. You want to go? ... Good, pick me up in case Ethyl needs the car… I don’t know, cut the grass if I can’t get the kid to do it. There’s a good movie on now, too…. Possibly. Possibly…. Oh, before I let you go—did you ever have like a pipe, I don’t know, explode and the water shoots out everywhere? ... Yeah? … No…. No…. What stops something like that? ... Would I have to call a guy, you think? … Oh, even better… Just bring your tools and come earlier then… That early? ... Well, if you think it’s best… I can keep moving stuff around down here; it’s really no big deal…. Okay, see you in twenty minutes.” The basement began to steam up from all of the hot water now forming into a manmade mini-reservoir on the floor with nowhere to seep but a single, lintclogged floor drain hole back inside the laundry room beneath the molded plastic, double basin utility sink right next to the litter box. Baldwin got up from his chair, walked to the steps, and placed his golf bag an additional two stairs higher—just in case. As he sat back down, he could hear Fiona-Jo galloping down the stairs from above. “What is going on?” Fiona-Jo shouted. She appeared before her father wrapped in a towel with another wrapped around her head. Fiona-Jo was dripping wet, but it wasn’t noticeable because of all of the water droplets clinging to everything else in the room. “I haven’t even gotten to rinse my conditioner yet! Where is all of the hot water?” Baldwin leaned ever so slightly to the left peering past Fiona-Jo, as something important was about to happen on the television between Sydney Greenstreet and a snorting horse. Fiona-Jo stomped her foot causing a splash from the puddle beneath Baldwin’s chair. “Father!”

“Yes, yes,” Baldwin said, still gazing towards the television. “We’re fixing it. Futzman is coming over with his tools.” “But what about my shower?” “Can’t your brother do it?” “Father!” The movie went to commercial, and Baldwin made eye with Fiona-Jo for the first time since she stormed into the room. “You can’t go outside like that,” Baldwin said. “When you leave this house, you’re representing your father.” “I’m not! I need to finish my shower! I was barely in there twenty minutes.” “Where is your brother?” “Why is there so much water down here—I mean, more than usual?” Fiona-Jo said, sloshing the warm water side to side between her ankles. “It’s not raining outside, so where is the water coming from?” “In there, I think.” Baldwin said pointing to the laundry room. “But Futzman is bringing his tools over. Probably a loose manifold P-trap connector or contiguous filament hose thing.” Fiona-Jo peered into the laundry room and noticed the steady stream of hot water coming down from the pipe running along the ceiling. She reached out with her hand to touch the stream. It was just right. “I’ll rinse out in here then.” Fiona-Jo disappeared into the laundry room and closed the tri-fold concealing door to the room behind her. Baldwin flicked the short butt of his smoked cigarette toward the mini-reservoir on the floor where it was extinguished with a barely audible fffffst. He lit up a fresh smoke.

Right on the tail of that soothing, initial exhale, Po’ Zeke came running into the house and down the stairs towards the basement where he knew his father would be. So eager to make good time, Po’ Zeke plowed right into Baldwin’s golf bag on the fourth step down despite doing everything in his physically awkward existence to sidestep them. Both tumbled down to the damp basement floor with a horrendous crash. “My clubs!” Baldwin cried out. Dazed, but too excited to care, Po’ Zeke righted the clubs back up to where he knocked them over and limped back beside his father’s chair. “Dad! You’re not going to believe it.” Baldwin stood up without saying anything and went over to the staircase to check the wellbeing of his golf bag. Everything looked in order, and he returned to his chair. He plopped into position just as the commercial break was ending on the TV set. “Wait till the commercial,” Baldwin said. Not wanting to create any bad blood, Po’ Zeke complied and sat on the soggy, green sofa on the other side of Baldwin’s ashtray, phone, and snack table. He noticed all of the water in the room but didn’t want to raise that issue, either. Po’ Zeke could tell by his father’s eyes that it wasn’t a good time for breaking his viewing mojo. Fiona-Jo emerged from the laundry room fully rinsed and re-wrapped in her towels. She raised a fist in Po’ Zeke’s direction for no present reason—only to remind him of the power of intimidation should he ever get on her bad side again. The laundry room door was left ajar and the hot water spray resumed its spuming into the basement from the overhead pipe. Po’ Zeke watched the movie on the television, but it made no relatable sense. It was all old people—like his mom and dad—in black and white chasing each other, then singing songs to one another, then lots of dancing in unusual places. If that was adulthood, Po’ Zeke was pretty certain he never wanted to grow up. He couldn’t picture dropping to one knee and singing to a woman about love and crud. And he never saw anybody his own age do it with a girl. But these antics were common themes throughout all of the movies Baldwin always watched on

television. As soon as the next commercial break came on, Po’ Zeke jumped to his feet; he resumed right where he left off. “Dad! You’re not going to believe it. Down at the Flabberson’s! Brian, he’s a little older than me, he’s selling his bike—only thirty-five dollars! It’s not as nice as the one we saw at Pergler’s, but it’s only a couple of years old. And it’s my size!” Baldwin looked at Po’ Zeke long and hard. He took three prolonged, perturbed drags from his cigarette. “Flabberson! He won’t to vote, because he doesn’t want to get called for jury duty.” Baldwin said thinking his words mattered as much to an eleven yearold brain as they did to him, a fourteenth ward, stalwart, campaign worker. “Anyway, it’s a garage sale they’re having. Me and Pinchy went over there. But Pinchy is leaving to go to his Dad’s work picnic. I told Brian to hide the bike until I came down to ask you if we could buy it. He’s holding it for me.” Po’ Zeke said looking deep into Baldwin’s eyes for any sort of hopeful reflection. “Can I buy it? Can I?” Baldwin extinguished his cigarette on the lampshade within reach and lit another. “Do you see what’s going on in there?” Baldwin said, nodding his head in the direction of the burst water pipe. “Futzman is coming over to help me fix it. God only knows what it’s going to cost. You think I can be spraying money all over town on bicycles?” Po’ Zeke watched as the water gushed in from the next room and swirled to what was now a three-inch deep pool in front of the TV table. Then Fiona-Jo screamed down from the front door foyer landing. “I’m leaving!” she said. “I’ll be home for supper.” “Don’t let the cat out,” Baldwin said. “And be home for supper.” The front door opened and closed, and the commercial break was over.

Baldwin’s eyeballs fell back into the TV screen. Po’ Zeke figured he gave it his best shot and dejectedly ascended the stairs carefully bying Baldwin’s golf bag this time. “I’m going down to Flabberson’s to tell them I can’t,” Po’ Zeke said with his hand on the front doorknob. He waited for a reply. There was none. He exited through the front door and thought he heard Baldwin yell out just as the door closed shut. Po’ Zeke pushed the front door back open. “Yeah, Dad? Dad, did you call me?” “Bring me a diet! A diet. A diet!”

5

Most of the families who went out to eat in the neighborhood usually picked Saturday night. Baldwin decided soon after he and Ethyl were married that if they were to go out to eat at all, Friday night would be the night. There was too much good TV on Saturday. There would also be conflicts with going to the track and various Erectors Duff Club functions year-round. Ethyl arrived home from the Shantyass Mall, with a brief stop at the grocery store, usually at 5:15 PM. This Saturday was no different. As she was pulling into the driveway, Futzman’s powder blue, old Renault truck was backing out. Baldwin was in the enger seat and rolled down the window as Ethyl emerged from the Trabant trying to balance three grocery sacks, her music satchels, and her empty hot beverage canister. “We fixed the pipe!” Baldwin yelled. “But it’s probably going to take a few days for all of the water to drain out of the basement—I mean, the additional water. Try and stay out of the basement.” “What pipe?” Ethyl said. “The boy is inside. I don’t know where the girl is.” “I picked up groceries.” “Make it. Futzman and me are just taking a quick drive over to Jefferson Park for a couple of races. I’ll eat when we get back.” With that, Futzman laid rubber down the street and they were out of earshot. Ethyl brought the groceries and her two satchels packed heavy with music books into the house in one trip, wincing with each step. She dropped the music satchels alongside the piano and entered the kitchen. After setting the groceries down and taking a heavy sigh, she confronted the coffee maker and dumped in six scoops of obsidian granules for every single cup of water.

Po’ Zeke came into the kitchen and groused on one of the stools while Ethyl put the groceries away. “Hmpf.” Po’ Zeke said. Having her own matters to hmpf about, Ethyl ignored Po’ Zeke’s first one. “Hmpf.” Po’ Zeke said again, louder and more from the diaphragm. “Bad day?” Ethyl asked. “Me and Pinchy aren’t friends no more.” “Why? What happened?” “Well, I went over to Pinchy’s to play. And the Flabberson’s were having this garage sale. And Brian was selling his bike—only thirty-five dollars. So I asked Dad, but he said, ‘no way.’ So I went back down and told Brian I couldn’t buy it. And he said he’d save it for me just in case. And I came back home, and then Dad and Futzman were using a lot of bad words trying to fix that explosion in the laundry room—” “Explosion?” Ethyl said. “Something like that. There’s still water all over everything. So I didn’t want to stay in the house, so I took my stupid old bike and went for a long ride. And then I thought I’d stop at Flabberson’s one more time right before they closed their garage sale and see if Brian would just trade bikes with me. So when I got there, Brian told me that Pinchy and his dad were over there after they came back from the picnic, and Pinchy’s dad bought the bike for Pinchy! And Pinchy doesn’t even need a bike. He’s already got three of them.” “I’m sorry, pumpkin. These things happen some time.” “It’s just a crummy thing to do, that’s all. Pinchy knew I loved that bike.” “Don’t be too hard on Pinchy. Proverbs 14:30.” “I know, I know; a tranquilizer heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot.”

“A tranquil heart.” Ethyl said, while tending to her freshly percolated brew with an ice cream scooper. Po’ Zeke looked down at his feet. “Can I take off these wet socks? I was afraid to, because I don’t have any more clean pairs in my drawer.” “Why are they wet?” “I was downstairs for a little bit. Futzman told Dad to tell me that I’d better start unplugging all of the electric stuff while they were taping up the water pipe.” Ethyl nodded, and Po’ Zeke removed his socks. He held them in his hand and they dripped on the kitchen floor. “Go put them in the hamper.” Ethyl said. “It’s part under water.” Ethyl sighed. “Then just leave them out on the back porch,” she said. “Maybe they’ll be dry for church tomorrow.” “Okay.” Po’ Zeke opened the back door of the house from the kitchen and slapped his wet white tube socks across the rotted pine railing. Just before he could shut the door, Hamilton came running up the outside stairs and dashed into the house carrying something in its mouth—something with three legs. The streetwise kitty was out of sight and up towards the bedroom level before Po’ Zeke could identify what it might be. “When’s dinner?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Well, maybe seven. Your father had some kind of business with Mr. Futzman. And I have no idea where your sister is.” “Oh, her and Jolene went up to the mall for elephant ears. That’s what she told

Dad.” “Did she take a jacket? It’s so chilly out.” It wasn’t, really, but Ethyl was always cold. On this pleasant evening in late May, the outside temperature was still 77°F a full two hours before sunset. After scooping two hot, steaming blobs into her coffee mug, Ethyl put on a gray, Givenchy wool-blend cardigan sweater, adjusted the thermostat up to 85°F, and sat atop the baseboard mounted heating vent in the dining room just off of the kitchen area. Still moping, Po’ Zeke sat down next to his mother. She put her arm around him. “Don’t stay mad at Pinchy for too long. I’m sure there was a good reason he got the bike. He’s your best friend, and there aren’t a lot of children in this neighborhood that are decent to play with.” “I could just taste that bike—even more than the new one at Pergler’s. It was just right there leaning up against the tool bench in Flabberson’s garage. It’s just my size. And it’s way better than my bike. It just is.” “What were you doing in Flabberson’s garage to begin with?” Ethyl asked, while her eyes glossed over before her fatigued eyelids clamped down tight over them. “I told you. They were having a garage sale.” “Oh, that’s right…” “Everybody in the neighborhood was there. And Mr. and Mrs. Flabberson, they were just making all kinds of money. By the time it ended, there wasn’t even much left for them to clean up. Brian said he even made enough money from his stuff to go out and buy a guitar, a mini-bike, and a baby alligator.” Trying desperately now to meditate, Ethyl just couldn’t let Po’ Zeke go on and on without checking in with a little bit of parenting. She spoke, slowly, and kept her eyes closed. “Nobody is getting a baby alligator, honey. He’s just kidding you.” “Well, maybe. But he showed me all the money he got; there must have been

almost two hundred dollars in his hand.” Ethyl let out a little, single snore and didn’t reply otherwise. Po’ Zeke assessed she needed more information. “And his sister made money, too. And Mr. and Mrs. Flabberson made a whole ton of money. I overheard them say they were even going to all go out to the new steakhouse over in Fuggerton for supper and everything. I looked over at Pinchy’s a couple of times while I was talking to Brian, but I didn’t see him or his new bike. He was probably off riding with Schwantz and the gang. I’m not even going to go over there after church tomorrow, I can tell you that. If Pinchy wants to play with me, he’s going to have to come down here and apologize first. Or just give me the bike and then say he is sorry.” A crash through the front door jolted Ethyl’s eyes open and startled Po’ Zeke to make his head jerk forward and then bounce backwards and bang against the drywall. It was Fiona-Jo announcing her return through physical mayhem. With all the subtlety of a Samoan infantry, she and Jolene ascended the steps towards the kitchen. Though clearly visible through the common doorway, they were unaware of Ethyl and Po’ Zeke huddled together on the floor in the next room. Despite the invasion, Ethyl’s eyelids shimmied down over her eyes again. “I thought you said there’d be supper!” Jolene said, clearly perturbed. “I’ll find us something.” Fiona-Jo said, as she rifled through the pantry cabinets. “It smells in here.” “My brother must be around somewhere.” With her head still buried into the pantry, Fiona-Jo’s right hand reached backwards and offered Jolene a bag of powdered sugar. “Here,” Fiona-Jo said. “There’s spoons in the drawer.” Jolene grabbed the bag, found a spoon, and eased onto one of the kitchen stools. Fiona-Jo procured a box cake, uncooked and still in the box, and ed Jolene on the other stool with her own spoon. “I forgot to tell you,” Jolene said, and then paused for suspense. One. Two.

Three. “Kent Bubonty and his brother are having a party next Friday.” “I thought Eddie was in prison.” “No, not anymore. That’s what the party is for. They told me to invite as many girls as I know.” “Will there be any food?” “I told him there better be.” They noshed. “So,” Jolene said, pausing for effect. “Can you go?” “A, yes. But B, I’ll have to make up an excuse. And C, oh crap, I forgot I have to babysit my brother next Friday. Usually we just go out for family supper and then I can do whatever I want. But my dad’s Erection club is having a big dinner dance or something, so him and my mom are going there. And I promised to babysit, ‘cause they’re paying me ten dollars.” Jolene took in five or six serving spoons worth of powdered sugar while assessing the situation. Po’ Zeke’s eyes were as wide as ever as he’d never been privy to one of his sister’s scheming conversations with her best friend before. He wondered why Ethyl hadn’t yet announced their presence in the next room to alert Fiona-Jo. By the look on his mother’s face, eyes closed tight and dark drool dripping out of the right corner of her mouth, Po’ Zeke correctly deduced she was having a catnap. Po’ Zeke didn’t dare make a sound. He sat still and swallowed three times so his ears were wide open and receptive to any additional eavesdropping nuggets. “Well, what time do you have to babysit until?” Jolene asked. “Dad said seven to midnight. Though they never actually get home at midnight. They figure we’ll both just be asleep by then. Captain Pimpleface will be for sure; he never makes it past ten-thirty.”

“So, what if after your brother falls asleep, I come by at ten-thirty, and then you and I go down to the party. Then you can check back at your house at midnight to see if your parents are home yet. If they aren’t, then you stay out and just keep coming back every fifteen minutes. It’s only two blocks away. You can keep checking. When you finally see their car in the driveway, then you come in and say you were just outside looking for the cat.” “Wow. You’re good.” “I’ve been doing this since fourth grade. Adults are no match for me.” “Let’s go up to my room,” Fiona-Jo said. “We can eat this stuff upstairs until dinner is ready. I want to try on some tube tops. And maybe we can pierce my other ear.” They stomped away to Fiona-Jo’s bedroom, and not a moment too soon. Po’ Zeke’s legs and butt were tingling really badly from being motionless and rigid for so many minutes. He stood up and hopped in place, which, in turn, caused Ethyl to break out of her too short slumber. “Stop that!” Ethyl snapped. “What are you doing?” “My legs and butt fell asleep. I think it’s from that crummy old bike I have to ride.” Po’ Zeke didn’t dare reveal the top-secret information he’d just heard coming from the kitchen. In a rare showing of resolve, he kept the information to himself. Somehow, someway he was going to use that information into getting that $85.00 plus tax new bike from Pergler’s Hardware. He just needed time to think. His sanctuary would be the best place for that. “I’m going up to my room.” “Come back down in forty-five minutes and wake me up so I can get dinner started,” Ethyl said before taking a hearty glug from her coffee cup and then closing her eyes again. “And try and find out what the cat dragged in. If it was another animal, put a hand towel over it until your father gets home.” “Okay.”

Once inside his comforting lair, Po’ Zeke closed the door. He could hear FionaJo and Jolene talking in the next bedroom, but their voices were muffled and unintelligible. Usually they were just unintelligible; the muffling part made it difficult for Po’ Zeke to discern what they were saying with his ear to the wall. Good, old faithful Hamilton was at the foot of the bed curled up fat and happy. There were no wildlife trophies about. Anything that was dragged in was either hidden elsewhere or already consumed in its entirety. Po’ Zeke gently scratched Hamilton about the perky, black ears. The beast didn’t even flinch; this wasn’t the first caressing rodeo for either of them. “I’ve got to think,” Po’ Zeke said. “I’ve got to think.” Scheming wasn’t exactly Po’ Zeke’s thing. This was going to be hard. He had this top notch, juicy information that he could use to “bargain” with his sister with and no idea how to proceed. Despite having seen all of the detective shows and telecast Sunday matinee film noir with his father, none of it seemed to stick in his brain. Po’ Zeke knows he’s seen or heard people scheme a bunch of times. He’d just heard his sister and her best friend do it minutes before. He just can’t arrive at what his first move should be for turning the screws. Should he bust in right now and tell Fiona-Jo everything he knows about her and Jolene’s little plan for next Friday night, or does he just play it cool like he knows nothing and then pounce only minutes before their scheme is hatching? Should he leave little notes around the house that simply state, “Somebody knows your secret” until Fiona-Jo just cracks under the pressure? Should he call the house from the gas station pay phone, hope Fiona-Jo answers, and then whisper something ominous like “Fear Friday” into the phone using a disguised voice? None of this deception and trickery came naturally to Po’ Zeke like it did so many other folks. Po’ Zeke could only see the world through the eyes of a victim. Po’ Zeke sprawled out atop his bed and nestled his unwashed bare feet around Hamilton. He weaved his knuckles together behind his head and looked up to the ceiling—the most familiar scenery he’d come upon in this harbor of solitude. Po’ Zeke could ask Pinchy for advice, he thought, but then he would have to talk to Pinchy. He’d have to backpedal on his Pinchy boycott, and it hadn’t even been half a day yet. He couldn’t go to Mom or Dad, because that is the nuclear option

he wants to dangle over his sister’s head. He had to work quickly, though, as next Friday night was only a week away now—even less—six days and eight hours, give or take eight hours.

~~~

Futzman’s truck squealed out of the driveway sometime after 11:00 PM. Everybody in the house was already asleep—until the truck squealed away. Fiona-Jo had no idea what the source of the sudden noise was but just assumed it was her brother in the next room trying to build an imaginary robot friend to talk to out of coat hangers and aerosol hairspray cans. She pounded on their shared wall. “Shut up over there or I’ll put my fist in the back of your throat!” She said. Po’ Zeke pulled himself up to his street side window to investigate the squealing noise but saw nothing outside; Futzman had already sped around the corner out of sight. “Quiet!” Ethyl shouted from her bedroom. “I have to play at church in the morning.” Baldwin came into the house and slammed the door good and loud. He wasn’t angry about anything. It was just his signature entrance move. Next, he ditched his half-consumed cigarette into the kitchen trash and lit up another. Before he made his way up to the bedroom, Baldwin thought he would snoop around in the kitchen and see just what those Jerusalem artichokes might taste like between two pieces of white bread with a couple of sardines and some hot, brown mustard. As he anticipated, Ethyl had left some of the liver and Jerusalem artichokes on a plate wrapped in wax paper on top of the stove. One corner of the wax paper appeared to have been gnawed to the bejesus, but everything beneath was still intact. Baldwin ditched the liver into Hamilton’s food bowl alongside the kitchen trashcan and slapped his sardine creation together as

envisioned. Instead of eating in bed where he’d feel too much pressure to chew quietly, he headed downstairs with food plate in hand fixing to watch the late show on TV. If God were on Baldwin’s side, it would feature George C. Scott in some way. Just as he arrived at the front entry landing, Baldwin set his plate of food on the foyer catchall table (a foldable TV tray table draped with a silk, Persian tablecloth Ethyl had obtained for massive discount at an importer outlet at the Shantyass Mall just a couple doors down from the music studio). Baldwin bent over at the waist and rolled up both legs of his maroon polyester slacks to above his knees and removed both black stockings. He’d taken this late night plunge into the basement many times over the years, and the routine was down to a sweet science now. There would always be some form of dampness; the only variable was the degree/depth. As anticipated, the water in the basement was still just shy of ankle deep. Baldwin clicked on the TV, set his food down on the table next to his chair, and poked his head into the laundry room. He yanked on the string that activated the single light bulb in the room and gazed up at the hot water pipe now wrapped in dish towels, duct tape, and a triple application of white bathtub caulk. A triumphant smile crept over his face. He yanked on the light bulb string again and sloshed back over to his chair in the romantic glow of the flickering television screen. The sandwich was good, real good. The Jerusalem artichokes reminded him of a half-baked potato he had once after an Erector’s Duff Club golf outing many years before. Both had an exotic texture that seemed to bite him back with each chew. He’d finish it, like he did with the baked potato, but he wasn’t going to be pleasant when he woke up if clogged up the plumbing again. Most of the local channels had already signed off for the day. Baldwin’s only options for viewing were the late show on the local Dearth VHF or nocturnal mass for shut-ins on the UHF station. The late show was a yawner— some Judy Garland thing where she appeared to be completely smashed as far as Baldwin could tell. The nocturnal mass for shut-ins was all in Italian. Judy got the nod, but barely. Baldwin finished his snack, brushed the crumbs to the floor, and began cracking

his walnuts for a final flavor injection before hitting the sack. “Is that you?” Ethyl called down from the foyer landing. “Who else?” “Did you eat the plate?” “Right.” Several seconds of silence ensued. “Well,” Ethyl asked, “did you like it?” “I liked it! I liked it! Crissakes, I feel like Nixon at the Watergate hearings.” Baldwin paused to crack a nut under his elbow on the armrest. “Why are you awake so late?” “I’m making some coffee. It’s freezing in here. It’s too cold to sleep.” With sweat from cracking the walnuts soaking into his undershirt collar, Baldwin couldn’t empathize. “It’s hotter than hell in here,” Baldwin said. “If you turn the thermostat up any higher, I’m going to blow out the pilot light on the furnace.” “I’m cold!” Ethyl said, as she reached for the thermostat at the top of the staircase. “How did you do tonight, lose again?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I was so close—every race I was so close. It’s like everybody is out to get me. Futzman hit a trifecta, though—nine hundred and change. But I’ve worked out a new system—” The sound of the furnace cranking on interrupted Baldwin from divulging anything more. Not only was the noise from the hacking and hemming furnace too loud for them to have a conversation between floors, Baldwin felt he’d better just keep the rest to himself so as not to jinx it. Ethyl was out of earshot, anyway. She was going to make a short batch of coffee —just enough to warm her up and soothe her back to sleep. As the ground,

handpicked beans from the tasty side of the tracks in Columbia fused together in the percolator, Ethyl gazed out the rear window of the house towards the empty cornfield. She had all of the hymns for the Sunday sermon down cold. But still, there was no substitute for practice. Her mentors practiced seventeen hours per day. If Ethyl were to one day eclipse them, she must pound harder, longer, faster. Ethyl marched over to the piano, clicked on the piano lamp, and began throttling out Go Down, Moses in a 6/8 time signature. She played loud enough to force Baldwin to turn the TV up louder downstairs so he could hear his movie. The piece was completely memorized, and had been for years, so Ethyl could play with her eyes closed and improvise with ornate knuckle flourishes as she saw fit. The louder Ethyl played, the louder Baldwin would turn up the television. Anyone ing by on the sidewalk outside at that hour of the early morning would assume a grand party was still raging on inside from Saturday night. Despite the warring decibels on the two levels beneath them, Po’ Zeke and Fiona-Jo slept right through it. They’d been conditioned to the battle since being in the womb. Only unknown noises or sounds from Po’ Zeke’s room would set Fiona-Jo into a rage; only sounds of cooler bikes driving by on the sidewalk outside the house would ruffle Po’ Zeke’s feathers from a peaceful slumber. As Ethyl continued to pound the keys and quaff her congealed java mush, Baldwin staggered up the steps in his underclothes after an hour of Judy Garland and disappeared into the master bedroom. Ethyl noticed bits of walnut shells clinging to Baldwin’s left elbow on his ascension falling arbitrarily into the carpet with each step up. It had been the end of a long day running the gamut of emotional strife. There was victory over the temporary fix to the hot water pipe, and defeat everywhere else. All in all, it was one of Baldwin’s better days. Ethyl decided to practice the piano another hour before finally turning in at 2:45 AM. Once she was satisfied that she had all of the hymns sufficiently mastered, she clicked off the piano lamp and stopped by the kitchen to clean out her coffee cup with some hydrogen peroxide and a steel wool pad so it would be ready for when she woke up in a few hours. She readied the coffee pot for another 6:15 AM percolation and went to bed.

6

Po’ Zeke thought he had it all figured out in his dreams. He came up with the perfect plan for backing Fiona-Jo into a corner and also talked Pinchy into giving him the bike he got from Flabberson’s garage sale. Sadly, Po’ Zeke never ed specifics of his dreams. So when he woke up, he was back to square one. Maybe the answer would suddenly come to him in church like the burning bush happened upon Noah’s ark and so forth. Hamilton was still asleep between Po’ Zeke’s feet as he rose up out of bed. He knew both his mom and dad were already awake because that weekly, displeasing odor of frying lentil bacon and exhaled nicotine smoke clouded up the entire house. Dad sat at the counter reading the Sunday paper, smoking, while Mom prepared breakfast—usually lentil bacon, melon, and lightly browned raisin toast. If it were business as usual, Fiona-Jo would still be in bed until about thirty minutes before it was time to leave for church. Since her Sunday shower time was regularly in the neighborhood of forty-five minutes, it always made for predictable strife while Mom, Dad, and Po’ Zeke sat in the car ready to leave for church, Dad laying on the car horn and swearing, while Fiona-Jo was still lazily working through her second rinse inside the house. Po’ Zeke decided to pick out something to wear to church before he went down for breakfast. He liked his blue jeans and Sex Machine t-shirt, but he knew his father would angrily put the kibosh on it. So Po’ Zeke instead laid out his tan church pants and a peach colored, short-sleeved oxford on the bed. As soon as he lie the items out flat, Hamilton arose from a sound sleep, walked over to the shirt, collapsed at the paws, and sprawled out on his back with his eyes closed and tongue hanging one-quarter of the way out of the side of his mouth. “Breakfast!” Ethyl shouted from the kitchen. “Coming!” Po’ Zeke replied. “First I gotta pee.” In the kitchen, where Baldwin had been staring at the same page of the Help

Wanted ads for some time, Ethyl put a plate a food down on top of the newspaper up on the counter. “Not on the Sports section!” Baldwin snapped. “Since when do you care about sports?” “Not sports—the race results are in there.” “But you were at the track. You saw all of the races.” “Yeah, but maybe they made a mistake. I think I can still find some of my tickets.” Ethyl set a plate down for herself on the counter, mounted a stool, and attacked her melon with a knife and fork. “I can’t be late today.” Ethyl said. “I’m playing the church service, you know. Donky is on vacation.” ‘Donky’ was the nickname for Dickie Donkowicz, the regular church organist who always leaned on Ethyl to fill in for him when he wanted to take a week off. Since he discovered jogging, Donky’s leanings on Ethyl were become more frequent as he signed up to run marathons in far away places that usually occurred on Sundays. At five feet two-inches tall and one hundred and ninetyseven pounds, Donky wasn’t a prototypical marathoner. But he had the running bug. “What are you telling me for?” Baldwin said. “All I have to do is put some pants on and I’m out the door. You know who the problem is.” “You should talk to her.” “I have. You can’t tell her anything at this age.” “Well, I have to go get ready after breakfast, so I can’t talk to her.” Baldwin put down the Help Wanted section, crammed an entire piece of lentil bacon into his mouth while his cigarette dangled on the corner of his lip, and dove into the racing results.

“After church I thought we might go to the mall. You and Po’ Zeke can go to those stores you like, and Fiona-Jo can help me look for a dress for your big club golf ball tango next Friday.” “Dammit!” Baldwin said, crumpling up the racing results page and throwing it to the floor. He took a long drag off of his cigarette and made his second piece of lentil bacon disappear. Then he took another long drag from the cigarette. “What?” he asked. “You want to hit balls after church?” “You have no idea.” Ethyl said then paused to see if Baldwin would pick up on her wicked domestic banter. He didn’t. “No, the mall. I need to get a new dress for your club function on Friday night.” “Are you kidding? Did you see me reading the race results? It’s confirmed; all of my tickets are bupkis. Why do you need a new dress? How are we going to pay for a new dress? Futzman said the water pipe could blow at any time again.” “I have nothing to wear, and I thought you said you both fixed the water pipe.” “Yes, it’s fixed for now, but Futzman says not forever. We’ve got to start using more cold than hot. Futzman says after September, we’d better not use hot at all. And you’ve got a closet full of things you never wear.” “I’ve been wearing those rags since before we were dating.” Po’ Zeke entered the kitchen. Ethyl hopped up and fixed him a plate. “You can take my seat, sweetie,” Ethyl said. “We’re going to the mall after church. You and your father can look at that store you like.” “The magic shop?” Po’ Zeke said buoyantly. “Sure.” Baldwin took an angry bite of toast and then deposited his mostly full plate of melon and raisin toast into the cat food bowl on the floor.

“I’m going down to shave,” Baldwin said. “We leave here in an hour.” Baldwin descended to the basement. Ethyl and Po’ Zeke knew he hit bottom level when they heard him sloshing around towards the water closet just off the family room. This is where Baldwin got all of his thinking done. This is where Baldwin shaved. And as Po’ Zeke had his bedroom as his blockhouse of solitude, the basement level water closet was Baldwin’s. “I’ve got to go start getting ready,” Ethyl said. “Make sure to wake up your sister pretty soon—as soon as you’re done.” Po’ Zeke nodded and buttered up his raisin toast. His eyes rapturously bulged from that first bite. Po’ Zeke liked it better than any other toast. There was more texture, more adventure—more of a story going on in his mouth. Ethyl dashed into the upstairs restroom to begin her makeover du jour. She’d be in there for seventy-five minutes, thereby eclipsing Baldwin’s “We leave in one hour directive,” but there was no other way. She had to look extra good up there in front of the congregation. Everything extra she needed to do took that amount of time. Arriving five to ten minutes after the time Ethyl was supposed to be some place was still chalked up as “early arrival” on her internal barometer. And then there was emulsifying a new hot beverage container full of coffee to take with her to the church where she’d sip surreptitiously during the sermon, prayer, offering, and a couple times during the choral numbers when her left hand had a two-measure rest. That tacked on a couple of extra minutes before Ethyl could clear herself for departure, too. She’d still beat Fiona-Jo to the car, she internally wagered. With closed eyes, Po’ Zeke was so lost in the pleasure of his buttered raisin toast that he didn’t detect the heavy, purposeful footsteps descending down to the kitchen from the bedroom level of the house. “Gimme that!” Fiona-Jo said, snatching the remaining piece of buttered raisin toast out of Po’ Zeke’s hand and shoving it into her mouth. “Hey!” “You disgust me, Creepsauce.”

Fiona-Jo reached towards Po’ Zeke’s plate, grabbed all three of his pieces of lentil bacon, and shoved them into her mouth before swallowing the buttered raisin toast. Patience, Po’ Zeke told himself. Patience. He could drop the bomb about what he knew right there, right then. Alas, there would be no upside. Both Mom and Dad were out of earshot, and all of his food was now gone anyway. Po’ Zeke bit his tongue. “It’s almost June.” Fiona-Jo said turning her attention to dragging her index finger through the grease in the frying pan and cramming her finger in her mouth. “Doesn’t that mean you have to use soap again?” “Quit saying that! You know I took a shower already on Monday and Thursday.” “Well, nobody would ever be able to tell.” After a disappointing swallow of the chewed conquests in her mouth, Fiona-Jo turned her unsatisfied gaze into the refrigerator. “Where’s all of the food?” Fiona-Jo lamented. “There’s melon.” “Melon blows.” “I’m gonna tell Mom you said, ‘blows’!” “Go ahead. It’s a weather word. The weatherman says it on TV. Jerk.” Fiona-Jo emerged from the refrigerator with a jar of pearl onions in a dark, vinegar brine and situated herself in consumption mode next to her brother on the next stool. As she devoured one moist onion after another with her fingers, Hamilton entered the kitchen and spit out something that looked like an owl’s face in the middle of the floor. Po’ Zeke knew all of Hamilton’s moves and correctly deduced his furry buddy wanted to be let out the back door to do some early morning scrounging in the cornfield. The wind was whipping hard from the west. It was a struggle to push the door open, but eventually Po’ Zeke succeeded. Hamilton bolted down the

steps and in the direction of the cornfield crouching into an attack posture just before disappearing into the tall weeds buffering the backyard from the field. “Mom says you got to get ready.” Po’ Zeke said, closing the back door. “Jerk.” “Really. She’s playing the piano and organ today, so she can’t be late.” “Go pee on your rug so it’ll match your bed.” Fiona-Jo tilted her head back and sucked the last of the droplets of dark vinegar brine from the jar and tossed the jar into the kitchen sink. She headed up the stairs and began pounding on the bathroom door where Ethyl was getting herself ready. “Get out! If you want me to be on time, I’ve got to get in there—now!” Fiona Jo said.

~~~

Reverend Googler was disappointed that Ethyl arrived to church fifteen minutes late that day, but he wasn’t surprised. He’d learned the hard way. Now he anticipated that whenever Ethyl filled in on the keyboard duties for Donky, the official church proceedings would be getting underway an average of ten to twenty minutes later than usual. In fact, the entire congregation knew that it was acceptable to arrive on Sundays in a more leisurely fashion whenever Donky was taking the day off. Baldwin had to blow through three stop signs and disregard an intersection red light en route to Dearth Congregational Church to make up for the time lost waiting in the driveway for Ethyl and Fiona-Jo. With only four cigarettes to his name, Baldwin wanted to stop at the convenience store but figured it wouldn’t look good to The Man Upstairs since they were already running late.

Ethyl opened the service at 11:17 AM with a flawless execution of There Is A Balm in Gilead in the key of G-flat major. It was a hymn the congregation wasn’t entirely familiar with, but Reverend Googler and Mable Jensen, a husky baritone gal with lungs capable of filling the local quarry with song, muscled everyone through it. Baldwin always sat in the very last row, on the aisle, furthest away from the pulpit. Po’ Zeke and Fiona-Jo sat beside their fidgeting father until he got up midway through the service to perform the offering collection and then disappeared into the church’s soft count room leaving the kids to absorb the rest of the service, and sermon, by themselves. Though he was a spiritual man, the prohibition of smoking during the church service baffled Baldwin. Man had been smoking since before Moses. Why, suddenly, was it simply not done in church? That, and other thoughts of paralysis by analysis, brought about the bulk of his fidgeting. Once he participated in the offering collection, though, Baldwin would step outside for a lengthy smoke before appearing in the soft count room. Po’ Zeke’s mind constantly wandered during the church service. He just didn’t get it. The words were hard to understand. There was rarely a relatable connection to his television sitcom-viewing based lifestyle. And nobody, not once in his eleven years, even attempted a magic trick or slight of hand—things that he derived from his partial listening were commonplace in the time of Jesus. Due to budgetary reasons and rapid attrition, the church long ago had abandoned a Sunday school program. So anyone aged infant and up was expected to attend the regular Sunday service. Whenever they rose to sing a hymn, Fiona-Jo would either slap Po’ Zeke’s hymnal to the ground causing him to bend over quickly attempting to retrieve it and bang his head on the pew in front of them or stomp on his left foot to try and get him to yelp out loud. Feeling extra ornery this particular Sunday, Fiona-Jo did both at the same time. Just as Reverend Googler asked all to rise after the offering to in and sing on All I Do, The Church Keep A-Grumbling, Fiona-Jo lifted her right leg and planted her right Winklepicker heel hard into Po’ Zeke’s left foot where the foot bone connected to the ankle bone. Then, with just as mighty a thrash, Fiona-Jo slapped her brother’s hymnal out of his hand down towards the floor where it

would strike his left foot in the same place where her stomp did. Po’ Zeke, despite the tears bursting forth from his face, did not make a sound. He sat down on the pew cradling his sore left foot up to his right knee. Though Reverend Googler didn’t see the whole exchange from his vantage point, Po’ Zeke’s sudden refusal to stand during the hymn did cause the pastor to raise a displeased eyebrow. He wondered privately if it was time to bring the entire family in for some counseling. Fiona-Jo stood innocently and mouthed along with the congregation during the hymn. She never even bothered to open the hymnal—she just moved her lips slowly and deliberately as if mimicking a carp for sport. In the soft count room, Baldwin reported for duty after spending three of his remaining four cigarettes outside behind the church refuse dumpster. Baldwin ed Moose Compton, one of Baldwin’s lifelong chums, and Hazel Fazelton, a joyless woman who decried pleasure in any form. They were the weekly counters. Baldwin and Moose had been of the church all of their lives. Hazel, 92, had been a member even before the church was officially recognized as a church. Originally, it was just six families and fourteen widows looking for a place to keep warm inside on Sundays at the turn of the century. Hazel was a widow at 17 and remained so ever since. As much as Baldwin and Moose wanted to clown around with the offerings (ex. piling the monies onto the floor and roll around atop them, make currency fright wigs, stuff the larger notes down the front of their pants, etc.) just to cut the tension, Hazel ensured there was no funny business at any time for any reason. Everything would be counted in a mature fashion, checked again, checked again, and checked again a third time before anything was committed to the ledger in ink. Neither Baldwin nor Moose would ever, ever steal a cent from the church. They just became giddy at the sight of so much cash right in front of them. Besides, clowning around came naturally to each of them. It’s what got them through stressful times when there were no other answers. Hazel really cracked the whip this Sunday. She had someplace to be, and didn’t have time for clowning or triple checking. She advised a befuddled Moose and Baldwin that she committed the count to the ledger after the first run through,

and that they should go back out into the sanctuary for the remainder of the service. “I’m a ghost,” Hazel said. “See you next Sunday.” Hazel clutched her handbag and limped with her perennially swelled bursa sacs out of the side door of the church towards the corner bus stop. “So, what do we do now?” Moose asked. “I guess we’d better go out for the rest of the service, like she said.” “But we ain’t been out for the remainder of the service in seven years.” Baldwin looked at his watch. He tried to back time how long might be left in the service, couldn’t correctly for the disparity in the actual start time minus his late arrival time, and just became frustrated with the whole undertaking. “Dammit.” Baldwin said throwing his hands into the air. “We’d better just go out. I think we’re already breaking some kind of hip vow.” And so they did. Ethyl was just putting the final chord pounds down on Deep River as Reverend Googler stood up at the podium. Oh Christ, Baldwin thought, the sermon is just starting! Baldwin and Moose filed in to the back pew nudging Fiona-Jo and Po’ Zeke further to the left a couple of positions. Po’ Zeke had ceased with the eyeball waterworks, but still cradled his aching left foot up on his right knee. “I wish I had more pleasant news for us today,” Reverend Googler began, “but I’ll cut right to the quick. There is a demon greater than us all amongst us, and he isn’t only here with us now, but he will follow many of you home today, to your workplaces tomorrow, and one step behind you forever. This demon knows no sacred cows. At one time or another, most of us have succumbed to the demon’s all-powerful temptation. A few of us never separate from the temptation damaging our lives, breaking up our homes, and devastating our loved ones. The demon, of course, is gambling. But together, we will defeat the demon here,

today, once and forever.” “Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Baldwin muttered as he observed Reverend Googler scrutinize the back pew with his knowing eyes. Moose buried his face in his hands hoping it would make him go unnoticed. “Look to your left and then to your right,” Reverend Googler said. “After taking a quick assessment, put your hand on the shoulder of the congregant you feel is in most need of prayer, the congregant who is clearly the codpiece of Satan, the congregant who gambles without conscience, the congregant we, together, will unshackle from the demonic pursuit of monetary gain through illicit lifestyle and selfish demeanor.” Moose and Baldwin put their hands on each other. Po’ Zeke tried to put his hand on Fiona-Jo, but she slapped it away with the hairbrush she was presently using to detangle her nut-brown, curly tresses. Most everyone in the congregation turned back to look at Baldwin before turning back around and placing their hands on another nearby congregant by default as Baldwin was out of reach. Reverend Googler hoisted his arms high above his head, closed his eyes with his chin pointed to the sky, and spoke angrily: “He that loves silver shall not be satisfied with silver, says Ecclesiastes Five, verse ten, nor he that loves abundance with increase.” Baldwin was sweating profusely. Every few years, when he sat in on a sermon, it always seemed to be directed solely to him. It worried him that everyone seemed to know his business. Didn’t the pastor, or God for that matter, have bigger fish to fry? So Baldwin went to the track a few times per week to try and help make ends meet while he was unemployed. And maybe he played gin rummy three or four nights per week. How does that hurt anyone? At least Baldwin felt he had a fighting chance at the track and back room card games. Plus, at the track, he’d also be out in the fresh air, right there along the rail. God should be giddy that Baldwin wasn’t just sitting home watching television—he was bonding with God’s creatures, such as it was. Baldwin folded his arms and scowled. His right leg nervously throbbed with his knee repeatedly rapping against the back of the pew in front of him.

Ethyl listened intently to the sermon while slurping her ebony hued sludge at the pipe organ. Mostly she listened for her cue to start playing softly underneath the closing few sentences of the sermon for a seamless transition into the benediction and then final closing hymn. Reverend Googler’s verbal cue for the organ to ramp up, as always, would be: … as much as we desire to smite our loved ones, we must instead make one’s devotions to trust in the Holy Name to smooth out the bumps. Amen, and Amen. It didn’t just seem like a long sermon, it actually was Reverend Googler’s longest sermon on record—a whopping fifty-nine minutes. The working over was so potent that Moose swore right then and there that he would never gamble again…and then excused himself from the sanctuary so that he could get to a poker game at his butcher’s house. But he would definitely be cutting out the scratcher tickets for a couple of weeks. Baldwin sat in the back pew, white as a ghost, like he’d been to the woodshed and back a dozen times in under an hour. He was motionless while all others, except Po’ Zeke and Fiona-Jo, filed out of the sanctuary into the community room for coffee and crumb cake. Ethyl played a quixotic version of Dry Bones while everyone departed the sanctuary. Her portable hot beverage dispenser was in desperate need of a refill. Once the room was empty, she’d excuse herself to the kitchen and replenish the container with her own handmade concoction. The swill they served with the crumb cake to everyone after church was weak, flavorless, and repugnant. Ethyl made no secret of pointing it out to whoever would listen. “Dad,” Po’ Zeke said, “Can we go get some cake?” “Leave him alone. He’s praying!” Fiona-Jo snapped. Sweating about the brow, neck, and belly, Po’ Zeke assessed that his father might be praying, but he sure wasn’t in praying position with his hands folded or anything. His leg was just throbbing while his right hand—the one that usually clutches a cigarette— twitched and Baldwin stared forward with a blank expression at the now empty pulpit. “I’m going for cake,” Fiona-Jo announced and then bounced up and out of sight. Po’ Zeke wanted cake, too, but he was going to wait a good long time before he

got in line. He knew he’d be a target for some kind of sibling transgression at the hand of his sister. She didn’t care if she was in church or not, Po’ Zeke figured. And while his foot was still sore, he could walk on it only slowly and gingerly. Po’ Zeke and his father sat quietly in the sanctuary for a good long time. Po’ Zeke looked at the stained glass and said some bicycle prayers to himself. Finally, Baldwin got ambulatory. “I’ll be in the car,” Baldwin said. He stood up, never blinking, took his last cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and went outside. That would be Po’ Zeke’s cue to find his mother and sister and tell them that the father was ready to leave. Po’ Zeke went into the community room to seek them out amongst the crumb cake crunchers. A cadre of more vocal congregants called out the thoughts from their heads as Po’ Zeke snaked his way through the room. “Great sermon today, Reverend.” “I hope your words resonated with certain individuals!” “It needed to be said, Pastor. You might even want to repeat it all again next week.” “Prayer. Warm coffee. And a kick in the pants. That’s how you deal with sinners.” These were just some of the comments Po’ Zeke overheard as he ed by the group of crumb-munching parishioners standing in a circle around Reverend Googler near the cake table at the back of the community room. Po’ Zeke saw Ethyl through the opened partition to the kitchen where she was dumping coffee grounds into a percolator with a soup ladle. It wouldn’t be polite to shout, so Po’ Zeke entered the kitchen to advise his mother of the current logistics pertaining to the family’s departure. “Dad is already in the car, and I’m supposed to tell you and Fiona-Jo. I’m going

to find her and then go to the car and we’ll wait for you.” “Okay, pumpkin. I’ll be just a minute.” There was too much activity going on to see where Fiona-Jo might be. People were standing up, sitting down, hugging, high-fiving the reverend, ing halfeaten pieces of crumb cake back and forth, etc. Po’ Zeke was going to have to burn some shoe leather to track down his sister. Not two steps off the kitchen into his mission, Po’ Zeke was confronted by Herman Kratch, the church’s oldest member—even older than Hazel Fazelton— at 99. Herman had a fondness for confronting people, standing in their path, and then reaching behind their ear to unfurl a piece of taffy. It was his way of breaking the ice…and ing out taffy he’d shoplifted from Gateblatt’s department store the day before. “Whoa, look-y here!” Herman said, reaching behind Po’ Zeke’s left ear and then revealing before him a large, unwrapped but not chewed glob of blue taffy. “You must’ve been a good soldier for Jesus this week.” Po’ Zeke took the taffy from Herman’s hand but would never put it anywhere near his mouth. “Thanks,” Po’ Zeke said. “I’ve got to find my sister.” “Wait just a second now. What were you praying for in there? I saw you praying. I always watch when people pray—I can tell the real prayers from the fakers.” “Nothing really.” “You can’t fool me. And you’d better not lie in church. I don’t want to tell you what’ll happen if you lie in church.” It’s true, Po’ Zeke was observed praying earlier in the service—praying hard— when Reverend Googler called for all to in on prayer just after the offering. He was praying for the BMX bike or even just the bike Pinchy swiped out from underneath him from Flabberson’s garage sale—either one. He later added the second prayer after the service for good measure the way people always have to tell him twice to do things. But Po’ Zeke didn’t think Mr. Kratch would approve if he came right out and told him that his prayers all focused on obtaining a

material possession especially one deemed so silly by an adult. Herman cocked his head and waited for a reply. He slowly slid his hand into his right pants pocket and appeared to be fiddling with a couple of stuck together pieces of taffy. “Just family, and peace, and feed the hungry.” Po’ Zeke said. “There’s just so much suffering—” “Hey! Look-y there!” Herman said, looking past Po’ Zeke and lunging forth to pull his taffy-behind-the-ear trick on a buxom 70-something parishioner who was relatively new to the church. “Why you had a treat behind your ear the whole time! That’s quite a dress. Have you had cake yet? I’m Herman.” Po’ Zeke pressed onward while Herman sidled up closer to the woman and pushed the taffy into her mouth with his wrinkled, trembling fingers. There was no sign of Fiona-Jo in all of her usual spots: hanging right outside the ladies room door by the water bubbler, in the old choir room (that now served as a storage room for all of the grounds maintenance supplies), or even in the library where she’d sometimes catch a catnap right after church. As Po’ Zeke walked by the pastor’s office en route to the parking lot, he heard Fiona-Jo laughing. The door was ajar, so Po’ Zeke poked his head inside. There sat Fiona-Jo in Reverend Googler’s high-back, executive leather chair with her feet up on his desk, the phone handset cradled between her skull and shoulder, with three pieces of plated crumb cake lined up across the ink blotter. Fiona-Jo navigated a bite of crumb cake into her mouth with each pause in her speech. “…oh, it blew… Yeah… Yeah… Yeah…. No…. I don’t know…. Something stupid going to the mall so my mom can get a stupid dress for the stupid dance on Friday night.” Fiona-Jo said into the telephone. She then took an extended turn listening and seized upon the opportunity to bite off half of one of the pieces of crumb cake as opposed to just a forkful. Crumbs spewed everywhere upon her initial chomp falling into the cracks of the chair and scattering across an opened Bible just to the right of the ink blotter.

“Dad says we’re leaving.” Po’ Zeke said, interrupting and startling Fiona-Jo out of her bliss. Fiona-Jo put her palm lazily over the mouthpiece of the telephone handset. “Get out of here, Poopface! Privacy! Eavesdropping is a sin!” “I ain’t listening. Dad just said to get you.” Fiona-Jo removed her palm from the phone, curled her hand into a fist, and shook it Po’ Zeke’s direction. He disappeared from the doorway. “Jolene? Are you still there? … oh, just my stupid brother…. No, I don’t have to go yet… what are you thinking about wearing to Kent’s party? I keep going back and forth between my rainbow poncho and red broomstick skirt or my bell bottoms and a gabardine crop.” When Po’ Zeke went out to the parking lot, there was no sign of his father or the Trabant. Ethyl came out about a minute later while Po’ Zeke hopped up and down trying to see if his dad had moved the car to a different parking spot in the rear of the lot. Another ten minutes transpired. Fiona-Jo then ed her mother and brother in the parking lot. No one said anything. Fiona-Jo’s Bohemian, salmon baby doll dress was engulfed in dark, brown crumbs from the neck to the waist. Many departing churchgoers ed the Pullmans by and only a few cars remained in the church lot another twenty minutes later. Suddenly, the Trabant skidded, bounced, squealed, sputtered, and fishtailed into the parking lot. The cabin was thick with exhaled smoke—thicker than the family had ever been witness to, or victim of, before. Baldwin’s face couldn’t even be seen through the windshield. Somehow, he managed to stop the car at the perfect spot right at the edge of the sidewalk and pushed open the enger door. “Let’s go!” Baldwin said. Once all were safely inside the vehicle, Baldwin peeled away from the curb while extinguishing his cigarette on the speedometer and lighting another. “We were waiting.” Fiona-Jo said. “The only ones left inside the church were Reverend Googler and the Smuthofers.

“I had to get some cigarettes.” Baldwin offered an explanation this time, but spoke in a manner as if everyone should have known where he was. And where did children get off demanding an explanation anyway? Baldwin was going to drive extra mad, now. All the derogatory or cuss words would be making an appearance directed at other drivers during the twenty-five minute trip to the Shantyass Mall. “Maybe, while we’re there, you could stop into Sears and ask somebody in the plumbing department if he could recommend a more permanent type of fix for our pipe problem in the laundry room?” Ethyl said. The seed didn’t take as Baldwin was too focused on running a light that had already been red a good fifteen seconds. Ethyl would have to try again—maybe after they’ve parked but before Baldwin got distracted by lecturing all of the ‘worthless teenagers,’ usually hanging around outside the mall’s main entrance door contributing to the collapse of society, about their ignorance of civic duty. Po’ Zeke looked out the side window the entire drive not wanting to make any kind of eye with Fiona-Jo that she would misconstrue into an act of aggression. Every few blocks, Po’ Zeke saw a repeating pattern. There was one house with its attached garage fully open, piles of possessions stacked up inside the garage or on tables out on the driveway, and throngs of people sifting through the items. Indeed, it was spring garage sale season. The Flabberson’s didn’t invent the whole concept, Po’ Zeke now realized. They were just one of the many families in town that seized upon the opportunity of warmer weather, a weekend, and too much stuff in the house to engage in this amazing process of swapping unwanted old stuff for money to go buy lots of new stuff. Why didn’t his parents ever think of this? The Pullman house was full of broken, damaged, waterlogged (mostly waterlogged) furniture, toys, clothes, office supplies, musical instruments—everything! And through the spellbinding ritual that was a garage sale, they could unload all of these items. After a four-way split of the cabbage, surely there would be enough in Po’ Zeke’s cut to afford the BMX bike from Pergler’s!

“Mom and Dad! Mom and Dad! I’ve got a great idea!” Po’ Zeke said. “No more sleepovers with Pinchy,” Baldwin said. “The last time that kid stayed at our house, his parents wanted us to feed him two meals and walk him home in the dark. Don’t they know what’s on T-V at that hour of the night?” “I’m going to have to agree with your father on this one. I’m a little too tired to pick up after you boys. Plus, it’s a school night—and this is the last week of school. You only have to go through Thursday. You’ve got all summer for a sleepover.” “Not a sleepover. I’m not talking to Pinchy still. But this is great. I figured out a way to get all of that moldy stuff out of crawl space we’re all afraid to touch— and make money so I can buy the BMX bike from Pergler’s.” “My bowling trophies are all down there,” Baldwin said. “We need to get those out of there so I can line them up in the front room window. That’ll show Old Man Renoir who’s what around here!” “You’re not putting those trophies back in the window,” Ethyl said. “When are we going to eat? I barely had any breakfast.” Fiona-Jo said. “We can eat at the food court at the mall,” Ethyl said. “I get a ten percent mall employee discount at the Mongolian food place.” “I’m not eating Mongolian food,” Baldwin said. “Not after Pearl Harbor!” “Everybody! Everybody! We’re getting away from my idea. I want everybody to listen. This is important. We’re all going to make money.” Po’ Zeke said. “I’m sorry, dear. Go ahead and finish. We’re almost at the mall.” “A garage sale—just like the Flabberson’s had. I’ve been watching the whole drive here, and almost every other house is having one. And there’s lots of people at them. It looks like everyone is making a whole bunch of money.” At first, Po’ Zeke’s brainstorm was met with an eerie silence. Only the sputtering of the Trabant engine could cut through it.

“Christ,” Baldwin said. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

7

About three hours had ed, and Po’ Zeke still hadn’t gotten within a conjuror’s wand length of the magic shop he so liked to visit on trips to the Shantyass Mall. Between the ages of six and ten, Ethyl often brought Po’ Zeke with her to the mall on Saturdays when she was giving piano lessons as it was free babysitting. With Baldwin often preoccupied with his fun seeking chums or racing forms, and Fiona-Jo mostly absent or slumbering, Ethyl felt more confident entrusting the enclosed mall and its various security and custodial personnel to look after Po’ Zeke on those long Saturdays away from home. It was damn practical parenting in an increasingly dangerous age for contrived nuclear families short on bonding time. Po’ Zeke felt more at home at the mall between the sausage log and stretched neck glass bottle kiosks than he did at home. The furniture in the furniture stores was always so clean with a slew of options to lounge about atop across from a zillion color television sets. He never had to wait to use the public restroom with its ample urinal and stall offerings. The corn dogs were always hot, fresh, and free from pet hair. And then there was Smiley’s Trick Shop—the most authentic magic shop that side of the Mississippi and Mexico. Jam-packed from floor to ceiling with illusionist sundries over every inch of its 750 square feet, Smiley’s was the go-to shop for both amateurs and professionals forever in search of the latest slight of hand live toad gag or a pimped out Table of Death. Po’ Zeke made Smiley’s his first and last stop every mall visit when otherwise unescorted. But today he was with his father while his mother and sister were off checking each and every of the 47 women’s clothing stores in the mall looking for Ethyl’s new dress to wear to the big Friday night Erector’s Duff Club dance. Once they had split from the girls, Baldwin first sat on a hard, steel bench inside the enclosed mall just outside the caramel corn shop after being too winded from walking all the way inside from the parking lot without stopping. He told Po’ Zeke to sit beside him. Both sat staring straight ahead not saying anything. Each had pretty much exhausted his capacity to engage in conversation on the ride

over from church. Baldwin finished one pack of cigarettes he had picked up after church and opened a second that had been conveniently tucked in the breast pocket of his white, short sleeve button down shirt for such an emergency. Occasionally, Baldwin would say, “Look at that goofball,” during the hours they people-watched, but little else. Po’ Zeke let thoughts of the family garage sale occupy his mind. While neither Baldwin nor Ethyl officially told him, ‘yes,’ they didn’t say, ‘no’ either. Po’ Zeke began to arrange the whole merchandising set-up in his mind’s eye. Against the back wall he’d put the big-ticket items—maybe if they wanted to get rid of the washer or stove or something—but especially his stinky, old penny-farthing. The left side of the garage would be clothes or knick-knacks. The right side of the garage would be toys. Then, weather permitting—he’d throw all of the other miscellaneous stuff on the grass along the sides of the driveway. The center of the garage would remain wide open for foot traffic and for all of the buyers to mill about gasping to one another about the tremendous deals and savings they were realizing. And in the ultimate maneuver in sales merchandising, he’d unscrew all three of the ceiling mounted light bulbs, if necessary, to ensure dim lighting inside the garage (two were already complete duds and one had only minutes of illumination life left, but Po’ Zeke couldn’t know that with his limited knowledge of the technology). It would be the best garage sale anyone in Dearth had seen since before the pilgrims. An article in the local newspaper featuring a picture of Po’ Zeke standing amidst a completely ransacked garage clutching a shoe box full of money would be reprinted on newswire services and absorbed by newsprint readers across the globe. Luckily, it was an abbreviated school week. Po’ Zeke could start arranging things in the garage on Thursday night, price everything with sticky tags all day on Friday, and open for business early Saturday and Sunday at 6:00 AM. With his mother at work on Saturday, his father either out with one of his pals or watching television, and his sister grounded in her room for sneaking out Friday night and catching hell for it after Po’ Zeke accidentally spilled the beans when his parents got home from the club dance, that meant Po’ Zeke would be running the entire garage sale show alone. He’d be the boss—and the only one in charge of the loot.

This was the plan he’d been waiting to come forth in his head. This trip to the mall was paying dividends even without a visit to Smiley’s yet. A balled up wad of something hit Po’ Zeke in the side of the head. It was Baldwin’s first emptied and crumpled cigarette pack. “Go put that in the garbage can for me,” Baldwin said flicking his wrist opposite the direction of his gaze. Po’ Zeke picked the crumpled pack up off of the floor and stood to begin the ten foot journey to the trash can across from the bench. “And while you’re up,” Baldwin said reaching into his pocket to retrieve a fivedollar note, “go get us a small caramel corn and a diet. A diet. A diet.” On the upstairs level of the mall completely on the opposite tributary from where Baldwin and Po’ Zeke situated themselves outside the caramel corn store, FionaJo slumped in a chair with her knees crammed together and feet spread far apart watching Ethyl examine herself in a full-length, three-angle mirror at Bethlehem Express, the most exclusive women’s fashion outlet inside the mall. The gown was ankle-length and extravagant with gold lamé flourishes. Ethyl felt it made her look like a cross between Queen Vashti and Indira Gandhi. She took hard, satisfying slurps from the molded plastic brown cup of her hot beverage canister while twirling and eyeballing every angle of her body. “What do you think?” Ethyl asked. “I want to go hooooome.” “Nonsense. We haven’t even been in this store an hour. I’ve got at least thirty more places to look.” Ethyl stopped twirling and smiled. “But I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll find anything as wonderful as this. Plus, it’s fifteen percent off. And with my mall employee discount, that’s another ten percent. I can put it on our charge card, and your father doesn’t not have to know.” “Won’t he know when you’re carrying it out to the car…or when you have it on at the dance?” “You know what I mean. I’m going to have him put this on hold behind the

counter while we look around, but I’m certain this is the one.” “Can’t we go eat something? All I’ve had is cake crumbs today.” “What about breakfast? Your brother was supposed to wake you for breakfast before church. “I had breakfast. Breakfast doesn’t count. I want to get one of those gyro sandwiches.” “What on earth is a jie-row?” “It’s delicious. They have them downstairs. It’s all this meat and it’s on this folding bread with a big plop of some white sauce mixture. Jolene’s mom gets them for us sometimes when we’re hosing off her deck.” “How about two more stores, and then we’ll break for lunch?” Fiona-Jo felt herself withering away and stomped her foot while Ethyl disappeared into the dressing room. I’d run away from home if it weren’t so far to walk, she thought. On the lower level, another hour had ed before Baldwin was ready to stand up and walk. Alternating between handfuls of caramel corn, giant gulps of diet soda, and puffs of his smoke would sustain him until he and Po’ Zeke made it down to the food court where Baldwin professed they’d ‘…split some herring.’ Po’ Zeke was really looking forward to a corn dog. Baldwin preferred to eat from a rarely frequented establishment in the food court called Kasimir’s that specialized in eighteen different uses for creamed herring. Baldwin felt that if there was a recruiting station for Heaven on earth, it was Kasimir’s. Contrarily, mall management was curious how the place had stayed open for so many years as customers never once were observed standing in line there more than one human deep—and that typically was to ask directions to someplace else. “Get us a double-glop on Borodinsky—and tell them you want an extra pickle on the side,” Baldwin said, handing Po’ Zeke another five-dollar note—the last of Baldwin’s cash on hand. “I’ll get a table over there somewhere.”

Kasimir, himself, took Po’ Zeke’s order. He recognized the boy. It wasn’t the first time a man had sent his boy to do a man’s job. Kasimir was the largest mammal Po’ Zeke had ever seen on land: six-foot eight inches tall and just over 400 pounds. His thick, gray hair was long and curly like a Halloween zombie wig. There were flecks of fish scales about his eyebrows and unshaven chin. His knuckles were the size of Po’ Zeke’s forearm and covered with singed hair and pustules caused from reaching too deep into the deep fryer too many times (Kasimir had a sink; he just felt the deep fryer got his hands cleaner). Kasimir loathed Americans and their appetite for western world schlock cuisine. They didn’t know what was good. They didn’t appreciate the food that put hair on the chest. In the lean year before, Kasimir had lost his house and slept in his car to keep his herring bistro open, and he did so out of spite for the eaters of the mall. He just wanted to live long enough to see them all die. “Can I get an extra pickle? My dad said so.” Po’ Zeke said. Grimacing with rage, Kasimir bit his tongue and honored the special request jettisoning another wet pickle into the white paper bag containing the herring sandwich before handing it to the boy. Po’ Zeke paid and was expecting thirty-five cents change. Kasimir only looked down at the boy while folding his burly arms over his puffed out chest. Apparently there was a surcharge for the special pickle request. It took another ten minutes for Po’ Zeke navigating between tables and around aisle parked strollers to find Baldwin who was seated behind a wide, concrete stanchion obscured from sight at the edge of the food court. The flimsy aluminum ashtray on the table was piled high with cigarette butts. “What took so long?” Baldwin said. “I couldn’t find you.” “Open your eyes next time!” Baldwin yanked the white bag from Po’ Zeke’s hand and reached into it to retrieve one of the wet, slimy pickles. He took a decadent bite and eased back into his chair. Then Baldwin aggressively cocked his head to one side.

“Where’s the change?” Po’ Zeke sheepishly sat down across from his father. “Change?” “Yes—there should be thirty-five cents change, just like always. I was going to get some malted milk balls after lunch.” “Well, um, I don’t think Mr. K was happy when I asked for the free extra pickle, and he didn’t give me any change back.” “Are you lying to me?” “No. Honest. I gave him the bill and then he just stood there and watched me walk away.” Baldwin took a long drag off of his cigarette, bit his pickle, and took another long drag off of his cigarette. “What’s the world coming to?” Baldwin asked. “Let that be a lesson to you. Everybody is a crook. No good deed goes unpunished. It’s a woman’s world inside the mall and out.” Baldwin took out his herring sandwich, unwrapped it, and looked into the paper sack. “No knife? How does he expect me to cut it?” “That’s okay. I’m not really hungry.” “Well, you’ve got to eat something or your mother will cram my jewels into the cat bowl.” “It’s okay, really. I had some cake at church.” “Suit yourself. More for me.” Clutching his lunch in both hands, Baldwin plunged his teeth into the sandwich. Creamed herring dripped down both of Baldwin’s arms all the way to his elbow. His eyes climaxed inside his head as he lurched forward and then sank deeper

against the back of the plastic food court chair in digestive nirvana. Po’ Zeke thought this would be the best possible time in the world to bang the garage sale drum. “You know, Dad, I know how I can get you that thirty-five cents back—plus a whole lot more. And you wouldn’t even have to do anything—except maybe carry a few heavy, wet boxes up from the crawl space and move the car out of the driveway for a few hours.” “I’m listening.” Baldwin took another bite of the sandwich and creamed himself up to the elbows again. “Like I said before, everybody in town is making all kinds of loot with garage sales. And you and Mom and Fiona-Jo won’t have to do anything. I’ll do everything. I’ll set everything up and put on all the price tags. You can even sleep in, because I want to have it on Saturday and Sunday starting at six o’clock. And I’ll end it at ten o’clock on Sunday so we can still get to church on time.” Baldwin set his sandwich on his knee and lit up a fresh cigarette. He placed his elbows on the table, clutching the cigarette in his folded hands an inch from his face, while looking thoughtfully at his son. “You’re sure I won’t have to do anything?” Baldwin said. “People always say that, and then the other shoe drops. It’s just one more lesson I’ve learned.” “Just the things I already said—and nothing else. Promise. All I want is to make enough money to get that BMX bike at Pergler’s we saw. I’m going to sell all of my comic books, my ball glove, some of those pants that don’t fit but I still wear, and most of my toys I don’t use anymore.” “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your mother.” It was that easy. Po’ Zeke patted himself on the back for diving into the subject at just the right time. He sat and watched his father giddily enjoy his creamed herring, cigarette, and bonus pickle. It was the happiest either of them had been in months.

Never once did they make it to Smiley’s. After the indulgent herring lunch, Baldwin led Po’ Zeke back to the bench outside of the caramel corn shop where the elder preceded to put his feet up and fall asleep—but not before telling his son to go find his mother and sister and tell them to get the lead out. Po’ Zeke made four full revolutions of the mall, both upper and lower levels, sticking his head into every one of Ethyl’s known haute couture haunts. It took a little over an hour and then he decided to report back to Baldwin with a status update. When Po’ Zeke got to the bench, his father was gone. The only proof that he had been there were the fifteen extinguished, or partially extinguished, cigarette butts on the floor beneath the bench. A dash through the food court showed no sign of the family anywhere. Po’ Zeke was by this time conditioned not to be the panicky type, so he didn’t. He felt his best course of action, though, would be to just keep moving. Eventually he’d have to bump into somebody from the family, right? In and out of every store Po’ Zeke went—except Smiley’s. He checked the card and candle store, the furniture stores, each of the four heavyweight department anchor stores, and every single woman’s clothing store. Nothing. Ten minutes before the official Shantyass Mall closing time at 9:00 PM, an exhausted and hungry Po’ Zeke finally heard his name called out by a familiar voice from above while he was schlepping past Big Girl Panty Palace for the fortieth time. “Sweetie! Po’ Zeke! Up here! It’s Mommy. Tell your father we’re almost finished. Just another thirty minutes.” Po’ Zeke cricked his head upwards and saw his mother standing there drinking from her hot beverage cup and Fiona-Jo leaning next to her with her face buried in a gyro, her third. “But,” Po’ Zeke said loudly, “didn’t you hear the announcements? They said the mall is closing in ten minutes.” “Oh, that’s just something they say. , I work here—I know all the tricks.” Sounds logical, Po’ Zeke thought.

“Oh, but I don’t know where dad is, either.” Po’ Zeke said. “We got split up maybe five hours ago.” “Don’t worry. We’re right up here. Why don’t you go out to the car and wait?” “Okay.” Po’ Zeke was just about to make his move when he ed he still needed to get verbal clearance from Ethyl for the garage sale. There’d be no better time than when she was still in the euphoric throes of bargain hunting. “Mom! Mom? Wait!” Zeke shouted. “What pumpkin?” “Can I have a garage sale next weekend so I can get some money to buy that new bike? I’ll do all the work. Dad said it was okay and everything.” “That sounds exciting, dear.” Ethyl said before quickly disappearing out of Po’ Zeke’s site from below. Truth be known, all she heard in the midst of the ambient mall departing crowd noise was the word “sale.” A gooey, finger-mangled, gyro sandwich wrapper landed at Po’ Zeke’s feet from above; a warning of some sort, perhaps. Forty-five minutes later, after Reggie Tutu, the senior mall security guard escorted Ethyl, Fiona-Jo, and Po’ Zeke out of the mall ten minutes after the “real” property closing time, they sat on the sole wood bench in a light drizzle after being unable to locate Baldwin—or the car—in the spot where they had parked it so many hours ago. For mid-spring, the weather had turned nasty. The temperature was 45°F due to an intruding cold front from the north bringing just the right amount of annoyance moisture with it. “I’m hungry, I’m cold, and my church dress is all wet.” Fiona-Jo said. “This would never happen to one of my friends—never!” “Where’s Dad, Mom? Where?” Po’ Zeke asked.

“I’m sure he’ll be right back. He probably went to go warm up the car for us. You know it takes a couple of miles before the heater kicks in.” Ethyl said. She turned her hot beverage container upside down over her cup and frowned. It was bone dry. For no reason, Fiona-Jo lifted her right foot and stomped down hard on the top of Po’ Zeke’s left foot. “Yeow!” Po’ Zeke wailed. “Fiona-Jo!” Ethyl said. “Why on earth—” “I’m trying to keep warm! I’m dying. I’m hungry. I want to move out. I hate school. It’s horrible here—horrible!” Ethyl had heard it all before and was too bored going through all of her stock responses to break up the feud. Instead, she stood up and held the full-length plastic garment bag covering her new dress up to her chin and flared her right leg forward. “Look at this dress I got for your father’s function. Twenty-five percent off altogether—and it was already marked down fifteen dollars before that. Can you believe it?” “Yes.” Fiona-Jo said. “I was there when you bought it.” Ethyl struck a few different poses but lost her illumination when all of the lights inside and outside the mall dimmed to an after-hours maximum capacity of twenty percent output. Only a few cars remained in the gigantic parking lot under the dark sky poised to release an even greater fury in the next few minutes. It was when the Dearth tornado warning siren was heard wailing—a full fifteen miles away—some twenty minutes later that Baldwin came sputtering up to the curb where the family was huddled all holding the plastic garment bag aloft for shelter. They ran quickly into the sputtering, gasping Trabant that didn’t offer as much protection from the elements as the garment bag seemed to. Baldwin sat white knuckled looking pale and distant while puffing on a nub of a cigarette butt not more than one centimeter long. Ethyl was the last one in the car

after pausing to shake the raindrops from her garment bag before folding it neatly in half on her lap for the trip home. Nobody said anything for the first few miles. Each had a gripe but didn’t want to be the first to uncork. “I bought a dress for your dance—” Ethyl said before Baldwin snapped and cut her off. “You wouldn’t have believed it if you saw it. There I was, waiting for you all to finish, and Futzman walks by and sees me on the bench. He’s got a tip on this sure thing, right, and they’re running the matinee races in the late afternoon. So we get there, Futzman gives me a twenty seeing as how I spent all my cash already, and we make our bets. The horse, Tijuana City Kitty, goes off at eight to one. There’s no way she loses in this field. But as soon as the gate opens, it starts to drizzle. Within a half of a minute, they’re running in the slop. Tijuana City Kitty goes from first to ninth in the matter of ten seconds. I tear up my ticket, Futzman doesn’t. They come around the final turn, and suddenly she’s digging into the muck. She trots her way out of her funk, blasts through the pack like a sneezed booger, and wins the race by a head and a half. Futzman cleans up. He bet fifty dollars on her. My ticket was all torn up and blew away. Long story short, Futzman gives me eighty more dollars over the next four races, and they all pretty much end up the same way. I won, but since I trashed the tickets before the races were over, I lost. You telling me the fix wasn’t in?”

8

It was Monday, which was technically Ethyl’s Saturday. After she got the kids off to school, her time would be her own until the students started showing up at the house at 3:00 PM on Tuesday for piano lessons. She was always the first one up on school days at 5:30 AM. After four or five cups of her semisolid homebrew, then she’d wake Po’ Zeke about thirty-five minutes later and get him going. It would take the both of them to roust Fiona-Jo out of bed just before 7:00 AM. Still reeling from the tough evening at the track the day before, Baldwin groused in bed, smoking, with his fingers laced behind his head looking up to the ceiling and replaying each race in his head over and over hoping he maybe somehow could find a loophole in the track’s stringent policy of refusing to cash torn up and blown away pari-mutuel tickets. He didn’t sleep well—for going on what was the thirteen hundredth day. Po’ Zeke slid his size twelve legs into his size eight dungarees in what he hoped would be the last time until he unloaded the well worn tros at the weekend garage sale. His Wild & Crazy Guy t-shirt was relatively clean, so he paired it with his jeans and ed Ethyl down in the kitchen for breakfast. “Excited?” Ethyl asked. “Why?” “Your last week of school! Can you believe you’ll be moving to the sixth grade next year? I can still when your father took me to the driving range right in the middle of my initial labor pains—and then I had you right there not ninety minutes later on the putt-putt course reclined in that King Kong’s palm on the eleventh hole.” “I guess it’s a big deal. I’m really more excited about this weekend.” “Why?”

“My garage sale, ?” “Oh, honey, I thought you were just pulling my leg. We don’t have time for that.” “You said ‘yes!’ And so did Dad! You both promised yesterday at the mall.” Ethyl placed two pieces of plain buttered toast and half of a jackfruit, sliced the long way, down in front of Po’ Zeke whose face was turning purple. She needed to talk him out of this garage sale folly, but she needed to do it the right way. “You know who likes to come to garage sales? Stranger Danger, that’s who. And he’s looking for a boy just about your size.” “That’s not fair! You already said I could. I’ve been making plans already. I’ve got it all figured out. And you and Dad and Fiona-Jo don’t have to do anything. You’ll be at work on Saturday, anyway. And on Sunday, I promise to have everything all cleaned up in time for church. I’ll even have extra money for the collection plate. : ‘Bring ye all tithes into the storehouse, um, and there be meat in thine house’.” Ethyl had never seen such fight in her boy before. He was ionate bordering on fury about this thing. He was actually making eye while speaking to her and not looking down at his shoes or at his wee-wee. Who knows? Maybe it was the spark that could turn him into an entrepreneur one day. Maybe it was the thing that would give him a boost in confidence when it would be sorely needed going into junior high school. Ethyl tussled Po’ Zeke’s knotted, greasy, premature grey hair. “You know what? Your father is right. It probably will be a good thing for you to do to kick off the summer. While you’re at school today, I’ll even go through my closet and find some things for you to sell.” “Thanks! That is great!” Ominous, heavy, foreboding footsteps came stomping down the steps from upstairs. Fiona-Jo had risen—and without any outside aid. With her eyes crusted over and her hair tangled in front and jutting out in six

directional clumps in back, she yanked open the refrigerator door. “I’m sick of this,” she said. “I’m glad school is done this week. I can’t take this. I hate this.” Fiona-Jo slammed the refrigerator door shut and plucked away a piece of Po’ Zeke’s toast. “I’m taking a shower and going to Jolene’s for breakfast. Her mom is making Hershey bar omelets and then driving us to school.” Fiona-Jo lumbered away, as slowly as she entered, and slammed the door to the upstairs bathroom as she entered to take her shower. Ethyl wrapped herself in a crocheted blanket and took her 32 oz. coffee mug to go sit up against the heating grate in the dining room and read the Bible, the daily horoscopes, and the June issue of the Music Teacher Quarterly pamphlet. Po’ Zeke was nervous about seeing Pinchy at school. They hadn’t spoken since Saturday which seemed like an eternity in Po’ Zeke’s book. Usually, either he would call Pinchy or Pinchy would call him every night so they could tell one another about what they saw on television that evening just before going to bed. Saturday night was the first night neither of them made the move to call one another. Po’ Zeke knew he had a legitimate reason for the slight, but couldn’t fathom where Pinchy got off not making an effort. Pinchy likely had a guilty conscience, Po’ Zeke reasoned. Po’ Zeke didn’t know how he was going to see Pinchy and not bring up the fact that his best friend went behind his back and made off with Po’ Zeke’s second choice for a new bicycle right after he told Pinchy he wanted to buy it at Flabberson’s garage sale. But wait a minute—Po’ Zeke already arrived at his plan for getting his first choice for a new bicycle from Pergler’s Hardware: his very own garage sale! He wouldn’t have to be bratty towards Pinchy at all. He could play it cool like it didn’t bother him at all that Pinchy went and did that. By this time next week, Po’ Zeke would have his super hot BMX bike assembled and ready for tooling the streets all summer long. And he wouldn’t even tell Pinchy the plan. Suddenly, he’d just be riding back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Pinchy’s house next Monday morning until Pinchy came outside. Then he’d see it. Then

he would know who had the neatest bike ever all of a sudden. “I wasn’t gonna tell you,” Po’ Zeke said two inches from Pinchy’s ear on the school playground an hour later, “but I’m going to be getting that brand new BMX from Pergler’s. Wanna know how?” “Why come?” “I’m not gonna say.” Po’ Zeke said, and paused for a breath. “Okay, I’ll say. I’m having a garage sale on Saturday and Sunday. And then my dad is going to take me to Pergler’s Sunday afternoon after church, and I’m going to bring it home— brand—new—BMX. Fire yellow—like a rocket exhaust. And I’m going to have it all summer and probably even take it to college. Or maybe I’ll have another garage sale next year so I can buy another one—red—and then I’ll have two!” “I already got a bike. I got that one from Flabberson’s garage sale. You know the one you and I were looking at?” Po’ Zeke shook his head feigning ignorance. Inside, his teeth were gritting so hard that his jaw was beginning to fracture. “Yeah,” Pinchy said, “it’s pretty good. Brian took really good care of it. And my dad put helium in the tires so I can go faster. But I’m still only going to use it some of the time on of how many other bikes I already got. Let me know when you get that new bike home so we can ride around the block. It’ll be neat if you can finally keep up.”

~~~

While Ethyl burrowed through her closet looking for some items to give to Po’ Zeke for his garage sale, she instructed Baldwin to go down to the crawl space and do the same. “Our little man is showing some initiative, and we’ve got to help him.” Ethyl said.

Baldwin groaned while staggering from the master bedroom scratching at something microscopically menacing him high up on the back of his right thigh. “He’ll never pull it off,” Baldwin said. “You and I are going to end up doing everything. And not even you—just I—you’ll be off at work.” “All we have to do is find some things for him to sell. I want him to run the entire affair on his own. It will be good for him. Just think of what can happen if he becomes ionate about something that generates money. It will change his life!” “I suppose.” Grumbling “pipedreams” and “whatever” repeatedly under his breath, Baldwin made his way to the basement where the water level was about a quarter-inch deeper than usual due to the overnight rainfall. He took advantage of the deeper water by jutting his fully smoked cigarette down to the floor instead of having to squash it out the hard way with his fingertips on the tableside ashtray or the side of his chair. He clicked on the television, tuned it to the local UHF having some kind of all day Carmen Miranda film festival, and lit up a fresh cigarette. The crawl space located to the left and just behind Baldwin’s television watching chair, was rarely opened. When they had first moved into the house three years earlier, Baldwin filled the dark, gravel based floor with all sorts of cardboard boxes packed with campaign memorabilia (from his old, failed mayoral campaigns), family photo albums, toys from his childhood, and miscellaneous canned goods that could be easily accessed in case of a nuclear war. Then, year after year, those boxes would get pushed back just after Christmas when more and more boxes filled with additional things Baldwin found collectible (severed golf club shafts, television guides, select perishable items) needed a place for storage. Once the crawl space had gotten too full for anything else to be added, everyone stopped opening the door to the area—though occasionally Po’ Zeke would enter the crawl space when home alone during thunderstorms as it was the closest thing he had to a panic room or safe space. He had to significantly contort his body to fully close the door behind him, but he had no other place for physical and psychological refuge. His bedroom was just too high up off of the ground,

Po’ Zeke felt, and too close to the meteorological chaos. Clad in nothing but a white, V-neck undershirt and tight white underpants to shield him, Baldwin yanked the crawl space door open. A waft of mildew and decomposing organics suffocated the tip of his cigarette and it went out. He tossed the butt over his shoulder, dropped to his hands and knees, and attempted to peer into the impenetrable darkness of this ten-foot by fifteen-foot space with the ceiling of the storage zone some three feet off of the ground. A flashlight would really help, but the family flashlight was all the way upstairs on the third level—way too far out of reach. His lighter, tucked securely into the elastic band of his underpants, was too precious to risk dropping into the water all over the floor. Squinting, Baldwin could only inch in about a half-crawl of his front palms before clocking his forehead against an unseen, mushy box. The tender jolt caused a family of salamanders to come slithering out from under the box, skid through Baldwin’s legs, and hydroplane themselves into the laundry room on the other side of the basement. Baldwin felt he had earned a smoke break, plopped down into his chair, and torched one up with his wet hands as the moisture from his knees dripped down his calves towards his partially submerged feet planted on the basement floor. So drenched was Baldwin from the crotch down, he felt it unnecessary to take another bath that coming Saturday. “How’s it going down there?” Ethyl called out from upstairs. Lost in a discount hip replacement commercial on the television, Baldwin didn’t immediately respond. This caused Ethyl to descend to the front door foyer level to repeat her inquiry louder. “I said, how is it going down there?” “I’m down here.” “I know. Have you found anything for the garage sale?” “What do you want from me?” “I want you to find some items in the crawl space for Po’ Zeke’s garage sale. For

Lord’s sake, you should clean out that entire crawl space. There’s nothing of value in there. We could use the extra space for my music books or winter clothes.” “My whole life is in that crawl space! All my campaign literature, my pictures with the boys on our golf trip to Hammond, Indiana, the last batch of red cabbage my mother ever made for us—it’s all in there.” “Fine. Just find something to sell.” Ethyl made her way back upstairs to the master closet. She had piled numerous dresses, blouses, slacks, heavy coats, and old handbags atop the bed, but these were just the items that didn’t make the first cut. After she thoroughly vetted the closet, she’d begin vetting each item more closely. As it was, there was not an inch available inside the master bedroom closet to accommodate one more item of any kind on the clothes rod, the shelf, or the floor. Even the new dress Ethyl brought home from Bethlehem Express was hanging up in the furnace closet inside the garage, as it was the only other space available that could accommodate such a long, billowing garment bag. Since high school, Ethyl had not given one item of clothing, one pair of shoes, or one purse away—ever. Everything thing she wore was a part of her. She could no sooner donate a scarf to a charity bag than she could her pancreas. Ethyl had put too much effort and time into choosing every clothing item she owned to just simply discard it at a later date because it was somehow deemed “out of fashion” or “in disrepair” by fickle society. She’d always find a wear for something and damn thee who questioned her fashion stockpile. A good hour had ed. There were sixty items tossed onto the bed. Ethyl sat herself down with her coffee mug in hand and assessed the worthiness of each piled item with a keen eye. The review of said items commenced between her ears. This is the first pair of gloves I ever bought on charge card; they stay. There’s historical significance there. This blouse lost the same button twice. It still fits, and I can find another button; keep. My only real fur coat. Baldwin gave me this that night he told me he was thinking about becoming a veterinarian. I’m hanging onto it; I don’t think he’ll ever get his hands on anything as valuable again. Hmmm, my Jacques Mesrine red harem pants. They’ve brought me good

luck at every recital. How did I ever put them out here for possible garage sale garb to begin with? While Ethyl went through her pile, item by item, Baldwin sat in his television chair with a soggy bottomed box on his lap and cigarette clenched in his teeth while he searched through the box. Had he looked into the box instead of at the television the whole time, he’d have notice a glob of 80,000 silverfish eggs in the corner of the box just above his lap about an hour away from collectively bursting forth into the world. Baldwin felt he had an impeccable sense of touch. If the item he felt inside the box didn’t feel like something he wanted to part with, he wouldn’t pull it out of the box. When the first box didn’t yield anything sales-worthy, Baldwin retrieved a second, even soggier box and repeated his authentication process. It wasn’t until the fifth box, which was now in structure more fungus than cardboard, that Baldwin’s fingers found something he didn’t recognize by feel. It was furry, sort of, with spikey flourishes and some type of orifice at each opposing end. Luckily, a commercial had come on the television, so Baldwin was also able to turn his eyes down towards the box as his hands emerged with the item from the dark, musty depths. For several seconds, Baldwin was unable to identify the item in his grasp. It wasn’t exactly a quadruped, but it was very similar. The odor from it was unholy, indeed. Baldwin couldn’t figure out if that it was always that way or if it was due to something else from inside the box rubbing up against it. Baldwin placed the thing on his chair side table and looked into the box to see if any clues might emerge to help him identify it. The rest of the items in the box were from Baldwin’s bachelor period before meeting Ethyl. There were old, wet matchbooks, moist fedoras, and soggy joke books of bawdy material from the turn of the century. Everything else was easily identifiable, and none of the other collectibles had the strange odor. It was a question to be answered later, Baldwin decided, as it was now lunchtime. He was mentally and physically exhausted already and still hadn’t found anything he wanted to put up for garage sale. He hastily returned the boxes he’d already searched through to the crawl space in a manner that would now not permit the door to the room to properly close. He plucked his mystery

item off of the table and took it with him into the basement toilet for closer inspection. Ethyl hadn’t fared much better in of coming up with anything she wanted to part with. There was one handbag made from brown canvas that she couldn’t buying and couldn’t envision wearing with any outfit she currently owned or would ever purchase. That would go. The only other thing she didn’t want any longer was a pair of pajamas Baldwin had given her their first Christmas together. The pajamas were green acrylic and had pictures of famous jockeys throughout history. Ethyl wore them only that first Christmas and developed a horrible rash on her back, down to her tailbone, and along the inseam in addition to under each armpit. She was skeptical that Baldwin had actually laid out money for the pajamas as they had the distinct caliber of an Erector’s Duff Club Christmas party door prize gift. She couldn’t reconcile why she even had held on to them as long as she did.

~~~

On the playground at lunchtime, the kids were all sugared up and getting stoked for the final day of school on Thursday. They ran in circles without purpose, first girls chasing boys and then boys chasing girls, all ultimately deciding the chase was pointless from either perspective. Some of the more deviant-brained, achievement bereft students, thought it would make for a memorable day if they removed their shoes and threw them up onto the roof of the thirty-foot high grade school building. So the onslaught of launched tennis shoes, fueled through peer pressure and myopic intellect, began. After fifteen minutes, all but a handful of students stood in stocking feet looking up at the school rooftop, pointing, and laughing. When the rain started, the laughing stopped. The students started yelling at the playground monitors to toss down their cigarettes, get up to the roof, and retrieve everybody’s shoes. The teachers collectively ghosted their final puffs and turned deaf ears towards the students then disappeared into the building out of the weather.

There was a lesson in there somewhere, and Po’ Zeke tried to assess what it was as he watched from beneath the shelter of the awning over the outside lunch tables. He was glad he was one of the wiser ones and kept his shoes on. The temporary celebrity of being barefoot and cackling wore off real quick. But, boy howdy, if he could just get up to that roof and scoop up one armful of those shoes, the shoe inventory options at his weekend garage sale would be legendary. That’s when another light bulb went off. He could never get up to the roof, not without a helicopter or catapult. But there were shoes to be had. There were all types of items to be had—at the school Lost & Found that the school was always desperate to clean out before the summer break. And there was another Lost & Found at the church. And probably another Lost & Found trough existed at Dad’s Erector’s Duff Club clubhouse. Po’ Zeke would try to figure out a way to get to all three places before Friday. He might even need to turn things into a yard sale with all of the movable merchandise stocking up inside his head. Long about 3:17 PM, after the school bus dropped Po’ Zeke and Pinchy off at the corner stop three blocks up the avenue, they strolled together real friendly like as always. The morning rains had given way to partly cloudy skies with seasonable temperatures. Not much speaking was going on, which was fine. The Czerwinski girls, Bunny and Bonnie, who also departed the bus, were right on the boys’ heels. Po’ Zeke was sweet on Bunny, and Pinchy was sweet on Bonnie, but the boys could never fess up to such lest they be mercilessly mocked by their crew. The boys remained tight-lipped until the girls skipped past them giggling after the first block—always with the giggling. “Think they saw us?” Po’ Zeke asked. “What, the girls? Yeah. They were right behind us. Dad says when they giggle, that means they like you, too.” “Do you still like Bonnie?” “Uh-huh. What about you—Bunny?” “Sure. I’ve just got bigger fish on my mind right now.” Po’ Zeke said nothing else and waited for deeper probing from Pinchy so Po’

Zeke could talk about his garage sale strategies some more. They walked the second block. Po’ Zeke’s steps became more intense when slapping against the concrete to attract attention. “Yep,” Po’ Zeke said, “some real big fish.” Pinchy didn’t bite. Nothing more was said until they arrived at the footpath to Pinchy’s front porch at the edge of the sidewalk. “So, you want to go ride bikes now?” Pinchy asked. “Well, I still haven’t got my new flaming yellow BMX bike from Pergler’s. I’m getting that Sunday afternoon, ?” Pinchy nodded, but he was already tired of hearing about it. “Want to finish where we left off with the army men from the last time we played a few weeks ago then?” Pinchy said. “I kind of have a lot of work to do at home. Mom and Dad got a head start on securing away a bunch of merchandise for me. I’m going to start sorting and tagging—maybe even sweep the garage. I probably won’t have time for anything until next Monday. But I don’t plan to come down off my new, molten lava yellow BMX bike all summer, anyway. We might just have to wait on the army men until school starts in September when the rain makes it too crummy for bike riding.” “Alright. Talk to you tonight.” “Maybe. If I can’t stretch the phone cord all the way into the garage, I might have to . There’s a whole bunch of work I have to do. It’s hard work. Dirty work. You put in what you get out, that’s what Dad always says somebody else says.” Po’ Zeke was kind of hinting that he wanted Pinchy’s help and kind of hinting he didn’t want Pinchy anywhere near the garage in the coming days. If Pinchy helped to any degree, he might expect a cut of the loot. Po’ Zeke already had to split his take with the family since he promised. He couldn’t risk Pinchy getting

any cash in hand as Pinchy might dash right off to Pergler’s Hardware before Po’ Zeke could get there and buy the yellow BMX bike right out from under Po’ Zeke’s caboose. Po’ Zeke prepared himself for what he expected to be a huge table’s worth of resellable treasures piled up on the kitchen counter left there by his parents. His heart pounded. He dashed the remaining half-block home from Pinchy’s house, let himself inside with his latchkey on the dirty, frazzled shoelace tied around his neck, and sprinted upstairs to the kitchen. There, sitting atop the already read Sunday and Monday daily newspapers were Ethyl’s old brown canvas purse, the green acrylic jockey pajamas, and the furry mystery item with the double orifice access Baldwin found in soggy box number five. There were two handwritten notes near the items. The first one was written in elegant, flowing cursive from Ethyl: Lambchop: Here are some items your father and I found for your little rummage sale. We hope they help! I went to my psychic and then the music store. I left some chicken Kiev and Hubbard squash in the oven. Half is for your sister. The second note, drawn in heavy-handed capital letters, was from Baldwin: Attention Boy: here is something for that sale you said you will be having by yourself this weekend. I couldn’t figure out what it is, but I showed it to Futzman and he thinks it’s some sort of antique Teddy Bear. I hate to part with it, but here it is. Futzman and me are at an adult meeting. Tell your mother since I couldn’t find her before I left. P.S. Don’t touch the television; I’m having trouble keeping the tuner knob set just right for channel five and I’ve got it right where I want it.

9

Po’ Zeke snacked on soft potato chips he’d found on the floor in an opened bag at the back of the pantry and stood staring at the kitchen counter. Underwhelmed by the offerings left for him by his parents, Po’ Zeke secured the items off of the kitchen counter and took them up to his bedroom nonetheless. He stacked the three products in the corner of his room nestled between his clothes dresser on the right and his horizontally stacked collection of wacky sound effects and KTel music albums on the left. Hamilton jumped down from Po’ Zeke’s bed and immediately began sniffing around Baldwin’s mystery object atop the two others in the corner. If it was possible for a cat to appear with an even more objectionable expression than usual, Hamilton did so Po’ Zeke’s direction and then shot out of the room like a clawed, furry bullet. Po’ Zeke dropped to his belly on the floor. He reached beneath his bed in search of more sellable merchandise. His first fistful garnered two comic books, both well read and neither a favorite. They were just placeholder, lesser-hero comic books to devour in between Incredible Hulk issues. Next, Po’ Zeke grasped an old microscope he received from Santa Claus when he was seven years old but never actually used for its intended purpose. It was great replicating a man’s torture laser when playing army men or with his action figures. Otherwise, Po’ Zeke couldn’t using it for anything else. Many of the smaller parts that had come with it were long disappeared. It, too, would go—and at a fetching price after Po’ Zeke slapped a ‘barely used’ label on it. There were all kinds of junk to sift through. Every reach yielded something in better than average condition that could be made almost pristine with a little ear wax buffing. There were unused belt buckles, 45 RPM records Po’ Zeke borrowed from Fiona-Jo but never returned, still half-full cans of goldfish food, a set of old bike handlebars Po’ Zeke was hoping to one day build into an entire bike one piece at a time, and more than a dozen new socks in different colors all without pairs.

The inventory was piling up. Po’ Zeke needed a box. He began piling the items with the others in the corner of his room. When Po’ Zeke heard the crack of thunder just above and outside his bedroom window, he had additional motivation to go down to the basement crawl space and see if he could find an empty box. Lightning flashed and a much louder second crack of thunder had Po’ Zeke racing down to his safe space three steps at a time. Just before taking the final leap to the basement floor, Po’ Zeke removed his white, red-striped tube sox and rolled up the pant legs of his dungarees. His toes plunged into the cold, silt filled water covering the basement floor. The flashlight, he thought, I need to go back upstairs and get the family flashlight. There was only one, always with weak batteries, but it would help. Another deafening crack of thunder immediately put the kibosh on Po’ Zeke’s plan for handheld lighting to aid his search. He’d have to root around in the wet darkness like his father before him. From the sound of the storm, Po’ Zeke didn’t care how long he had to be inside that crawl space. The only thing that terrified him more than a harsh thunderstorm was that Stranger Danger his mother was always throwing down at his feet willy-nilly. The deluge of rain outside pushed its way through the crack in the foundation of the Pullman house. Within ten minutes, the once ankle-deep water was now halfway up Po’ Zeke’s shins. Po’ Zeke didn’t panic about the deepening water, as it had happened before, many times. His main concern was not getting struck by lightning or sucked into an angry twister (“meat eaters,” Pinchy called them). As it regularly did a minimum of thrice per week at that time of year, the Dearth tornado warning siren blared again throughout the region. It always reminded Po’ Zeke of the times Baldwin would yell at him to dash down to the basement and turn the television louder during the siren’s intrusive outbursts. Baldwin had left many angry messages on the town hall’s answering machine urging them to “…disconnect the damn thing or he’d move his family back to Rat City”— especially if the siren went off during the prime time telecasts. No one from the town ever called back to say they had received the message, apparently. As the siren blared away, the fattened salamanders swam back into the crawl space from the laundry room with equally terrified looks in their eyes, and the

front door of the house blasted open. Po’ Zeke jumped. He was sure the King of Meat Eaters was coming for him now—just when he was so close to getting that new BMX bike. “Who’s home? Anybody?” said Fiona-Jo. “I’m in the basement. I need to find some stuff.” “You’re the only one home?” “Mom is doing her Monday night things, and Dad went somewhere with Mr. Futzman.” “So there’s no supper?” Thunder clapped punctuating Fiona-Jo’s angry question. Po’ Zeke paused for a good five seconds to let it echo away before he responded. “You should close the front door and come down here. Can’t you hear the tornado siren?” “If nobody else is home, I’m going down to Jolene’s. Her mother will make us something. I think they’re barbecuing.” The house suddenly went completely dark, clearly the victim of a regional power outage. “There’s chicken Kiev and Humdinger squash, or something, in the oven, Mom said.” “Good luck heating it up with no electricity!” After a pregnant pause, Fiona-Jo decided to double down on her brother’s terror. “Oh, somebody said Stranger Danger is in the neighborhood looking to keep dry. They haven’t caught him yet. Later, Poopstain.” The door slammed. Thunder cracked three times in loud succession. Very little light was coming into the house from outside due to the storm cloud cover and layers of soot on the windows. Po’ Zeke couldn’t see anything in the crawl space

to assess it accurately for resale. He lacked his father’s ability to feel something blindly and identify it, so he couldn’t go that route. In fact, he didn’t even know about that route. Smaller pieces of furniture and buoyant articles throughout the basement now floated about on the knee-high water filling the room. Po’ Zeke could tell this storm wouldn’t be moving out of the area any time soon. He contorted himself atop the mushy boxes inside the crawl space and pulled the door closed behind him where he would be safe until somebody else came home. The storm raged for a good long time as if the town were being punished for a century of misdeeds all in one night. Long about midnight, the sound of the television blaring police sirens and gunfire just outside the crawl space door awoke Po’ Zeke. The storm was gone. The power was on. Po’ Zeke’s pants were sopping wet up to the thighs. His neck and hips were sore and stiff from his warped sleeping posture. He sloshed out of the crawl space in the basement water now back to a more navigable level of being only ankle deep. “Oh good,” Baldwin said spitting a half-chewed ice cube into a tumbler and hoisting the glass up over his head. “You’re here. Go upstairs and get me a diet. A diet. A diet.” “I fell asleep?” Po’ Zeke said, still uncertain if he was dreaming. “Did you get that thing I left you for the rummage sale?” “Yes. Um, thanks. Do you know what it is?” “Didn’t I put on the note that Futzman thought it was an old teddy bear? It’s a collectible on of how old it is, too. You’d better not take less than twenty-five dollars for it.” Before Po’ Zeke could respond, a reverberating pounding on the piano echoed down from upstairs. It was Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Concerto; Mom always played it when Dad tried to watch something on TV and she was extra miffed at him for one reason or another. Only she ever knew why. “Oh, and turn the volume up on the TV before you get the diet.”

Po’ Zeke complied. A commercial for some feminine product came on which quickly caused Baldwin to lose interest in television altogether. He angrily extinguished a half-smoked cigarette into a tableside walnut and lit another. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Baldwin asked. “It’s still a school night, isn’t it?” “I was looking for stuff in the crawl space for our garage sale.” “We already left you stuff—am I talking to myself here? Everything else in the crawl space I need. I don’t know if I’m getting back into politics or not. And all that other stuff I need for the same reason, but different. Collectibles. Mementos. History.” “I guess I was hoping for more. With the stuff from you and Mom, and the stuff I found in my room, I barely got enough to fill one card table.” “That’s plenty.” “Maybe. I just don’t know if it’ll make enough money so I can buy the bike at Pergler’s.” “Here’s what I learned through many hardships: price everything high, and never negotiate. That’s how you get your nut.” Po’ Zeke nodded slowly like he got it. He didn’t. What nut? “I’ll go to bed right after I get your drink. I fell asleep in the crawl space because of that big storm. Did you hear the storm?” “Hear it? In the seventh race, fifty yards from the finish line, my ‘sure thing’ got hit by lightning right in the ear. What do you think? Futzman said he’d never seen anything like it his whole life. That was the one that was going to make or break it for me this month, too. I was really counting on her.” The piano resonated louder as Po’ Zeke ascended the steps towards the kitchen, and then went silent when Ethyl saw her son at the top of the staircase. “What are you doing up?” she asked. “We thought you were in bed.”

“Dad wants a diet. I guess he’s had a rough night.” Ethyl rolled her eyes and dumped some warm java into her throat. “Is Fiona-Jo home?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Why wouldn’t she be home? You both still have school for three more days.” “Oh, I just meant, well, she went out in the storm. And I fell asleep down in the crawl space looking for stuff to sell for the garage sale.” “You ate the chicken Kiev and squash I left in the stove, didn’t you?” Po’ Zeke didn’t want to appear ungrateful but could only think to shake his head in response. “Well, you’ll have it for breakfast then.” A loud crash of Fiona-Jo’s bedroom door being yanked open sending the doorknob cratering into the battered drywall of the common wall that separated her bedroom from Po’ Zeke’s interrupted the conversation between mother and son. Fiona-Jo stomped down the steps from the upper level. Her eyes angered slits, her hair askew in ten thousand follicle-demented directions. “What is all the noise down here?” Fiona-Jo said. “I have school in the morning. I am not made of stone. Why is everyone so inconsiderate? Why does he get to stay up so late? This kind of thing never happens to my friends who are only children—never!” “I have to practice.” Ethyl said. “Mr. O’Brien has me in a recital four weeks from this Saturday.” “Where’s my diet?” Baldwin shouted from the basement, sending Po’ Zeke into swift retrieval action. “I didn’t even hear a piano,” Fiona-Jo said. “It was just all the whining and crying from Butthole Boy.”

“Your brother is working overtime trying to find some items for his garage sale this weekend. Why don’t you help him instead of being an instigator?” “Commercial is over! Commercial is over!” Baldwin shouted from downstairs. “Because,” Fiona-Jo said, “he already has a bike. He doesn’t need another bike. Don’t you think I’d like a new bike or a blow dryer or some new clogs? You don’t see me keeping everybody awake.” Po’ Zeke scampered past Fiona-Jo down the steps towards the basement with a topped off tumbler of diet soda in his hand. “Your father and I think this will be good for your brother’s entrepreneurial stick-to-itiveness going forward. It’s about more than just a bike. He’s learning the value of hard work.” “You sound just like my psycho teachers. I’m going back to bed. But if I have to come out here one more time, I won’t be responsible for my fist’s actions.” Fiona-Jo returned to her bedroom, slamming the door. Po’ Zeke reappeared at the top of the stairs. “Dad wants to know how much longer you’re planning to practice.” “As long as it takes,” Ethyl said. “And you should get to bed.” “As long as it takes!” Po’ Zeke shouted down towards the basement. “And make sure you take off those clothes before getting into bed. Your pants will get the bed all wet.” “I will. Is it okay if I close my door?” “You’d better not. The cat might have to go down and use the litter box at some point. what happened last Christmas Eve.” Ethyl resumed practice, sending tremors throughout the house. Around 2:00 AM, Baldwin shuffled up the stairs towards the bedroom. He was in his underpants and undershirt and wet up to the ankles with his back towards

Ethyl. Ethyl paused from playing holding her curled fingers slightly aloft of the piano keyboard but in precise position to come thundering down on the proper keys when ready. “What did you do with your clothes?” she asked. “I put them in the downstairs hamper,” Baldwin said without turning around. “I’ll wear my other outfit tomorrow.” “I told you not to use the hamper! It’s full of earwigs!” “I’ll move them tomorrow,” Baldwin said groggily before disappearing into the master bedroom. “Tomorrow night.”

~~~

Tuesday morning started like most others. “I’m not eating that,” Fiona-Jo said holding up the fork-pierced chicken Kiev in Ethyl’s face. “It’s been in the stove for a week.” “It has not. I just made it yesterday. Your brother gulped his down this morning. Try dunking it in some warm water to soften it up.” “I’m going to Jolene’s for breakfast. Her mother is taking us for morning buffet at that new Costa Rican place and then driving us to school. You need to write me a note in case we miss first period.” “You eat your chicken Kiev and take the bus. The new Costa Rican place can wait until summer vacation.” “No. I’m a freshman in high school now—come Thursday. I can do what I want.” “I’m not going to say it again.”

“Good. You’re like a broken record on a squeaky chalkboard anyway.” Fiona-Jo folded her arms and waited for Ethyl’s surrender. Ethyl placed one hand on her hip and slowly sipped from her coffee mug with her left eyebrow, the weaker one, stoically arched. She knew she had a warden’s absolute power in this scenario. It wouldn’t be hard to wait out her uppity inmate. The standoff took less than fifteen seconds. “Okay,” Fiona-Jo said. “I’ll eat it. But I want it warmed up another way.” “There isn’t time. You’ll miss the bus.” Fiona-Jo grumbled and then sat down at the kitchen counter. She took nibbles instead of her usual chomps to express disdain. “Can you drive Jolene and me to the mall after school at least? We want to try on swimsuits.” “You don’t have any money for a new swimsuit.” “We just want to try them on. We’re not buying.” “You know I have students here today from 3:30 PM to 6:30 PM. And your father will have the car anyway—it’s Tuesday. Where has he gone every Tuesday since ten years before you were born?” They both knew the answer—everybody in town knew the answer. Tuesday was Erector’s Duff Club day. All of the club spent each Tuesday playing golf or bowling, depending on the season, followed by dinner, drinks, and gin rummy until the next day’s sunrise. Baldwin had no trouble getting out of bed on Tuesdays. And like most Tuesdays, he was already gone before the kids awoke for school. “Get a move on, honey.” Ethyl called upstairs in the direction of Po’ Zeke’s bedroom. “The school bus will be here in about seven minutes.” “I’ll be down in a second. I’m consolidating pictures from my two photo albums

into one so I can sell one of the albums at the garage sale!” “Six minutes now.” Fiona-Jo finally took a big chomp of her chicken Kiev but dropped the remaining three-quarters of it into the cat food dish on the floor. “There, I’m finished.” Fiona-Jo said. “I hope everybody is happy now. But why should I be happy as long as everybody else gets to be happy?” “Don’t miss the bus. Get going. And try and think of some things you can give to Po’ Zeke for his garage sale. That way, you can earn money and then go to the mall to buy a new swimsuit next week. See how it works?” “We don’t want to buy; we just want to try on. Ugh!”

~~~

Across town, Baldwin sat with Futzman, Moose, and Deuce Diamond in a dirty, ripped, cramped booth at Stinkize, a crowded breakfast eatery not far from the Copper Pond Golf Course where they were to tee off in less than in hour. Futzman regaled everyone, four times, with the story of the lightning take down of Baldwin’s horse the night before at the track. Baldwin flinched at the end of every sentence crushing his cigarette between his fingertips with each telling. “Honest to Christ,” Futzman said. “You never seen nothing like it in your life. We’re standing there on the rail, heavier rain than I’ve seen in fifty years, thunder cracking like carpet bombs along the Polish front, and Pullman’s horse is ahead three lengths with about fifty yards to go. Have you ever known one of his horses to have that kind of lead? And the jockey holds the whip up high in the sky like he’s got it all wrapped up and ZAP—a bolt of lightning as thick as my wife’s backside comes down and hits the animal in the left ear. The horse goes up on her hind legs, the buggy comes off, the jockey is tossed and rolling in the mud towards the inside rail, and the horse does a U-turn in the opposite direction. And get this—her name—her name is One Gimpy Broad!”

Moose and Deuce bust up, even though they’ve heard the story four times in ten minutes while Baldwin broods and pretends to rifle though the booth jukebox for a ten-cent song to play. He hated all the songs on that jukebox, and everybody knew it; everything was recorded post-1943. “The horse is going to be fine, if anyone cares,” Baldwin said. “And I’ll bet her again when she comes back in a couple of weeks. She could taste that finish line —you can’t breed that out of her now.” “Let’s go,” Moose said. “I want to swat a bucket of balls before we tee off.” They settle up the tab, Dutch. The three others pay by cash. Baldwin hands the waitress a post-dated check for his meal—$80.00 more than what is due—and asks for the change to be paid in fives. “Tony wants to talk to you,” the head waitress, Betty Jean, says to Baldwin. “He said there was a problem with your check from last week.” Baldwin feigned shock, but he’d been anticipating the confrontation with Tony Tzatziki, the owner/manager, since he wrote the last check. It was a very tenuous promissory gesture, at best. May had been the leanest month of the year, checking wise. Baldwin had been working on his excuse all week. “Wait for me outside,” Baldwin said to the others. “No, don’t wait. I’ll meet you over there. Somebody take my clubs.” “Why?” Deuce asked. “I don’t want them to get broken—things might get a little real if Tony is in one of his moods.” “I will,” Futzman said. Baldwin went into Tony’s office just off the kitchen. Tony was savvy. He opened his eatery after coming over from Greece at age 16 in the wheel well of an illfated 727 that skidded off the runway in a ball of flames then sunk in the Potomac River. Tony was the only one to make it out alive, but he could never tell anyone on of being a stowaway. That was forty years ago. Tony liked Baldwin, so he let him cash his checks on a regular basis at the

restaurant. In exchange, Baldwin promised to always drive business to Tony’s restaurant through word of mouth and only speak good things about the place. “Ka-loo fag a toe!” Baldwin said. He thought it meant, “How are you?” in Greek. It didn’t. Nobody ever corrected him. “Hello, my friend.” Tony said, standing, offering his hand for Baldwin to shake, and then sitting down at his desk behind a plate of feta cheese and lightly braised calamari. “Great pork chops today. I like how you paired them with the eggs and the pancakes like that. My whole crew does.” “Yes, yes. One must keep his belly full if he is to make love to the day, right?” Baldwin nervously puffed his smoke; he hadn’t made love in ages and wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. It may be a trick question. “I don’t know if Betty Jean told you, but there was a problem with that check you wrote last week. Insufficient funds, they told me. I had to pay a fifteen dollar penalty.” Baldwin dropped his cigarette to the floor and tried to snub it out with his shoe, but his golf spikes wouldn’t let the sole of the shoe press all of the way down to the floor. The cigarette lie limp on the carpet yet still smoking. “That’s confusing,” Baldwin said. “Because I know I had money in the at a certain juncture. I’m still looking around for work, you know. Those damn banks. I’ve got a good mind to go down there—probably tomorrow, since we’re about to tee off.” Tony slurped in some calamari only half listening. He only wanted Baldwin to be aware that he was aware. It was Tony’s subtle way of saying, “strike two.” “But it won’t happen again, I can assure you. I should be flush with cash the next week or two, anyway. We’re having a garage sale at our place. There’ll be treasures out the wazoo. Designer purses, antique teddy bears, kid crap…you name it.”

Tony slurped and swallowed another calamari never looking up from his plate. The cigarette burned deeper into the seldom cleaned, morsel embedded carpeting creating the initial waft of a foul odor one might expect from such a fusion. “And I’ll make up that fifteen dollars, no problem. We’ve got the big club dance this Friday night. Hey, tell you what. I know the guy who is co-chairing the whole shindig. What say I get him to put out a banner for the restaurant up along the main table—you know, like a sponsorship flag? And I’m going to be emcee for the whole thing. I’ll give the restaurant a few plugs throughout the night. I think that’d be worth fifteen dollars and then some, don’t you?” Tony looked up from his plate, stood, grabbed his coffee cup, marched over to the smoldering spot on the carpet, and dumped the coffee down to put out the smoke. “Yes,” Tony said, “That does sound like a fair exchange. But make sure you put in at least five plugs for our new champagne brunch on Sunday. Sixteen ninetyfive per plate, 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM, children under two eat free.”

~~~

What was Po’ Zeke’s first stop upon arriving at school? The Lost & Found box inside the principal’s office. He peeled off from Pinchy lickety-split and made significant use of the eight minutes between the time the school bus dropped him off and the first bell. He told the office secretary he was looking for his pet frog and his baseball glove, but Po’ Zeke was really assessing each item’s resale value inside the voluminous bulk office paper shipment box which now housed the lost and found items. The box itself was nice, strong, and solid—so unlike the boxes in the Pullman crawl space. The treasures inside were many. And nobody was supervising his search. Po’ Zeke slipped into his pockets a silver plated bracelet, a coach’s whistle, and a pearl earring. And in the final minute, he emptied the food from his lunch sack into the box and shoved a super soft, green neck scarf, a six-pack of fat colored markers, and three different retainers into the paper sack. Dollar

signs consumed Po’ Zeke’s head as he slipped into his classroom on the third to the last day of fifth grade as the bell rung.

10

Copper Pond Golf Course sat on eighteen acres of unincorporated land about fifteen miles west of Dearth. Once a glutted indigent cemetery in the 1850’s, a 1960’s developer purchased the property, a fresh layer of topsoil was thrown down, some trees were planted, and the clubhouse sprang up in the early part of the current decade. The par-3 course was open to the public seven days per week, but it fast became known that the 350 of the Erectors Duff Club pretty much took over the entire course on Tuesdays from April 1 through November 1. Tee times for non- going to the course would be hard to come by between 6:00 AM and noon. The skies were partly sunny. The air was dry and cool. Baldwin felt lucky. This was his kind of weather. It invigorated him, as it was the reminder of the day he had his first smoke and later that same day scored a kiss from Figgy Barrenshmutz who’d dashed out of the house in the midst of battling typhoid (which her parents had misdiagnosed as “cabin fever”) just to plant her lips on Baldwin’s. Baldwin was also born on a day like this back in Bumtown, he re his parents telling him. The story was long but culminated in Baldwin being born on the railroad tracks as a locomotive hauling eighty cars of coal and artillery scraps zeroed in on the family sedan. The train stopped with its cowcatcher gently kissing the enger side back door of the sky gray Studebaker. Most of the details of that day were told to Baldwin by his mother; all his father could was that it was a dry, cool, partly sunny day, and that he had a soft boiled egg and buttermilk for breakfast. Baldwin’s golf game wasn’t any good in the slop or heat or wind or humidity. This day, though, was tailor made for his brand of golf: controlled slicing. “What say we make it a little more interesting today?” Baldwin said to his foursome. “How about five dollars a hole instead of the usual two?” Moose, Deuce, and Futzman exchanged looks. Tony must have let Baldwin leave his office with full pockets, they thought. It’s not that they minded taking

Baldwin’s money, which they did 27 out of 28 weeks every year. They just wanted to ensure that Baldwin was actually good for the money if they agreed to boost the wager. “You sure?” Moose asked. “That could add up,” Futzman said. “You might not have anything left for gin rummy.” Baldwin clenched his cigarette up to his teeth and rammed his ungloved hand into his left pants pocket. He yanked out sixteen five-dollar notes and waved them under the noses of his tormenters. “Does this look like I’m kidding?” Baldwin said. “Okay,” Deuce said. “You’re on.” One after the other, Futzman, then Deuce, and then Moose, all hit solid drives on the opening par five (the only hole over 300 yards) right down the left tree line along the first fairway 250 yards off the tee. Each could easily hit the green from there on their second shot. Things were already looking bleak for Baldwin to capitalize on the ideal weather day. Baldwin teed off last. He gauged his stance in such a manner with his feet at a seventy-five degree angle from the ball flared out to the left to compensate for the slice that he knew would arise from his awkward, patented swing – the result of having had his right shoulder pop out too many times during bowling season without ever being properly reset by a trained medical professional (Moose would simply pound it back in with a six pound alley ball). Not only would Baldwin follow through after striking the ball, he would spin in place a full revolution which he felt put a little extra English on the dimples. Baldwin’s opening shot on this picturesque weather day launched him thirty yards past the three other balls and smack dab in the middle of the fairway. Baldwin was already counting the cash in his head. He’d make $90.00 from each player—$270.00 total. After a stop at the all-night convenience store on his way home after gin rummy to buy cigarettes, he estimated he’d be strutting through the front door with a cool $70.00—$20.00 of which he would declare to Ethyl. Baldwin smacked his second shot right on the green, four feet from the cup. He

smoked nervously, assessing domination with each puff, and paced in a distracting manner, almost goose-stepping, while the others hit their balls up to the fringe. As soon as Baldwin yanked his putter from his bag, the sun disappeared behind the biggest, blackest, angriest cloud ever to blow in from the west. The sky opened up before Baldwin could stroke. Thunder clapped. Lightning took out a nearby sugar maple. As the others ran for shelter beneath the designated tin roofs on the golf course, Baldwin was determined to get the first hole in the books so as not to break his money counting mojo. Moose, Deuce, and Futzman watched from about sixty yards away as the wind whipped up while Baldwin struggled to put the ball in the jar after six putts and took an 8-stroke count on the hole. Thunder and lightning continued to obliterate the sky above the golf course. Baldwin battled to light a new cigarette as he walked with slumped shoulders towards the others under the shelter. “Why didn’t you wait for it to blow over?” Futzman said. “I was feeling it.” “Well, none of us are going out there until the lightning stops.” “Can I take a mulligan?” “Not at five dollars a hole, Rockefeller!” The entire round took six hours and forty-five minutes—an hour and fifteen minutes longer than usual. The thunder and lightning stopped after about twenty minutes, but the rain remained steady throughout the day. Many of the Erectors Duff Clubbers abandoned their games after nine holes and went in for shower, cocktails, and a few hands of gin rummy before dinner and some more gin rummy. Futzman, Moose, and Deuce weren’t going to let Baldwin off that easy. They played the full eighteen holes. Baldwin’s best hole was the first one; his game fell apart from there. He lost two-dozen balls, two of his three clubs, one sock, and all of his cash. Baldwin gave the rest of his foursome even splits of what he had on him and vowed increased stakes for revenge the following Tuesday —“after the garage sale.”

~~~

At about the same time Baldwin was paying out monies to Moose, Deuce, and Futzman in the clubhouse, Ethyl was welcoming her first late afternoon piano student, a newcomer named Jethro Bremenwurst. “I’ve never played any instrument before. Nothing.” Jethro said. “That’s fine. You’re here to learn. Can you read music?” Jethro shook his head. “I can’t even read regular books. I just want to start a band, you see. They say if a feller can play the piano, then he can play any instrument. Ain’t that right?” “Well, I suppose in theory.” Ethyl slurped some coffee. She wasn’t getting that ‘lifer’ student vibe from Jethro. Her guess was he wasn’t concerned with learning the classics. He also seemed to be a little old to be starting a band; Ethyl estimated Jethro to be in his late fifties. She doubted she’d see him again after two weeks. “But one must have a rudimentary understanding of rhythm, melody, timing, mechanics—it’s complicated, but it’s easy once you grasp it.” “What’ll I do first?” Jethro lunged his palms towards the piano keys, but Ethyl reached forward and knocked his fingers away with her hot beverage canister. “The first lesson isn’t really hands on.” Ethyl said. “I need to know what you hope to accomplish long term.” “ from before when I said I wanted to start a band? That.” Silence. “But not just any band.” Jethro continued. “We’re going to be all ragtime. The guys I run with, we’re all into ragtime. One of my buddies plays a trumpet, and

the other buddy plays the banjo. But we need a piano. And of the three of us, I got the longest fingers. Heck, I’m the only one with ten fingers” The front door opened and Po’ Zeke dashed up stairs. His arms were full of contraband from the school Lost & Found box as well as a few items he found left in the back seat of the bus on the ride home. “Shoes!” Ethyl said. “It’s wetter than a squat pond out there!” Po’ Zeke stopped midway up the staircase towards his bedroom, removed his sneakers with his adept ankle and toe maneuvers, and kicked the shoes off in the direction of the kitchen. Then he disappeared up the steps into his bedroom. “That’s my son. Only two days left of school. He’s all excited, because he’s holding a garage sale this weekend all by himself. We’re very proud.” “Really? What kinds of stuff is he selling? Any musical instruments or crossbows?” “Why, there will be a veritable array of items. You should certainly stop by. Either Saturday or Sunday. I believe he’s opening at six or eight o’clock, but I can double check that.” “I will!” The front door of the house blasted open. Fiona-Jo jettisoned her clogs against the wall near the front door through sheer leg power and stomped up the stairs. “When is supper?” Fiona-Jo said. “After I’m through teaching, you know that.” “Can Jolene come over for supper?” It was an odd request in as much as Jolene often came by to nosh on snacks, but never for anything as formal as “supper.” There would be a chair open with Baldwin away at the Erectors Duff Club all night, so this night would be better than another. Still, Ethyl didn’t have anything extravagant planned or on hand in the fridge. It was going to be another Tilapia and Tatter Tot Tuesday.

“Why don’t we play it by ear?” Ethyl said. “I can’t play at all.” Jethro said. “No, I’m sorry, I was talking to my daughter.” “What is that supposed to mean?” Fiona-Jo said. “You can invite her, sure, but I just don’t know if she’ll want what I’m preparing.” “She eats anything. She’s coming over soon. Send her up to my room. We’re going to experiment with my curling iron.” After a lengthy lecture on what truly makes a musician, and without either teacher or student laying a finger on the keyboard, Ethyl sent Jethro back out into the world with a final thought. “But now bring me a minstrel. And it came about, when the minstrel played, that the hand of the LORD touched upon him.” She said. Then there was but a single thunder crack in the gloomy sky above. The hairs stood up on the back of both of their necks as Jethro was ushered out the front door via Ethyl’s coffee mug clutching hand. As Jethro scampered bow-legged down the driveway into the drizzle, Ethyl’s next student, a seventeen year-old high school senior named Maxine Wieboldt approached the house. Jolene was right on her heels holding a plastic garbage bag over her head trying to keep her hair dry. “Hello, Maxine. Hello, Jolene. Come right in. Maxine, I’ll meet you at the piano after I warm up my mug. Jolene, Fiona-Jo is waiting for you in her room.” Maxine smiled, politely removed her shoes, and ventured on up to the piano. Jolene grunted, stomped upstairs with her wet rubber boots on her forlorn feet, and disappeared into Fiona-Jo’s bedroom. Maxine and Ethyl spent the half hour together talking about boys, career paths, and Ethyl’s amazing discount on the dress she purchased for the Erectors Duff

Club dance. The twelve hours of accumulated dust on the Middle-C key lay undisturbed since Ethyl’s last practice. “When my parents unground me,” Maxine said, “I’ll be allowed to practice again. But it’ll probably be four more weeks.” “Do you have a yardstick at home? You could always practice quietly on that in your room to get your fingering down—the fifteen inch marker being Middle-C, sixteen inch marker being D, so on and so forth.” “I’ll try.” As Maxine left the house, Po’ Zeke came down from his bedroom. “Mom! Fiona-Jo and Jolene keep knocking on the wall saying that Stranger Danger is in the house, and that I’m just his flavor.” “You girls cut it out up there!” Ethyl shouted. “I thought you were curling hair.” “We are!” Fiona-Jo shouted back. “Whatever he’s telling you, he’s making it up!” “Just try and ignore them. I’ve still got four more lessons to give.” “Do we have any of those big, black plastic garbage bags?” “Why?” “I want to put all my garage sale stuff in there and take it down to the garage. It’ll be easier than making a whole bunch of trips.” “I don’t think so, sweetie. Why don’t you just make one trip today, one trip tomorrow, one trip Thursday and so forth? That way it won’t be as taxing.” “It still sounds like a lot of trips.” “But not all at once. Spreading things out is what makes life grand.” Po’ Zeke went back up to his bedroom to think about it. Ethyl’s next two students, the Cabrini kids, called in by telephone to cancel. It

really steamed Ethyl when students would call at the last minute to cancel— especially when they weren’t gravely ill. Mother Cabrini stated that she wanted to take the kids for haircuts as ‘she had a coupon that expired today at 5:00 PM.’ Everyone always put every activity—haircuts, soccer games, television programs, half-priced appetizers before six o’clock—ahead of their music lessons. If any sort of conflict arose, everyone kicked the music lessons to the curb in favor of the other activity. Since Ethyl instituted no sort of penalty for this rude cancellation behavior, it never waned. She lamented about missing out on the lesson fees, but Ethyl was more bothered by the fact that she had not one student who seemed as dedicated to becoming a serious musician as she was. Rarely did students practice anymore. None aspired to some day sign on with the Dearth Philharmonic. Ethyl’s stable of students was a blobby blur of undedicated mediocrity. In the free hour before her final two students, Ethyl doubled down on her java and scoped out the kitchen for another recipe to improvise with the ingredients on hand. Alas, there were no sufficient substitutes for the tilapia and tatter tots. Groceries would be gotten the following day on Wednesday, as usual. The phone rang. It was Baldwin. “Hello?” said Ethyl. “It’s me. I’m at the course. Say, do we still have that old savings with a few dollars in it at the other bank?” “The is still open, but the can’t have more than twenty-six dollars, plus whatever interest it’s made in the last two years.” “Good. Great. Okay, thanks.” “Wait a second. You’re not thinking of taking any money out of that , are you? That’s our emergency and vacation .” “This is an emergency. There’s a tournament tonight that I forgot about. I need twenty dollars for entry, and four dollars so I can get a hot dog and a Rob Roy.” “Absolutely not.”

“Listen—I’ll put the money right back in after the kid’s garage sale this weekend. I’ve got balls—” “I’ll say!” “No—range, er, well pond balls. I was sitting out there in the rain thinking about the two-dozen balls I lost today in all the water traps. And then it hit me. There must be a ton of balls out in those lakes. So while everybody was inside taking showers and whatever, I dredged through a couple of the ponds and collected damn near three hundred balls! I’ll sell them at the garage sale for fifty cents a piece. We’ll be golden!” The phone went dead before Ethyl could get a response out. The final two home-taught students of the day were both no-brainers. They’d both been with Ethyl for three and a half years—Lee and Leigh Kallahan—two retirees that decided on their silver anniversary to give one another piano lessons, seemingly out of spite. Leigh always went first while her husband went into the Pullman’s back yard to get his hands dirty in the soil in every kind of weather. The Mrs. then used her half hour lesson to lament to Ethyl how she’s wasted her life. “I had a railroad man, you know” Leigh said. “Did I ever mention him? Oh, he had the loveliest eyes. They were mostly pupil—huge, round, black holes floating on a bed of white goo. He asked me to marry him, too, but my father favored Lee because, as my father said, ‘He’s got a banker’s cadence about him.’ Feh! A lot my father knew. That schnook I married wouldn’t know a safety deposit box from a gravy boat!” Ethyl nodded. She had heard the story before. In fact, she heard it every week. Leigh never changed a word of the story even accidentally. Leigh sat with her legs crossed and her hands folded on her lap across from Ethyl. She never once even faced the piano. Leigh’s arthritis had been so bad for so long, even tapping her fingers down on the keys would cause colossal discomfort from her knuckles to her armpits for the rest of the day. When her lesson time completed, Leigh lay seven dollars in cash on top of the piano and called Lee in from the back yard. Lee spent the first ten minutes of his lesson time at the kitchen sink washing the clay and earthworms out from between his

fingers and elbow creases. While Lee was at the piano, Leigh sat behind him on the couch boring a hole into the base of his skull with her laser beam death ray stare. Lee told his stories, too, during lesson time—never touching a piano key, and never looking at Ethyl. His gaze would mainly be on his fingernails or the ceiling. “In my day a woman respected the man, and that’s all there was to it,” Lee said. “There wasn’t all of this yak, yak, yak, going on that undermined the sanctity of the coupling they’d undertaken. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those men who gets all angry-browed about any women’s libbers, no offense, but it just made more sense, didn’t it? I mean, when a man could look at his woman and know she had his unwavering interests at heart?” “Did you have a chance to practice that Itsy-Bitsy Spider piece we almost got to last time?” Ethyl asked. “He did not!” Leigh said from the peanut gallery. “Do I have to listen to that my whole lesson?” Lee said. “Now you know why I never get my practice time in. She’s always sitting back there, just like that, giving me some kind of eyeball x-ray. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Back in the great days of this country—” “Leigh, please.” Ethyl said. “We only have ten more minutes. Lee didn’t interrupt during your lesson time.” Leigh turned her head away without relaxing her rigid posture any. “You never knew my dad,” Lee said. “Of course you didn’t. Probably died twenty years before you were born. But if he were here today, he’d back me one hundred percent. You always knew where you stood with my dad. He was a trumpeter in the 2nd Chemical Battalion in World War One. That’s where I got all my musical talent, probably. He lost seven of his fingers and one lip yet never gave up on his instrument.” Lee’s story went on for another ten minutes, and then he and his wife left the house, arm-in-arm, sashaying along into the rain like great weights had been lifted off of their respective shoulders and into Ethyl’s ears for at least another week.

Ethyl prepared dinner for the children, turned the thermostat up to 88°F, grabbed her almost favorite astrology book, and planted herself down on the heat vent in the dining room. In the kitchen, Po’ Zeke was standing squeezed off to one end of the eating counter, his plate teetering on the edge just above the cat food bowl, as Fiona-Jo and Jolene spread themselves out in the middle of the counter atop the two stools. “Mmmmm,” Jolene said with a full mouth, “good tots.” “Mom! Do we have any more tots?” Fiona-Jo asked. “All you have is all I have in the house.” The girls eyeballed Po’ Zeke’s plate, still brimming with tots, as Po’ Zeke opted to first nibble on his tilapia (sautéed with onions and leek in a heavy cream). Po’ Zeke, typically one to avoid eye- with his sister especially in the company of one of her cohorts—made the mistake of locking gazes with both of them. He saw their eyes move from his face, down to his pile of tots, back up to his face, and back down to the tots. Before he could cup his hand defensively over the fifteen or so tots bestowed upon him by his mother, Fiona-Jo’s angry paw swooped in. She made off with nine of Po’ Zeke’s tots and left the others she couldn’t scoop away good and smashed in to the creamy tilapia sauce. She plunked half of her catch down on Jolene’s plate and crammed the others right into her mouth. “Mom!” Po’ Zeke cried. Fiona-Jo grabbed a plastic knife, held it up to her throat, and slowly shook her head side to side. This convinced Po’ Zeke that this battle might not be worth the trouble. “What is it, honey?” Ethyl said. After a lengthy pause, Po’ Zeke responded as Fiona-Jo calmly set the plastic knife back down onto the counter. “Thank you for supper.” Po’ Zeke said meekly.

“Oh, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Po’ Zeke scraped the uneaten portion of his tilapia into the cat food bowl and said he was going up to his room. However, the steps just beyond the kitchen that led up to his room were prime eavesdropping territory. So miffed was Po’ Zeke after what happened to his tater tots, that he felt Fiona-Jo and Jolene deserved to get eavesdropped on for a little while. He’d be totally out of sight, and surely they’d be cooking up something with Ethyl out of the room. Po’ Zeke knew them very well. As soon as he rounded the corner and planted himself down on the third step, the girls started in. For their part, the girls spoke softer than normal, but loud enough for Po’ Zeke to hear them. They just didn’t want their voices resonating into the adjacent dining room where Ethyl was completely distracted devouring her latest book that proposed the radical new astrological theory about the constellations actually being on a collision course to form one great Zodiac sign that eventually will be the only sign all humans are to be born under in the next fifty years. “Everything is a go for Friday, right?” Jolene asked. “I already told Kent and Eddie that you and I were coming, and they were like, ‘wow, her?’” “Really? Who said ‘wow’—Kent or Eddie?” “Both, but not actually. They were okay with it though.” “Wow.” “I think Kent might even like me a little, because he asked if I might help him get the beer for the party.” “Wait. How? You just turned fifteen. Shouldn’t he be getting the beer? He’s nineteen.” “He said he already has some beer, but he thinks they’ll need a little extra. He wants me to ask my mom to buy the beer and give it to me to take to the party so he doesn’t have to, you know, leave in the middle of the party as that would be rude for his guests.” “So did you ask? Will she?”

“I didn’t ask. But she will. When has she ever said, ‘no’?” Their plates were licked clean, so Fiona-Jo stuck her head into the pantry to see if there was anything else available to round out the meal. Her hand emerged with an opened box of taco shells that had been placed in there six weeks ago just in case Ethyl ever got the urge to make another batch of cabbage and squab tacos, which she hadn’t. They munched on the stale, pliable taco shells. Po’ Zeke listened on. “What time are your parents leaving again?” Jolene asked. “The party starts at, like, 7:30 PM I think. But my dad always likes to get there really early, so they’ll probably leave before 6:00 PM.” “Just make sure your piss-ant brother doesn’t screw everything up.” “Don’t remind me.” “Oh, and you know who else I heard was going to the party?” “Mr. Fong—the twelfth grade calculus teacher!” “The one who just got divorced and wears the tight, bell bottom corduroys?” Jolene winked. Fiona-Jo escorted her guest out at around 9:00 PM when Ethyl was just sitting down to practice for her recital. Ethyl heard Fiona-Jo foraging around the pantry for more food and then growling when she came up empty. Fiona-Jo went into her bedroom and slammed the door closed. Despite the closed door, Ethyl and Po’ Zeke, who was lying in his own bed with Hamilton talking about his always morphing merchandising plans for the garage sale, could clearly hear Fiona-Jo screaming, “I hate this!” before falling down onto her slowly crippling waterbed. Ethyl’s piano playing filled the house as the steady rain outside increased into another pounding deluge.

Po’ Zeke was awoken with a violent shake to his shoulders somewhere around 3:30 AM. Baldwin stood over him with a burlap potato sack full of balls he’d retrieved from the pond muck at the golf course earlier in the day. Baldwin held the sack just above Po’ Zeke’s nose and blinking, unsure, adjusting eyes. “Got something for your garage sale, Slick. The mother lode! Price ‘em all at .75 cents apiece or four for three dollars. We’ll be golden!” “Huh? Dad? What time is it?” Baldwin dropped the sack of balls to the floor with a resounding mushy thud. As he turned to walk away, the long ash from the tip of his cigarette dropped onto Po’ Zeke’s bedspread an inch or so from Hamilton’s sprawled-out right, rear paw. “I’m going to watch a little TV before bedtime. Bring me down a diet in about ten minutes. A diet. A diet.”

11

The kids were long off to school, and Ethyl had already gone off to the grocery store when Baldwin freefell out of bed at 11:15 AM Wednesday. There was a loud hissing sound filling up the house. One more damn thing to deal with. Baldwin felt it would take too long to investigate and he would just let it stumble upon him when he was a little more awake and the time was right. Baldwin rose up from the floor, lit a cigarette, and did his toilet trickery. There would be time for pants later. He went down to the kitchen where Ethyl had left a simple note that read “store” next to a half of a cup of ice cold coffee and some scrambled eggs that Hamilton had already given the once over judging by the jagged edges and sloughed off paw pads. Those types of details typically went unnoticed when Baldwin had a primal urge to fulfill. Baldwin sat at the counter eating said breakfast while going through yesterday’s newspaper. The help wanted ads were, again, beneath contempt for a management caliber worker. The racing results, now two days old, were still as painful—but Baldwin read them through top to bottom and bottom to top anyway. It’s what the expert handicappers did, he was certain, to become so good at their craft. One of these days, something would jump off the page and just click. The hissing sound was louder in the kitchen than it was in the upstairs bedroom though still not easily diagnosed from a quick glance around the room from the counter stool. Outside the skies were gray but not yet raining. Baldwin’s Wednesday was wide open save for a council meeting at the church after supper. But without a car, Baldwin figured he had zero options to do anything outside of checking to see what was on the television for the time being. With his ball haul, he’d already done his bit for the kid’s garage sale. One possible option aside from the television would be to work on his emcee monologue for the Friday night dinner dance at the club. Baldwin quickly dismissed that option as he blew a grand puff of smoke in the air. The dance was still a whole two days off. If Baldwin wanted to stay topical, it was too soon to commit anything to paper. Baldwin felt he worked better off the cuff, anyhow. He thought back to that one time the Erector Duff Club president’s wife strolled

into a prior dinner function in an absolutely hideous dress and Baldwin paused the “Irish people” routine he was doing at the microphone to interject that the woman’s dress looked like ‘…vomit had a baby.’ Breakfast was done, and another cigarette was ignited to deaden the aftertaste. Baldwin piled the newspaper on the floor near the back door with the sevenweek stack of old newspapers. Someone should throw those out in the garbage, he thought. The hissing sound grew louder when Baldwin went into the garage. A quick survey showed no cause for the hissing in there either, but that wasn’t why Baldwin was in there anyway. He moved aside the paint splattered, wooden folding ladder, slid some heavy cardboard boxes of smashed Christmas ornaments away, un-stacked a collection of empty motor oil cans on the shelf up against the wall and retrieved from behind them a roach trap. Baldwin jammed his fingers into the roach trap and took out a five-dollar bill he had hidden away a long time ago for just such an emergency—the emergency being that his pockets (in his upstairs pants) were completely empty because of the disastrous wagering day on the golf course as well as the evening ending gin rummy tournament. He didn’t like walking around with no money as it made him feel very insecure, vulnerable, unable to purchase something on whim. Baldwin tucked the fivedollar bill into the waistband of his white briefs, re-arranged all of the crap he’d moved so as not to arouse suspicion by anyone else in the house, and headed downstairs towards his chair and the television. It was down there in the basement where the hissing sound was the loudest. The preceding day’s rain had the water level in the basement up to a solid four inches of depth. Baldwin sloshed over to the television, turned it on, looked for the hissing sound, saw nothing he could point a finger at, and feeling he’d done all he could, plopped down into his chair. He lit a cigarette. And he was in luck; he wouldn’t have to get up again to adjust the channel. The local UHF station was showing Glen or Glenda. Baldwin wasn’t exactly sure what the film was trying to say, he just ed seeing it a long time ago and laughing at several points. The loud hissing sound was battling the television for the attention of Baldwin’s ears, but what could he do?

After twenty minutes, Baldwin fell asleep. His cigarette tumbled from his mouth, burning a hole into his undershirt, on its eventual plummet into the water covering the floor when Baldwin turned sideways in his recliner for comfort. Baldwin went to Dreamland. There, Baldwin was at the bowling alley three strikes away from tossing a perfect game. Just as he swung his eleven-pound, 24K gold plated ball back behind him, a throng of harness racing jockeys stood in his path staggered all the way down the lane from the foul line to the headpin. Baldwin froze on his approach and stood with limp arms at his sides. His golden ball hung against his hip lifeless and defeated. The jockeys taunted and danced up and down the lane but were careful never to cross the foul line or knock down any pins. “Not here! Not now!” one jockey shouted. “Your game is for the birds.” Said another jockey. From an adjacent lane, Baldwin’s mother came over and put a lit cigarette into his mouth. “It’s supper time!” Baldwin’s mother said. She vanished. The jockeys began to do the hula as Hawaiian music echoed throughout the bowling alley. The pins changed into pineapples to bamboo torches to jars of creamed herring and then back into pins. Baldwin turned around to see if Moose, Deuce, or Futzman could help him convince the jockeys to clear the lane so that he might complete his perfect game. The boys were there but told Baldwin that it was up to him to roll his own ball without any help or the game, should it be perfect, would forever be tainted in the bowling annals. “But wait,” Futzman said. “We did take up a collection and got you a little something whether you get the perfect game or not.” Futzman approached hiding something behind his back. He stopped less than an arm’s length from Baldwin.

“I can’t do it,” Baldwin said. “I can’t do it. There’s too many jockeys. They’ll impede my success. They always conspire. My efforts always are thwarted.” “They’re jockeys,” Futzman said. “They have to do what you tell them to do. Don’t you know that by now?” Baldwin’s mother reappeared and stuck another torched cigarette into Baldwin’s mouth. “Quit pissing yourself.” She said, and then vanished again. “Here,” Futzman said, reaching from behind his back and presenting Baldwin with the hidden object. It was the two orifice, fuzzy blob/teddy bear that Baldwin had found in the crawl space and given to Po’ Zeke for his garage sale. “Did I win?” Baldwin asked. Futzman was gone, but Tony Tzatziki stood there in his place. Tony frowned and grabbed the double orifice fuzz blob from Baldwin’s grasp. He tore the object into tiny pieces and littered them across the ball return. “This is no good here,” Tony said. “And it’s your last chance. Everyone is watching this time. By the way, what time is that garage sale? I have half a lamb, but I want top dollar.” Baldwin looked past Tony into the pro shop. Ethyl was inside the pro shop trying on all sorts of fancy dresses and attempting to pair them with rosin bag earrings. Baldwin felt a painful throbbing in his breastbone. If he didn’t get the perfect game, he won’t get his name on the plaque. If his name doesn’t go on the plaque, he’ll wallow in unheralded anonymity for the rest of his days and Ethyl won’t be able to pay for the pro shop dresses and accessories. Baldwin turned to face the prancing jockeys. He stared them down. They only pranced faster. Baldwin’s mother appeared and slapped the two cigarettes from Baldwin’s mouth. “What’s that hissing sound?” she said. Baldwin’s mother then hiked her dress up to her knees and tore down the alley after the jockeys kicking them off in all directions to clear a path for her son’s

ball. She turned and looked back towards her son when she reached the pins. “Throw it or don’t. See if I give a piss.” She said, and then crawled beneath the pin setting rack out of sight. Determined to get his name on the plaque more than ever, Baldwin erected his spine, lined up his approach, and threw the first ball of the tenth frame down towards the pins. CRACK! SMASH! TUMBLE! They all fell down one after another. The seven-pin was even reduced to sawdust. Baldwin bent at the waist and let the cool air from the hand blower between the ball return racks soothe his tension. His ball returned shimmering with golden rays more so than ever. He lined up his second shot, and just for fun decided to throw this one with his eyes closed and left-handed. CRACK! SMASH! TUMBLE! Another strike. Baldwin called out for Moose to mark it down. Moose replied that he lost the pencil. Now there was a lengthy delay throughout the alley to find a replacement pencil. Baldwin’s blood pressure eclipsed any known chart level measure. Surely this would tinker with his timing. The lane came to a standstill as all eyes were on Baldwin. Even the drunks staggered out from the bar to watch from afar. “I’ve got a pencil!” Po’ Zeke called out from behind the crowd. Baldwin smiled. He gestured for his son to come forth and deliver the pencil. “It’s for my garage sale, though.” “But I’ll get you another one!” Baldwin pleaded. “You already let Mr. Tony rip up the fuzzy thing—and that was my loss leader for the garage sale. If you take my pencil, then I can kiss goodbye to that thing I wanted to buy with the money from the garage sale.” “What thing?”

“The thing I want so bad—more badder than anything in my life at this age right now.” “I don’t you talking about any ‘thing’.” “That’s it then,” Futzman said. “We’ll just have to call it a game. You’d better stick to gin rummy, Baldwin.” “What’s that hissing?” Deuce said. “What’s that hissing!?” Baldwin apnea-choked himself awake. Ethyl stood over him with her coffee mug, folded arms, and a furrowed brow. “What is that hissing?” Ethyl asked again. “I was dreaming,” Baldwin said. “I almost had a perfect game. It seemed so real. Everything was so true to life.” Ethyl trudged over to the laundry room and spread the louvered doors apart. There was the hissing. Futzman’s temporary fix to the hot water pipe wrapped in towels and duct tape wasn’t holding up. Steam and water was spritzing up into the ceiling above (the floorboards of the dining room) causing the horrendous hissing noise. From the looks of Ethyl’s untrained eye, it appeared like the towel wrap fix could go kablooey at any time. “The kids will be home from school in a couple hours,” Ethyl said. “You’d better get up to the hardware store and fix this before they get home.” “I’ll call Futzman.” “Don’t call Futzman! Go to the store and talk to Mr. Pergler or one of his sons who actually knows how to deal with something like this.” “Is today Wednesday?” “Yes. Why?” “Old Man Pergler and his sons don’t work the store Wednesdays. It’s their Saturday. They’re at the midget car races.”

“I’m going upstairs to practice,” Ethyl said dropping the car keys atop Baldwin’s chest. “It needs to get done today.” Baldwin didn’t know if Ethyl was kidding or not on of she didn’t throw the keys overhanded this time. But he opted for the high road and went upstairs to dry off his feet, put on some pants, and gargle a capful of mouthwash before heading out the door for Pergler’s Hardware. Normally it would only be a one-cigarette drive. Baldwin was nervous that this part of his day was actually the dream and smoked three. When he rolled up into a concrete parking stump outside Pergler’s at 20 MPH after being distracted by a comely coed wearing a sandwich board offering ‘Half Priced Screws,’ the jarring of his neck and spine from the jolt of the impact convinced him that this wasn’t the dream. As soon as he got inside, the welcoming waft of fresh rubber, clean tools, and paint thinner warmed over him, as usual. He walked right past the yellow BMX bike on display set up right inside the entrance/exit doors having already forgotten it had any significance to anyone. A couple of the overly attentive Pergler’s clerks asked Baldwin if he needed any help right out of the gate, but he declined not wanting to appear overwhelmed. Baldwin’s first thought was to hit the three aisles dedicated to duct tape, glue, and twist ties. There he grabbed an extra large roll of 2.5-inch wide silver duct tape and a small sized bag of “” twist ties. In his head, Baldwin envisioned himself standing on a folding chair, using the entire role of duct tape to reinforce what Futzman already had in place around the hot water pipe, and solidifying the structure by twisting all of the twist ties together that he would turn into one long twist tie and ultimately wrap around the entire new application of duct tape. Yes, that seemed to be all he’d need. There would be no reason to get glue, too. As he approached the , he took his checkbook out from his back pants pocket, clumsily dropped it to the floor, and then accidentally kicked it beneath a grand lawn mower display that was up on risers. There was just enough space between the bottom of the riser and the floor for Baldwin’s checkbook to slide through, underneath, and out of sight. It took five Pergler’s employees a full day to set up the display, and it would take just as long for them to take it apart in order to search for Baldwin’s checkbook.

Baldwin shouted an expletive that could be heard throughout the store from the cash s all the way back to the management offices on the second level above the fertilizer and grass seed bags. Reverend Googler happened to be nearby and witnessed the whole thing. He approached Baldwin. “Whoopsie,” Reverend Googler said. “Oh, hello Reverend. I’m just having one of those goddamned days.” At first Reverend Googler said nothing hoping Baldwin might realize his social faux pas and offer a quick, albeit token, apology. The Reverend stared at Baldwin, and Baldwin stared right back at him as smoke soared off the tip of his cigarette up towards the gargantuan, ceiling mounted, air exchange vent of the store. “We’ll see you tonight at the council meeting then?” was all Reverend Googler could think to say. He was even feeling guilt of association from any eyes that might be looking down from above and started to walk off. “Absolutely. Right after supper.” “Very well. Good luck with your task at hand then.” As Reverend Googler disappeared between the fertilizer bags and barbecue grills, the manager on duty, Gus Pedula sauntered up to Baldwin. “Is everything alright Mr. Pullman? Have you sustained an injury on our property?” “I’m trying to fix the hot water pipe,” Baldwin said, holding up his duct tape and twist ties. Gus put his hand to his chin and didn’t know what the items Baldwin was showcasing had to do with a busted water pipe. “Anyway,” Baldwin continued, “I was going up to pay for the stuff, and as I was taking out my checkbook, I kind of dropped it under there.”

Gus looked over at the glorious display of thirty gas powered and electric lawn mowers up on the risers that occupied a quarter of the store’s entire floor space. There was no way they were going to take it apart again—not before October. “Tell you what,” Gus said. “How about I send Johnny Jr. over to your house with his truck so he can take a look at your situation? And if he can set you straight, we’ll just send you the bill—ninety days, same as cash. Normally, Johnny Jr. would be off today. But he came in for a few hours to reconcile books.” This was music to Baldwin’s ears. He wouldn’t have to stand in the check out line or stand up on a folding chair risking life and limb to fix the hot water pipe. Best of all, he could push a bill from Pergler’s all the way out into next holiday season—he wouldn’t have to run the risk of writing another suspect check. “I guess that sounds okay. But what about my checkbook?” Gus thought for a minute. “Well, you could hold off writing checks until about October 3, when we take it all down. Or you might want to go to the bank and get a replacement book of checks.” “What time on October 3?”

~~~

After supper, a grand feast of Conchiglioni stuffed with ham salad, Romanesco, and pigeon peas born from Ethyl’s earlier grocery store run, Fiona-Jo announced she’d be spending this final school night out with Jolene and her mother at the donut shop, because her mother was trying to get a date with a cop. To FionaJo’s knowledge, there wasn’t a particular cop Jolene’s mother had in mind. She just liked the idea of maybe being married to one since Jolene still had three years left of high school. And according to Jolene’s mother, a girl could do a lot of regional travel on a cop’s salary to take in various thrift marts and small town eateries.

“Bring me back a chocolate job,” Baldwin said. “No, a long john—but tell them to cut it in half, because I can’t finish it all in one sitting. It binds me up.” “I’m not buying any donuts,” Fiona-Jo said. “I don’t have money, and that’s not why we’re going there anyway.” “Don’t talk back.” “I’m not! Jeee-zussss!” “Hey!” Ethyl said without turning around while standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing her hot beverage canister with a long, sinister-looking wire brush. “Don’t make us send you to summer school.” Po’ Zeke smiled without letting Fiona-Jo see his face. Too soon as always, though, they were off the punishment subject. Threatening somebody with summer school was pretty much as far as the hardcore punishments around the house ever went. Baldwin quickly changed the subject around to the hot water pipe, and how his actions rectified the situation. He pretended to be speaking to Po’ Zeke but really only held a conversation with himself for Ethyl’s benefit. “Did you see down in the laundry room—the water pipe? Yep, all fixed. I went down there to Pergler’s Hardware today and told them I wanted it fixed once and for good. John Jr. came over about an hour later, and under my supervision, got that bugger fixed and replaced and good to go. There’s a twelve-month warranty on the labor, and 90-day warranty on the parts, too. It’s what I’ve been telling you all along, Son. If you want it bad enough, you just have to go out there and get after it. I wanted that pipe fixed and—bam! Fixed!” “You went to Pergler’s?” Po’ Zeke said. “Was it still there? Was it?” Not hearing the questions, Baldwin revisited the entire event again in his head whereby he stood off to the side while John Jr. grunted his way through repair of the hot water pipe in the poorly lit, noxious confines of the laundry room for two hours. Truth be told, Baldwin always had one eye on the television, but he fidgeted right there up against the louvered doors the entire time to give John Jr. the impression his quality of work was under constant supervision and assessment. Baldwin even threw a few coins into the old slot machine in the corner, with no success, during the commercial breaks to make it appear that he was more closely inspecting John Jr.’s work.

“Does this mean I can finally take normal, hot showers again?” Fiona-Jo said. “Absolutely. You’ll think you’re at the YWCA now.” “Was it there, Dad? Was it?” Po’ Zeke asked. Hamilton scratched and clawed at the back door, as the rain outside appeared to invite some hail along for the ride this time. Ethyl let Hamilton in, and he went for his cat food bowl straight away. It was filled with a good two days worth of plate scrapings. “It’s hailing,” Ethyl said. “Be careful driving to the church tonight.” “Was it there? Did you see it?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Okay,” Baldwin said. He lit a fresh cigarette and looked at his wristwatch. It was 6:15 PM. He held his cigarette holding hand atop Po’ Zeke’s head and tussled his hair. “How’s that rummage sale coming, boy?” “Did you see the BMX bike today at Pergler’s? The yellow one?” “Hmmm, I don’t think so.” Po’ Zeke was crestfallen. His head slumped down. Somebody else must have made off with it—possibly even Pinchy. Baldwin didn’t fully understand the sullen look of his boy; he was planning to ride the congratulatory tidal wave of taking the initiative to get the hot water pipe fixed for the next few months at a minimum. “But, hey, it was all adult business when I was there. We were focused on the hot water pipe problem.” Po’ Zeke straightened his spine. “So it could still be there then?” Baldwin kind of nodded his head not knowing what he was committing to. His pulse raced. This felt like another trap.

“Can I come with you to church?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Oh, you don’t want to go there. I’ll be there until the ten o’clock movie starts on channel seven. We’re just talking church business. There won’t be anything for you to do.” “I won’t bother anybody—I swear!” Po’ Zeke’s motives were selfish and profit-oriented, of course, as he planned to raid the church Lost & Found box for saleable items as well as collect up what he could from beneath the pews and in the coat room. Baldwin suddenly realized that bringing the boy along to maybe push a mop around might score him some bonus points with Reverend Googler and even greater higher-ups in the long run. “Actually,” Baldwin said, “that’s one of the best ideas you’ve ever had. We leave here in fifteen minutes. And take a couple of diets out of the fridge. They never have anything to drink there. Get one for yourself if you want, too.”

12

Po’ Zeke had an innate aversion to public toilets and, until this night, successfully avoided ever having to use a stall at the church. But something was percolating, and it wanted out. He secured himself inside stall #2 at the church— the one adjacent to the cinder block outer wall so that it was only possible for another human being to crowd him on one side if it came to that. There were only a handful of council at the church for the meeting—Baldwin, Reverend Googler, Herman Kratch, Moose, Hazel Fazelton, and Luella McGovern; Po’ Zeke liked the odds that no one would barge in on him as he conducted his business. CROMP! The door to the men’s room thrust open and banged into the back wall behind it. The spring doorstop had been lost for years and never replaced due to ongoing budgetary constraints. As it was, everyone typically pushed the door into the wall upon entering out of desperation or to cast aside any demons in his path. Po’ Zeke sat as quietly as he could in that stall furthest from the entry to the restroom hoping he could go undetected. He heard shuffling footsteps, some mumbling, and what seemed to be a longer than usual engagement at the confine’s only urinal. Based on those clues, he still couldn’t determine who was in the room with him, exactly. He wouldn’t even eliminate Miss. Fazelton or Mrs. McGovern from consideration, as his dad for years warned him to always expect the unexpected (usually on the mornings after Baldwin had spent an unholy night at the track). Finally, some three minutes later, there was a meek flush. But then there was silence—an eerie silence. There was no turning on of a sink faucet, no slapping (legitimate or token) of a soap dispenser, and no electronic hand-drying blower being engaged. Po’ Zeke held his breath for fifteen seconds hoping the forced silence could help him hone in on some type of stimuli to determine if danger was approaching. Fifteen seconds became twenty-five seconds. That was nine seconds longer than

his best ever breath-holding time. Po’ Zeke mightily exhaled just as a pale, wrinkled, trembling hand reached underneath the thin, rusted (from side splash/splatter) metal wall from the ading stall clutching a piece of pink taffy. “You sound like you could use a little pick-me-up.” Said Herman. Po’ Zeke turned white, then red, then white again. A verbal response would only confirm to Mr. Kratch that Po’ Zeke was, indeed, inside stall #2. Herman waved his hand side-to-side attempting to give the taffy a more animated and delectable presentation. “Last chance,” Herman said, “I’ve got to get back to the meeting.” “I gotta ask my Pops first on of we might go to the dentist next month…” was all Po’ Zeke could think to say so as not to rebuff Mr. Kratch or cause him to be offended. Herman dropped the taffy to the floor, just beyond Po’ Zeke’s sneakered left toes. “You earned it. The floor is looking good out here.” Herman said. Herman shuffled out of the restroom bying the wash sink completely and shoved the door into the back wall on his way out. CROMP! Po’ Zeke finished his business, leaving the taffy be on the floor, scrubbed with soap extra good, and returned to mopping the community room of the church. Earlier, he had to first stack all the chairs up on the long folding tables before beginning to mop. After the floor sufficiently dries, he’ll have to take all of the chairs down again and place them around the tables accordingly—no more than eight chairs per table, but no less than six. While the floor dried, Po’ Zeke figured it would be the perfect time to raid the church Lost & Found box for some more garage sale bounty. Thursday was the last day of school and only a half-day at that. After the school bus dropped him off, Po’ Zeke would start arranging the garage as to his liking to make it more

shopper-friendly. He whooshed past the reverend’s office where they were holding the open door council meeting and quietly ducked into the church secretary’s office where the gargantuan box of lost and found items sat on the floor beneath a smaller, square folding table that ed smaller boxes full of obsolete office supplies and untouched prayer books. Po’ Zeke could easily hear the goings-on inside the council meeting as he softly rummaged through the lost and found items. “When my boy is done with the floor, Reverend, I can have him scrub down both heads, the kitchen, and maybe your car.” Baldwin said. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Reverend Googler said. “I hope we won’t be here as long as last month’s meeting, besides.” “He works fast. It won’t take him more than forty-five minutes to do it all, I’ll see to it personally.” “Stay here, Baldwin.” Reverend Googler said. “ we’ve got to settle all the issue with the proposed weekly Bingo night. If we move forward, there’s no telling how much the church will be able to reap in order to make the necessary property repairs and enhancements. We could upgrade the hymnals, launder all of the choir robes—the upside is incalculable.” “Like I already said, I’m totally in favor of the whole Bingo deal. What’s left to say?” Baldwin said. He’d already spent the money in his head figuring he’d take in, at minimum, one Bingo jackpot every Thursday night. “You realize, of course, that church are not allowed to participate in a weekly Bingo night.” Luella said. “The only participation by church will be through volunteering to work at the Bingo night—selling cards, making boiled wieners, setting up and tearing down, and so forth.” The cigarette somersaulted out of Baldwin’s teeth, down his shirt, and came to rest on his thigh. He picked it up, quickly, and held it between two fingers on his right knee hoping no one else had noticed. “Wait, what?” Baldwin said. “Luella is quite right,” Reverend Googler said. “We can’t have our own church

engaging in gambling—for all of the obvious reasons. If we move forward, it can only be with the council’s full agreement that the entire congregation must abstain from participating in, even indirectly through relatives, any form of wagering on church property.” Baldwin tossed his now half-cigarette into the Reverend’s wastepaper basket and lit another. He appeared deep in thought to the others, and he was. He was thinking of a way to argue that Luella and the Reverend were absolutely nuts if they thought the church was going to dangle such a cash grabbing opportunity before the congregation and not let them participate in it as individuals completely removed and independent of the church. Moose could see Baldwin was tearing up on the inside. He couldn’t think of anything to say one-way or the other. Everyone else on the council seemed to be in agreement as far as rigid, distant body posture went. Baldwin grabbed a paperclip off of the reverend’s desk and furiously contorted it into a variety of shapes waiting for an eloquent argument to conjure up in his head. “So then it’s agreed,” Reverend Googler said. “We’ll present to the church this Sunday the implementation of a weekly Bingo night, every Thursday, effective starting in June. And we will require a firm commitment of no less than ten church every week to volunteer time, probably three to four hours, so that we can successfully mobilize the event. Everyone who is agreed raise a right hand. , per church doctrine, we can only bring the issue before the congregation as result of a unanimous vote of the council.” The reverend, Luella, Hazel, and Herman all quickly raised their hands as if attached together by invisible wire. After glancing toward the reverend, Moose took a hard swallow then slowly raised his hand much to the dismay of a scowling Baldwin. The others looked to Baldwin as he mangled the paperclip between his fingers. Then Baldwin tossed the paperclip down to the floor and stood before the group with his hands on his hips puffing his smoke in the corner of his mouth. “Let’s be reasonable here,” Baldwin said. “What harm is there, exactly, in letting the harmless church member win an occasional Bingo jackpot? First off, who is going to know who is a member of the church and who isn’t? Furthermore, ten percent of that jackpot, when won by a church member, comes right back to the

church in the form of tithing—or free floor mopping services, etcetera. I think we’d be making a big mistake here if we start with all the exclusionary, discriminatory caveats to the whole deal. It’s like we on the council are saying that our own church don’t deserve to live a little. And I don’t want to get super Biblical on everyone here, but my wife often repeats a verse and I think it applies right here and now. Timothy I, line five: You shall not muzzle an ox when it treads out the grain; the laborer deserves his wages.” In the next room, Po’ Zeke was impressed. He had heard his mother quote from the scriptures on thousands of occasions, but it was the first time he’d ever heard his father echo from the Good Book. The Lost and Found box wasn’t exactly turning out to be a goldmine, but Po’ Zeke certainly found about a dozen or so items he felt he could move quickly at the garage sale without any fixing or polishing. There were lots of pairs of prescription glasses in the box, but he only took three of those with thicker lenses that he assumed were the more valuable ones. There was also a silver plated cigarette lighter, a shiny beaded clutch purse, a curly black garter belt, and a gigantic pair of chocolate pantyhose that Po’ Zeke figured would all turn a good buck. He placed his items into a small, empty box that he’d plucked off of a high bookshelf behind the secretary’s desk and brought the box out to the car where he deposited it into the back seat. He then came back inside the church to start pulling all of the chairs down off of the tables and place them as instructed around the nice clean floor of the community room. Inside the reverend’s office, Baldwin was now on some sort of filibuster hoping to push this vote on the authorization of the weekly Bingo night off as far as possible. “…And, it’s not just Bingo,” Baldwin said, “how will we look to the orphans if we say our own church are equal, but less than? The Good Man Upstairs is literally, albeit potentially, dropping a butt load of cold, hard cash right into our laps—but we’re going to go before our congregation and say, ‘tsk, tsk, hands off!’ It’s blaspheming chicanery of the highest order.” Baldwin looked at each face in the room seeing if he was reaching anyone. Moose was panting and furiously nodding. Reverend Googler showed no

emotion. Herman fiddled with his hearing aid indicating it was possible he hadn’t heard anything Baldwin said. Both women, Luella and Hazel, sat with arms folded and legs crossed; for one brief moment, Luella broke formation to check her wristwatch and then returned to stone gargoyle proportions. Assessing that he hadn’t yet won over everyone, Baldwin continued on, pacing the floor and burning through cigarettes to the tune of a fresh smoke every ninety seconds. “There are other thoughts on this in the Bible, you know. I hardly think that I should have to detail them all here and now. Okay, I’ll give you one more: Psalm 106, line 39; Thus, they became unclean in their practices, and played the harlot in their deeds. If we, a unanimous council, prepares to vote against allowing church to fairly compete against the non-member flock in something as brotherhood sharing as Bingo, are we, the council, not the unclean? Are we not the harlots? Who among us couldn’t use a little extra folding paper money at the end of the month? And we’re saying what—we’re saying that this income, generated in the spirit of good and holy and worthiness, is unjust gain for the good, peaceful, loyal, hopeful of our very own collective soulful embodiment—in the form of church ? If that’s what we’re saying, then I’m just going to have to go somewhere and reevaluate, exactly, what this church means to my family of four. Because if you ask me, it’s not what the good Lord intended when he gave us two hands and two good ears so we could play a harmless game of Bingo every now and again.” Feeling he made his point, Baldwin walked out of the reverend’s office without looking at anyone directly. Once out the door, he slowed his pace dramatically waiting to be summoned back by all. At the very least, he hoped Moose was right on his heels. No Moose. The last thing Baldwin heard before rounding the corner was Reverend Googler. “Well, we still have a quorum. What say the council? An ‘aye’ with raised right hands means you are in favor of presenting this issue before the congregation on Sunday.” Baldwin stopped and listened. The five “ayes” went off like firecrackers with nary a pause in between. Baldwin went out to the car, threw his soggy, chomped butt out the window, lit

another smoke, and careened out of the parking lot. Po’ Zeke looked curiously over his shoulder at the sound of the squealing tires outside while he poured the bucket of dirty mop water out into the church kitchen sink.

~~~

Ethyl was practicing, extra loud, when Baldwin arrived home at 10:30 PM. He made quick trajectory for the basement after kicking off his shoes in the foyer and plunged into the cold, two-inch deep water covering the basement floor. The coolness felt good on his feet. He clicked on the television and dropped into his chair. Next, he removed his wet, black socks and balled them up on the side table next to the ashtray. If the socks could talk, they’d have asked to be donated to the needy long ago. Ethyl paused her piano playing and shouted down towards the basement. “How was the meeting?” Not wanting to detail his misery or get into a whole thing, Baldwin replied with a non sequitur. “Did you see the hot water pipe down here yet? John Jr. did a helluva job. Helluva job.” “Is Po’ Zeke in the garage?” “Probably. Damned if I know. He’d better bring in top dollar at that rummage sale—the gas bill is coming due.” “I had to turn up the heat. It’s below sixty outside! I think that ice age article I read really nailed it this time.” Ethyl pounded down hard on the keyboard just as Fiona-Jo entered through the front door. When she got to the top of the staircase, Ethyl again paused her

pounding. “Where have you been?” “The donut shop—and then the arcade. Then Jolene’s mom’s new boyfriend’s garage so we could look at his motorcycle and beer can collection.” “It’s still a school night.” “Feh! Tomorrow is a total blow off day. We basically just have to go to take all the crap out of our lockers. It’s so palls-i-fied.” Fiona-Jo disappeared in the direction of the kitchen pantry. Ethyl resumed her piano playing. She was working an up tempo interpretation of Swing Low Sweet Chariot arranged by Blinko O’Brien. Each measure was to be played louder than the measure preceding it, so by the end of the piece, the pianist was basically in a bare-knuckled brawl with the keyboard. “Is that you?” Baldwin screamed from the basement. “Did you bring my Long John cut in half?” Fiona-Jo couldn’t hear her father because of the piano playing and dashed up the stairs towards her bedroom hiding a box of graham crackers and a jar of mayo under her shirt. “Who came in, an intruder?” Baldwin shouted. Ethyl banged away louder and louder. “Is anyone listening to me?” Baldwin shouted. Her fingers slapping and shucking along the keys faster and more furiously than ever before, Ethyl finally finished her song after the fifth run through and then clicked off the piano lamp. She grabbed her coffee mug off of the piano and went into the kitchen for a refill. “I’m not done,” Ethyl shouted down towards the basement. “I’m just taking a break.”

“Did Fiona-Jo come home? Did she bring my Long John up there?” “She went to bed.” “Did she leave a Long John in the kitchen anywhere? It was supposed to be cut in two, so it might not look like a Long John.” “No Long John!” A commercial came on interrupting Baldwin’s favorite Spade Cooley movie, Square Dance Jubilee. Baldwin stood up from his chair, tossed his cigarette into the pooled rainwater, lit another cigarette, took a dozen sloshy steps to the west, parted the louvered laundry doors, yanked on the light bulb string, and marveled at the hot water pipe repair job by John Jr. The repair looked nothing like the fix he and Futzman had put in place. It was just a solid copper pipe, soldered in a couple places, and fit right together with all the rest of the pipe. Damned if it wasn’t a piece of art. As long as he was up, he’d go check around the kitchen just in case Ethyl missed seeing the Long John. Ethyl was already snuggled up against the forced air heat in the dining room reading The Egyptian Slave Diet: A Thinner You in 12 Days! She heard Baldwin causing all sorts of mayhem in the kitchen; she knew he was looking for the Long John. “I told you, she didn’t bring home any Long John.” “Well, what am I supposed to eat then? The movie isn’t even to the halfway point.” “There’s some rhubarb in the crisper. You can dip it in your cream soda if it isn’t ripe enough for you.” “Is that all?” “Why don’t you make some popcorn?” “I don’t want to drag everything out. Plus there’s the cooking time. The commercials are almost over.”

“I’m going to start practicing again in ten minutes. I just need to close my eyes for fifteen minutes.” Baldwin yanked open the refrigerator door and managed to pull out the crisper drawer with his foot. The rhubarb was there, all right. There was a ton of rhubarb. Baldwin just didn’t see it happening. After ten o’clock at night was meant for fun food. He pushed the crisper drawer back in with his bare big toe, snatched a jet-black banana and jar of creamy peanut butter along with a plastic spoon, and headed back towards the basement. As soon as his feet hit the foyer level, the front door opened. It was Po’ Zeke. “Oh, hey.” Baldwin said. “There’s my boy.” “You left me at the church. Reverend Googler had to drive me home, but first we had to stop at the hospice to see Mrs. Guttergums.” “Gutterbaum. How’s she doing?” “Why’d you leave me at church?” Baldwin heard the movie resume downstairs on the television. Now he was knee-deep in another conversation for the second time in the same night. Clearly the world was against him. “I thought you were still mopping. I was going to come back more than likely.” “You forgot me.” “That’s barely true. It’s just, well, you’ve never come to the council meetings. And it’s just muscle memory. You probably won’t understand until you’re an adult.” Po’ Zeke closed the door and kicked off his shoes. “Is my box still in the car?” “It must be. I don’t bringing anything in.”

“I’m going to get the box out of the car and then I’m going to bed.” Baldwin took three steps down then turned just as Po’ Zeke was entering the garage. “Hey,” Baldwin said, “I was thinking. Maybe we should boost the price of those golf balls I found up to $1.75 apiece. That’s still a better deal than anybody can get at the pro shop or out at the store.” “Okay.” “Want to come watch the rest of the movie with me?” “Well, I have to do this. And I still have to go to school tomorrow.” Po’ Zeke looked into the darkness of the garage. “But I guess I could—” Baldwin was already gone from the steps. The sound of the sloshing of feet through the basement reservoir signaled his departure from the conversation. Inside the garage, Po’ Zeke flicked on the light switch and retrieved his box of items from the Trabant. He looked for a good place—safe and dry—to set it down. After several trial manipulations, Po’ Zeke finally settled on balancing the box up on the back of an old dining room chair and the mothballed lawn mower handlebar. It would be safe until he returned after school on Thursday to begin the grand logistical experiment that was staging a garage sale. Po’ Zeke stopped into the kitchen on his way up to his bedroom. He saw Ethyl horizontal by the heat in the dining room with her eyes closed. He didn’t want to wake her. Previous experience told him that waking Ethyl up too early from one of her catnaps ultimately incurred a wrath no keyboard in any concert hall or ragtime tavern had ever known. Po’ Zeke plucked a hefty, hard stalk of rhubarb from the refrigerator crisper and jaunted up to his bedroom. It’d be as good as any attempt at brushing teeth with his bristle deficient, old toothbrush. Hamilton was already there sprawled out across the foot of the bed slumbering on his back, and a severed crow’s beak cradled at his side like a featherless trophy.

13

Worried about her recital, Ethyl was already at the piano by 5:00 AM practicing when Po’ Zeke groggily emerged at the base of the staircase downwind from his bedroom. His hair was rumpled, and his eyes, gunk-covered chinks. “Did I miss the bus?” he said. Ethyl was in a zone. She needed to get the Symphonic Concerto for Piano and Orchestra in B minor down to a more manageable four minutes total length and played as vigorously as she could cutting whatever corners she could. It was too early for answering questions. Her fingers moved with the grace of a quiver of newborn cobras. “Did I miss the bus?” Po’ Zeke might be dreaming, but there was nothing good happening to him which suggested it was merely ongoing reality. Just as he was about to flick on the light switch inside the kitchen, Baldwin walked past him on the staircase at a frantic pace in his tighty-whitey underpants and tattered, mustard splattered undershirt lighting up a cigarette. His dad just kept on motoring down the steps where he went out the front door into the pouring rain. When the kitchen light illuminated, Po’ Zeke reflexively cowered and turned his head away until he could compose himself. After a solid twenty seconds had ed, he righted his head and slowly opened his eyes looking for something to eat before getting ready for the last day—the glorious half-day—of school. He didn’t want to go the rhubarb route again and opted for some nasty old wheat bread and generic oleo. Po’ Zeke liked to smear the oleo across the bread before sliding it into the toaster as it gave it more of an old world bakery touch. While Po’ Zeke sat enjoying his toast at the kitchen counter three minutes later, Baldwin re-entered the house through the front door drenched head-to-toe clutching four sopping wet newspapers against his chest and stomach. Ink ran down his undershirt and underpants onto the floor as if he’d lost an Aikido

match with a cunning squid. “Can you believe this?” Baldwin said tossing the newspapers onto the kitchen counter causing them to squirt inky, rainwater pus in Po’ Zeke’s direction. “Ours, Old Man Renoir’s, the Pisserton’s, and the Schminkle’s—every newspaper, ruined.” “You took everybody’s newspaper?” “Not everybody’s…just the ones I could see that were still outside. That poopfor-brains paperboy didn’t even try to put the paper on anybody’s porch. I’m going to call that newspaper and let him have it. How do they expect people to follow what’s going on in the world? I can’t even read the headlines, and that’s the biggest part of the whole damn thing. You can forget about the racing results —just forget about it!” “Do you think it’s going to rain all weekend?” Po’ Zeke asked, with worry now consuming his brow. “I’m having the garage sale this weekend. Rain would ruin everything—well, a good majority of the walk-in traffic, anyway.” “How would I know?” Baldwin said, tossing his cigarette into the sink. “I rely on the newspaper for that type of information.” Baldwin took the once around inside the refrigerator, then the freezer, and then the refrigerator again. “I thought your mother just went grocery shopping yesterday.” Po’ Zeke didn’t answer. He couldn’t . He was never really sure. “There’s nothing to eat in here!” Baldwin shouted out towards the piano. “Rhubarb!” Ethyl shouted back without breaking her rhythm on the keyboard. Foreboding footsteps descended from the upper level. It was 5:10 AM, one hour and forty-five minutes earlier than Fiona-Jo had planned on being awake. “What is going on?” Fiona-Jo snapped. “I need to sleep so I can get up for school and get to Jolene’s house for lunch after the half-day. Now everything is going to be off—everything.”

Baldwin lit a new cigarette and attempted to wedge some of Ethyl’s home brew java out of the pot and into an oversized, ceramic mug with a cake server. It was as close as he’d come to a cardio workout in ages. “You kids bring your report cards home,” Baldwin said. “I don’t want them to suddenly appear at the end of August inside my golf bag like last year. It took me forever to find my tees.” “Ugh!” Fiona-Jo said. She retrieved a jar of orange marmalade from the refrigerator, a soupspoon from the pantry, and headed back up the steps. “I’m going to take a bath, and then a shower.” “Dad?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Can I—” “You don’t want me to come to school and give a speech, do you? Because, I’m saving all of my good material for the club supper dance tomorrow—I don’t want it to get stale by then. Knowing those kids, they’ll run straight home and tell their parents all of my best stuff. Then where will I be tomorrow night under the hot spotlight?” “No. I was just wondering if I could have two dollars. On the last day of school me and Pinchy usually stop at the penny-candy store on the way home. It’s our tradition since two years ago.” Baldwin broke into a cold sweat. He had two dollars, but he was saving it in case Futzman dropped by in the late afternoon with a tip on a horse in the third or fourth race that Baldwin could turn into a sure thing. “Candy is bad. I don’t want you getting into those habits. It starts with candy, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a needle in your arm asking everybody to drive you everywhere.” Po’ Zeke was dejected but thought he might have understood what his father was getting it. “I’ll just go get ready for school, I guess.” Po’ Zeke said, before piling his unmunched toast crust into the cat food bowl. Ethyl was still blasting away on the piano as Baldwin set each of the four newspapers onto the upper rack inside the oven and adjusted the appliance to

“warm.” He crunched his toffee-like coffee straight from the mug waiting for at least one of the newspapers to dry out sufficiently enough to be read. The phone rang. Believing that nothing good ever came from a phone ringing so early in the morning, Baldwin just let it ring. There were two phones in the house—one downstairs next to Baldwin’s TV chair and the other in the kitchen. The kitchen phone had a long cord that Fiona-Jo had worn the elasticity out of over the years stretching it to the max pacing around the second level of the house while talking to Jolene. That’s also the extension Po’ Zeke usually had his evening chats on with Pinchy. The originally six-foot long curly cord was now a flaccid fourteen-foot long cord that piled on the kitchen floor directly beneath the receiver when the wall-mounted phone wasn’t in use. Finally, after six minutes of constant ringing, Ethyl got up from the piano to come into the kitchen and answer it. Baldwin was down on the kitchen floor on all fours peering through the oven glass at his warming newspapers. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Ethyl asked. “I’ve got to do this.” “Are you making that Stinking Bishop cheese on a muffin again?” Baldwin shook his head. The phone continued to ring. Ethyl answered. “Hello? Yes, she is home. But, no, she is not available. Who is this? Eddie Bubonty? What do you want with—hello? Hello?” Ethyl hung up the receiver. “Was that Futzman?” Baldwin asked, cocking his head upwards with a hopeful cadence of wrinkles around his eyes. “No, it was for Fiona-Jo. A boy. He said he was Eddie Bubonty. That’s Bill and Arlene’s boy, the one who went off to jail for hijacking the beer truck and plowing it into the Lionfish hatchery?” Baldwin half-nodded and turned his gaze back into the oven.

“I don’t like the thought of him having our home phone number,” Ethyl said. “No good can come from it.” “Probably just a wrong number.” “He asked for Fiona-Jo by name. And it’s not yet six o’clock in the morning.” “Hey, we’ve all been there.” Small wafts of smoke bled through the failed gasket on the oven door and lifted up towards the kitchen ceiling. Baldwin hoisted himself to his feet, turned off the oven, and retrieved the newspapers from inside. They were smoky and brittle on the edges and still moist in the center. The important, key bits were still too waterlogged to read. With the aid of a towel wrapped around his hand, Baldwin deposited the newspapers into the kitchen garbage can, defeated. “What time will you be home with the car?” Baldwin asked. “Why? You’re not thinking of going to the racetrack again tonight, are you? I thought you had to work on your little joke routine for the dance tomorrow night.” “For your information, I was planning on going up to the club and putting in twenty minutes on the vibrating belt machine before supper. I want to look good in my sport coat tomorrow.” “After I’m finished practicing, I have to go to the beauty parlor and then to my astrologer and then to school for my Zanzibarian Music Theory class. This is my runaround day. I won’t even be here for supper. You’re supposed to take the kids out to Olympic Safari—they’re looking forward to it. They want to celebrate the end of school.” “How do I take them there, magic carpet ride?” “I’m sure Futzman will have no trouble giving you a lift. Buy him a bowl of Polish minestrone for his trouble.” By 8:00 AM, the kids were off to school, Ethyl continued polishing her craft at the piano, and Baldwin was hard at work on his emcee comedy routine for the big dinner dance. The heavy rains brought an extra three inches of water into the

basement, so Baldwin was sure to crank the footrest up on his TV lounge chair so as not to allow the rainwater to splash up onto his notebook pad should he suddenly shift his weight around below his waist. As a point of reference, Baldwin had three storied joke books at his side to refer to in order to inspire his monologue: 1001 Fat Jokes, 10,001 Wife Jokes, and The Gentleman’s Guide to Ribald Debauchery (copyright 1928). In an uncharacteristic fit of concentration, Baldwin didn’t even turn the television on, as he wanted his total focus to be on the routine. It wasn’t what he actually planned to say that was important, Baldwin felt, it was how horrible the crowd would him making them feel—temporarily—that counted. This was going to be Baldwin’s time to shine. About two hours later, Ethyl announced she’d be leaving for the day and the Trabant rattled out of the garage and into the rain. Baldwin still only had five lines written on his first notebook page, and they were mostly the endorsements for champagne buffet at Stinkize that Baldwin promised Tony he’d work in to his off-the-cuff musings. Coming up with another seventeen to twenty-five minutes of fresh material was proving to be harder than he thought, so Baldwin sloshed over to his muse—the television—and clicked it on hoping for inspiration. He stood there, rainwater about an inch above his ankles, cranking the tuning knob round and round looking for something suitable to spur on his creative juices. Finally, on the tenth revolution of the knob, the local auto wrecker’s commercial gave way to a Wallace Beery vehicle on the UHF station. It would suffice. Just as Baldwin fell back into his chair, the phone rang. It was Futzman. He indeed had a horse in the fourth that was surer than anything he’d ever been sure of in his life. Futzman was so sure, in fact, that he was going to pawn his golf clubs, his electric saw, and his funeral suit just in order to get some extra money to put down on the horse. He encouraged Baldwin to do the same. He’d pick Baldwin up at 3:30 PM sharp. “Wait,” Baldwin interrupted. “The kids will be home today. It’s the last day of school or some such thing. I’m supposed to ask if you can take us all up to the Safari for supper on of Ethyl has the car.”

“Are you nuts?” Futzman screamed into the phone. Then continued arguably more calmly. “No can do. Did I tell you what a sure thing this was? And how do I know? You don’t want to know. Because if the guys that know I know knew that you know, they wouldn’t be too happy about it. This is, swear to Christ, like a once in a lifetime type tip. If we go out for supper, you can kiss everything good-bye. I might even leave town.” Baldwin thought for a minute. He couldn’t exactly follow the logic of why Futzman would leave town, but it sure sounded serious. “I understand. Okay, just come at 3:30 PM. I’ll be ready. I’ll work something else out with the kids for supper.” Futzman hung up. Baldwin’s heart was beating like a rabbit come the first whiff of spring fling. He looked down at his mostly blank notebook pad and cast it aside onto the side table atop his ashtray. He lit up a fresh cigarette and thought about how he could get enough money in such a short period of time in order to get a sizeable bet down on the mystery sure thing horse in question. The slot machine! It’d been ages since he’d opened up the back and cleaned out all of the quarters. He’d also since lost the key that opened the thing. Its weight was substantial—85 lbs. of mostly die cast metal. It wouldn’t be easy to lift, to carry, or to return to its pedestal atop the old filing cabinet behind the curtain of Hobo spider webs in the laundry room. Baldwin sloshed into the laundry room and battered down the Hobo spider webs as best he could with two of Ethyl’s bras (left to dry hung over a rope strung high above the sink). He then did a knee bend to ready his skeleton for the immediate addition of 85 lbs. which he would have to navigate somewhere to higher ground where it’d be dry enough to lie the machine on its face and crack open to retrieve the monies inside. About Baldwin’s only option would be to wade with the slot machine cradled in his arms back to the staircase where he could lie the machine face down on the foyer level where the garage side door and house front door were located. As soon as Baldwin gripped the machine and hugged it to his chest, he knew he was in trouble. For starters, the Hobo spiders were more than a tad put off that their webbings had been vandalized. They amassed into an angry pledge and

nipped Baldwin about the ears, neck, scalp, and shoulders as he turned with the slot machine, which now weighed a thousand pounds at the very least, away from the filing cabinet and out into the basement proper. He’d never exemplified this much muscular resolve in his life; he’d heard stories of pregnant women pushing cars onto their babies under similar episodes of physical duress, he was sure. Even though the basement floor was slimy and silt covered beneath the several inches of water, Baldwin’s feet held true with each step. He felt like his heart and kidneys had already burst, and he was just running on adrenalin now. His cigarette pointed lit end up at about eighty-five degrees as an under bite formed between his clenched teeth. The Hobo spiders fell off, one by one, as Baldwin’s feet drove heavy and merciless into the stairs ascending up to the foyer. Seven steps, six steps, five steps, and finally, the last step—Baldwin’s body had been to hell and back. He dropped the slot machine onto the once white, now yellowed, linoleum floor. A deep gouge formed at the three primary points of impact between the slot machine and the floor. Baldwin would forever look upon the gouges as badges of honor commemorating his feat of Olympian pedigree. But the back of the machine needed to be removed in order for Baldwin to access the stronghold of quarters inside the belly of the beast. First, a break for a fresh cigarette and to search in the garage for a big screwdriver, a spare umbrella, or some lighter fluid and a fuse—anything at all Baldwin could use to pry or compromise the integrity of the 3/8” thick solid steel back of the machine. It was 11:30 AM. Baldwin needed to work quickly as he believed he heard the kids saying something about coming home early from school. If they saw the slot machine up in the foyer like that, they’d start asking questions. Worst case scenario: Baldwin would have to split the spoils with them in order to get them to keep quiet and not tell their mother that he had cleaned out the old slot machine for less than laudable purposes (in her eyes). It was dark in the garage. The light bulbs within, now dormant, dusty relics from when the house was first constructed, were long past their usefulness. Being in his underpants, Baldwin didn’t want to open the main garage door to let any natural light in on of people might ask him about his business. This was

a clandestine operation, through and through. He grasped what he thought was a tin can full of lighter fluid but couldn’t read it. He held the can up towards his face and then flicked his disposable lighter in between the can and his nose. How lucky could he be? He got the right can on the first try in the complete darkness. Next he’d need a wick. He ed feeling a thread hanging down from his underpants onto the front of his right thigh. Bingo. It was as if the Holy Hand from above were guiding him and wanted him to finally realize a windfall after being screwed out of the whole church Bingo deal. Back in the foyer, Baldwin liberally sprayed the entire contents of the lighter fluid onto the back plate of the slot machine. With a deft tug, he then ripped the dangling thread from his underpants off of the garment, and placed one end of the thread into the keyhole lock of the back plate. Covering one eye, he leaned forward and lit the other end of the thread with his disposable lighter. The thread burnt away in less than a second and the residual flame-out towards the keyhole was enough to ignite all of the lighter fluid slathered onto the back of the slot machine. After about five minutes, Baldwin finally had a seat on the steps waiting for the flames to burn themselves out. The front door swung open. Fiona-Jo burst in to the proceedings going on in the foyer. She had nothing to say about what she was seeing as it didn’t concern her social schedule or digestion needs. She then dropped a rain soaked backpack full of mostly unused school supplies onto the floor and spun around back towards the outside. “I’m going to Jolene’s for garbage salad.” She left as quickly as she appeared. The lighter fluid finally burned off, and Baldwin figured he would easily be able to lift the back off of the slot machine with its integrity compromised so. Bending at the crotch, with knees pointed outward opposite directions, Baldwin severely scalded each fingertip and bottom portion of the palms of both hands as he tried to pry the back away with brute force. “Dammit it to hell!” Baldwin said, his scream loud enough to be heard a quartermile around town.

He dashed up to the kitchen, yanked open the freezer door, and then shoved both hands into the plastic ice cube bucket below the automatic icemaker inside. His cigarette was down to a nub so he spit it into the freezer. He’d retrieve it later. The pain in his hands was subsiding a wee bit, but he could relax more if he had a cigarette. This is what it must have been like for all the guys on the Bataan Death March, he thought. Po’ Zeke entered through the front door clutching a box that he’d covered with his ripped and blood stained gym suit in order to protect it from the rain. “What’s that smell?” Po’ Zeke asked. “It’s like something burning—hairy goat, maybe.” He glanced up the steps and saw the lower two-third’s of Baldwin’s undershirt and underpants-clad body facing towards the refrigerator with the top third of the body hidden from view behind the opened freezer door. “Are you making lunch, Dad? If so, I’m not really hungry. Pinchy and me stopped for some penny candy—he paid, but he says I owe him seventy-five cents after I my garage sale is done on Sunday.” Baldwin, still tormenting himself as to whether he should continue to soothe his hands in the ice cubes or pause to light up a fresh cigarette, was only halflistening. “Sunday?” Baldwin said. “No, it’s only Thursday. I know, because tomorrow is Friday—we’ve got the big dinner dance at the club tomorrow night. Your sister is babysitting you.” Po’ Zeke ascended the stairs. The freezer door still separated the two from making direct eye . “I picked up a whole bunch of extra stuff to sell that everyone was just throwing into the garbage today before leaving school. I got a ton of pencils, notebooks with still a lot of blank pages inside, bottles of glue—they’ve all been used, but I’m going to consolidate them into the same three or four bottles so they look like full bottles—and some other neat stuff. Nothing major that I can put in the high ticket items section, but every little bit will help, right?”

“Do you know how to light a cigarette?” “Huh?” “I need a cigarette, but I’m kind of fixing something in the freezer right now so my hands are busy. I just need you to light one and then put it in my mouth…and then maybe stand here and flick off the ashes every couple minutes until I’m done with it.” “I kind of wanted to get a head start on getting the garage together.” “You can’t go into the garage. I’m fixing something there, too.” “That old gambling machine that’s lying down by the front door?” “I just needed that for a counter-weight.” “What are you fixing?” “Don’t worry about that. You’ve got a lot on your plate already. Why don’t you go up to your room and get a head start on your homework.” “School is over! Today was the last day.” Baldwin really needed that damn cigarette. He was going to have to suck it up and play with pain. He withdrew his hands from the ice cubes. They were beet red and covered in baby blisters. He head-butted the freezer door closed. Going into details would only get his son to ask more questions—and ultimately lead into a discussion about extracting the quarters from the slot machine. “What’s in the box?” Baldwin asked, hoping to divert Po’ Zeke’s attention away from his molten hands. “School supplies, like I was saying before.” “Oh. Well, there’s always next year.” Po’ Zeke disappeared into his bedroom. Baldwin rambled down the steps and lunged for his cigarettes and lighter that he’d left on the half-wall ledge alongside the ascending steps from the basement up to the foyer. He lit up a new

cigarette and sat next to the slot machine. He looked at his hands. They hurt now, but he’d live. He’d experienced much greater burns in his day on many less important tasks. Not wanting to aggravate his injury any further, though, he leaned over and pressed his right cheek down to the back of the slot machine to see if it was still too hot to touch. It was okay—warm, but cool enough to work with now. The still had significant resistance to any attempts to be forced off by hand. Baldwin thought hard. He could call Futzman for a few ideas, but then Futzman might want a finder’s fee of some kind since he was amassing as much money as he possibly could to wager on the sure thing later. Baldwin needed to reserve every last cent for himself. Think, Baldwin. Dammit. Think. Baldwin thought. He couldn’t roll over it with the car, as the car wasn’t there. The car might also contain less actual metal than the slot machine and succumb to any kind of impact. He could try to pry it off with one of his golf clubs. However, the shaft of said club could get bent in the process. And there wasn’t a fortune on earth big enough to get Baldwin to willfully wreck one of his shafts. His clubs will be his ticket out of the ghetto one day. Baldwin was counting on it. Finally, Baldwin figured he’d haul the machine up to the next level of the house —one more flight of stairs. And when he got to the top of the steps, he would just push the slot machine down the steps. The final impact with the foyer floor would most certainly cause the back to drop away from the rest of the slot machine. Baldwin finished his cigarette and lit another. After another practice knee bend, he squatted down and wrapped his arms around the slot machine. Slowly, Baldwin righted himself. His knees knocked together with each ascending step up. He could no longer sense feeling along his spine or from his shoulders to his fingertips. After the eighth and final step, Baldwin turned, squatted, and pushed the slot machine forward down the steps. The machine tumbled end-over-end once, bounced off of the foyer floor, and

flew into the wooden front door, which immediately cracked in two from the bottom up to just below the built-in glass window sixty inches above the floor. The impact against the front door sent the slot machine tumbling back in the opposite direction down the basement staircase where it landed with a mighty splash onto the basement floor. A mini-tsunami sent a half-foot high wave up against all four walls of the basement leaving a smudge of silt and shed salamander skin on the drywall in different places. “Dad?” Po’ Zeke shouted down from his bedroom. “Is everything okay?” Baldwin frowned as he bent over the high upper level wrought iron railing that overlooked the foyer and down towards the basement. There had to be another way. “Dad?” “You bet. You hungry?” “No.” “Let me know when your sister gets home so we can talk about supper. I’ll be out in the garage.” Some two hours later now inside the garage, Baldwin’s project was finally a success. With the aid of a crowbar, a flat head screwdriver, three different pairs of vise grips, the family flashlight precariously balanced on the edge of an old lawn chair, and some garage door lubricant, Baldwin was able to negotiate the back off of the slot machine. He focused on the part of the in the center just above where the keyhole lock was placed, as it seemed to him to be the likeliest point of compromise. The back and keyhole lock were damaged beyond repair in his doing so, and he’d never get the back on to the machine. But then he realized there was no point in even having the back on the machine. For Baldwin, it would be like printing his own free money from now on. Whenever he needed a little advance, he could just reach in and take what he needed. Covered in ink, sweat, a little bile, and garage door lube, Baldwin reached into the golden goose and retrieved the coin strongbox from its belly. The box was heavy, just like Baldwin hoped. He pried open the lid to the box with the flathead screwdriver, grabbed the flashlight from the lawn chair, and shined it downward.

Glory it be! There must have been twenty-eight or thirty dollars worth of quarters waiting to be stacked, wrapped, and wagered. In no mood for another massive, anatomical struggle to try and move the slot machine by himself back downstairs atop its regular perch, Baldwin negotiated the heavy contraption into a corner of the garage next to a bunch of crap Po’ Zeke had stacked there earlier in the week. If things went as Baldwin hoped they would at the track, he could pay some neighborhood teens to carry the slot machine back down to the laundry room at a time when Ethyl would be out of the house. The deed now done, Baldwin ran into the house, dashed into the downstairs basement bathroom, locked the door behind him, climbed into the single shower stall (with the only dry floor on that level of the house) across from the toilet, and poured out his quarters. He was rich—$29.25. No, he was well off. After his horse came in later in the afternoon, then he’d be rich.

~~~

Fiona-Jo arrived back home at just before 3:00 PM. Baldwin was all cleaned up and ready to go off with Futzman on their intended rounds. He summoned the children down into the kitchen. His demeanor was confident. His right tro pocket bulged with recently wrapped quarters. “Your mother said you wanted to go to the Safari tonight for supper,” Baldwin said. Both children shrugged. “But, I think I’ve got a better idea. What if, instead of the three of us going out for dinner, I go out with Futzman for a little while? And when I come home, I’ll bring you a pizza or a bucket of chicken—whatever you want.” “I guess,” Po’ Zeke said. “But will you come home before midnight?” “I promise to try.”

“It’s okay with me. I ate a big lunch and then some snacks and then Jolene’s mother’s new boyfriend came by with donuts and cola.” “Now, and this is important, when your mother gets home, tell her that we had this discussion and that everyone was on board. Is it a deal?” Both children nodded. Baldwin closed his eyes and exhaled. They bought it. “Can I have a snack or something until you get back?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Can’t you wait?” “I’m going to be busy in the garage all night. I’m setting up for the sale this weekend.” “Well, just try and pace yourself. But if there’s some kind of food emergency, run next store to Old Man Renoir’s. He’s always got some crackers or cookies. But don’t say anything about seeing the newspaper this morning. I’m going to make it up to him another way.”

14

Like his father before him only a few hours earlier, Po’ Zeke had never worked so hard inside the garage in his life. He opened the main garage door to let in what little dusk light there was from behind the drenching rain clouds. With that light, Po’ Zeke swept the floor good and clean ing over every uncluttered inch of the cracked, cement slab at least three times. He deposited all of the dust, dirt, cigarette butts, beetle carcasses, banana peels, stray earrings, thumbtacks, torn up racetrack tickets, and piles of coffee grounds into one of the 40 gallon trash cans and darn near filled it to halfway full. For the first time Po’ Zeke could , the floor looked safe enough to walk barefoot on. Next came the arduous task of pushing all of the non-saleable items back and out of the way up against the walls. Only a small amount of the items currently in the garage had actually been authorized for sale by his parents. The rest of the stuff, like the vintage Bergonic chair and the pressboard, lovers coffin built for two, were among the thousand or so items being hoarded for their “potential future sentimental value.” He didn’t know what to make of the gambling machine; it was too heavy to move, anyway. After a couple of hours, with the daylight completely gone, Po’ Zeke couldn’t see well enough to get anything else of consequence done. He’d get an early start on things in the morning actually setting up the folding tables and arranging/tagging whatever merchandise he had to sell right after breakfast. What he needed to do now was go inside the house and make signs advertising his sale. Two signs should suffice—one he’ll post up at the end of the block and the other on the telephone pole out in front of the Olympic Safari where it’s bound to be seen by thousands of motorists during the course of the weekend. There’s nothing the folks of Dearth liked to do more on weekends than tie on the feedbag and barter for somebody else’s un-want-ables (Po’ Zeke ed the town mayor saying on television during a recent campaign). It was followed by the mayor saying something about taxing garage sales and breakfast sausages that Po’ Zeke didn’t really understand. Before he could slap the button to close the big garage door, Ethyl came rolling

into the garage in the rain soaked Trabant. She ground the car to a halt in the middle of the wide-open and clean swept concrete floor. The rainwater dripped down onto the floor from all around the vehicle. Po’ Zeke didn’t mind a bit as the reflective shimmering only enhanced the allure of the pristine sweeping job he’d accomplished. Ethyl emerged from the car with a heavy sigh and an even heavier satchel of music books plus her hot beverage canister. It was 8:45 PM. She was beat. “What’s different about this place?” Ethyl asked. “It looks as good as Beethoven’s bedroom.” “I’ve been cleaning. I got everything ready for my garage sale. I’ve been working pretty much since Dad left.” “He left? You mean, after dinner at the Safari?” “Mr. Futzman and him left around three-thirty this afternoon. But Dad said he was going to bring us maybe a pizza or a bucket of chicken on of him and Mr. Futzman had to do something, and taking us all to dinner would’ve loused them up real good.” Ethyl slammed the driver’s side door of the Trabant closed. Something metal fell off of the car from underneath. Ethyl didn’t care. Po’ Zeke figured he’d check it out in the morning and see if it was anything that could be re-sold over the weekend. “And where is your sister?” “At Jolene’s, I think. But I might of seen her getting a ride on a police motorcycle up and down the block a few times. The guy driving did a wheelie the whole way.” “In this rain?” “She had goggles on.” Po’ Zeke could have uncorked right then and there and spilled the beans about Fiona-Jo and Jolene’s big Friday night scheme to go to the beer party at Kent Bubonty’s house, but he bit his tongue. It still wouldn’t have ideal punishment

potency, and it would open the door for Fiona-Jo to possibly sabotage his garage sale somehow. The timing of the spilling of the beans was critical. Ethyl simply groaned and went inside the house. Po’ Zeke was right behind her. She came to an immediate halt one step into the house. “What are those gouges on my foyer linoleum floor? Did you do this with your garage sale preparations?” “No, Mom, honest!” There was more to tell, of course, but Po’ Zeke didn’t want to get his dad in the doghouse by recanting the story about the gambling machine and so forth. “I’m not sure how they happened. Maybe somebody fell down? Or Hamilton was batting around a mouse?” Ethyl shook her head, climbed up the stairs, dumped off her satchel of music books by the piano, and went into the kitchen to brew up a batch of the hot gooey goodness that’d fuel her until bedtime. Po’ Zeke sat on one of the kitchen stools as Ethyl went through her ritual of grinding the coal-black java beans, adding various supplements, coagulants, and aromatics to the mix, and pounding it all down into the percolator with the dull end of a butcher knife. “Mom?” “Huh?” “Do you think I’ll make enough at my garage sale to buy the BMX bike—I mean truly enough for the tax and everything?” “Well, you’ve been working really hard.” “But what if, I don’t know, what if it keeps raining? Or what if nobody wants anything I’ve got for sale? Or what if robbers come and take everything out of the garage tonight before I can sell it?” “Romans 8:38, my dear: for I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers—” That comforted Po’ Zeke, even though Ethyl trailed off without completely

finishing the thought. “I understand,” he said, as he rose up from the stool. “I’ll be up in my room working on signs. How do I spell ‘garage’—with a ‘j’ at the end or a ‘z-e’?” “You know better than to ask. Check your dictionary that Santa brought you.” Po’ Zeke took a fat, black permanent marker out of the middle junk drawer between the refrigerator and the stove and dashed up the stairs toward his bedroom. While her home brew percolated, Ethyl retrieved a stalk of rhubarb from the refrigerator, washed and chopped it, and then mixed it up in a cereal bowl with some tarragon and boneless sardines. Hamilton quickly descended from the staircase leading towards the bedrooms and appeared on the scene as soon as the sardine can cracked open, but Ethyl had nary a pilchard to spare—for a cat. She violently shook her finger at him and nudged him with her rain boot clad foot in the direction of his already overflowing food bowl. The cat sniffed his food bowl for ten seconds, rooted around until he found some stringy, discarded animal flesh, and raced back up the staircase. Ethyl was enjoying her supper and coffee malted at the kitchen counter when Fiona-Jo came in just after 9:15 PM. She was soaking wet from her hair down to her stocking feet. She stuck her head into the refrigerator without any token salutation. “There’s clean rhubarb,” Ethyl said, while crunching her meal, “and I left four sardines on a napkin over by the sink if you’re looking for a snack.” “Snack? Dad was supposed to be home now with a six-foot sub or a pizza or something. Isn’t he home?” “I just walked in the door. Didn’t Jolene’s mother feed you as usual?” “No! She went off on the motorcycle with her new steady, Rocco the cop, and they went to Bologna Mahoney’s. I guess it’s a big cop hangout and they all eat free, limit two. Jolene and I finished every last Chicharrones and ketchup packet in the house—but I’d hardly call it a meal.” “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know what time to expect your father. I told him he was

supposed to take you out to Olympic Safari tonight.” “I hate this. I’m sick of this. Do you know I’m the only one in my class who doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from?” “Speaking of school, how was your last day?” “Stupid.” “Weren’t all your friends excited?” “Excited to get the hel—heck out of there.” “Don’t forget about tomorrow night. You’re going to babysit your brother while your father and I are at the club dance. I finally get to wear my new dress, can you believe it?” “That’s another thing. BoogerEater is going into junior high school now. That’s a little old to need a babysitter, I think. If this gets out, everybody will make fun of him more than they do now. Even the short bus kids will beat him up.” “You know when we say ‘babysit,’ we just mean ‘supervise.’ Just make sure he gets supper, doesn’t get hurt, doesn’t wander off on his bike, and is in the house before dark. You can have Jolene come over, and the two of you can listen to the record player in the basement while drinking soda.” “Gross! If I didn’t have to use the back-up shower, I’d never go down there. It’s like a haunted swamp—all wet and dark and strange noises and smells.” “Stay in your room then…or in the front room by the piano. Better yet, help your brother set up for his garage sale. If you do a good job, maybe we’ll extend your curfew this summer to ten o’clock.” Fiona-Jo nodded and pondered. This was a good deal. She’d really have to think about this one. And she pretty much already got a full to babysit with oneeye closed and one-foot out the door towards Kent’s party, at least that’s how she was interpreting the things she just heard from her mother. “I’ll think about it.” Fiona-Jo said, snatching the four sardines from the paper towel by the sink.

“I thought you might. Why don’t you go up and get into some dry pajamas or something? You’re dripping all over my kitchen floor.” Fiona-Jo bit the heads off of the sardines, one at a time, and then chased them with all four headless bodies at once. She chewed and gulped in one, swift esophageal motion. “Okay. But I want to get a phone extension in my room. You and Dad promised that if I did good in school this year that this would be the summer.” “Did you do good in school?” “I’m going to the next grade.” “We’ll have to talk about it.” “Then I at least want one of those mini-refrigerators so I could put it next to my bed while you’re talking about it. Just think of it, if there’s ever an emergency when you run out of room in this refrigerator down here and need to store something, we’ll have a backup. And you and Dad can use it anytime you want when I’m not in my room or sleeping.” “Don’t push your luck. If you keep dripping on my floor, I’m even rescinding the offer about extending summer curfew.” “Ugh. I hate this!” Fiona-Jo said, and then stomped upstairs toward her bedroom. “It’s like living in black and white times!” Her bedroom door slammed shut. After her leisurely dinner, several cups of coffee, checking her horoscope, and removing her rain boots, Ethyl changed in to her brown, Oscar de la Renta, silk, disciple pattern housecoat and prepared to practice at the piano. Before she made the trip down the steps, she wanted to check in on the children as neither had made a peep for quite some time. Po’ Zeke’s bedroom door was wide open, as usual. He was sprawled out on his back, asleep on the bed, with Hamilton nestled up against Po’ Zeke’s left armpit. Po’ Zeke still had his clothes on but had managed to pull off one white sweat sock before ing out. It was balled up in his hand turned inside out.

There was a white poster board on the floor next to the bed showcasing Po’ Zeke’s strife in announcing to the world his garage sale. The first line of the sign was okay as both Saturday and Sunday were abbreviated to “THIS SAT. and SUN.!” in big, black printed letters. Never one to master spatial concepts, the letters got smaller and thinner as Po’ Zeke wrote from left to right on the top of the poster board. The “N” in “SUN” just barely made it onto the announcement and looked more like an inverted “V.” The next line is where the wheels clearly came off and Ethyl’s advice to check the dictionary was blatantly ignored. ‘Garage’ was spelled ‘G-R-A-D-J-E,’ and ‘sale’ was impregnated to ‘S-A-I-L-E.” Ethyl didn’t want to take over the project but told herself she’d definitely help with the signage tomorrow when she had a little free time in the morning. When she attempted to check on Fiona-Jo, she found the bedroom door locked. “Hello?” Ethyl said softly. “Are you asleep?” No answer. Ethyl knocked softly on the door not wanting to wake up Po’ Zeke just around the corner. “Go Away!” Fiona-Jo shouted. “I’m sleeping!” “Okay, dear. I just wanted to say, ‘goodnight’.” “Fine! If you say so! Whatever!” At 11:10 PM, just as Ethyl positioned herself at the piano, the roar of Futzman’s truck revving down the block and then backfiring and skidding to the curb just in front of the Pullman house could be heard throughout the neighborhood. The truck tore away as quickly as it arrived and was out of earshot before Baldwin came through the front door. He attempted to enter quietly and unnoticed carefully stepping towards the basement and not illuminating any lamps or flicking on light switches. Sadly, his stomping out of a cigarette and igniting of a replacement just inside

the doorway easily gave him away. Ethyl opted to engage before Baldwin made it another step down so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice as much. “Well,” Ethyl said, “I hope that bucket of chicken you promised to bring home to feed the children is some of the finest bucket chicken ever to be plucked and carried home after an eight hour car ride.” “Hey, you’re home. How is it with everything going on and everything?” “I’m not going to dignify your behavior by coming down there or making eye . Just tell me how much you lost and where you got it to lose. And after that, tell me about those gouges on my foyer linoleum that you just stepped over in the dark like they weren’t there. I can see them from here—they’re burned into my brain.” There was a long pause while Baldwin quietly slipped off his mud caked Buster Brown’s, unbuttoned his shirt, rolled his cigarette across his bottom lip and back again with his tongue, wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, and tried to come up with a satisfactory reply. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Can we just agree that if it weren’t for rotten luck I’d have no luck at all?” “I’ve a good mind not to show up at that dance tomorrow night at all. I’ll return the dress!” “That’s dirty pool. You know this is one of my seven or eight biggest nights out at the club in the year. I’ve got to have my best girl there right by my side. People might get ideas. That’s how they got to Moose and Flora.” “Well? Were you out betting on horses again? And, how?” “It’s just beyond description. All I’ve got to say is that’s the last time I listen to Futzman and any of his ‘sure things.’ This sure thing was the furthest thing from a sure thing than any of them had ever been. And Futzman loaned me four dollars so I could make the bet. I was going to pay him back with my winnings.” “So now you’re a debtor to your friends?”

“It’s not like that. We agreed I wouldn’t have to pay him back when the sure thing horse shook free from the sulky and ran out into traffic. And wouldn’t you know, she was keeping pace with a speeding fire engine for damn near a mile.” “Is any of that true?” Baldwin had tiptoed down into the depths of the basement dreck and then pretended to be out of earshot. He figured Ethyl wouldn’t risk coming down after such a long day of rain when all sorts of amphibious creatures backwashed into the laundry room from the outside. “What?” Baldwin said, half-heartedly. He sploshed over to the television, found a documentary on Women of the Wehrmacht on the local PBS , and settled in to enjoy it from the moist mush of his lounge chair. His mouth would stay agape until he succumbed to sleep about forty minutes later. Baldwin again went to Dreamland. Baldwin sits in the basement floating in his chair, smoking a cigarette, in the calm, knee-deep, accumulated rainwater. It’s clear enough to drink, so he fills his shoe and pours a hearty amount into his mouth. He is illuminated only by the friendly, blue glow of the television, also floating in the rainwater, across from Baldwin’s outstretched feet on the other side of the room up against the far wall. Beyond the fringes of the blue glow there is only darkness. Baldwin can’t quite make out what is on the television screen. It is irrelevant, anyway, as he is soothed with the device just being turned on. In Baldwin’s lap rests a pile of quarters—hundreds of them. Midge, Baldwin’s favorite waitress from Stinkize, sidles up next to his chair. A former beauty queen (from the 1930’s), Midge still wears her uniform in a manner that utilizes her cleavage to pay the rent. Baldwin has no qualms about it. “More coffee for the awesome golfer?” Midge asks.

“You have to ask?” Baldwin replies. Midge tilts a stainless steel coffee pot high above Baldwin’s lap and pours out even more quarters. “Say when,” she says. “Ever see this picture?” Baldwin asks her, pointing at the television. Midge stops pouring out the quarters, takes a hit off of Baldwin’s cigarette, and looks at the television. She shakes her head. “It’s a good picture. I’m in it. I’m a lover and a fighter.” “If I was your wife, it would be like this all of the time.” Midge said, as she unbuttoned the third button down on her orange and brown, polyester waitress frock. “While you’re up, can you change the channel for me? And how about some more coffee?” Midge waded away with Baldwin’s cigarette, and he lit another. While he smoked with his left hand, Baldwin fondled all of the quarters piled up on his lap with his right hand. He plucked a handful off of the top of the stack, hoisted them up a foot high, and let them trickled back down to the pile when his fingers relaxed and spread apart. The phone rang. Baldwin pretended he didn’t hear it. It rang twenty more times as Baldwin caressed his pile of quarters. Futzman appeared. He was agitated and black and blue about the eyes and lips. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Futzman said. “I thought it was for somebody else.” “I see you got your payout. Well, look what happened to me.” “What?”

“Look at my face. And my chest, knees, and tailbone look worse.” “Do you want to go sock a bucket of balls?” “Your hot water pipe, that’s how it happened. I was at the gas station minding my own business, and John Jr. came over and asked who did the half-assed job on the hot water pipe over at the Pullman place. So I tell him it was I, and he starts working me over with the fix that I had in place on the pipe. Then when I’m good and worked over, he gives me a tip on horse in the eighth race tonight. So bag up those quarters, and let’s go.” “What’s the tip?” “He wouldn’t say.” Baldwin contemplates for a minute. It’s as solid as any other tip they’ve gotten as of late. He fills his shoes with the quarters that were on his lap and hands the shoes to Futzman. “You better make the bet for me. I’ve got to watch this picture. It’s about a man and his horse.” Futzman and the quarter-filled shoes are already gone. Something on the television causes Baldwin to break into a loud roar of laughter. He resonates throughout the house. He can’t stop. He’s laughing, crying, and puffing his cigarette with reckless abandon. Po’ Zeke emerges from the darkness of the corner of the room. “Dad,” Po’ Zeke says, pointing at the television, “you’re on television.” Baldwin nods but can’t take his eyes off of the television or stop howling. Po’ Zeke makes a part in the rainwater basement sea by holding his arms aloft and peddles away, up the stairs, on his penny-farthing. The laughter stops. Baldwin wipes tears from the corners of his eyes and regains his composure.

“That’s a helluva bike,” Baldwin says to no one. “And where’s my pie?” While Baldwin dreamed, Ethyl brewed herself a new pot of hot black goo and daydreamt in the kitchen. How wonderful she’ll look in the new dress tomorrow night. She’ll be the envy of every woman in the room and the dance floor desire of every man. If she ed to accessorize right, she could rock that same dress to well into her seventies. And then she would hand it down to Fiona-Jo. Fiona-Jo was also having a dream at the same time. Propped up against the headboard of her bed inside of a bedroom that wasn’t hers, but one she felt at home in nonetheless, Fiona-Jo painted her toenails. The color, according to the small bottle, was ‘Gyro Brown.’ Chef Boyardee, live and in the flesh, entered the bedroom. He looked exactly like Fiona-Jo had seen him on the ravioli can. “Again with the perfumes!” Chef Boyardee said. “I cannot afford a wife like you.” “It’s toenail polish. Besides, since when do you care?” “What did you do with my tennis toque?” “Jolene borrowed it.” “For what? And who is she? Who else is going to be at Kent’s party—anybody I know?” “I’m not going to sit here while you point fingers. If you think you can do better, be my guest. All we ever do is eat from a can, Big Shot.” Chef Boyardee backed out of the room without another word leaving a pile of lukewarm tomato sauce on the floor where he’d been standing. Po’ Zeke, too, was in the Dreamland zone. His toes wiggled frantically, briefly disturbing Hamilton, who had to partially open his eyes and reposition himself closer to Po’ Zeke’s hip where the squirming was less intrusive. Po’ Zeke’s dream, like all his dreams, wasn’t far from his reality.

Po’ Zeke stood shoeless on the street curb trying to suck sweetened molecular remnants from the wooden Popsicle stick he’d more fully enjoyed a week prior. Centered in the driveway, Po’ Zeke had to leap out of the way to his right when, without warning, his father backed the Trabant out of the garage at full speed and sped away down the street. Po’ Zeke landed in a small thatch of grass and broken glass, mostly broken glass, and sat in an upright position brushing the dirt off of his Popsicle stick. Pinchy called out from down the block. “Hey, Po’ Zeke! Look!” Pinchy approached on bicycle. Not only was he on bicycle, he was riding the yellow BMX bike from Pergler’s Hardware. He drove no-handed, with a clear, plastic sack of jellybeans in one hand and balancing a plate of Pigs-in-theBlanket, Po’ Zeke’s second favorite food of all time, on the other. Po’ Zeke just watched. Pinchy approached in slow motion giving Po’ Zeke time enough to look at the bike, the Pigs-in-the-Blanket, the bike, the jellybeans, and the bike again. Pinchy rolled to a perfect stop right in front of Po’ Zeke never once touching the handlebars or losing his balance. “Look at me!” Pinchy said. “I see you.” “Look,” Pinchy said, holding up the Pigs-in-the Blanket. “Pigs-in-the-Blanket, just the way you like them, from Olympic Safari!” Po’ Zeke licked his Popsicle stick pretending not to notice any of it. “And in this hand, jellybeans from Specht’s candy store. Ten pounds! I can hardly lift it.” Pinchy said, releasing his grip on the bag which then just levitated in the air next to his head. “And of course you recognize my new bike. My dad got it for me on of my birthday is in ten weeks.” Po’ Zeke looked over his shoulder behind him at his garage at the high end of the driveway. The main door was open, and all of his garage sale merchandise

was tagged and beautifully displayed from one side of the garage to the other going some fifteen feet deep inside. “Plus,” Pinchy said, “My folks said I can stay out past when the streetlights come on as long as I stay on my bike or keep my shoes on.” Po’ Zeke squinted back towards Pinchy with the sun just behind his head. It was an eclipse of the most painful kind as Pinchy crammed one of the delicious, plump, butter and syrup covered Pigs-in-the Blanket into his mouth. “Are you coming to my garage sale?” Po’ Zeke asked, not knowing why he did. “When is it?” “Yesterday. And today. Right now.” Pinchy looked into the garage from his position thirty-feet away and scowled. “Aw, I don’t see nothing good.” He said. “Where are you going now?” “First, I’m going to get some more Pigs-in-the-Blanket. My dad filled up the whole back yard with them. Then me, Booger Larry, and Filipino Goob are going to go over to the forbidden street and set up a new ramp so we can jump stuff. I’m gonna pile up a bunch of Pigs-in-the-Blanket on Booger Larry’s stomach while he lies there next to the ramp. Filipino Goob is gonna take his sister’s camera and we’re gonna take pictures of it all—maybe show them off to Bunny and Bonnie and see if they want to kiss us.” Po’ Zeke looked up at the sky. It was crystal clear and beautiful. When he looked back down, Pinchy was gone. The sound of the Trabant straining to make it back home was unmistakable. The car, smoke spewing from the carriage as well as beneath each tire, bounded around the corner off of Bedlam Place, the major inlet street nearer to the Pullman residence. Baldwin was behind the wheel reading a racing form. He squealed into the driveway at full speed, never tapped the brake pedal, and crashed with one hundred percent propulsion into Po’ Zeke’s garage sales tables sending merchandise flying in all directions and out into the driveway.

Baldwin emerged from the Trabant with his nose buried in the racing form. Po’ Zeke gave the scene a token look as if it was destined to happen, anyway. Two seconds later Baldwin smashed out Po’ Zeke’s bedroom window that overlooked the driveway with his putter. “Bring me a diet!” Baldwin yelled. “A diet. A diet!” Po’ Zeke jettisoned immediately from the end of the driveway to the golf ball driving range where he observed Baldwin, Pinchy, and Reverend Googler whacking golf balls into a thunder cloud not far off or too high above the ground. “Run over to the snack hut there and see if they got a book of matches,” Baldwin said. Po’ Zeke hesitated out of instinct. When he looked down, he saw that he was naked. “Do I hafta?” Po’ Zeke said. “What else am I going to do? Now go, you’re the only one not golfing.” “But I think there’s girls working there. What if they see—everything?” “Your father is right,” Reverend Googler said. “Hesitation is the Devil’s playground.” “Can Pinchy come with me?” Po’ Zeke asked. “Pinchy is busy.” Pinchy said. “Pinchy is on automatic.” Po’ Zeke sulked off in the direction of the driving range snack hut. He could feel every eye in town cast his way. His arms were stiff by his sides and he was unable to cover or shield himself in any way. He could see through the window into the hut. Every girl from his school, church, and around the neighborhood was inside. “And have them make us some hot fudge sundaes, too,” Baldwin called out. “I

don’t care how long it takes!” As Po’ Zeke approached the hut, the front wall of the building fell forward exposing a hundred of the girls Po’ Zeke knew to him, and him to them. The scene just froze there. At half past two o’clock in the morning, Ethyl turned off the piano lamp, went into the kitchen to rinse out her hot beverage canister and mug, placing them tenuously on the overfilled counter top dish drying rack, and went up to the master bedroom. She opened the closet. Prominently hung in front at a perpendicular angle to the other clothes was the swanky, vinyl garment bag from Bethlehem Express that she had moved up from the furnace closet earlier. Ethyl pulled down on the rickety, pliant zipper of the garment bag and pulled the dress forward through the opening. It’s stunning beyond words, Ethyl thought. And also a pity that she could only foresee wearing it just the one time to the Erectors Duff Club dance the following evening. Ethyl closed her eyes and caressed the hem of the dress. It felt like what she imagined the cloth napkins at the Last Supper must have felt like. Within minutes, the dress was on her body. She preened for the mirror hung on the back of the hollow core, balsa wood master bedroom door until she was satisfied at every angle. Then she climbed into bed with the dress clinging to her body like a twenty-five percent markdown cocoon.

15

Po’ Zeke burst out of bed before sunrise. He ate a real fast breakfast consisting of a piece of white bread and two granulated sugar packets, and went into the garage with his black marker pen and roll of masking tape in hand. The masking tape had been waterlogged many times over when lost in the basement, but Po’ Zeke was confident it could still do the job. Po’ Zeke needed the Trabant backed out of the garage so that he might move about more freely and start arranging all of his sales merchandise on the three card tables, two picnic benches, and the old lawn chair. Everything that didn’t fit on the showcase displays would be spread out on the floor across an old comforter and the old afghan Hamilton dismembered a sea otter atop that was never fully cleaned but would be just fine flipped over. Both parents were still asleep in the master bed. Initially Po’ Zeke thought it curious that his mother was already dressed for her night on the town when he peeked in to see if anyone was up but then figured she just didn’t want to have his dad yapping at her that she was taking too long to get ready when it came time to go. That was usually what blasted off their fights and set the tone for the rest of the evening whenever they had their date nights. Po’ Zeke saw his father’s car keys up on the bureau and briefly flirted with the notion of moving the Trabant out of the garage himself. It was fifty-fifty as to whether Dad would be more upset about him driving the car or waking him up so early on a non-golf playing day. Ultimately Po’ Zeke just decided to work around the car for the time being. Pre-garage sale, the less havoc Po’ Zeke figured he should cause as it could come back in the form of his mother and/or father kyboshing the whole gorilla. Opening the big garage door helped in Po’ Zeke’s present task. The weather was overcast. No moisture was falling from the sky, which was nice. Other than the occasional early bird motoring off to work, the block was quiet and would stay that way for the next hour when the bulk of the Dearthians trudged off to their dead end, clock punching, ersatz existences.

Po’ Zeke didn’t entirely understand the pricing structure at garage sales. He knew that he needed to price each item less than it could be had for in a retail environment, like Pergler’s Hardware, but not so low that he wouldn’t make enough money to buy the yellow BMX bike plus tax. First up was the sack of battered, sliced, and mud-caked golf balls that his father had brought home. Po’ Zeke transferred the balls into a more attractively displayed open top box. Po’ Zeke had painstakingly torn a piece of masking tape off of the roll on the first twenty-five balls and written down a price of $1.25 on each tag in his most careful penmanship. But then it occurred to him that he would save tape and time by just writing ‘Balls $1.25 each’ on the outside of the box. The asking price was lower than Baldwin last suggested, but Po’ Zeke didn’t think his father would or even notice, being all wrapped up in his club dinner dance preparations. Po’ Zeke was getting the hang of it. Next he made a sign from a piece of notebook paper that read ‘$2.00 each’ that he taped onto one of the picnic table benches. Once the Trabant was moved, he would put the bench in place in the back center of the merchandise floor and decide what items would be befitting of the bargain price. All of the rest of the items were to be tagged separately as the range in value, as assessed by Po’ Zeke, would be vast. The double orifice spikey fuzz blob, for instance, would be the champion of the ‘Collector’s’ table and commanded a price of $15.00. The green acrylic pajamas, donated by his mom, looked beyond fancy. Po’ Zeke would fold them up as nicely as he could and tag both top and bottom with a price of $9.99; if someone wanted both pieces to the set, Po’ Zeke would accept an offer of $19.50. While Po’ Zeke sat Indian-style on the floor at the rear of the Trabant sticking price tags to some of the booty salvaged from the various Lost & Found boxes around town, Mr. Renoir happened by on the sidewalk while taking his snotspewing, 16 year-old Dachshund, Lady Ma’am, for yet another attempt at what could likely be her last look around. “Well, you’re certainly up early,” Mr. Renoir said. “Getting a head start on that summer vacation?” “Um, yeah.”

“What are you doing there, making another robot?” Po’ Zeke didn’t want the word to leak out about his garage sale en masse until he was ready to make the announcement. With twenty-two hours until the official opening, there would be plenty of ways for others on the block to sabotage his efforts—just because that’s what people on the block generally did to get their kicks or establish socioeconomic hierarchy. “It’s kind of a robot,” Po’ Zeke replied. “But I might change it into a kite or a Mother’s Day card depending on how things turn out.” Mr. Renoir nodded. What a freak, he thought. That boy ain’t had his head on straight since he stood upright on his own. As Lady Ma’am, with her deep-set cataracts and one good foot, wrapped herself up in the red nylon leash, Mr. Renoir took a step towards the garage attempting to untangle the whole mess. Startled, Po’ Zeke ditched his black marker pen, the roll of masking tape, and the almost full bottle of cod liver oil he’d had resting atop his folded legs poised for price tagging beneath the Trabant. Mr. Renoir stepped back onto the level sidewalk when Lady Ma’am let out a piercing yelp not wanting to have to walk up the poorly graded driveway to untangle her haunches. “Say, since you’re an early riser, you wouldn’t know who’s been making off with my newspaper, would you?” Mr. Renoir said, though he already had a short list of suspects with only one name on it. Po’ Zeke shook his head. “It’s been missing five times the last three weeks.” “I’ll keep a look out. My folks got a problem like that, too, I think.” “You don’t say? I thought your father abolished all newspapers in your house after he left his job?” Mr. Renoir waited for Po’ Zeke to elaborate, but Po’ Zeke apparently said all he had to say on the matter when he began vigorously chewing on his index fingernail.

Mr. Renoir and Lady Ma’am waddled on. Po’ Zeke jumped to his feet and slapped the wall mounted control button on the large garage door so it would close. He didn’t need any more intrusions into his business. He’d just work in the dim light and damp air until somebody woke up and moved the car out of the way. Ethyl was the next to rise. She’d never had a more satisfying slumber that she could recall. She put her housecoat on over her new dress and went down to the kitchen to prepare the morning brew. “Mom?” Po’ Zeke said, entering the kitchen. “Can you move the car into the driveway so I can start setting up?” “Can you wait until I’ve had my third cup? I can’t even see straight until I’ve had my third cup.” “Okay.” Po’ Zeke hopped up on a counter-side stool and watched. And waited. Slowly his mother slurped. When there wasn’t a baby grand in between her and an audience, Ethyl did not appreciate being under the microscope. “It might be fifteen minutes,” Ethyl said. “That’s okay,” Po’ Zeke said, folding his arms on his lap. “I have all day to set up.” Ethyl forced a smile. Baldwin entered. His hair twisted in all wicked directions. His unlit cigarette was bent at a ninety-degree angle right in the middle. His V-neck undershirt and battle scarred, beleaguered, white briefs were overdue for a bleaching. “Did I leave my lighter in the fridge?” “Dad, can you move the car?”

Baldwin stuck his head into the refrigerator, then the freezer, then the pantry, and ultimately down in front of the large burner of the cooktop for a light. “Notice anything?” Ethyl asked, one hand on her hip, the other hand slightly pulling up on her topcoat to reveal a little more of the new dress as Baldwin picked his head upwards from the cooktop. “You gave up on that diet?” “No! Look.” Ethyl spun two revolutions in place. “I’ve got the new dress on.” “I’ll be damned. You’re ready to go. To what do I owe the honor?” “I’m not wearing it all day. I just wanted to do a fitting in case I need to make any last minute adjustments.” “Dad?” Po’ Zeke said. “Can you move the car out of the garage?” Ethyl took her hot beverage canister and went in to the upstairs bathroom to begin her daily prep. She’d let Baldwin deal with moving the car. It would be another hectic day of piano practicing, fitting in two students for lessons that had to reschedule because of a bton tournament, and then begin the insurmountable onslaught that was getting made up for the evening. Getting the dress on was the easy part. The rest would be grueling, even though she wore less makeup and hairspray than every other club member’s wife. Once she shooed the last student out the front door, she figured she could get underway at 3:45 PM and appear in the driveway for departure right at 5:15 PM as her husband had previously requested, give or take forty-five minutes. Cocktails would be from 6:00 PM to 7:00 PM, and it was a twenty-minute drive to the Copper Pond Country Club. Baldwin insisted he needed to get there earlier to work on the choreography for his emcee duties, should he decide to work any in to punctuate a killer punch line. He never knew how the country club maintenance crew would have things set up. Once he was stifled in his delivery by several potted Manchineel trees directly behind and on both sides of the emcee’s podium. Baldwin blew a puff cloud up to the ceiling and sat on the stool adjacent his son. “This is how you spend summer vacation—sitting around?” Baldwin said. “I

want that grass cut today, the gutters cleaned, and all of the bugs scraped out of my shaving kit.” “The lawn mower is still broken from last year—no blade or front wheels. You let Mr. Futzman borrow them for a car repair job, ? We don’t have a ladder. And what’s a shaving kit?” “Borrow the lawn mower from Old Man Renoir—he leaves it in his unlocked shed in the backyard, so you don’t even need to ask. Take the ladder from the Crotcher’s garage. They never close it. It’ll teach them a lesson. I’ll leave the shaving kit up here on the counter when I find it.” “But while I’m doing all that, can you move the car out of the garage?” “What for? There might be a storm this afternoon. If that car takes one more lightning hit, Futzman said we’d all be toast—and not in the good kind of way.” “I need to get everything set up for tomorrow—you know, the big garage sale so I can make the money and we can go to Pergler’s on Sunday afternoon or, at the latest, Monday morning and buy my new BMX bike.” “Are you still on that kick? Do you know how old I was before I got my first new bike? Twenty-one—and by then, I didn’t even want it.” Po’ Zeke nodded vigorously even though he thought his father was half-kidding about not caring or ing about the garage sale, which he wasn’t. “Well, as luck would have it, I am going out to go to the library so I can work on my routine for tonight. It’s crunch time—when I do my best work. I can’t get any work done here with your mother pounding the keys. After I eat and shave, I’m taking the car. I’ll be gone about five hours, I figure.” “When you come back, that I’ll have all my stuff set up for the garage sale, so there won’t be any room in the garage for the car.” “Are you kidding me?” “No. And just for two nights—tonight and tomorrow.” Baldwin chucked his butt into the cat food bowl and lit another.

“We never did this kind of thing when I was your age,” Baldwin said. “If we wanted to work for money, we went down to the slaughterhouse with a shovel or over to the cemetery with our bare hands.” “After we get home from church on Sunday, I’ll have everything cleaned up. I won’t have another garage sale again, I promise.” “Let me know if you find my lighter. It’s got sentimental value—I found it at the track on my birthday three years ago.” Po’ Zeke had “borrowed” all of the implements he needed to use to finish his chores, returned them, ate a fast lunch of Melba crackers and piccalilli, and then hunkered down in the garage. His father and the Trabant had already been gone off to the library for a couple of hours. His mother was inside the house practicing the piano. He’d yet to have his older sister darken the concrete where he stood. The weather was beautiful outside. Po’ Zeke decided to open the large garage door for the sunshine and fresh air. Any looky-loos he’d just have to deal with on an as needed basis. It was risky, but Po’ Zeke felt a little cockier thanks to his garage sale merchandising flair. Usually when Po’ Zeke embarked on a project, there would be much secondguessing with each maneuver, constant indecision, and inconsolable angst. Even though he had never organized a garage sale before, he magically had the touch for it. He was satisfied with every dollar estimate on each price tag and never rearranged the merchandise once he’d put it in position on the bench, lawn chair, or comforter. Sure, he’d walk halfway down the driveway, spin, and check out the overall curb appeal every five minutes or so. But he was pleased each time he turned around. Everything about the aesthetics was inviting. Only the dead or anti-capitalists would find a reason not to drop in on the bargain hunting once they gazed upon the second-hand merchandise tiered about in all of its priced-to-move majesty. Around 2:00 PM, Fiona-Jo finally staggered out of her bedroom and made her way down to the garage. She had the eyebrows of Medusa and the temper of Capone as she throttled the side garage door open. “What’s all of the noise down here?” She demanded to know.

“I’m doing my garage sale set-up.” “Well, knock it off. I went to bed without supper, missed breakfast and lunch, and I’ve got to babysit you tonight. Prepare to die like you’ve never died before.” “You won’t have to worry about me. I can babysit myself. I’ll just be in here all night doing some last minute stocking and pricing of other stuff I find between now and tonight.” “Listen, Buttwhiff, as long as you stay out of my way tonight, I’ll leave you alone, too.” “Out of your way how?” “Jolene’s coming over. We might walk up to Hamburger Landfill to pick up dinner and then come back here to braid each other’s hair for a few hours in my room. The door will be closed, and we’ll expect total privacy. If you don’t hear a peep coming from inside my room, that’s us.” Po’ Zeke didn’t know how long hair braiding took, but he knew Fiona-Jo was just laying the groundwork for the bogus story she was going to feed to their mother and father while she and Jolene snuck over to that Kent guy’s beer party. “Deal,” Po’ Zeke said.

~~~

“Sir? Sir? Sir!” said Boots Crawdator, the Head Librarian at Dearth Public Library for two decades. She was intolerant of ignorance and wielded a pair of rusty pliers that were deployed to dozens of earlobes over the years to encourage patrons to straighten up and fly right whenever she felt the need to un-holster the pliers from her sublime hip. “Aw, crissakes! I’m working here.” Said Baldwin, picking up his head in spaghetti western fashion from the scribbled note card project spread all over the

table. “I’m afraid you cannot smoke in here. You must step outside.” “But I’ve been smoking since I got here.” “I understand. This is your seventh and final warning. Apparently the other girls were scared to come over again and remind you after you became a little aggressive in your posture.” “I’m on a deadline! I’ve got to finish this in the next half hour and then get home. I’ve been losing focus with these constant interruptions.” Boots Crawdator said nothing more, entrenched her position at the end of the table with tightly folded arms, and stabbed Baldwin right between the eyes with an Arctic squint. Then, very slowly, her left arm uncoiled and the pristinely manicured fingers of her enforcing left hand wrapped themselves around the worn, rubberized grips of the rusty pliers. That’s where the hand froze. The next move was Baldwin’s. “There ought to be a law…” Baldwin muttered as he rose, walked over to the water fountain on the back wall in between the restrooms, and flicked his cigarette butt into the stainless steel basin. Fsssst. His reflex memory told him that it was time to light up a fresh cigarette as he reached into his pants for some matches and into his shirt pocket for his soft pack. The sight of Boots Crawdator still standing there with her indefatigable glower was enough to break Baldwin’s muscle memory mojo, and he relented in lighting up a new smoke. Boots Crawdator walked away back in the direction of the front desk, and Baldwin sat back down trying to get some semblance of organization to the forty-five or so note cards he’d scribbled various quips and absurdities down upon that he would unleash on his audience in the coming hours. Baldwin arranged the cards into four categories: Fat, Ugly, Boobs, and Bad Golf.

He preferred on drawing his material from his most trusted sources at home, but he wasn’t at home. And he couldn’t think of a way to be at the library and use his favorite source books that were back in the basement at home on the table next to his chair, so he used the smattering of gag and blue humor books that the library had on hand (kept behind the front desk, in a locked file box, available only on request and exclusive for “in-library” use). At 3:15 PM, Baldwin began compiling his cards in what he felt would be their most potent order. The first five would be plugs for the Stinkize champagne buffet, as promised, with another Stinkize plug then interspersed every six cards or so. Then he’d open heavy on the Boobs material, interject a couple of Bad Golf burns, improvise a couple of minutes based upon incoming stimuli from the room, and then do interspersed Fat and Ugly material in rat-a-tat machine gun fashion before encouraging everyone to break bread. While dessert and coffee were being served, he would do a recap of what he felt his best remarks were from before dinner based upon the response they generated, and then yield way to the band for the dancing portion of the evening. The band was slated to take four fifteen-minute breaks at the top of every hour. Baldwin planned to use that time to do some more Stinkize champagne buffet plugs and some more improvisational stuff skewering anything that might have jumped out at him on the dance floor or in the men’s room. Baldwin was psyched. He was so ready to just get going off to the dance that he quickly walked out of the library without returning any of the temporarily borrowed resource materials or pushing in his chair. Though he did stop to light up a smoke just outside the glass entrance door—pausing in place long enough for the crew working inside to see him. It was his way of showing Boots Crawdator and crew that they may have won the battle, but not the war. Baldwin sped home, ignoring every STOP sign, and roared the Trabant into the Pullman driveway. When he hit the remote control button to open the large garage door, nothing happened. He wailed on the button fifty more times holding the activator button device in every possible position up against the windshield. Curses flew and echoed up and down the block. Feeling trapped, Baldwin frantically leaned on the car horn and stomped his feet on the floor of the Trabant causing something to fall out of the engine of the car

with a clang and thud. Po’ Zeke stuck his head out from his bedroom window above the garage. “Mom says she’s not ready yet!” Po’ Zeke yelled. Baldwin stuck his head out of the rolled down the driver’s side window of the Trabant and yelled back up to his son. “I can’t get in the garage! Call somebody!” “It’s all set up for my sale. The car has to stay out on the driveway, ?” Baldwin groused. He didn’t . Now, with a reminder, he did. “What am I supposed to do—come through the back door like an animal?” Baldwin said. “Just come in the front door. It’s unlocked.” Baldwin hoped the boy was right. He’d been tripped up on this very same procedure many times. Baldwin liked pulling in the garage and entering the house through the side door, because that door was always unlocked. Plus, it felt futuristic somehow—the whole business about going right from the car into the house through a portal without ever having to step outside. The front door was sometimes accidentally locked. Baldwin never carried a house key for poetic reasons; he didn’t want to live in any type of dwelling that would require him to unlock a ageway for him to be in it. Baldwin entered through the front door. Jambalaya Sanders, a homeless woman who always collected enough in change every week to pay for a lesson, was at the piano with Ethyl. She’d gotten to know Ethyl one night at Shantyass Mall when Ethyl saw Jambalaya dredging the public fountain for dimes. Ethyl told Jambalaya that she should know better, and Jambalaya retorted how much she loved Ethyl’s blue linen scarf and matching shoes. They were fast friends. Jambalaya felt that if she learned enough cocktail style, she could play her way out of her financial predicament. Ethyl agreed, but insisted she’d first have to start with the basics—like all of her students. Without a roof, and a piano under said roof to practice on, and piano lessons that never seemed to get around to

manipulating any keys, Jambalaya never really got to play the instrument. But Ethyl gave her four stars for attitude. “Then the sons of Israel did what was evil in the sight of the LORD,” said Ethyl, “and the LORD gave them into the hands of Midian seven years.” “Im’ma gree with you, but how is that supposed to make me what a treble clef is?” “Your fingers are the Israelites, the keys are your salvation.” Baldwin heard a lot of yap-yap, but not much tickling of ivories. “I’m home!” Baldwin yelled. “I’m with Jambalaya. We’re almost finished.” Baldwin looked at his watch and shook his head, but he was out of Ethyl’s view down on the foyer landing. Otherwise, he’d never have showboated such a flagrant display of disdain for his partner’s lack of urgency in getting made up for the night. “Hi, Mr. Pullman.” Jambalaya said. “Long time, still no see.” Baldwin forced a chuckle. He didn’t know who was speaking to him. “Right, right,” Baldwin said. “I’m going to go shave, and then I’ll be sitting in the car waiting.” The women could hear Baldwin splash into the basement and then force the door to the downstairs bathroom closed against the incoming, rippled wake of puddled rainwater, now about an inch and a half deep when undisturbed. “You going out tonight with your man?” Jambalaya said. “We have a function at his club. I have a new dress from Bethlehem Express.” “Ooh-wee, look at you!” “This isn’t it. This is my housecoat and slippers. I did have it on most of the day, but I’m not going to put it back on until after I do my makeup.”

Jambalaya tugged at the frayed hem of the soiled tarp she had on, every day, rain or shine, inside or outside. “Well, this here is my housecoat and my new dress. It’s anything I want it to be.” “Surely you retrieve enough money from the mall fountain to pay for new clothes and your lessons.” Jambalaya shook her head. “This is more important, anyway,” Jambalaya said. “Ain’t no club functions in my immediate future.” “Not now, maybe. But maybe once we move past book four in a few years and into some cocktail basics, you’ll be able to take over that baby grand right there inside the mall next to the elevator and play for everyone. Before you know it, you’ll have all kinds of invitations to club functions, weddings, memorial services, whatever else.” “You think so?” “I’d bet my stack of zodiac books on it.” Downstairs in the bathroom, Baldwin giggled to himself as he ran his razor up along his neck and reviewed his performance material in his head. He had to take wide, awkward swipes with the razor around his chin and lips lest he burn his guiding wrist with his glowing cigarette. By the time he emerged from the shave, Jambalaya had gone. Ethyl was in the upstairs bathroom putting everything cosmetically right. As Baldwin strolled past the upstairs bathroom door on his way into the master bedroom, he banged hard on the door four times in succession. “Ten minute warning!” Baldwin said. “It’s only four-fifteen.” Ethyl replied. “I don’t want to risk it. I want to block everything and get my timing and cadence down. Tonight is going to be big. I’ve got some of the best material I’ve ever copied down onto notecards.” Baldwin said, exhaling a big puff into the

bathroom door. “But I’m never going back to that library again, I’ll tell you that for free. No wonder people hate books. You’d think I was some type of criminal the way they talked to me in there.” No reply. Baldwin entered the master bedroom to get his best self together. He had only one outfit he felt befitting of the gravity of the club dinner dance, and he referred to it as his “Lady Tamer.” It consisted of a red plaid sport coat, black Sansabelt slacks, a triple white, short sleeved oxford, and a bright yellow necktie (that Baldwin would fashion into what he affectionately referred to as a “double barreled Windsor”). He was dressed in less than sixty seconds. He sat on the edge of the bed and wedged his feet into his church going pair of black Buster Browns with a shard, plastic shoehorn. After checking his hair in the mirror, a second application of Murray’s Pomade was in order. The dosage was a little more than needed, so Baldwin wiped the excess from his hand on the underside of the bedspread that was out of sight. He snapped the elastic, gold plated band of his watch over his left hand and into place atop the thatch of thick, black wrist hairs that had long been batted down in place by the jewelry but belligerently grew laterally to unmanageable proportions along the skin. “I’m going to the car!” Baldwin said. “It’s four-eighteen.” “Just come out when you’re ready. I’ll listen to some polka on the radio.” “Why don’t you just go down and watch some television for a half an hour or so?” “Half an hour!?” “Or so.” “I’ve got my best threads on, you know that. I can’t risk anything get wet and wrinkled. I was uncomfortable last time I did that—the whole night.”

“Nobody told you to practice your Schuhplattler in your good clothes in a basement full of knee-deep water.” “The situation called for it. You never know when there’s going to be a Schuhplattler revved up in the middle of a club dance with a fifty-dollar, mystery door prize hanging in the balance.” “I can’t talk about this now. Do what you want. I’m just telling you that I’m not going to be ready in five minutes.” “Ten?” No reply. Baldwin stuck his head into Po’ Zeke’s room, but no one was in there. He knocked on Fiona-Jo’s door. “What?” Fiona-Jo barked. “Your mother and I are going to leave for the club dinner dance, um, shortly. You take good care of your brother, now.” “What are we supposed to do for supper—is that bucket of chicken you were supposed to bring home last night still in the car?” Baldwin took out his wallet and peered inside. He had two notes: one five-dollar note and one twenty-dollar note. Futzman had given him the notes as a way of apologizing for that his “sure thing” broke stride and ran onto the highway and underneath a trolley car. Baldwin hadn’t told anyone about the reparations. Now he had to make a choice. He needed to leave one of the notes for the children for supper. He grasped the twenty-dollar note between his right thumb and next two cigarette clutching fingers. “How much is a pizza from Fumbleghetti’s?” Baldwin asked. “We’re not getting a pizza. Jolene and I are going to Hamburger Landfill. Oh, and I’m going to bring back a burger for the Amazing Snotbomb, too.” That was a lot more information than Baldwin needed yet still not enough.

“What would you say three burgers and some French fries cost over there?” “Friday night special is six burgers and three small fries for four dollars and ninety-nine cents.” Baldwin quickly moved his fingers from the twenty-dollar note over to the fivedollar note and slipped it beneath Fiona Jo’s bedroom door. “Here, dinner is on me. If there’s more for tax, just tell them that that’s all you have and you’ll them next time. Most times they’ll let you slide.” “Whatever.” “Okay, then, you know the rules. We’ll be home from the dance around midnight or a little bit later if your mother doesn’t get one of her out-of-nowhere headaches.” No reply. Baldwin went down the stairs, out the front door into the driveway, and sat himself inside the car. The sun was actually out. It was warm, so he rolled one window down. A cross-breeze would have kept things comfortable, but Baldwin didn’t want to lean that far over to reach for the enger’s side window knob in his finery. Bad things happen through impromptu exertion. Twenty minutes ed. Baldwin’s face was heavy with sweat and exhaled smoke. In five more minutes, Baldwin told himself he would press on the car horn for ten seconds every additional minute that went by. A few minutes later, Po’ Zeke came walking down the block pulling his red wagon behind him. The wagon was piled with all sorts of miscellaneous refuse. The arm of a mannequin, at least Baldwin hoped it was a mannequin, dragged behind the wagon. Baldwin couldn’t actually start a conversation about the arm, as it might get into a whole thing about what the right thing to do would be if the boy had actually stumbled across a real arm—and that could further complicate an on time departure from the driveway. So Baldwin just looked up into the sun pretending he didn’t see the dragging arm at all. After a quick glance at his wristwatch, Baldwin kept his promise to himself and wailed on the car horn just as Po’ Zeke ed in front of the Trabant.

“What is it?” Po’ Zeke asked. “That was for your mother. We’re leaving for the dance.” “I thought it started at six o’clock.” “I’ve got to be there early for my routine. Always be early, boy. Always. Stay late; arrive early. If you learn nothing else from me, learn that.” Tonight must be his best prepared routine ever, Po’ Zeke thought, since they’re leaving extra, extra early. Po’ Zeke manually hoisted up the big garage door and pulled his wagon inside. The inside of the garage was unrecognizable to Baldwin. It looked like the freaking Last Minute Holiday Gifts aisle at Pergler’s Hardware that Baldwin always frequented late on Christmas Eve. “Hey!” Baldwin called. Po’ Zeke spun around waiting for his father to bestow him with accolades on how he tidied up the garage and turned in into such a spectacular, eye-appealing merchandising outlet in such a short period of time. “Yes, Pop?” “I thought you said the big garage door wouldn’t open!” “It’ll open like this, by hand. You just can’t open it with the button from the car on of I unplugged it.” “Why did you go and do that?” Baldwin said, and then laid on the car horn again. He didn’t hear Po’ Zeke’s reply. “Well?” Baldwin said. “I said, I just didn’t want anyone to open the garage and drive into anything on accident in the dark or nothing.” “What’s in the wagon?”

“Stuff I found in the alley behind the old Muckhausen place.” “What are you going to do with it?” “Sell it at my garage sale.” Baldwin heard the answer but wasn’t listening. He had to extinguish, flick, and light up a new one. “Your sister and that girlfriend of hers are going to bring you back a burger and fries for dinner from Hamburger Landfill. It’s on your old man.” “Okay. Thanks.” “You know the rules while we’re gone.” “Yes…I do,” Po’ Zeke said, emphasizing the pronoun.

16

Po’ Zeke watched from inside the garage as his parents finally backed out of the driveway at 5:45 PM. They both had their angry faces on. Even though the sun was shining brightly, with a squadron of dark clouds approaching from the west —where the country club was—Po’ Zeke figured neither parent would remark on what a pleasant evening it was for a drive on their way over to the dance. As Po’ Zeke untangled a dirty brown wig from a pair of jumper cables that he found on his last scavenger mission down the alley, Jolene walked up towards the house. She was dressed like a naughty nun in a really short, black dress barely covering her black stocking clad upper thighs, with her poufy hair jutting high ten inches above the top of her skull. Tufts of wadded up aluminum foil were sticking out where her chest would usually be. Her yellow patent leather kitten heel pumps were heartily scuffed and borrowed from under her mother’s bed without asking, she’d confess many times that night. Jolene looked Po’ Zeke up and down, sighed, and rolled her eyes in the most disgusted, dismissive manner her eyelids could manufacturer without turning themselves inside out. As was his way, Po’ Zeke said nothing and sheepishly shuffled his feet backwards into a more shadowy, safer part of the garage. “So gross,” Jolene said. Then Jolene pounded on the side garage door and pushed her way into the house without waiting for a response from inside. Po’ Zeke spit shined a few of the pairs of broken sunglasses he had on display on the “$2.00” bench and refolded the several pairs of used pantyhose he’d just found in the alley alongside the brown wig into more appealing triangle shapes to lay in stacked, accordion fashion atop the old comforter where most of the other clothing items were on display. Filipino Goob, Angry Matt, Schwantz, Booger Larry, and Pinchy zoomed by

down the street on their bikes. They were definitely headed somewhere—it wasn’t just a casual ride to nowhere like most of their rides. As they ed the Pullman House and saw Po’ Zeke inside the garage dutifully kneeling over a pile of pantyhose, Angry Matt said something to the gang that made them all laugh but Po’ Zeke couldn’t quite hear. They were gone around the corner in a matter of seconds. Hamilton entered the garage—and his odor about fifteen seconds before he did. Po’ Zeke quickly assessed that another fight with a skunk had taken place probably down by the old “crick.” Hamilton proudly hacked out a skunk ear at his master’s feet and rubbed his cheek up against Po’ Zeke’s tattered denim clad calf. Po’ Zeke didn’t have time to hose Hamilton down. And he couldn’t have him hanging around stinking up the garage, which would be a turn off to impulse buyers and walk-up traffic. Po’ Zeke opened the side door of the garage and nudged Hamilton into the house with the tip of his sneaker. “Stay off my bed till Monday,” Po’ Zeke said, warning him. It was just after 6:00 PM when Fiona-Jo and Jolene emerged from the house announcing they were heading off to Hamburger Landfill to pick up dinner. Fiona-Jo wasn’t quite as decked out as Jolene, but it was even clear to Po’ Zeke that his sister had layered on some lipstick and ran the hairbrush across her head a few times. She wore one of Ethyl’s gun metal gray, Crinoline dresses (of which there were several hanging in the master closet) and a pair of black brothel creepers. The girls looked down at Po’ Zeke as he lie on his stomach sprawled out on the garage floor arranging some chipped dinner plates just so—so that any cracks or craters in the plates were concealed from street view. “We’ll be back in an hour or whatever,” Fiona-Jo said. “Try not to wet yourself. And this is your final warning to stay out of my room.” Then she lifted her right foot as high as she could off of the ground and planted it down into Po’ Zeke’s left ankle. “Yow!” Po’ Zeke howled.

Po’ Zeke grabbed his ankle and coiled his left knee up to his chest in fetal posture fashion. “That’s also for making me babysit!” Fiona-Jo said. “Mom and Dad can’t trust you, because you’re such a dip wad.” Jolene stood flanking Fiona-Jo on the left nodding. She’d never let the chump off so easy if it were her brother, she thought. They spun around in perfect synchronization and headed down the street. “I like how you handle yourself,” Jolene said. “Let’s get there and get back as fast as we can. I want to get to Kent’s and blow off some steam. I can’t stand summer vacation already. I hate it.”

~~~

Baldwin groused behind the wheel of the Trabant as he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. “Now where are you going?” Ethyl said. “I thought you wanted to get there early.” “You had me waiting for so long, I’m out of cigarettes!” Baldwin tumbled out of the car and slammed the door. Something that sounded important fell off underneath the Trabant. It was 6:10 PM on Baldwin’s watch. They were still ten minutes away from the country club. Seven throbbing veins appeared in Baldwin’s neck and forehead as he waited in line behind some jolly joker in a leather biker’s jacket who was trying to seduce Kakalina, the frog-eyed, seventeen-year old shopkeeper’s daughter, working the cash . “Ever seen a bullet hole in somebody’s leg?” said the jolly joker.

“My grandfather was always showing us bullet holes in his body from the war.” Kakalina replied. “Yeah, but self-inflicted?” Kakalina tussled her strawberry blonde tresses between two fingers and bit down on a sizeable clump of them between her teeth. She batted her eyes and shook her head. He had her. “Excuse me,” Baldwin said, interrupting. “Are you even buying anything?” The jolly joker turned slowly to face Baldwin. He had an eye patch, one long scar that started at his hairline and ran down the middle of his face disappearing beneath his leather jacket, and teeth only on the bottom of his mouth. His good eye was all red—pupil, iris, sclera—everything. Embroidered into the chest of the brown leather jacket in a baby blue thread was the name, “Nutz.” “What was that?” Nutz said, blinking once really hard. “I’m in a hurry here. I just need to get some cigarettes.” “What are you all dressed up for—clown orgy?” Clown orgy. That was a good one. Baldwin was going to have to that one and whip it out at just the right time behind the microphone tonight. “Listen, all I need to do is buy my cigarettes, a couple of scratcher tickets (as long as he was there), and I’ll leave you two to pitch your woo, such as it is.” “Huh?” The jingle of the bells attached to the front door announced the arrival of a new patron inside the convenience store: Reverend Googler. Baldwin couldn’t have been happier. There’d be no way this “Nutz” chap was going to start trouble with a man of the cloth about. “Baldwin,” Reverend Googler said. “You look good enough to finally take confirmation.”

“Good evening, Reverend.” Baldwin made sure to emphasize the last word just in case Nutz couldn’t make out who Reverend Googler was in his traditional, black holy garb, white collar, and dangling rose-gold crucifix. “Run out of milk for the children?” Reverend Googler asked. “In a way—” Baldwin said. Nutz stepped away from the counter to go fiddle with a basket full of rubber spider toys. Baldwin was right; Nutz didn’t need no hassles from a clergyman to kick off his Friday night. Nutz kept Kakalina in the periphery of his working eye, though, sensing he was just one exposed wound away from reeling her in. “What kind of cigarettes and scratcher tickets you want, Mister?” said Kakalina. “Whatever. Anything.” Baldwin said out of the corner of his mouth, trying to downplay the transaction in front of the reverend. Kakalina throttled some Thun-da cigarettes (a brand discontinued after import from Bangladesh after being deemed made from rogue tobacco plants fertilized with Polonium) and two SadSack scratcher tickets into a small, brown paper bag. Noticing that the reverend was closely following his transaction at the counter, Baldwin quickly changed the subject and pointed with his right hand towards the outside parking lot while snatching the paper bag away from Kakalina with his other hand. “Actually, Ethyl and I are off to the country club this evening. My Erectors Duff Club is having the big, quarterly dinner dance. I’m emceeing. And also, doing a prayer before the meal, of course.” “How delightful. I trust things won’t run so late as to affect your attendance at church on Sunday.” Baldwin non-chalantly tossed his $20.00 note on the counter and accepted whatever change Kakalina handed back. “Let’s hope not.” Baldwin said.

“What of the children? Where will they be while you are out tonight?” “The girl is babysitting the boy. They’ll be fine. It’s old hat by now.” “Perhaps they’d like to come over to the church for a lockdown sleep-in? We’ve already got seven children inside, but room for plenty more. Doors lock at seven o’clock, nobody in or out, and we’ll wake for prayer and pancakes at sunrise.” Baldwin looked down at his watch. “Holy Christ! I’ve got to go, Reverend. I’m so damn late.” Baldwin dashed out of the store under the scornful gaze of both Reverend Googler and Nutz; each had his reason. Nutz stepped towards the checkout counter, but Reverend Googler cut him off and leaned forward towards Kakalina. “Where might I find your pancake mixes?” Reverend Googler said. “And would you be willing to donate a couple of boxes to the church if I agree to pray for the sins you are about to commit upon my departure?”

~~~

Again, Pinchy and the gang zipped ed as Po’ Zeke toiled away in the garage dusting off every last golf ball and mangled, brass candelabra. And again, Angry Matt made some type of remark that caused them all to laugh at Po’ Zeke’s expense. Po’ Zeke wasn’t just going to stand there polishing fractured fishing pole parts and take it. He was going to confront the gang and figure out just where they were going, what they were doing, and why they were timing their laughter to coincide with Po’ Zeke’s presence. He dragged his penny-farthing out of the corner of the garage and raced as fast as he could down the driveway chasing after the rest of the gang. At top speed, he was only going about a quarter of the speed everybody else was. If the destination were too far, they would probably

lap him within eight minutes or so. Figuring he’d sort everything out and be back shortly, Po’ Zeke initially left the garage door open and his complete catalog of items within full view and reach of the unseemly early birds who had been known to stake out garage sales twelve hours early if they ever caught whiff of one through aggressive eavesdropping or coincidental birddogging. Then he thought better of it, doubled back, and closed the big garage door. He started off after the gang a second time. Po’ Zeke rounded the corner, and with a hearty wind from the west at his back, was making significant progress catching up to the others who opted to just coast with the breeze on their bikes. The reason for the heavy wind could be attributed to a cannibalistic cold front churning in from the southwest that made the skies about twenty miles out sable in color and turbulent beyond earthly gravitations. Pinchy and the gang rounded the corner at Coon Road and then took a hard left a half-block later on the undeveloped cul-de-sac every kid in the neighborhood simply referred to as “Outlaw Cove.” That’s where the ramp was—where the gang would go when they wanted to do daredevil jumps on their bikes. Outlaw Cove was obscured on three sides by tall weeds (neck high to most) that nobody ever bothered to mow down. As such, the pre-teen daredevils of the neighborhood felt invisible to the intruding eyes of parents and the laughably occasional patrol car. Booger Larry was definitely the craziest among the crew attempting every type of jump he could think of from the new and improved, eighteen-inch high ramp (a four-foot long, 2x8 piece of lumber elevated on one end atop two stacked cinder blocks). Sometimes Booger Larry would jump and stick out his tongue. Other times he’d jump, take his hands off of the handlebars, and grab his butt returning his hands to the handlebars just before his bike came slamming down atop the dusty gravel below. This night, Booger Larry had something extra special in store for the boys as Po’

Zeke was just about to find out. He caught up to everyone just as they arrived at the jump ramp spot. “Hey!” Po’ Zeke said. “What gives?” “What?” Filipino Goob said. “I saw you guys. You keep going by my house and laughing. I want to know what’s up.” Truth was, by that time, none of them even ed laughing, or even going by Po’ Zeke’s house. They were all caught up in Booger Larry’s big jump. “Good thing you found us,” Pinchy said. “Booger is going to a new jump—it’s going to be amazing.” “Oh yeah,” Po’ Zeke said. “What?” “I’m not going to give it all away,” Booger Larry said, “but let’s just say by the time my bike lands, I won’t have any pants on.” The rest of the crew “ooohed,” even though they had heard Booger Larry explain the bit a couple of times already. “And the rest of us are going to do some jumps, too.” Said Schwantz who never talked ever. “You should, too, if you can borrow a better bike.” “Why the big show?” Po’ Zeke said. “Summer is just starting. We’ve got all summer to—” “Why” became clear immediately. Bunnie and Bonnie Czerwinski, along with Svetlana Cox (unanimously regarded as the prettiest girl in the fifth grade), and Blythe Strumpet (who needed a bra by the second grade but wouldn’t wear one until the tenth grade) came walking out of the weeds giggling about nothing specifically as such gaggles are wont to do. Only Booger Larry really knew how to act when girls were around. The others pretended they didn’t see them or treated them as sadistic mosquitos of psychological duplicity.

“Hey, ladies,” Booger Larry said. “I see you got my note.” “Is this for real?” Blythe said. “Are you really going to take your pants off?” “Ewwwww!” the other girls said in unison, while stepping even closer. “Like nobody ever took their pants off before!” Booger Larry popped a wheelie, rode a few quick revolutions in the gravel, and came to a long, purposeful skid in front of the girls kicking up a cloud of white gravel dust around their heads. The girls simulated being offended and inwardly swooned at the machismo of this warrior among dweebs. Po’ Zeke just then realized that now would be a defining moment in his life. If he could somehow distract the girls from being collectively astonished by Booger Larry for a few seconds, he could then inform them about the magnificent garage sale he’d be hosting the next two days. Every one of those girls had money to burn. They were also all famous for running at the mouth and would likely each tell two more friends about the great bargains to be had at Po’ Zeke Pullman’s two-day only, once in a summer garage sale. The sky darkened drastically above Outlaw Cove. Booger Larry was still all systems go until a flash of lightning and soft thunder crack about ten miles away, but fast approaching, caused everyone to look up towards the sky in the west. “Sorry, ladies.” Booger Larry said. “Looks like we’re going to have to put this little show off for a little while until—well, I can’t say when on of I’m going camping with my folks in Milosovitopia tomorrow for five weeks.” “Just do it, Booger, do it!” Blythe said. “Pleeeease.” Svetlana moaned. Another flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, this one louder than the first, interceded. The boys were scared—especially Schwantz and Angry Matt—who had the much longer ride home to shelter and safety than any of the others. Both boys

turned tail from the group quickly. Pinchy, Booger Larry, and Filipino Goob were saddled up and started off steadily just behind them. The girls remained motionless wondering if this was all a gag. They could get out of the storm quickly, anyway. Svetlana’s house was just on the other side of the high weeds about three hundred feet away. “Is this for real?” Bunnie said. “Are you really chickening out?” The boys were fast out of sight. Another thunder smacked around the town, this time not wanting to wait for any introduction by a lightning flash. “I guess that’s it,” Blythe said. “But, hey, Svetlana’s neighbor across the street— that Kent guy—he’s supposed to be having a big party tonight. It’s mostly for high schoolers and people who dropped out, but maybe they’ll let us in?” The others timidly dismissed the idea. Blythe was light years ahead of everyone in debauchery and couldn’t understand the reluctance (though not known at the time, Blythe would go on to conceive her first child at age 14, become a grandmother by age 33, and a great-grandmother at 47). Po’ Zeke watched as the girls turned and began walking back into the weeds. He had to act now if he was going to coalesce a feeling of buying urgency throughout their souls. “Hey, all you girls. Watch this!” Po’ Zeke said. He steadied himself on his penny-farthing and rode at the top speed he could muster about fifty yards from the jump ramp. Then he turned, paused, took off his Wild & Crazy Guy t-shirt, and peddled bare-chested as fast as he could make the antiquated beast beneath him go towards the jump ramp. Po’ Zeke focused his gaze solely on the top of the ramp. He imagined the girls off to his left, huddled together, hugging, watching over their shoulders with mouths open wide at this buff cut of now sixth-grade, madcap lightning tearing through the gravel at breakneck speed ready to launch himself a mile high and twice as far. From the girls’ perspective, they were in actuality seeing a pasty, doughy, white torso jiggle, wiggle, and shimmy past at about average walking speed on

something that had two wheels but certainly wasn’t anyone of modern times considered to be a bike. They’d seen more death defying escalator rides at the mall. By the time the front wheel of the penny-farthing hit the bottom of the ramp, the girls had already disappeared into the high weeds. Po’ Zeke didn’t know that, of course, and his heart skipped three consecutive beats as he made it to the top of the ramp at a speed of six miles per hour. This mirrored his last ill-fated attempt at swashbuckling at Outlaw Cove. As the large front wheel of the penny-farthing plummeted like a heavy boulder off of the new, higher ramp, a lightning flash that lit up the sky for four towns over, followed by a thunderclap that could still be heard in the region for up to a year later punctuated it. The back end of the penny-farthing sent Po’ Zeke head over heels and created an even louder crack when Po’ Zeke’s left heel hit the ground. Already weakened by intense trauma from Fiona-Jo’s unannounced, disciplinary foot stomps over the years, Po’ Zeke’s left ankle finally gave out on this latest impact between the steel frame of the penny-farthing and the hardened earth. The tibia, fibula, and talus each sustained multiple hairline fractures upon impact. Po’ Zeke knew something was wrong right away when he coughed up a piece of posterior malleolus.

17

Dearthians would later refer to this day as: “That One Storm That Time.” It was the night five confirmed, F5 tornados touched down in Dearth, one after another and roamed around the town for three crazy hours uprooting or rearranging everything they could ingest. The Erectors Duff Club gala was in full swing. For their time and place, the guys and gals were all dressed to the nines, socio-demographically speaking. The emcee duties usually fell to Baldwin at these functions, as he was consistently the only one that ever wanted the job. The morning after each of Baldwin’s outings as official party host, most in the club would profess in wanting to hire a professional for the next time. But by the time the next time rolled around, either budgetary constraints or amnesia through apathy would derail such grandiose delusions, and Baldwin would get tapped to emcee again. In his haste, Baldwin just ditched the Trabant on the practice putting green right next to the clubhouse since all of the other parking spots close by were taken. He couldn’t risk parking too far away under the overcast sky in case the threatening rain fell and dampened all of his notecards. He let Ethyl enter the clubhouse ballroom alone while he disappeared down a hallway off of the main entrance to stop in at the pro shop and get a handful of matchbooks to cram into his sport coat pocket. He couldn’t risk running out of matches if he got on a roll up at the microphone. By the time he did step up to the mic at the front of the room, Baldwin was already hot under the collar due to their “embarrassingly late” 6:25 PM arrival. He didn’t bother with an introduction other than, “Okay, I’m here—late as usual, thanks to Queen High Maintenance over there.” Ethyl’s gown received the most ogles and snarls of envy upon her fashionably late entrance. This Bethlehem Express fabric was absolutely more comfortable than her own skin. Baldwin paused a half-beat after no laughs came from the audience at his dig at

Ethyl, and then lit up a cigarette. He grabbed the microphone from the stand, dragging the fifty-foot cord behind him, and walked in between tables scowling at most of the younger couples while puffing his smoke as if to say, “Oh, are you going to be sorry once I get started.” He chuckled to himself after touching this woman’s dress or that man’s hairpiece giving the outward impression that an onslaught was about to begin, but none came. When the mic cord was stretched to the limit, Baldwin would double back the other direction seeking out possible new prey. Occasionally he blew smoke into somebody’s cocktail as she hoisted it up to her mouth. Most all eyes were on Baldwin not knowing what would come next. Ethyl, however, could see this shtick at home and opted to try and make quiet conversation with the other girls at her table whom she generally got to converse with only about once per month. Ethyl sat at the Pullman’s assigned table, next to the kitchen and adjacent to the bus boy service station, telling a few of the girls about her dress and the great discount behind it. She stood up and spun around many times, clutching her hot beverage canister on her hip, whenever Baldwin incited the crowd across the room to collectively groan hoping it would create a pleasant diversion to get everyone talking about her dress instead. When he sensed a palpable bored agitation around the room, Baldwin started interjecting fat, ugly, and boob punch lines three at a time to make up what he felt was all of the lost emceeing time. The more he spoke, the louder the crowd chatter got. To win them back, Baldwin returned to the front of the room and spoke in a much louder voice delivering five “bad golf” jokes rapid fire and inserted poorly placed expletives (that weren’t in any of the reference books or on his notecards) in each. It didn’t seem to have the intended effect of winning everyone over. Baldwin decided to pull out the big guns and just say whatever thought popped into his head, picking off the club officers and their escorts at the front table one at a time, when the Dearth tornado sirens started wailing away interrupting him. “Tony, look at your so-called spouse! Her mud-covered muzzle—oh, holy hell,” Baldwin said, his words echoing throughout the country club ballroom. “What’s that howling noise now—did somebody let a Chinaman in the clubhouse?”

The crowd, already put off by many of the emcee comments specifically directed their way, now seemed to welcome the distraction of the deafening foul weather sirens. Everyone stood up from their seats and began milling about. The five of the hired band, Butt Münder, picked up or sat at their instruments on the riser set up just a few feet behind Baldwin’s emcee microphone. While most hit the open bar for free refills before the 7:00 PM cut-off, some partygoers that were curious about the foul weather sirens pressed their faces to the windows but couldn’t see anything but blackness outside. Baldwin, already sopping wet under the arms, was even more panicked. If the crowd was milling, and the band started popping, they might start dancing. If they start dancing, then he won’t get to come back and resume his performance until the band takes a hiatus in forty-five minutes. And that’s not even calculating in the break for the meal. Ethyl didn’t really care for the club functions, the people there, or gatherings of any kind that weren’t recitals. But she did manage to slip in a few white wines in between gulps of her home brewed coffee, so the night wasn’t a total loss. Two wines usually got her to forget her problems. Three wines, and every man in the room looked like Franz Liszt in form fitting Zamorros chaps when compared to Baldwin. Sirens droned on louder in all corners of Dearth. Moose came running up to Baldwin and handed him a note. Baldwin scanned the note and shoved it back into Moose’s breast pocket. “This isn’t funny. I can’t even read it. If you’ve got a good joke, take the time to print it out so I can read it.” Moose ripped the microphone out of Baldwin’s hand. “Everybody! We’ve got to get down to the basement, now. A confirmed tornado has been sighted just about a mile west of the club. It’s closing fast!” Several gasped. Two of the more fragile busboys screamed. “How do you know this?” said Bob Snatche, Erector’s Duff Club president. “Is this another one of your little skits, Pullman?”

“No joke or skit, sir. Baldwin isn’t even involved. I was out taking a leak in the sand trap on eighteen, and I saw it for myself.” Moose said. Next, something sounding like a freight train derailing drowned out every other sound inside the clubhouse. Curious, everyone looked toward the largest window in the building that faced to the south. They then watched collectively as a pair of cast iron lawn jockeys, a large rake, and Baldwin’s Trabant flew in circular fashion just outside of the window and then upwards and out of sight towards the sky. A mass exodus towards the clubhouse basement ensued. Women screamed. Men grabbed as many liquor bottles from the bar as they could on the way out. The band disbursed. The clubhouse help scattered. Baldwin stood alone in the front of the room. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, poured out a whiskey sour on top of it, and lit up another. The noise outside was louder, worsening. All types of things were smashing into the building. The windows were sure to blow out any second. Baldwin figured this would be a good time to rearrange some of his notecards, eighty-six all of the bad golf barbs that now didn’t seem as relevant, and heavy up on the boob quips that would be sure to calm the crowd whenever they get back from the basement. He sat down on a folding chair at the front of the room, crossed his legs, and shuffled through the notecards with a proud smirk on his face. I knew I’d get a chance to retool to make up for the lost time, he thought. Somebody up there likes him—when he emcees.

~~~

“We’re almost to our block,” Jolene shouted. “Quit trying to fix your hair in this wind and jog a little bit!” “But the party. And I’ve got to get this stupid burger to my stupid brother before he wets his pants and calls the fire department.”

“We’ll stop at my house and wait for the storm to . Then we’ll dump off the burger and head over to Kent’s.” The girls hooked arms and braved their way the next half-block until they got to Jolene’s house. Rocco the cop’s motorcycle was blown over on its side in the middle of the front yard. Branches from storied oak trees that lined the block had broken off and filled the sidewalks and front yards all the way down to the Pullman house and even further beyond. Jolene and Fiona-Jo just made it inside the house and slammed the front door when a metal garbage can lid smacked against the front door where the girls’ heads had been only seconds before. “Ma!” Jolene said. “Me and Fiona-Jo are just stopping to fix our hair before we go back out to the library.” Jolene winked at Fiona-Jo. There was a quick sloshing sound of water coming from the upstairs bathroom where the entry door had been left wide open. It was bathtub water. “Ma?” Jolene said. “Rocco’s over!” Ma said. “We’re in the tub. Take five dollars from my purse if you need it.” “I will. But it’s bad weather all of a sudden. We might be here for ten minutes.” “Take ten dollars then, and leave now!” Jolene’s mother had never been so serious. The girls complied, somewhat, and took twenty dollars from the unguarded purse. But then they sat quietly in the kitchen figuring they could wait out the storm for a few minutes anyway. What was Jolene’s mother going to do, jump out of the tub in the middle of entertaining? Outside, approaching from the east, a lopsided pair of headlights cut through the darkness, rain, and blowing debris at the end of the block and turned down the

Pullman’s street. Behind the wheel of the rasping, rusty, gray Plymouth sedan was Reverend Googler, hell bent on checking to see if Po’ Zeke and Fiona-Jo wanted to come to the church slumber party lock-in. If everything went as though Reverend Googler planned out in his head, he’d pick up the kids, leave a note for Baldwin and Ethyl where they were, and package the whole deal into some kind of gallant, personal interjection about man triumphing adversity into the sermon on Sunday morning. Sheared tree bark and airborne rabbits battered the Plymouth as it rolled slowly towards the Pullman house at five miles per hour. While most of the homes on the block still had electricity, the Pullman home was completely dark inside— though Reverend Googler didn’t make much out of it, as it wasn’t the first time he’d come over to the house to find it shrouded in gloom. As the Plymouth rolled up past the curb onto the Pullman driveway, the crooked headlights briefly illuminated something that looked out of place. It was a dark lump. Reverend Googler hit the brakes stopping the car with only its front axle on the driveway leaving the rear tires on the street. He clicked on the high beams with his left foot. The dark lump wiggled and writhed in place atop the driveway asphalt up against the garage door. A head—a face—struggled to rise up and peer into the headlights. It was Po’ Zeke. He was shirtless and shivering with tears and gravel embedded into his cheeks. He didn’t know whom the headlights belonged to. He figured it wasn’t his parents’ car, because it didn’t make any clanking, grinding, or gurgling noises. Also, his father usually brought the Trabant into the driveway at a much higher speed than at which this car approached. Po’ Zeke was just glad that somebody was there to help him. After he mangled his ankle at Outlaw Cove, he lay in the gravel for several minutes before a nearby lightning strike direct on the Bubonty’s roof on the other side of the tall weeds convinced him that he needed to get home to shelter. He managed to hop on one foot and upright his penny-farthing pushing himself along on his good foot, with tears streaming down his face, for about a block. Then, the front wheel on the penny-farthing just wouldn’t budge. The heavy

impact from Po’ Zeke’s daredevil stunt compromised the rim enough so that it could no longer rotate freely. He dropped the bike on somebody’s front lawn and crawled the next three blocks home then collapsed in the driveway up against the garage door when he couldn’t find his key for the front door. He didn’t have enough strength in his compromised leg to heave open the large garage door, either. Po’ Zeke figured Fiona-Jo would be back soon with his burger, and the safest place to be out of the wind and blowing chaff was nestled up against the big garage door of the house. Po’ Zeke balled up his Wild & Crazy Guy t-shirt to serve as a pillow against the base of the garage door. After briefly dozing off for about twenty minutes, he awoke to searing pain in his left ankle and Reverend Googler’s high beams. Assessing that he’d stumbled into some kind of profane carnage even he was unprepared to battle with, Reverend Googler slammed his gear shift into reverse, hauled keister out of the driveway, and sped down the street ten times faster than the velocity at which he arrived. They already had enough mouths to cram pancakes into tomorrow morning, anyhow. From the west, right behind the Pullman house, the sound of another locomotive approached. It would be the second of the five F5 tornados. The first had already torn up most of the Copper Pond Country Club, save for the main ballroom and the hot dog cart between holes nine and ten. Po’ Zeke lowered his head beneath his arms and balled his entire body up tighter into itself. That locomotive is really doing a job back there, Po’ Zeke thought. And on second thought, there are no train tracks behind the house—so what gives? The locomotive sound was deafening. Then, without knowing how or why, the sound made a hard ninety-degree turn and went off to the north. Within minutes, it would take out and redistribute Dearth Elementary School, Dearth Public Library, Olympic Safari, and Futzman’s gas station. There were several dwellings in between each of these places that remained unharmed. Tornado Number Two just seemed to be cherry picking. Inside the house, Hamilton was sprawled out on the master bed trying to lick away the skunk from his tail and hind legs.

~~~

“Okay, everybody, you can come on up. I’m pretty sure I’m ready to get rolling again,” Baldwin said, holding open the door to the basement storm shelter at the country club. “Is it all clear?” asked Bob Snatche. “Well, there’s nobody in the main room except for me, if that’s what you mean.” “The weather—has the weather ed? We’ve got a transistor radio down here, and they’re saying everybody had better stay sheltered until they blare the allclear sirens. Two tornados have hit the town—and they say more are definitely possible. You’d better get down here with us.” “The mic cord won’t stretch that far.” “At least reach behind the bar and bring us some more bourbon.” “Can do!” Baldwin figured if he kept everyone good and liquored up, they’d be putty in his hands when his moment in the spotlight resumed. As he piled bottles into his arms behind the bar, something outside caught Baldwin’s attention through the big ten-foot by twenty-foot window on the south side of the building. It was the four-well buffet steam table from Stinkize where Baldwin had helped himself to more than his share of pork tenderloin medallions over the years. And it was closing fast. CRASH! The steam table blew through the large window and came to rest where the band had been sitting not twenty minutes earlier taking out the mic stand along the way. Right behind it came the Stinkize cash (empty), Tony Tzatziki’s office chair, and waitress Midge’s hip-length, platinum wig. The items piled atop

one another on the far end of the dance floor. Baldwin refreshed his cigarette and tried to process it all. He couldn’t—not with so many one-liners now backing up in his head. He returned to the basement storm shelter door and ed down the booze. “What was that noise?” Moose said. “We thought we heard something sounded like a crash upstairs.” “You were right about the storm,” Baldwin said. “But I think the worst is behind us.” Right on cue, the roof above the clubhouse ballroom immediately collapsed sending Baldwin tumbling forward down into the basement with everyone else. The door to the basement shelter slammed shut behind him and was now covered with a couple hundred pounds of framing and asphalt shingles. “No!” Baldwin cried. “Are you hurt?” said Lilah Bustier, noted Dearth party crasher. “I left my cigarettes on the bar!”

~~~

Jolene paced nervously, but quietly, inside her kitchen. “I can’t wait any more,” she whispered. “We’ve got to go or we’ll miss all the good stuff!” “I know, I know,” Fiona-Jo said. “But it still sounds windy out there. Our hair will be, like, eww!” “We’ve got to take that chance. I’ll bring an extra comb and take my mom’s hairspray.”

“Won’t you have to go up where she’s taking a bath to get it?” “No. She leaves it by the front door in case of rapists.” “Let’s go!” And out they dashed into the swirling gusts lifting and uprooting park bushes and schoolyard basketball hoops like dandelions. Arm-in-arm they trudged along unable to see but a couple of feet in front of them with a thousand years of town soot blowing into their faces. It was hard to get their bearings. Having been turned around and knocked down a couple of times already, they weren’t even sure they were headed in the correct direction. It was usually a two-minute walk between Jolene’s and the Pullman house at a slacker’s pace. After fifteen minutes, Fiona-Jo banked hard to the left when she saw what she thought was a familiar building between two dust devils of swirling compost. As they got closer, Fiona-Jo was sure it was the Pullman house. She reached into her dress pocket to retrieve the front door key when Jolene gestured over towards the garage door. “Over there!” Jolene said. “There’s your brother. Throw him the burger, and let’s go!” Fiona-Jo indeed looked. Something wasn’t right, even for her weirdo brother. “Oh, now what?” Fiona-Jo said. They stood over Po’ Zeke’s trembling body. “Did you lose your key again, Freakshow?” Po’ Zeke didn’t answer. He could sense that there was a human presence there, but he was unable to turn to face it or respond. He was in shock, though it would be years before he even knew what that meant in a traumatic, physiological sense. “C’mon! C’mon! Give him the burger. I hear a train coming.”

Fiona-Jo looked down where Po’ Zeke seemed to be grabbing at his ankle. She knelt and pulled his pant leg up and sock down. The ankle was purple, gushing some sort of pus, and just plain gross. Fiona-Jo stood and folded her arms. “Well, well, well, looks like it’ll just be more burger for me.” Fiona-Jo said. She reached into the Hamburger Landfill paper sack and withdrew the now gelid cheeseburger. Slowly, she unwrapped the paper from the burger and held the burger up in front of her chomping teeth. Then she paused, rewrapped the burger, and put it back inside the bag. “I thought he was faking,” Fiona-Jo said. “But I think he’s hurt.” “Oh, you know he’s faking. He’s always faking!” “Did you see his ankle? Something happened. I’ll bet he fell down the steps or got hit by lightning trying to make the cat chase toilet paper on a string out back.” “Just leave him the burger, and we’ll come back by midnight to check on him. Or, you will. I can’t take myself off the market like that.” Fiona-Jo pondered. The locomotive sound grew, then dissipated off to the south. Neither she nor Jolene knew what the sound was, anyway. “I think I’d better stay here…or at least bring him inside.” Jolene scoffed with a bit of spittle. “So lame,” Jolene said. Down the street, they could hear Rocco the cop’s motorcycle start up. It was louder than any garbage truck to ever grace the Dearth boulevards. Within seconds, Rocco the cop and Jolene’s mother were on the Pullman driveway, both clad in bathrobes and effeminate, woolly slippers. Jolene’s mother leaped off the back of her man’s hog and marched right up to her

daughter. “Did you take my hairspray—and twenty dollars from my purse?” Jolene said nothing. Fiona-Jo looked up at the sky. Just then, the Pullman’s Trabant happened to be gliding from one side of town to the other at the time. Jolene’s mother looked down at Po’ Zeke. “What the hell is his problem? Drugs? Is he trying to sell you drugs?” Rocco the cop put down the kickstand on his bike and approached. His nestled his department issued Pepper Box Revolver against his terrycloth-covered hip. “Drugs? Did I hear drugs?” Rocco the cop said. A deluge opened up from the sky…it was rain, it was poultry, it was auto parts— a little bit of everything. “No, not drugs!” Fiona-Jo said. “That’s my brother. He’s hurt. We don’t know how. He won’t say.” Rocco the cop handed his revolver to Jolene’s mother. “Cover me,” Rocco the cop said. Jolene’s mother held the revolver upward, though not pointed at anyone specifically. Rocco the cop knelt down over Po’ Zeke for a closer look-see. He pulled back Po’ Zeke’s eyelids with his bubble bath perfumed fingers, and then felt for a pulse. Fiona-Jo told him to take a look at the ankle, which didn’t look normal as far as she ed. “This boy is in trauma.” Rocco the cop said. “Should we let him sleep?” Jolene asked. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“But my parents aren’t here—they’re at a dinner dance. We don’t have a car.” Fiona-Jo said. “I’ll take him on my bike. You got any heavy rope or a thick twine?” “I think there’s some in the garage.” Fiona-Jo ran into the house through the front door and tried to open the large garage door by slapping the activator button, but it wouldn’t budge. “It won’t open,” Fiona-Jo said. “I’m trapped!” “Stand back,” Rocco the cop said from the other side of the garage door. He moved Po’ Zeke away from the door just enough for clearance, unloaded five rounds from his revolver into the air to psyche himself up, and then manually lifted the door open with ease. “I never knew it could do that!” Fiona-Jo said. “Your power must be out,” Rocco the cop said. “It happens during storms and when the electric company plays hardball after the grace period.” “Can we get on with this?” Jolene said. “Fiona-Jo and me are trying to get to the library.” “Oh no you don’t, young lady.” Said Jolene’s mom. “If Rocco is going out, you’re spending the rest of the night with me. And because of your little hairspray pilfering stunt, you can forget about borrowing my shoes for three weeks, too!” Ten minutes later, Po’ Zeke was twine wrapped (not so heavy of a twine, but one heavy enough that Rocco the cop said would suffice for the three mile dash to Dearth Regional Hospital) to the sky-high sissy bar backrest on the cobra kingand-queen seat of Rocco the cop’s Ducati 750. If Jolene wasn’t going to Kent’s party, Fiona-Jo didn’t want to go alone. Neither Jolene nor Fiona-Jo was aware that a second, direct lightning strike to the porch mounted beer kegs sent everyone at Kent’s party fleeing into the street and disappearing into various homes for shelter from the weather about forty-five minutes earlier.

Though Kent and Joe remained seated in their backyard with red plastic cups full of compromised suds complaining to one another that the music wasn’t loud enough. As Rocco the cop sped off with Po’ Zeke, and Jolene and her mother dared off into the elements back to their house, Fiona-Jo was feeling sorry for herself sitting alone in the garage. She sat on the floor atop the item’s Po’ Zeke had set up on the comforter for his garage sale and launched herself into the extra cheeseburger that wasn’t going to do anyone else any good now anyway. She watched the neighborhood get ripped a new one, weather-wise, for a while. Then she got bored and went inside the house and up to her room. It never occurred to her to close the large garage door.

18

Po’ Zeke awoke at Dearth Regional Hospital at 6:15 AM Saturday morning. By all s, the storm had ed—but not without doing its damage. Much of Dearth was leveled to working class rubble. His ankle and foot were heavily bandaged, and Po’ Zeke was still on the loopy side of groggy. The sound of a match striking up caused Po’ Zeke to look to his left to see Baldwin seated in a chair next to Ethyl torching up his smoke. His parents were still dressed up in their dinner dance garb though looked really tired and smelled quite lousy of spilt wine. “I guess you’re wondering how my routine was last night. Well, let me spare you the suspense—lousy!” Baldwin said. “Dad? Mom? Where am I? What is going on?” “Also, the car is gone—probably forever. We had to taxi here—three miles each way. You know what that’s going to cost?” “What day is it?” “It’s Saturday, honey.” Ethyl said. “You were hurt during the terrible storms last night. No one knows how. Do you ?” Po’ Zeke shook his head. “I think I was riding a motorcycle—” “The kid is delirious.” Baldwin said. “Let’s come back in a few days.” A beguiling nurse entered the room. She handed Ethyl her now battered hot beverage canister. “Here you are, ma’am.” Said the nurse. “I’m afraid all we had was Sanka.” “Did you at least quadruple the recommended dose?” Ethyl asked.

The nurse nodded. She felt Po’ Zeke’s forehead with the back of her hand and grabbed his wrist between her thumb and index finger with the other. The nurse’s eyes closed, and she appeared to be counting to herself with slightly pursed lips. After fifteen seconds, she freed up both hands and examined the bandaging on Po’ Zeke’s ankle. Po’ Zeke liked the attention, but he didn’t know how to put it into words. “Terrible storm last night, right?” the nurse said. “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” Baldwin said. “I had some choice material, a stack of notecards thicker than your calf, and they’re gone forever— blown off to God knows where. And I lost my favorite cigarette lighter digging out from the clubhouse ruins.” Trained to pretend she was listening and empathetic to the seemingly mentally ill, the nurse gave Baldwin her stock head bow. Then she turned her genuine attention back to the patient. “You should be out of here in no time,” the nurse said to Po’ Zeke. “The doctor just wants to check you one more time before you go home. It should be but an hour or so.” Something about the nurse time stamping the whole affair triggered a spark in Po’ Zeke’s head. He sat upright from his reclined position. “Wait a minute! This is Saturday. My garage sale—it’s supposed to be happening right now. The yellow BMX bike—Pergler’s!” The nurse gently eased Po’ Zeke back down with a nurturing straight arm. “Shhhhh.” The nurse said, then exited. “Honey, I’m afraid there isn’t going to be a garage sale.” Ethyl said. “I feel fine. Really I do. I’m ready to go home, right now.” “It’s not that—it’s, well, it looks like the garage was left open last night. And, according to Mr. Renoir, the fifth tornado to come through town went right down our block and emptied out all of your garage sale merchandise. When we got

home a couple of hours ago, the garage was completely empty—completely.” “And it’s never looked better.” Baldwin said. “It’s like a fresh start. But I’m still going to put in a report with the insurance company about the missing slot machine. Do you know the future, untold riches we’ll be missing out on?” Po’ Zeke buried his chin into his chest. All of his hard work was for naught. All of his dreams dashed. If he hadn’t pedaled off to the gang at Outlaw Cove, none of it ever would have happened. “Oh,” Baldwin continued, “and you can forget about Pergler’s Hardware. That whole place is flat as a flapjack. I’ll never find my checkbook now. Futzman went over there at five o’clock this morning after sifting through the rubble of his filling station. Looks like our car went right through the front door of Pergler’s and took out that whole display that was by the front door. I don’t know if you it—they had some orange bicycle set up near there, or some other nonsense. Anyway, Futzman says he might be able to fix the car if they can drag it out from the ceiling beams.” “The whole town is going to be cleaning up for weeks,” Ethyl said. “I think what most applies right now is Acts 27:34 – ‘Now I urge you to take some food. Not one of you will lose a single hair from his head’.” “Well, you can forget about going to Olympic Safari. Gone!” Baldwin said. “This is all my fault,” Po’ Zeke said. “Don’t be silly. You can’t control the weather. According to the weathermen, we had it coming anyway. We haven’t had a major tornado through this town in almost two years.” Baldwin said, as he snubbed out his cigarette on the plastic handle of the bed frame and lit another. “I just mean, I should have stayed home working on my garage sale instead of going out for a bike ride with the guys last night. The whole town is going to be looking for items to replace everything they lost. My garage sale would have been doing gangbuster business.” “What did I tell you about counting chickens?” Baldwin said. “If the tornado hadn’t sucked away all your stuff, it would’ve just been something else. There’s just no way to make an honest buck in this world. But, oh, there was one thing

we managed to salvage. It got trapped between the hot water tank and the wall.” Baldwin reached down to the floor, stood up with the double-orifice fuzzy blob item, and dropped it onto Po’ Zeke’s bed between his blanket covered legs. Po’ Zeke stared into the larger of the orifices, which was facing him. “And you know what? I ed where I got this thing and what it was. I don’t know, I guess the storm helped to clear out some cobwebs last night in the old dummkopfer.” Baldwin knocked on his head five times with a closed, cigarette-clutching fist. “I don’t want that thing brought back in the house.” Ethyl said. “Some guy sold this to me at the bowling alley, oh, hell, at least five years before I ever met your mother. It’s said to be a Proboscis Monkey—the same one what Lincoln used at Valley Forge. It is supposed to bring luck, power, and unbridled virility to whoever possesses it. Fifteen bucks I got it for. Then, well, I kind of just forgot about it when the track opened.” Silence. “Oh.” “And I want you to have it. I’m ing it on to you, my Son. It’s time for me to focus on other things now. Cherish it. Don’t take it for granted like I, and the guy I bought it from at the bowling alley, before me did.” Finally, one “hospital hour” (seven hours actual time) later, a taxi brought Baldwin, Ethyl, and Po’ Zeke back home. Ethyl paid the driver from the last of her rainy day cash, and the cab navigated defensively down the street and out of sight. The large garage door was open. Other than the garage being emptied of every possible item, the Pullman house was otherwise unaffected by the storms. There was garbage and fallen trees everywhere, but every house on the street was tousled up in that respect. Po’ Zeke had a single crutch under his left armpit. He stood motionless on the

sidewalk looking into the void that was to be his greatest achievement. “I can’t wait to get these pants off and sit in the tub,” Baldwin said. “I’m chafed all up and down the Rio Grande.” “I need to brew a pot,” Ethyl said. Po’ Zeke watched his parents walk into the garage and then disappear into the house through the side door. Po’ Zeke managed to limp-hop with his crutch up the driveway and into the garage. He stood in the middle of the floor and took a long, slow look around. Even the long hanging cobwebs up in the ceiling corners had been sucked clear. Mr. Renoir shuffled slowly past on the sidewalk with Lady Ma’am. He paused when he saw Po’ Zeke standing dejectedly in the middle of the Pullman’s empty garage. “What happened to your robot?” Mr. Renoir said. “It’s gone.” “Well, robots will do that. You can always count on a pup, though.” Mr. Renoir stooped to pat Lady Ma’am on the butt and they continued on. Pinchy rolled up. He was alone on a bike—the new, super hot yellow BMX bike from Pergler’s Hardware. “Hey, P-Z. What’s new—I mean, besides my new BMX bike? Ain’t it the coolest?” Pinchy said. Po’ Zeke couldn’t speak for a moment as a depression lump amassed in his throat then stomach then chest. “How—how did you get that? My dad says that Pergler’s got squished in the storm.” “He ain’t lying. But when I woke up this morning, this was in our back yard—

along with a riding lawn mower for Dad and a patio bistro set for Mom, whatever that is. All I saw was a table and two chairs.” “But what about the bike you just got from Flabberson’s garage sale last week?” “This one’s better. I’ll probably put that one in the trash.” “Oh?” Pinchy looked over his shoulder down the street in the direction of his house. “My dad is waving to me. I’ve got to go. We’re going to look at new swimming pools. Dad says now is the time to get one while everybody is out getting food and supplies. They’ll be a steal.” Pinchy roared off. It was the most magnificent spin, turn, and roll Po’ Zeke had ever seen any bicycle make ever. The wheels appeared to float just above the ground, making nary a squeak, as the bike hovered away while Pinchy took his hands off of the handlebars, locked his fingers behind his head, and leaned back peddling home. Po’ Zeke went inside the house. He’d have to drag his ankle and crutch up two flights of stairs to get back into his bedroom. From the entry foyer, he could already hear the basement television and the front room piano battling for ambient dominance as Baldwin, distracted on his way to the bathtub, watched an Emil Jannings film festival on the local VHF and Ethyl practiced for her recital. He could also see Baldwin’s shed dress pants floating in the knee-deep water in the basement. “That you?” Baldwin asked. “Bring me down a diet. A diet. A diet.” “Can I rest first? My ankle still hurts.” Silence. “Forget it. Where’s your sister?”

“I don’t know. I just got home from the hospital.” Next came the sloshing of water and the sound of the television being cranked up a little louder. Po’ Zeke made his way up the first staircase, one thump at a time. When he reached the next level, Ethyl paused her piano playing. “We’re still proud of you, you know. You worked hard on that sale of yours. There’s just no telling with the weather, unfortunately.” “Thanks.” “Do you yet how you hurt yourself?” “Not really.” Ethyl sensed Po’ Zeke wasn’t being completely honest. She could always tell by the way he hunched his shoulders and looked up into the sky at an odd angle. But she wouldn’t press him now. Now he needed to heal. There’d be plenty of time to pump the truth out of him over the summer when he’d be desperate and bargaining for snacks and such. Ethyl curled her fingers and buried them back into the keyboard. To the neighbors it must have sounded like another tornado working its way in from the southwest. Po’ Zeke now had no chance at the new yellow BMX bike, his penny-farthing was damaged and thankfully blown away, and he only had one good foot. It was going to be a real fun summer, he told himself flippantly. Clumsily, Po’ Zeke made his way up to the bedroom level of the house banging his crutch into both left and right side walls about eight times. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t playful. He wasn’t in the mood for toys. He wasn’t anything. He entered his room expecting to find his old pal Hamilton sprawled out on the end of the bed waiting for him. Po’ Zeke figured he was nearby as there was still the slightest whiff of skunk about the place.

When he entered the room, his crutch fell to the floor. No one else heard it but Fiona-Jo who came in to Po’ Zeke’s room from her room. She was uncharacteristically calm, sedate. “I guess the whole thing with your foot there might partially have been kind of my fault, and I wanted to say sor—well, make it up to you since all of your crap in the garage got sucked off.” Fiona-Jo said. “And you kept on crying like a chump about some new bike all week. So Jolene and me, we took some of our babysitting and whatever money and we got that for you. I know it ain’t yellow, but we had to get it at De Santises—it was the only store open nearby that wasn’t ripped down. They’d didn’t have a lot to choose from.” There on its side in Po’ Zeke’s bed lay a brand new, silver, 26-inch, two-wheeler with ape hanger handlebars and a long, black banana seat. On the frame of the bike was stamped brand name: Sukimofo. “Huh?” Po’ Zeke said. “But I thought you hated—” “It’s Japanese. And this is just between you and me. Mom and Dad will never notice.” “It will be the only thing in the garage. We don’t even have a car now. I think they’ll notice.” “I’m not hearing, ‘thank you’.” Po’ Zeke was elated, but he dare not show it. He’d emotionally be beholden to his big sister forever. “Thanks. I don’t think I can ride for a few weeks, but I can’t wait. Thanks.” “No, thank you for making sure you tell everybody who saved you last night for the rest of time, so help you God.” “You were there?” “Where else would I have been? Jolene and me sacrificed our lives into the storms to go get you a cheeseburger. And when we got back, there you were— dead.”

“Dead?” “May as well have been. As long as we keep our story straight, Mom or Dad or nobody has to know about anything that may have transpired or was supposed to have transpired but didn’t or anything like that.” Ah, now Po’ Zeke was getting it. As long as he kept his mouth shut about FionaJo and Jolene’s party-going scheme from the night before, all would be well in his universe. But how did she know that he knew? Big sisters just always know, Po’ Zeke surmised. “I’ve already forgotten everything from the past year—even more.” “Good.” Fiona-Jo said. “By the way, you talk in your sleep every night. I’ll be a step ahead of you your whole booger-eating life.” “What’s going on up there?” Baldwin called out from just one level down near the kitchen. “I thought somebody was going to bring me a diet?” Ethyl removed her hands from the piano. “Go put some pants on.” “There’s too much water down there. They’ll just end up in the wash machine.” “Why don’t you call your friend Futzman and see if he can’t help you find a car for us so we can get to church tomorrow and so I can get to work for the time being?” “Do you see what I’m dealing with already? This is the second time I’ve had to come upstairs since we’ve been home. I can’t what the first time was for, but there’s a pattern forming.” Baldwin said. He tossed his cigarette into the carpet and lit another. “Where are the kids? One is never home. The other is all gimpy. The summer is already down the drain.”

The End