Jelly Bombs and Funerals

Another one from Spickles. Thanks for taking a look at it.

Jelly Bombs and Funerals

Spickles Barkman woke up at one-thirty in the afternoon. In twenty-two and a half hours, he was going to celebrate his mom’s birthday. His goal for today was to get her a present, but in the back of his mind he knew he could go to the florists or something before noon tomorrow. In the front of his mind he knew there was no way he was getting up that early. He heard the water running in the kitchen on the way downstairs.

“Hey, you’re up early today,” his dad said, scrubbing a pot.

“Yeah.” His dad was being sarcastic, but not lying.

“Did you get your mom anything yet?”

“C’mon, dad. You think I’d forget?”

“What did you get her?”

“You’ll see tomorrow.” Spickles poured pulp free orange juice into a coffee mug, spread strawberry jelly onto a piece of toast, some grape jelly onto a piece of bread, sprinkled salt on each, and put them together with a handful of raisins and two tomato slices in between. His dad went upstairs. While eating his jelly bomb, Spickles read his two favorite sections of the newspaper - the classifieds and obituaries. He tore out one of the obituaries and on the other side of the paper wrote the address of a garage sale that had baby clothes, antiques, and furniture. He made and ate another jelly bomb, and as he put his plate in the sink, he saw his dad come back down in a suit an untied tie.

“What?” Spickles said.

“I’m leaving for a job interview in a few minutes. Are you going to be here when I get back?” his dad asked.

“Where at?”

“Madison and Associates. It’s right off Union Street.

Spickles smiled. “Actually, if you can wait five minutes, I’ll drive you.”

“Why?”

“Can’t a kid want to take a ride with his dad once in awhile?”

“Just hurry up” Spickles ran upstairs, showered, put on a shirt and a bowtie, and flossed. When he came back down he saw his dad still struggling with the tie.

“Take these books back to the library sometime today,” his dad told him on their way out. He handed him The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Common Household Disasters and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Quick Dinner Cooking.

“Sure thing, idiot. And I’ll drive.” Spickles said.

On the way to his dad’s interview, Spickles saw Roy shooting hoops in his driveway. He told his dad not to say anything and rolled down the window.

“Hey, Roy.” Roy banked in a jumper then went to the window.

“Hey, Spickles. Hey, Mr. Barkman. You guys going on a double date or something? Why you so dressed up?”

“You remember my dad’s uncle, Albert, the one who took us to the Sox game when we were little and got us those signed balls? The one in the hospital ever since his stroke?”

“Yeah.” Roy let the ball roll into the street.

“His funeral is today. My dad wanted me to see if you’d be willing to go with us.” Roy crossed his arms and looked down at the street. “You got time to run in and change if you want.”

“I dunno, man.”

“It’s cool. We just thought you might want to.” Roy tried making eye contact with Mr. Barkman, but he was still fiddling with the tie. Roy leaned in close to Spickles.

“Spickles. I’m not trying to be an ass but just tell me if this is one of your little amusements.”

“Amusements?”

“Paying a nickel for a single gummy bear when they’re 3.99 a pound, buying a ticket to a bad movies so you can sit directly next to one of the few people in there, heckling bingo caller, trying to get me to go to random funerals with you.”

“First of all, I’m still pretty sure there was no fucking B14 in that case of balls, second, hey dad, am I tricking Roy into going to some random person’s funeral right now?” His dad didn’t flinch. Spickles leaned closer to Roy. “He was pretty close with Albert.” Roy rubbed his hand over his forehead slowly.

“All right. I’ll be right back,” he said, and went inside to change. When he came back out Spickles told him to drive separately in case he didn’t want to stay there all day. Spickles led Roy to Madison and Associates, and when he got there, he parked and handed his dad the keys.

“I’ll go with Roy, now.” Spickles got into Roy’s car.

“Fuck no, man. You’re an asshole. I’m not going with you,” Roy punched Spickles in the arm twice. Spickles couldn’t stop laughing.

“C’mon, man. Just come to one funeral with me. It’s not until later tonight. It’ll be funny.”

“Funerals aren’t funny, ass.”

“Anything can be funny.”

“Whatever, dude. I’m going home.” Spickles laughed the most of the ride home while Roy didn’t say anything.

After Roy dropped him off, Spickles got the keys to his own car and went to the garage sale. He wasn’t going for his mom’s present. He’d been to plenty of garage sales recently, and couldn’t remember seeing anything he thought would make a good gift. He was going for the baby clothes.

There was no furniture lining the driveway of the garage sale, just a few folding chairs and some lamps. An elderly man sitting on a barstool in the garage was the only person there.

“The ad said you had furniture,” Spickles said, walking into the garage.

“We did. We had a futon and one of those reclining chairs, and two end tables. A man and a woman, looked like my granddaughter, but older, took them all.”

“Were they newlyweds?”

“Uh, uh I suppose.”

“Damn it. All right, here’s the deal. I’ll give you a dollar for any ten of those baby clothes.”

“My daughter is in charge of them. Hold on.” The man limped inside and returned with his daughter. She had the same short and fluffy hairstyle that Spickles’ mom used to have.

“Sorry honey, those are fifty cents a piece, but I’ll let you have ten for four bucks.”

“A dollar and I’ll mow your lawn.” She laughed and shook her head. “A dollar and I’ll wash your car.”

“No thanks, dear.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Let me look around some more, and I’ll be back with my next offer.” Spickles scanned the table of baby clothes. He was looking for anything Disney related. Thanks to garage sales, he had more Snow White pajamas and Goofy T-shirts than he knew what to do with. He figured that as soon as they turned from old to vintage, he’d be rich. The first thing he saw was a baby blue pair of knitted socks. He remembered having a pair just like them. He has a video at his house of his mom putting the socks on his baby feet and singing him Twinkle Twinkle Little Star before laying him down in his crib. Next to the socks was a black and white sweater vest. In all of his baby pictures up until he was nine years old, Spickles wore a sweater vest. This is weird, he thought. They've stolen my childhood closet. He took the socks and sweater vest back to the lady.

“You don’t have anything Disney related, do you?”

“My son used to really like the Animaniacs. They’re not Disney, are they?”

“No. They’re the poor man’s Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”

“Then no, sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll rock, paper, scissors you for these socks and sweater. If I win, I get them for a quarter. If you win, I’ll give you two dollars.”

“Since things have been pretty slow lately, and you did make me laugh, I’ll accept. But you have to beat my dad.” Spickles didn’t like that. The old man had an major advantage in the experience category. He’d probably been rock paper scissoring since it was called rock, paper. To win, Spickles knew he had have to resort to a maneuver he hadn’t pulled off in months.

“Two out of three?” the old man asked.

“No other way.” Spickles rolled up his right sleeve slowly. The old man flicked his suspenders against his chest. They pumped their fists in unison.

Snip. Snip.

Spickles smiled and flipped a quarter toward the old man.

“This game’s passed you by, old-timer.” On the way to his car, Spickles slipped a five-dollar bill into an old beer stein they were selling for three dollars. He knew no one would buy it.

Before going to the library, and the wake, which lasted until five, Spickles stopped at McCormick’s for lunch. The jelly bombs were tasty, but they didn’t pack enough substance to suppress his hunger more than an hour. He went to the cereal aisle looking for any box that had the word “sugar” in the title. The neon orange box of Cracklin’ Douple-Dipped Sugar Sidewinders caught his attention first. On his way to the checkout aisle, he stopped in the greeting card aisle. Never a bad move to get a card, he thought. In the aisle was a female employee with gray hair and big glasses attached to a chain hanging past her shoulders

“Excuse me, ma'am.”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Do you have any children?”

“Why yes, a son and a daughter. In fact, I have two grandsons, too.”

“What’s the best birthday present one of your children ever gave you?”

“Oh dear. That’s so hard.” The old lady stopped organizing the cards.

“My mom’s birthday is tomorrow, and I’m searching for something special.”

“Well, the best gifts were never for my birthday. Of course the jewelry, or flowers, or clothes, or whatever were nice, but when my son would come to my house instead of playing cards with the boys to play rummy with me, or when my daughter asked me if she could wear my wedding dress for her wedding, those moments don’t have a price.” The lady rocked back and forth slowly while she talked. It reminded Spickles of the way his mom softly tapped her left foot up and down whenever she was nervous.

“Was there anything you ever wanted that they never gave you?”

“The minute they were born was everything I ever needed.”

“This isn’t in your job description, is it?” Spickles selected a simple card. It said Happy Birthday Mom on the front, and was blank on the inside. Spickles didn’t need anyone else to decide what he wanted to say to his mom.

“I’m expected to help the customer in any way possible.”

“Thanks,” Spickles said, and walked to the checkout. While waiting for an open register, he surveyed the store. It had twenty-two aisles. They rearrange them almost every year, but aisle twenty-two, the toy aisle, never changes. When Spickles was small enough to fit inside the shopping cart, his mom would push him up and down every aisle as she shopped. If he was being good she’d let him pick out what kind of Kool-Aid he wanted, or what kind of fruit snacks, or if he was being especially good, a whole tub of ice cream. No matter what though, she always let him pick a toy from aisle twenty-two. Even on the day he refused to get up off the floor in the middle of the candy aisle because he couldn’t have any gummy bears. Even on the day he hid inside the freezer and an employee called his name over the store loudspeakers.

One of the cashiers said she could help the next person. Spickles handed her his box of cereal and card, then asked her to hold on one second. He ran over to aisle twenty-two, picked out a bouncy ball, and ran back to pay.

“Your total is four dollars and ninety-seven cents,” the cashier said. Spickles handed her a five-dollar bill and dug into his pocket.

“Hold on, I think I got the ninety-seven.” A clump of change landed on the counter. After losing count once and having to start over, Spickles saw that he only had eight-seven cents. “Guess I don’t have it.” She opened the register and gave him three pennies. He slowly placed the ninety cents back into his pocket and left.

At 3:20, Spickles pulled into the library parking lot. He didn’t drop the books in the drop off on the side of the building because he didn’t trust it. When he was in fourth grade, he accidentally dropped one of his Power Rangers action figures down there while he was returning a book. Then he went in and asked one of the librarians if it was in the bin that the books fall into, but she said no. It was the special edition figure that transformed into a mastodon. He figured the lady had a son, but unlike Spickles’ mom, she was too cheap to buy him the special edition and, instead, waited all day for one to fall down the book return chute. He got her back though. The next book he returned had all the characters names crossed out with a black sharpie.

A few days later the library sent a letter to his house asking that he pay $12.99 to replace the book. His dad made him come up with money by himself. After four lemonade stands, three dog walks, two car washes, a lawn mowing, Spickles had ten dollars. For the last three he had to sell his Scottie Pippen rookie card to his friend Walter. It was a good lesson in the value of a dollar, but those come at a dime a dozen. What Spickles really learned, thanks to his mom, was that crossing out character’s names didn’t affect the librarian, it affected the people who wanted to read the book, and Spickles wasn’t mad at them. If you wanted to get back at the librarian, his mom told him, you should have toilet-papered her house.

Barbara, his favorite librarian because she always gave him a bookmark when he checked books out, was working when he walked in. He handed her the two books.

“My dad is an idiot.” She laughed very quietly. Spickles wondered if librarians’ voices were stuck in library mode forever. He imagined calling Barbara’s house but hanging up after she answered because he never heard her say hello.

“I haven’t seen you around here much since that reading club you and your mom were in.” During Spickles’ first year of high school his mom convinced him to join the group with her. They met every Monday night from 6:30 to 8:30 for three months. They discussed a book a month. First was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which Spickles hated and his mom loved, then The Lord of the Flies, which they both were indifferent to, and last, Winesburg, Ohio, which Spickles loved and his mom hated.

“Yeah. Maybe I should join another one of those.”

“Definitely. You and your mom always had some of the best comments of the group.” Spickles knew his mom had the most insight. She was the Michael Jordan of book groups – entertaining and superior while still making everyone around her better.

“I think I’ll go grab a few books. Maybe get back in the swing of things.” Spickles found the one he hated, and the one he loved.

“You’ve already read these,” Barbara said when Spickles returned.

“I know, but I had so much fun doing it.”

Spickles left the library and drove to funeral home. On the way there he left two different cars enough room to sneak past him on the right side and make a turn at a red light. He was convinced that no one did that as well as he did.

The sign in the lobby of the funeral home greeted Spickles when he walked in.

Welcome to Richmond Funeral Home

Laurence I. Nighte: Room A

Douglass Anderson: Room B

He took a detour to the funeral director’s office before going into room A.

“Do you have to pay extra to have this building to yourself when you die?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand you,” the director said. He was sitting behind his desk, wearing a black suit.

“I mean, tonight you got room A and room B going. Say I didn’t want another dead person in the room next to me for my funeral. Would that cost extra?”

“Well there is a fee for the room where the deceased is shown. If the family requested to occupy more than one room, we would be willing to work to meet their needs. Of course, we may only have one showing at a particular time, in which case, they would have the place to themselves, as you say.” The director’s voice was angelic. Spickles guessed that after so many years of comforting others, everything he said sounded genuine and supportive. Even if he said, ‘I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad,’ it would have sounded as if the chicken had nothing to worry about and the Caesar would be treated like a king.

“Do you want share your funeral with someone?” Spickles asked.

“I’ll admit I’ve never reflected on that issue.”

“I didn’t either until tonight. If my family wouldn’t mind the extra money, then I think I’d lean toward going at it solo.”

“Well, sir, I hope that decision can be delayed for many, many years.” Spickles couldn’t top that line, so he tipped the cap he wasn’t wearing, and waved goodbye as he left the office.

He strolled inside room A and sunk to the back to listen to his CD player. All he knew about Laurence was that he was twenty, had two younger sisters, and played soccer. Obituaries don’t leave a lot of room for details. Except for a group of kids Spickles’ age, and the immediate family, the room was empty. No one saw him come in. It wasn’t like last time at Clementine Heaton’s funeral, when he stood out like a pineapple in a bag of grapes. She was ninety-four; even her great grandkids were older than Spickles. When someone asked him how he knew Clementine, he said he met her one time after church. She told him she was lighting a candle for all her children, and Spickles said he would light one for her. The family all thanked him for that, and said they were glad he came. The truth was, hearing the priests talk at funerals was the closest Spickles has ever come to going to church.

Sitting on one of the couches, Spickles remembered that he still didn’t have a present for his mom. He started getting an allowance when he was in fifth grade, and ever since then he’s tried to buy something more expensive with each passing year. Last year he bought her a wooden lighthouse to put near her garden. It cost over a hundred dollars, but judging by the paint chips that kept appearing, it was overpriced. She loved lighthouses, and he thought of buying her another to go in her new garden, but never got around to it. He decided that the macaroni necklace he made in fourth grade was the best gift he ever gave her. The whole class made them for an art project, but he asked his teacher if he could stay in during recess to make another one for his mom. It took three recesses to finish. She wore it out to dinner the night after he gave it to her and made sure everyone saw it. Before he could think of anything worth giving her this year, Spickles noticed that the there was no line to the casket. He made his way toward it. Kneeling down, he turned the music coming from his headphones off, and said a prayer for Laurence’s family. As soon as finished he turned around and looked right into the mom’s eyes. Whoops, he thought. He’s always wanted to talk to the mom, but never has. He never knew what to say, but now, if he didn’t stop starring at her, he’d have to come up with something quick. He thought about asking this one what a good birthday present would be, or how she felt that her son was sharing the funeral home with someone else. He couldn’t look away.

“Your eyes,” he said.

“Excuse me?” she said, dabbing them with a tissue.

“They’re indigo. My mom’s the only other person I’ve ever seen with indigo eyes.” Spickles plucked a flower from one of the bouquets on Laurence’s casket and sat down next to the mother. He handed her the flower.

“You don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you that Laurence was a good kid.” She nodded her head without looking at him. Good kid, Spickles thought. “That’s comforting, huh? I’m next to the mom at a funeral and I tell her that her son was a good kid. What I mean is - you’re a great mom. My dad told me that my mom always used to say her biggest fear was failing as a mother. Did you ever fear that?”

“The only thing I ever feared was having to bury my son.”

I’m sorry was the only thing Spickles could say before leaving. He wanted to say thank you, but he knew she wouldn’t understand. Spickles went home and spent the rest of the night reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. He went to bed relieved that he didn’t have to wake up early to get his mom a present, since he already had everything he wanted to give her.

The next morning Spickles woke up at eleven-thirty. He showered, flossed, and went downstairs. His dad was in the kitchen eating a jelly bomb, Larry style – black olives instead of raisins.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Spickles said.

They drove in silence for twenty minutes, then walked through the grassy field, passing numerous statues and crosses. All Spickles could smell were flowers, and there was no sound except the wind. Nearing the miniature lighthouse that helped mark his mom’s grave, Spickles’ dad asked him what he got for her.

“Just a few memories,” he said. Spickles placed the knit socks, sweater vest, bouncy ball, and the two books he borrowed from the library on top of her tombstone. He rested a card against the miniature lighthouse.

Dear Mom,

Ever since you died, I’ve been going to random funerals. They’re mostly kids my age. I know it’s weird and I didn’t know why I did it until yesterday. Something inside of me wanted to be all those kids, and wanted you to be all those moms. Now I know that if it were up to you, it’d never work out that way. Dad told me that you used to fear you’d fail as a mother. Happy birthday, Mom. I promise you that you didn’t, and you never will. Love, your son, Spickles

P.S. I hope you can read quickly, because I have to take these books back in two weeks.

Apple Cinnamon Oatmeal and The ABmagician

If any of you remember my character from the story I posted over at the SSG, here he is again. He's older now. He's 20. Thanks for taking the time to read it.

Apple Cinnamon Oatmeal and The ABmagician

Spickles Barkman’s alarm went off at 8:32 a.m. He pressed the snooze button. Three times. Spickles would sleep until he was fifty-five if he could. Then he'd retire. He didn’t have anything important to do today, so he could snooze the alarm as much as he wanted. Last night he went to bed just before the sun came up. There wasn’t a star left in the sky. At the time, he thought waking up early might make his day more productive than usual. With a pillow over his face after the third snooze, he wondered what time he’d have to wake up if he wanted to save the world. He wondered what time he’d have to go to bed.

Spickles showered quickly and dressed slowly. He started to plan his day while he was getting ready. He didn’t think in the shower because he didn’t want to forget if he had already shampooed his hair. The lawn needed a mowing, but that might wake the neighbors. He could go fill out some job applications, but he didn’t have any good references. He checked his wallet – two twenty-dollar bills, a five, three George Washingtons, and the fifty-dollar bill he tucked under the picture of his sister and pretended not to know about. He decided to go out to breakfast - breakfast always tasted better before noon.

He had three choices, The Hazelnut Café, Fitzgerald’s, or IHOP. He wasn’t in the mood for fancy cappuccinos, prissy employees, or coffee that claimed to be rich, dark, and earthly. That eliminated IHOP. Spickles decided to treat himself and chose Fitzgerald’s. Fitzgerald’s began as a small diner in 1951 before Cornelius Fitzgerald took over in 1977 and transformed the place into a full service restaurant.

Spickles wore a blue shirt to match his blue jeans. He wanted to wear the sharp new red shirt he bought recently, but didn’t have any red jeans to compliment it. He grabbed the keys to his car. Spickles referred to it as the poor man’s batmobile - a jet-black four-wheeler, equipped with power windshield wipers, a little gas door that you could open from the inside of the car, a regular brake, and an emergency brake. His parents bought it for him when he turned sixteen under two conditions. One, he paid for all the gas, and two, he would be his sister’s chauffeur when necessary. To get a car at sixteen he would have agreed to mow the lawn with scissors. Twice a week.

There were only a few cars in the spacious Fitzgerald’s parking lot. Spickles backed the batmobile into a spot in the row furthest from the door. The hostess who greeted him was in her forties, but she tried to look thirty. She had long unnatural blonde hair, fixed in a fancy style. Spickles knew a French braid, but this wasn’t a French braid. Italian curl, maybe. Her makeup covered the wrinkles forming on her forehead, and her yellowish lipstick highlighted the parts of her lips that weren’t her own. Her black vest stretched tightly around her upper body and her high heels and short skirt accentuated her toned thighs and firm calves. She looked good for a forty year old, but just all right for a thirty year old.

“Will anyone else be joining you this morning, sir?” she asked Spickles.

“Not unless you’d like to, ma’am,” Spickles replied. Spickles used this line on hostesses all the time.

“I appreciate the offer, but I just got off break, and we’re getting pretty busy,” she said. “Follow me and I’ll seat you.” She walked with a menu in her hand toward the back of the restaurant and stopped at a booth near the restrooms.

“Thanks.” Spickles took a seat. “If you get un-busy and would like to join me, you know where to find me.”

She smiled and walked away.

Spickles looked at the menu; it was nothing like the dollar menu from fast food restaurants. The only thing on the Fitzgerald’s menu under a dollar was a side of grape or strawberry jelly. Blackberry jelly was $1.09. If Spickles listed the greatest inventions of all time, paper would top his list, but a close second would be the dollar menu. The game of baseball, the previous channel button, and the microchip would round out his top five. An honorable mention would go to the slinky or yo-yo, he couldn’t decide. The tables near Spickles were barren except for the empty coffee cups and two vases of flowers that rested on each. Underneath was an embroidered tablecloth with the word Fitzgerald's along the edges. The hostess stood near the front door and looked out at the empty parking lot. The waitress who would be serving Spickles this morning approached his table.

“Good morning, sunshine. Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have some apple cinnamon oatmeal, an order of hash browns, and an orange juice,” Spickles said.

“I’m sorry sir, but we only have plain oatmeal.”

“Bummer,” Spickles said. “Well, do you have any cinnamon rolls?”

“We sure do.”

“Any danishes?”

“We have peach, apple, cherry, blueberry, and apricot.”

“Well, Dorothy,” Spickles said, taking a sip of his water. “How about you ask one of your chefs if he or she wouldn’t mind taking some of the cinnamon used to make the cinnamon rolls, and sprinkling it on some plain oatmeal. Then ask that same chef if he could take some of the apples used to make the apple danishes and add that to the aforementioned oatmeal. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dorothy replied.

At $5.99 for a bowl of oatmeal, Spickles thought, seeing what she could do was a good idea. Normally, Spickles wouldn’t order apple cinnamon oatmeal from such a fancy restaurant, but last night he had a sausage, bacon, and ham omelet for dinner and Spickles wasn’t the kind of guy to eat eggs for two meals in a row. Spickles was glad he was alone. He couldn’t hold a decent conversation with anyone else when he was always looking out the corner of his eyes at the food trays that came from the kitchen. Alone, he could keep an eye on his food and still reflect on his thoughts. He thought about Life. His family played it all the time, but he never has. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost. He decided if he ever did play, he wouldn’t buy fire insurance. Whenever he watched his family play, it seemed that the winner never had fire insurance. Dorothy came by and gave him an orange juice and a bowl of steaming oatmeal with cinnamon and apple bits sprinkled on top.

“Courtesy of Chef Stanley,” she said.

“Lovely. Just lovely.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

She walked away, and while he was sipping his orange juice through a straw, waiting for his oatmeal to cool, he heard an argument from another table.

“Well, the total here is $71.43, cut that four ways, add tip, we’re looking at about twenty bucks a man.”

Spickles wondered how he came to that conclusion. A nine-dollar tip out of a $71 meal was barely over ten percent. Did the waitress lick all the food before serving it, and then while pouring the coffee, miss the cup completely and spill on the men? Or were they cheapskates? Spickles settled on the latter and dropped an ice cube into his oatmeal.

“Hey Harold, all I had was the Early Bird Special and a glass of milk. I didn’t order that imported coffee you guys were drinking. I shouldn’t owe more than 15 bucks, and that’s being generous.” Spickles looked at his menu, dark European rosewood coffee: $4.99, Costa Rican tres rios full bean hazelnut blend: $5.99, and the big papa, Colombian superior thrice-grinded vanilla-espresso: $7.99.

“Well, Ralph, we go out to eat together all the time. We usually just do it this way. It’s easier than getting technical. It all evens out in the end, doesn’t it, guys?” The other two men didn’t answer.
Spickles didn’t care who paid what. He just wanted his oatmeal to stop steaming. He dropped two more ice cubes in, and watched Dorothy take the order of a family a few tables away. eH

“I’ll have the three egg special,” the father said.

“Scrambled, poached, over-easy, over-hard, sunny side up, or basted?”

“Poached, please.”

“Bacon, Canadian bacon, ham, sausage patties, sausage links, or fresh fruit.”

“I’ll try the links.”

“White, wheat, rye, bagel, English muffin, or pumpernickel.”

“Wheat.” Dorothy continued to recite the menu for the rest of the family. The mother didn’t know what sides she could choose from, the girl didn’t know what cheeses came in the omelet, and the little boy wanted to know all the juices. Spickles figured she’d been working here since she was nine years old. When she was done at that table, Spickles raised a finger.

“Whada’ya need, sunshine?” She was in her fifties. Her star shaped nametag was fading.

“Do you think I could get another orange juice, and a couple pieces of double toasted rye bread, no butter?”

“Sure thing, darling.”

Another waitress walked past the men’s table, “I can take that whenever you’re ready.” Their waitress was only a few years older than Spickles. Her long blond hair hung in a ponytail, and her black rimmed glasses matched nicely with her black waitress vest.

“We’ll be ready in a moment, my friend the human calculator is having some trouble right now,” Ralph said.

Spickles could tell Ralph was upset now. Spickles always prided himself on knowing when people stopped joking about the restaurant bill and started getting serious.

“I’d rather be the human calculator than the human divorce. What are you up to now, about your fifth wife?” Howard said. The few people who were in the restaurant fell silent. He stood up and walked toward Howard slowly. Another member of the group, a bald man with glasses, put his hand out to stop him.

“Relax, Clarence, I’m just going to show him how to divide.” Spickles dropped another ice cube from his orange juice into the oatmeal bowl. Dorothy brought him his toast.

“Here you go, dear. I brought you a few packets of butter, too. In case you change your mind.”

“Thanks, Dorth.”

Spickles looked back at the men. Ralph was clenching Howard’s shirt collar in his hands.

“Wait.” Clarence yelled. “I almost forgot. I have a coupon, good for fifty percent off.” Ralph loosened his grip and looked at him.

“Fifty?”

“Yeah, fifty. My wife gave it to me just before I left.”

“That will work”

“Yeah it sure will,” Howard said. “Well, fifty percent off $71.43 is about $36, plus tip, eleven bucks each, gentlemen. How about you speak up a little sooner next time, Clarence.”

Thanks to the collection of ice cubes that had now vanished from his bowl while he watched the spectacle, Spickles’ oatmeal was lukewarm and soggy. He slurped the few remaining drops of orange juice from the bottom of his first cup, left a twenty-dollar bill on his table, and walked out. He also left a five-dollar bill on the cheapskate’s table.

Spickles drove home, down twenty-five dollars, and still hungry. It was only 10:30 when he got back to his house, so he decided to go back to sleep. He took off his shoes without untying them, and set his alarm for 1:27. He sprawled out on the couch and turned on the TV. If he tried to sleep in silence, he’d always end up thinking about stuff. Just last night, as he was about to drift off to dreamland, Spickles began trying to name the First Ladies in order. He knew Martha Washington, and then fifteen minutes later he managed to recall Abigail Adams, followed by Mrs. Jefferson. He didn’t count Mrs. Jefferson, though, because he didn’t think her real first name was Mrs. He thought it might have been Linda, but he couldn’t guarantee that.

Spickles flipped through the channels and settled on The Price is Right. That Bob Barker is about 97, going on 43. Spickles was just in time to see the first item up for bid - a beautiful chandelier. Some college guy, from some unknown community college out in California, bid the closest without going over. Now he had a chance to win a lovely sofa and a fine dinette set, all he had to do was decide whether the prices listed for each were correct, or if they were reversed. He lost.

The next item up for bid was a keyboard. The housewife who wore a shirt that said, “I don’t stay home to watch my kids, I stay home to watch BOB!” started the bidding at $350. Then the grandma, who seemed too out of date with popular culture to bid correctly on anything that used electricity, bid $375. It was the worst bid in the history of The Price is Right, but Spickles forgave her. She was old. The Navy officer bid $500. Now Spickles knew the obvious move for the last person was to bid $501. Sportsmanship is not a part of The Price is Right The guy bid $1000. Spickles looked again to see if the keyboard came with a complimentary 500-dollar bill. Barker announced the price at $550.

“$1000,” Spickles said. “At least the lady was old.”

Spickles’ eyelids grew heavy; he adjusted the pillow beneath him and pulled the blanket closer to his head. He turned away from the TV, still listening as the Navy Officer tried to win a new car.

His alarm went off at 1:27. He snoozed it until 1:47. When he woke up he still had nothing to do. He didn’t have to go to work because he didn’t have a job. He didn’t have a job because his parents paid for his college education. He gave Roy a call. Roy’s mom answered.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello this is Spickles, is Roy there?”

“Sure, one second, Spickles.”

“Hello,” Roy said.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Wanna do something?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno”

“ ”

“ ”

“Wanna go mini-golfing?” Spickles suggested this even though they went the last two days.

“How much is it today?”

“Free, Tipselle is working.”

“All right.”

“I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

“Later.”

As soon as he hung up the phone Spickles knew the next twenty minutes of his life would be a complete waste. He had time to put away the clothes that he washed yesterday, or to catch up on the book he was reading, but instead he just reflected on the idea that he had time to do this stuff.

The poor man’s batmobile pulled into Roy’s driveway eighteen minutes later. Roy came out wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue polo. His Chicago White Sox hat covered his short brown hair, and was down far enough to cast a shadow over his nose. Spickles unlocked the passenger side door and they left.

The drive to Jungle Greens was normal. Spickles rolled a stop sign and they saw the ice cream man.

She was sitting on a barstool inside the little shack when they got there. Today she wore an old t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and her brother’s basketball shorts. Beneath her blond hair, tied sloppily into a ponytail, her forehead leaked droplets of sweat through her tan skin. She was munching on nachos, and left a dab of cheese on her upper lip. There was an empty Pepsi can on the counter and a half filled one next to it. Spickles thought she looked gorgeous.

“Hey guys,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“How’s work been going?” Spickles asked.

“Pretty slow.”

“Well, we’re gonna get a round in before the rush comes, if that’s alright. We’ll keep you company after.”

“Go for it,” Tipselle said and went back to her nachos.

There was no rush coming. There had only been four rushes in the history of Jungle Greens. Two came on Father’s Day when fathers golfed free.

Spickles set his ball down on the black mat at the first hole.

“How much we playing for?” he asked Roy.

“Nothing, unless I get a handicap.”

“I’ll add 2 strokes to my score at the end.”

“Ten,” Roy said with hesitation.

“Make it twelve,” Spickles said with a sparkle in his eye. “Five bucks.”

The first hole was a straight putt with a small hill halfway down the green. Spickles went first. His green ball rested on the middle hole of the black mat as he knelt behind it, visualizing his shot.

“Hey, Tiger Woods, how bout you putt already,” Roy said.

Spickles addressed the ball, took two practice strokes, and then putted. It traveled down the green carpet as if it were on a track headed straight for the hole. It climbed over the hill with perfect speed and trickled all the way down to the bottom of the cup.

“Tiger misses that putt left,” Spickles said.

Roy put his ball down on the mat. He didn’t take any practice strokes. The ball had a good line towards the hole, but he hit it too firm, and it sped past the hole. He made it on the next shot.

“Hey, you’re still ahead by 11,” Spickles said as he grabbed Roy’s ball from the cup and tossed it to him.

The second hole at Jungle Greens is a short par three. The four legs of a large, but not quite life sized, plastic giraffe block the path to the hole. Meredith, named by Tipselle, stood with her legs close together, the best path to the hole was along side of the short concrete walls that lined the green. Again, Spickles set his ball down and squatted behind it.

“Dude, you’ve played this course more times than Billy Joel has played a piano. You know the exact spot where you should hit the ball, stop acting like this is the U.S. Open,” Roy said.

Ping. Meredith watched it roll past her left foot, brush up against the wall, roll past her left hind leg and trickle into the hole.

“I would have went with Elton John on the piano analogy,” Spickles said.

Roy made a two again. He was golfing well, but the sparkle in Spickles’ eye wouldn’t go away.

“I’ll tell you what,” Spickles said. “Once I make up these twelve strokes, which will be by about the ninth hole, I’ll start putting lefty.”

“Whatever.”

At the end of eighteen holes, Spickles had shot a thirty to Roy’s forty-four.

“Looks like I owe you five. Roy said as they walked back to the shack. “That was the luckiest round of golf I’ve ever witnessed. You better try to make something happen with Tipselle today before your luck runs out.”

“Who won?” she asked when they brought their clubs back.

“Is that a serious question?” Spickles said, laughing.

“Shut up.” Roy said.

“Hey, Tipselle, how about a Gatorade?” Tipselle set down her bag of peanut M&M’s and grabbed Spickles a Gatorade.

“You want one, Roy?”

“No thanks.”

“So what are you doing tonight, Tipselle?” Spickles asked in between sips.

“I don’t know. You should call me and we can hang out.” She smiled at him.

Roy looked at his phone. It was 3:15.

“Hey, we gotta get going. I got work at four,” he told Spickles. Spickles thanked Tipselle for the Gatorade and told her he’d talk to her later. He and Roy walked back to the car.

“There’s my move. Same move I always make. Let’s see if she answers this time,” Spickles said. Roy laughed.

Spickles was back home, now only down twenty dollars, but still hungry. He put a frozen pizza in the oven. He thought about what he could do while it cooked. He still had that laundry to put away, he needed to write thank you letters to his relatives that sent him birthday money, and his sister asked him to burn a CD for her. He settled on playing minesweeper on his computer. By the time the pizza was done, he had lost 46 games in a row. He ate the whole pizza, flossed, and took a nap.

He woke up at 6:54. He took a shower, and since he had no clean clothes to choose from, ended up putting away his laundry. At 8:45, he called Tipselle. Spickles knew how much she meant to him because he didn’t wait until after 9:00 for his free minutes to kick in. She didn’t answer. He hated caller ID. He went downstairs, told his mom he didn’t have plans yet, told his sister he’d have the CD soon, and then walked back upstairs into his room. He considered his options – wait for Tipselle to call back, wait for Roy to get off work so they could drive around together, wait for nothing in particular, or take the batmobile out for a ride by himself. He chose the latter. He told his parents he’d be back later.

For Spickles, it was never a question of destination. He wasn’t going anywhere. He started in his driveway, drove on the same streets over and over in no order and ended up in his driveway. If a friend called him and asked what he was doing, he’d say he was driving around. If they asked where he was going, he’d say nowhere. Tonight, as it often did, nowhere ended up at the park. He swayed back and forth on a swing and watched the stars appear in the sky. Each one that appeared shone brighter than the last. Stars fascinated him. He wanted to be one. He learned that they live for about thirteen billion years, emitting heat and light, and then when they run out of hydrogen or helium, their core contracts and the outer layers expand, cool, and become less bright. They eventually collapse and explode. That’s what he wanted to do. He marveled at how much we do with stars, we watch them, we name them, we study them, we buy them, we let them predict the future, and we make up nursery rhymes about them. All the while, they’re light years away, gradually dying, with no choice but to give away everything they were born with. They are constantly dying. He swung faster now, pondering what life would be like as a star. It was 11 p.m. He worked the swing into a feverish rhythm, leaned back and gazed up; his body was horizontal. He watched the stars illuminate the darkness while they died.

When he left the park he drove past Tipselle’s house. Her car wasn’t there. For the rest of the night he drove three miles under the speed limit and never went through a yellow light.

Spickles walked back into his house at 2:15 a.m. and put on the TV. Thirty-four out of the sixty-five channels on his TV had infomercials on. In a few weeks, he could own a 50-piece knife set. One knife could slice tomatoes into floss. He could also have an automatic juicer that doubles as an iron, the ABmagician that would turn his stomach into an impenetrable steel wall in 6 weeks or less, or a small little robot that could wash, soap, vacuum, dust, scrub, and make his house sparkle. Spickles decided to call one of the stations.

“Hello, Helpful Home Products line, this is Judy, how may I help you?”

“Yes I’m calling about the ABmagician.”

“Would you like to place an order?”

“Well it’s 4 easy payments of $19.99, correct?”

“Yes sir, that’s by credit card only.”

“I was wondering if I could maybe condense that into one real hard payment of, say, seventy dollars?”

After she hung up Spickles went on his computer. He wanted to talk to somebody, but no one was online. He burnt the CD for his sister and left it on the kitchen table. After some more minesweeper and a 4 a.m. episode of Full House, Spickles flossed and went to bed in his jeans on the couch in the basement. He hated going to sleep, but he loved sleeping.