“You’re crazy!” whispered Don. “Revenge on Plotnick? We touch one brick of his precious building, and he’ll put up the Taj Mahal and slap it on our tab!”
“Besides,” I added, “he’s holding Joe’s lease over our heads. If we lose this apartment, we’re dead meat.”
“It’s nothing like that,” said the Peach, his eyes taking on the gleam that indicated one of his weirder moods. “This won’t hurt Plotnick or the building. Listen.”
Hey, this was the guy who was single-handedly leading Plastics Unlimited into the twenty-first century. We were all ears.
* * *
Friday our dinner consisted of Burger King takeout. We ate it in a tiny alley on Bathurst Street, sandwiched between a pawnshop and a twenty-four-hour dry cleaner. We were on stake-out. We had a good view of the deli, and also of the giant pot hole on Bathurst. With all the traffic to Gourmet Week, there had to be at least one car that would hit at the right angle, at the right speed, and donate its hubcap to our cause.
We were lucky. It took just about an hour. At exactly seven thirty-nine, we heard the squeal of tires. We all stiffened at the sound, and I pictured Plotnick behind the counter, doing the same. A big black Ford roared up the street and hit the pot hole full tilt. We couldn’t have asked for a hubcap with more momentum. It was spinning like a flying saucer, hurtling towards the deli.
I pictured Plotnick again. He was on the alert! He would reach for his trusty butterfly net! But he couldn’t pick it up! It was Krazy-glued to the side of the counter! He would panic! He would scream! I’d been wondering all day what words would pass his lips while he watched at least $20.00 worth of potential income hit the pavement, becoming dented and unsaleable, and therefore getting away.
“My window!”
His window?
“Oh, my God!” cried Don. “He’s coming out!”
Waddling at top speed, Plotnick bravely went to face the hubcap unarmed. He interposed his portly body between the spinning projectile and the plate glass window. It was a case of “your money or your life,” and Plotnick was making the obvious choice.
The hubcap hit the curb at top speed, and bounced up at a forty-five degree angle. It caromed off Plotnick’s bald head, and crashed through the showcase window of the Olympiad Delicatessen. Neatly it severed the string of salamis, which dropped like torpedoes to the glass-covered floor. Neighbors and customers swarmed around the fallen restaurateur.
* * *
Plotnick was okay, according to the doctor who made the house call. For once, the ventilation system worked in our favor. We heard everything. There was no concussion, just a little bruise that would fade in a few days. Apparently he was as hardheaded as he was hard-hearted.
The post-revenge victory party that night in apartment 2C was subdued. We had the stereo cranked way up — that was just sound interference so Plotnick couldn’t listen in. After all, a window had been broken today, and if he found out it was us, pretty soon there’d be a ninety-story office tower at 1 Pitt Street, and we’d have to pay for it.
We were listening to a tape of Rootbeer on the harp, made for our “enjoyment.” People normally think of the harp as a quiet instrument. But that reverberating plink, plink gets inside your guts and vibrates them. Maybe Rootbeer was avoiding executive burnout, but the rest of us were going crazy.
“Look,” said Ferguson, “Plotnick’s okay, so all he’s lost is a window — which was rotten of us, but we didn’t do it on purpose. And the money he has to spend to fix it he’s already extorted from us when he re-did the stairs. So we’re even.”
I nodded. “Plotnick’s earned everything he gets, and more. But I feel like I took that hubcap, hit him over the head with it, and tossed it through his window. Bashing stuff up is almost — vandalism. You can’t get much lower than that.” I winced. “We deserve this music.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Ferguson.
“I enjoyed every minute of it,” announced Don. “Not because of Plotnick’s head or the window, but because Peachfuzz thought it up, planned the whole thing, and it didn’t work. I mean, if this hadn’t happened, we might never have lived to see his Royal Fuzziness mess up.”
“You’re not going to let me forget this, are you?” said the Peach.
“Absolutely not,” Don beamed. “Let it be known to one and all that, on this date, A.D. 1990, at approximately twenty minutes to eight P.M., in the city of Toronto, country of Canada, continent of North America, planet Earth, orbit 3, solar system 60609, the great Doctor of Fuzzology made a mistake. Every year, on this anniversary, expect to hear from me, Peachfuzz, to remind you that the guys who built Stonehenge never would have screwed up like this!”
“Blessed events aside,” I cut in, “I feel pretty lousy about it.”
“Revenge is overrated,” agreed Ferguson.
We felt so guilty that, when the tape ended, we almost played it again. Almost. Instead, we huddled around the air vent, listening for sounds from the deli. Plotnick seemed to be his normal nasty self. But when the man from the twenty-four-hour glass replacement company told him the new window would cost $330, he hit the ceiling. We felt like murderers.
“We’ll give him the money,” I said suddenly.
“You mean confess?” gasped Don.
“Of course not. We’ll just put three hundred and thirty bucks in an envelope, and slide it under his door after he’s gone to sleep. He’ll never know who did it.” I turned to the Peach. “You cashed your paycheck, right?”
“Giving him money goes against the grain,” said Ferguson, nodding sadly. “You know he’ll get it all anyway, so why speed the process?”
“Plotnick doesn’t deserve two cents,” I acknowledged, “but our consciences are worth more than three hundred and thirty bucks.”
“To see Peachfuzz make a mistake,” grinned Don, “I’d gladly hand over a million!”
* * *
With our consciences clear, we slept till almost noon. Then we headed down to the deli to eat à la Plotnick. After all, we’d prepaid the tip, $330, at five o’clock in the morning.
Suddenly Plotnick was all smiles, and the nickel-sized bruise on his forehead looked more like a Bozo-the-Clown polka dot than a wound. He was laughing and joking with his customers, and full table service was restored, in spite of the fact that Gourmet Week still had one big night to go. The new window was already installed, spotless and gleaming. We all looked our fill. Not only was it ours, but this was also probably the only chance we’d have to see it clean. I felt good about our decision to pay the money. Even though our landlord was a first-class stinker, he was an old man, not rich, hard working, and let’s face it, what you owe, you owe.
“A very good morning to you, gentlemen. A beautiful morning.”
“Hi, Mr. Plotnick,” I managed. “How are you feeling?”
“Very well,” the landlord beamed, rubbing his hands together with glee. “I had a visit last night from the shoemaker’s elves. Magic elves, very generous, and maybe with a little bit of guilt on the conscience.”
“He knows!” whispered Don in horror.
“He can’t!” I hissed. “If he did, he’d be killing us now!”
Plotnick brought three coffees to our booth. “Very good boys, these elves. One of them, a klutz, fell on the stairs. I was worried for him.”
“That was me!” gasped Don as Plotnick walked away. “He does so know!”
“Then why is he smiling?” whispered Ferguson. As if on cue, a tall man in a business suit rushed into the deli, leaving his car running outside. “Great news, Mr. Plotnick. The insurance company is paying in full.” He handed over an envelope. “And here’s your check — three hundred and thirty dollars.” And he rushed out and drove away.
In our booth, we turned to stone. Now we knew why Plotnick was at peace with the world. Between our consciences and his insurance, he’d been paid for the window twice!
“No wonder you’re in such a good mood,” I managed to choke out.
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“That has nothing to do with it,” said the landlord self-righteously. “I’m always happy when the first of the month is coming.”
“The first of the month? When?”
“Ah, you’ve forgotten, Mr. Cardone. Wednesday, that’s when.”
We got up and ran straight upstairs to count our financial resources. I did the stairs in record time, and pounced on our checkbook. Figures don’t lie, no matter how you try to juggle them. We didn’t have enough money for the August rent.
Hoping for a mistake, I counted our assets. For a lousy planner, I was a great accountant. We had $75 in cash, and $200 or so in the bank, and we were facing a $685 rent check.
I got so freaked out that my eyes unfocused, and the room was a blur. I just said, “Oh.”
Then there was Don. “What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are we going to do? There’s no payday between now and Wednesday!”
Even Ferguson was unnerved. “We’re in big trouble.”
“It’s all your fault, Peachfuzz!” Don accused. “You and your stupid mistake!”
“The real mistake wasn’t the hubcap,” said Ferguson tersely. “It was the money.”
“Or you, Jason!” Don exploded. “What’s that dumb checkbook for — doodles? Why didn’t you warn us we didn’t have enough money for the rent?”
“I made a mistake!” I babbled.
“Another mistake! I’m surrounded by mistakes! What are we going to do?”
“We could always ask our parents to front us the money,” suggested Ferguson.
“No way,” I said. “My folks would look at it as an excuse to drag me home.”
“Mine, too,” said Don. “No more stupid ideas, Peachfuzz! You’re the big executive! Why aren’t you rich?”
“Because I didn’t let Plotnick be my manager!” Ferguson snapped.
“Rootbeer!” I exclaimed. “He’s our only hope!”
“He has less than we do,” said Don, “even with the toilet brush.”
“He’s got the harp,” I argued. “He can hock it.”
We looked over at Rootbeer’s corner. There sat his paper bag of underwear, with the knitting needles, stamp albums, Parcheesi game, and his other discarded hobbies. The harp was gone.
“Oh, no!” moaned Don. “Could it have been stolen?”
“Are you crazy?” returned Ferguson. “Only King Kong could steal that harp!”
“He’s hocking it!” I exclaimed. “We’re saved!”
“Not necessarily,” said the Peach. “What if he got another hobby?”
We fought about it all afternoon, and no matter how we sliced it, it all came up Rootbeer. Not that we were so thrilled about asking the universal dispenser of bad luck to hand over his hard-earned cash. The entire summer, which I now knew was not the sunshine and roses that the boy from Owen Sound thought it would be, had come down to $685 we didn’t have.
There were problems. One — what if Rootbeer said no? Two — what if Rootbeer got mad? Three — where was Rootbeer? With a flaky guy like him, “See ya later,” could mean a twenty-minute absence or a trip around the world.
Being behind the financial eight ball, we had two dates with Jessica to cancel. Don blew off his afternoon rendezvous with a phony sore throat. Ten minutes later, Ferguson called to weasel out of the evening slot, and confessed the whole thing, to Don’s dismay. Jessica offered her life savings, thirty-eight bucks, but manfully, they turned her down. I would have taken it, but she never offered it to me.
“I can’t believe you, Peachfuzz!” roared Don. “Why’d you have to make it look like I told her a lie?”
“Because you did.”
“And you should have backed me up. You should have said you caught my sore throat!”
“A sore throat isn’t very creative,” Ferguson decided. “People expect more of me. Maybe — pellagra, elephantiasis, scurvy —”
“So next time you pick the disease!”
Then — perfect timing — my mother called.
“Hi, dear. How’s everything?”
“Great.” Terrible.
“What’s new?”
“Nothing.” Bankruptcy. Eviction. Death.
In the background, Ferguson and Don were starting to fight again.
“Jason, what’s that noise? It sounds like an argument!”
“Uh — no, Mom. We’re watching a war movie on TV.”
“How are Ferguson and Don?”
“Fine,” I said, stepping in between them. “They both send their regards.”
“Hi, Mrs. Cardone,” they called into the receiver, and resumed their bickering.
“So, are you going someplace fun today?”
“Oh, sure.” The street, with all Joe’s furniture.
“That’s lovely, dear. Your father wants to say hello.”
My dad came on. “Hi, son. Flat broke yet, ha-ha?”
“No way, Dad.” At least, not till Tuesday.
“I ran into Doug Champion at the bowling alley last night, and we talked about how proud we are of you kids. We had our doubts, but you’re sure showing us. Keep it up, son. So long.”
“ ’Bye, Dad.”
Grimly we settled in to wait for Rootbeer.
* * *
He came at four in the morning, and was greeted by three very light sleepers. My hopes were dashed almost immediately. He was carrying the Betelgeuse T-5000 Deluxe high Magnification Telescope. It looked expensive. It looked like the August rent.
I was too frazzled for tact. “You have to return it!”
“I could do that,” said Rootbeer thoughtfully, “but they might not like it too much back at the store. It’s a little broken.”
“How broken?” asked Don fearfully.
“The telescope’s okay,” Rootbeer assured us, “but all the glass fell out.”
“It’s defective!” I cried. “They have to take it back!”
Rootbeer looked vaguely ashamed. “Well, it kind of happened when I hit that guy.” He then occupied himself with stacking his harp music on top of the stamp albums.
“Now what?” whispered Ferguson desperately.
“He’s still our only hope,” I hissed. “None of the rest of us can come up with fast money.”
“Oh, God,” said Ferguson. “You’re asking the guy to go out and get clobbered by a two-by-four.”
I shrugged lamely. “Maybe he’ll just bite tires or something. Look, I wouldn’t ask him if there was any other way! Joe’s lease is on the line here!” I cleared my throat very carefully. “Uh — Rootbeer, you wouldn’t happen to have any money left, would you?”
“Sure.” He shook the upper-right-hand corner of his poncho, and a shower of coins hit the floor, along with a few elastics and paper clips. He looked down for a quick count. “On second thought, I’m broke. How about that.”
“Oh, wow, Rootbeer,” I moaned. “We’ve got kind of an emergency. Our rent is due on Wednesday, and we’re short more than $400.”
Rootbeer whistled, the longer beard hairs rustling in the breeze. “That’s a few bucks. Lucky for us it’s carnival season. Just let me grab some Z’s.” And he flopped right down on the floor and was asleep at once.
* * *
Summerfest was a giant carnival in the north end of the city. Three bumpkins from Owen Sound were very impressed. There were rides, activity booths, exhibits, and carnival games. Junk food was everywhere. All three of us went along, mostly out of curiosity. What would Rootbeer find to do at a fair like this that would bring us our rent money? Ninety percent of the crowd was under the age of eight.
Ten feet inside the front gate, our savior handed over fifty precious cents at the Test Your Strength booth. He swung the hammer and hit that thing so hard that not only did he ring the bell, he broke the machine for good and always. This won him dirty looks and a kewpie doll worth substantially less than fifty cents.
“Isn’t it great?” said Rootbeer, pleased.
“Maybe,” I admitted grudgingly. “B
ut, Rootbeer, we have to pay the rent. Plotnick doesn’t accept kewpie dolls on account.”
“On account of he prefers money,” Ferguson finished.
Rootbeer was unconcerned. “Hey, look — Skeeball!”
Rootbeer had a lot of fun that day, and won a lot of prizes, none of which would have counted for two cents at the Olympiad Delicatessen. Also, he was spending money, and making none. We were getting desperate, and kind of tired from carrying an assortment of stuffed toys, pennants, posters, balloons, T-shirts, buttons, and a giant plush water buffalo that was just under actual size. I kept hinting that it must be pretty near time to go for the money. But then Rootbeer would say, “Hey, look —” and we’d have to tour the haunted house, or throw a baseball at some milk bottles, or get on another stomach-turning ride.
On the Enormo-Coaster, Don lost his grip on the stuffed water buffalo. It sailed through the air and landed right in the dolphin pool, where it sank like a rock. The dolphins scattered. I don’t blame them. And by the time we got off the ride, the giant toy had soaked up so much water that it had to be lifted out of the pool by crane. We walked by and pretended we’d never seen it before in our lives.
By this time, I’d given up on the idea of paying the rent. But Rootbeer pointed to the Arena, where a sign declared MEET LIVE WRESTLING STARS. We followed him, carrying the spoils, minus the water buffalo.
Inside was a madhouse. A three-thousand-seat hockey arena was packed to the rafters, and all attention was focused on a small ring, where six of the most famous faces in wrestling were putting on exhibitions.
When we walked in, Megaman the Towering Dynamo had a sleeper hold on some poor contestant from the audience. He slammed the guy effortlessly to the ground, and pinned his shoulders. The referee counted three, and the audience went wild.
“That was Ralph from Mississauga. Better luck next time,” said the ring announcer, his voice echoing throughout the building. “Who’ll be our next contestant? For five dollars, you can fight one of our wrestling superstars. If you stay in the ring for sixty seconds, we’ll give you one hundred dollars cash!”
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