His stomach complained loudly of its emptiness.
Hera’s loomed on his left, and he went inside. The bell tinkled merrily and the same busboy/waiter came to the counter and retrieved a menu.
“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, showing no sign that he remembered Tim from the previous day. “Seat for one?”
“Not exactly.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Listen, I’m in a bit of a jam. Do you have any job openings?”
“I’m sorry,” the boy replied. “We have more help than we need at the moment.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I haven’t eaten since I was here yesterday, and it’s really rather embarrassing to admit, but my wallet was stolen last night. I have no money.”
“I guess you won’t be needing a menu, then,” the boy said coldly, sliding the laminated sheet back into its slot. “Good day.” He started to turn away.
“Wait! Please, wait a minute. I’d be willing to work for it. You know, bus tables a few hours, wash some dishes. Hell, I’m even a fairly good cook.” He kept his voice low. Though few patrons sat in the dining room, he felt embarrassed at the thought they might overhear.
“Sir, Hera’s Diner is not known for indentured servitude, despite comments to the contrary made by her staff. Once again, good day, sir.” The gawky young man’s air suddenly became reminiscent of the snobbery one would expect from the maitre de at an expensive French restaurant.
Not wanting to engage in a conflict that would harm possible returns to the establishment, with or without money, Tim surrendered and walked out. He looked up and down the street and considered flipping a coin before remembering he did not have one. Instead, he flipped one of the tiny, paper-wrapped bars of soap. Emblem up: heads. He moved off to his left, doing his best not to look sulky as he walked.
Across the street he passed a small bar standing alone. Two small motorcycles caked with dirt and mud occupied the parking lot on the right side of the building. Somebody getting an early start on the evening, perhaps? A small neon sign read “Medusa’s” in elegant cursive writing, and a stylized head with a group of neon snakes emanating from the scalp hung beneath the A and S at the end. A long, rectangular section of the front wall appeared to have once been a window.
He paused, staring at the front of the bar and considering the ups and downs of bar employment. He immediately thought of several negatives: he did not know how to mix drinks; he doubted he could keep up as a waiter on busy nights; he considered cleaning up spilled beer and puke a last resort job; he did not have the body or attitude to be an intimidating bouncer. On the plus side, however, he found enough to balance the scales: tips meant quick cash, and if this place filled up in the evenings he might earn enough to procure shelter for the night. Hell, maybe the owner would offer him a meal.
After weighing his options, he made a decision and trotted across the street after the first break in traffic. He found the entrance around the side and stepped inside. Small lamps hung close to the ceiling dimly illuminated the interior, and he stood and blinked until his eyes adjusted. The bar spread across the wall opposite the entrance, and short, round stools upholstered with red vinyl lined the front of it. A spread of dark-stained wooden tables and chairs dominated the floor. The noise of his footfalls on the wood-paneled floor echoed through the empty interior as he approached the bar.
The bikers, both women, sat at a table at the far end of the bar. They wore colorful jumpsuits caked with mud, almost matching their bikes. Large helmets sat on the table before them, surrounding a large, unlabeled bottle filled with golden liquid. The bartender, a tall, horse-faced woman with thick, powerful arms leaned across the bar toward the two riders. It seemed he interrupted a conversation. The bartender murmured something to the others, then walked the length of the bar to where Tim stood. The two bike riders fixed him with hard gazes.
“What do you want?” the bartender sneered.
“Well, ma’am, I was wondering if you were looking for help.”
“Help?” she snapped. “What do you mean?”
“Employees. Someone to work for you.”
The bartender stared at him for a moment, then threw her head back with a loud, obnoxious laugh that startled him. “You want to work here?” The other two women overheard and chuckled between themselves.
“Well, I’m new in town and short on cash.” He did not get the joke and did not want to embarrass himself further, but feared it was too late.
The bartender choked back another giggle and wiped a tear from her eye. “Hoo, boy. Sorry. But it’s just that you don’t look like the dancin’ type.”
“Dancing type?”
She jerked a thumb toward the rear wall. “You know. Dancing.”
He leaned away from the bar and looked back. A low stage protruded from the wall, complete with a short runway. Tables blocked the view so he did not notice it when he entered. Tiny lights lined the edges all the way around, a curtained doorway opened onto the stage from the left, and a chrome pole stretched from floor to ceiling at the center.
“Oh, shit,” Tim said, humiliated. He felt the warmth as his face flushed. He could not believe he just walked into a female strip bar. His remark drew renewed gales of laughter from the three women. Before they could heap insult upon injury, he turned and left the bar. Once he hit the sidewalk, he moved away at a fast pace, hoping nobody saw him leaving.
Fortunately the streets were empty, and he moved on. At the end of the next block, the door to a hardware store stood open and inviting. A large sign hanging overhead read Carson Hardware in large, capital letters. Written beneath it in small, elegant script were the words “Lana Carson, owner.”
A young boy, probably no older than ten, swept dust into the street. His broom was gigantic, nearly twice his height. He kept tripping over a dirty apron that hung down to his sneakers.
“Hey, little man,” Tim said jovially. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
The boy paused, then looked back over his shoulder and squinted into the sunlight. “Sir?” he asked in a soft voice.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he repeated.
“Why would I be in school?” He turned back to his chore.
Tim watched for a second. With a shrug, he went inside.
Aisles of chin-high shelves stretched back to the far wall, all hung with signs proclaiming various categories of equipment, from plumbing to seasonal to electrical and so forth. A number of ceiling fans hung in a cluster in one corner. A sign announcing “lumber” hung over a door at the rear. A short service counter sat in front of the large window to his right. Stacks of catalogs, papers, and various small parts cluttered the countertop.
A tall, bulky man sat on a stool behind the counter, hunched forward over a small unidentifiable contraption he held in his hands. His long, unkempt hair looked as if the only proper trimming he allowed it was to cut away the locks that hung across his eyes. He probably did it himself judging by the awkward angle of the cut. As if sensing somebody watching him, he looked up with dull brown eyes. Tim thought he detected a hint of drool at one corner of the man’s mouth.
“Can I help yuh?” the dullard asked. His jaw went slack as he waited for an answer.
Tim moved closer, chewing his lower lip to prevent the escape of any impolite remarks. He always had a theory which seldom proved itself wrong. Simply put, the gap between one’s ears was directly proportional to the gap between one’s lips. Based on the droop of this guy’s jaw, Tim assumed there could be nothing but vacuum in his head.
“Well, I certainly hope so. I’m looking for a job.”
“A job?”
Not again. He hoped this would not be happening all day. “You know, I do things around here, the boss pays me.”
“Oh. Job. No jobs here. Just me and Jerry.”
“Jerry? You mean the boy outside?”
“Yup. Just me and Jerry.” He smiled proudly and chuckled.
Tim sighed. “Is the boss around?”
“Mrs. Carson never co
mes in. Not since Mr. Carson died. She leaves me and Jerry to run the place.”
Tim found that very hard to believe. “How do you handle all your customers?”
The dullard shrugged. “It’s not too bad.” He appeared to be losing interest in the conversation and turned his attention to the mess of gears in his hands. He touched a small part, and a spring flew off to bounce across the countertop. The dullard glanced down, watched it roll off the counter and onto the floor. He looked back at his gizmo.
Tim threw up his hands in frustration and left the store.
“Good day, sir,” the sweeping boy called after him. Tim fought the urge to turn around and flip the kid the bird.
* * *
His bad luck held up through the rest of the day. Many of the stores were closed and the rest were not hiring. One man laughed him out of the store. From the rest he drew strange looks.
He walked the streets almost at random, the sun beating down hard upon his back. By two o’clock his stomach started to rumble. He tightened his belt a notch and, finding himself walking down a familiar street, took a shortcut down a narrow alleyway. He passed a dumpster and already caught himself thinking about rummaging through it for bits of food.
Two streets over he emerged onto the residential neighborhoods. He licked a finger and held it up to the sky, testing the wind direction. With a brief nod to himself, he followed the wind up the street to his left. Almost without exception, the houses were in good shape. Well-kept lawns bordered by immaculate rows of bushes surrounded most of them, and some displayed flower gardens that were obviously well cared for. Fences outlined a few yards. One home looked like the perfect model of American suburbia: a powder-blue two story with a large, toy-filled yard surrounded by a white picket fence.
If his family had not been devastated, he would have loved to move in to the place.
At the fence on the side, two women appeared to be gossiping. He followed the long, slender legs on the first one up to her narrow hips. Her shorts left little to the imagination. The other wore a bikini, her large chest threatening to snap the thin ties at her back. Spread out nearby he saw a lawn chair, towel, and a small boombox. Each of them possessed faces capable of launching the next Trojan War.
Their conversation stopped abruptly as he passed. The sunbather inclined her head, and the other woman turned to look over at him. He did his best not to stare, but he could feel their cold gazes upon him.
“What do you think you’re staring at?” the sunbather demanded harshly.
“Sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.
“Don’t talk back!” the woman in the shorts spat. “Remember your place!”
He held up his hands in a placating gesture and picked up his pace. Behind him their voices quieted, but he heard enough to know they still talked about him. More specifically, they tried to figure out who he was and what he was doing on their streets.
He shook off the incident and took the next corner, comfortable to be out of their sight at last. He found himself back on the main strip that he followed through town when he first arrived.
A chain link fence which lined a broad field to his right ended at the grade school. He made it halfway past the building when the bell rang. Within seconds children poured out of the front door. A few ran for the line of cars parked in the curved drive or for the single bus, while the rest came barreling down the sidewalk toward him. They rushed past, hardly giving him a second glance.
He noticed something strange then.
All of the students were girls. All around him flowed a sea of blouses and dresses, pigtails and ponytails, and giggly squeals of delight. Wave after wave of sugar and spice and everything nice. He stepped out of their way, leaning against the fence to watch the throng pass. Not a boy in sight. The bus drove by, a number of the kids pressing their faces against the window or sticking their tiny arms out the windows. The bus driver, an older gentleman, looked beaten and worn, eyes locked on the road. He seemed to be the only male on the bus. Tim turned and looked up the drive toward the front of the school. A handful of children remained, possibly waiting for late parents. Three women in dresses huddled near the door, talking and keeping an eye on the remaining children.
Again, not a boy in sight.
Shouts drew his attention out to the field. A small group of children made their way out to a baseball diamond. They appeared to be the older children of the school, perhaps sixth graders. They all carried mitts, bats, bases, and various other pieces of softball equipment. Despite the short haircuts on some of them, however, he could see they were all girls. The coach followed closely, a slim, athletic woman dressed in white, her hair pulled back from her mirrored sunglasses.
Before long the sidewalk cleared and he continued walking. He considered how the young boy, Jerry, had been surprised when Tim asked why he was not in school. Surely the boys were not prevented from attending the schools. What sense would that make, even in this backwards little town? The boys probably attended school across town. That had to be it. Jerry’s mom probably just needed him at the shop.
He dismissed the thought as he passed the post office. He considered checking for employment there, but thought better of it. Knowing the government, it would be weeks before he saw his first paycheck.
A loud squawk sounded from behind him. He spun, walking backwards, and saw a crow perched on the fence down the block. It looked right at him. Tim stopped and stared the crow down. It squawked again, as if daring him to do something. A brief search of the sidewalk yielded Tim a good-sized piece of gravel. He chucked it at the crow, sending the bird flapping into the sky and away from the street.
With a self-satisfied grin, Tim turned back and walked straight into somebody.
“Oh, geez, I’m sorry ma’am,” he said quickly, gently taking one of her arms to steady her. She looked anything but disoriented. Her face, wrinkled with age, screwed into a narrow glare. The slits of her eyes resembled those of a cat, ready to pounce upon its unsuspecting prey. “Are you okay?”
Only the glare.
“I should be more careful. Please, forgive me.” He stepped aside and moved past her.
“Remember your place!” she called after him. “Next time I won’t be so forgiving.”
He stopped in midstep, his first impulse to turn back and tell her off. But her tone and choice of words stopped him. He continued up the street. “Remember your place,” he whispered. Three times he heard that since arriving, twice now directed at him. It suddenly made him very uncomfortable.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, but the woman disappeared. Oddly enough, he found this very relieving.
Chapter Three
Five thirty found Tim standing before the dilapidated church, staring at the front door and weighing his options. It had been many years since he last attended church. Hell, it had been many years since he had even given thought to his faith and spirituality (or lack thereof). But, he remembered priests were typically considered to be a charitable group, always willing to help a soul in need and so forth. Giving back to the community.
He hoped the priest here would be no different. If anything, he figured maybe he could trade work around the church and yard for a few hot meals and some shelter until he could get back on his feet. Obviously the church needed some work, and maybe the priest was no longer capable of taking care of it himself.
He took a shortcut across the lawn toward the rectory, sinking into the grass to his ankles and sending all manner of insects scurrying for safety. He narrowly avoided a pile of stool he did not see until he nearly stepped in it. His path took him past the sign out front, which lost a few more letters since he saw it last. Whether the wind and tall grass or thieving children claimed them he could not be sure.
As he rounded the front of the rectory, he got a better look at it than his drive by permitted. Like the church, paint peeled in several places and one window had been boarded over. As he rounded the front he saw a small, decorative black
lightpost standing beside the walk. Someone shattered all four panes of glass in the lantern head, leaving the jagged bits and an empty socket behind. A small arm stuck out to one side to hold a swinging woodcut of the street address, but the rotted woodcut hung lopsided from one hook. A flower garden on the side of the house looked to have recently been taken care of until someone or something saw fit to trample the flower bed. One solitary flower, a yellow tulip, struggled to grow by leaning against the wall for support.
A shame, Tim thought, shaking his head. He climbed the rickety porch steps with care and knocked on the front door. After a few moments of silence, he knocked again. He paced the length of the porch, peering around the side of the house and wondering if the priest might be in the church. He tried the door one more time.
He finally heard footsteps inside, and at last somebody opened the door locks. With great effort, the priest pulled the door free of the warped frame. “What is it?” the elderly man beyond the threshold asked. He wore a Roman collar and black shirt, just like every other Catholic priest Tim ever saw. His age showed in his arms and hands, the skin covering them wrinkled and dotted with liver spots. His knuckles were swollen with arthritis. A mass of folds and wrinkles gave him a sorrowful look, complemented by puffy, swollen lips pursed into a frown. Wild gray hair stood out in tufts on his head. Bulbous red nose and watery eyes betrayed an alcohol vice. Somehow, this did not surprise Tim.
“What is it?” the old priest demanded in a rough voice.
“Good evening. Uh, listen, Father, I…” He hesitated, not sure how to proceed.
“Well?” the old man demanded impatiently.
“I need help,” Tim said at last.
“What kind of help?” The priest obviously did not trust his motives. He peered over Tim’s shoulder to briefly examine the yard as if assessing a threat.
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