by Jack Gantos
“Well,” he said, and scratched his head. “Last night your mom was telling me she got a pretty bad vibe from Mrs. Ginger, so we began to consider some new, fresh thoughts about your education. We started thinking big, like we do in the Heinz family. You see, here is how the world runs for the truly smart, rich people. For them school is only for kids without jobs. But if you have a job already, then you can just skip right over school like I pretty much did and graduate to having a real life. You learn more by doing than by sitting on your rear all day long learning things you’ll never use. I didn’t go to school much and look at me.” He tapped himself on the chest. “I turned out pretty good and I’ve got nothing but unlimited potential as Charles Heinz. And not only will you make money, you’ll learn how to go from being a boy to being a man.”
I liked the part about making money and about becoming a man, but even I knew what he was saying about not going to school was crazy because it sounded like something I would cook up.
“Are you sure?” I asked suspiciously. “All kids go to school.”
“No way,” he shot back. “Farm kids get off to help their families with the harvest, so why not you, too? I need you here to help harvest some money in the diner.”
“Mom, are you sure about this?” I asked.
She stared into her coffee and took a sip. “Let’s try it for a few months until we get the diner up and running. After the holidays we’ll look for a private school where you can start the second half of the year. But for now your dad needs your help around here.”
“But you always said school was important,” I reminded her.
“Not more important than family,” she said decisively. “Now, you can either stay home and help your family or take a chance on your tests with Mrs. Ginger and possibly repeat sixth grade, maybe fifth grade. Who knows, they may even have you repeat fourth grade.”
“No way I’m doing that,” I declared. “I’ll stay here with you guys and work.”
“That’s the smart choice,” Dad said with enthusiasm. “The Heinz choice.” He gave me a big wink and a thumbs-up.
“Well, how can I help?” I asked. “I’m ready to do some real homework.”
“First things first,” Dad stated. “Here’s the plan. We need to clear out the Plum Street house for some renters. It won’t take us long to get rid of all our old personal stuff, and then we’ll dash back here and get busy with the Busy Bee.”
“And I need to go shopping,” said Mom, “so you can drop me at the mall on the way.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay home and rest?” Dad asked, and patted his stomach.
I knew what he was trying to say but I kept my mouth shut because knowing about little Heinzie was a secret I had with Mom.
“No,” she replied. “I feel fine and we need to pick up some new things for this house since we’re leaving the other place furnished.”
“That’s what I call teamwork,” Dad said, and clapped his hands together. “We’ll make the money and you can spend it.”
“Don’t be a smart you-know-what,” Mom said playfully. “All the good karma you earn from treating me like an earth angel will lead you to a million bucks.”
Dad didn’t say another word as he strolled off to put on some work clothes. I dashed up to my loft bedroom, where I quickly changed into my jeans. I took off the bloody chef hat and felt more like myself again. I climbed back down my ladder and rounded up the dogs. I gave them each a biscuit then slammed the front door and ran to the Heinzmobile. In a few bee-sting fast minutes we had dropped Mom off at the mall and returned to the Plum Street house.
After I walked up the steps I hesitated at our old front door. Dad put his hand on my shoulder.
“Let me give you a bit of fatherly advice,” he said, and pushed the door open. “This will be a lot easier if you think of yourself as Freddy.”
“It would really be easy if I didn’t have to do it at all,” I replied.
“But you do,” he insisted, and pressed a box of black garbage bags into my hands. “And if you pretend you are Freddy then it will be a piece of cake getting rid of all your stuff because Joey will just be some stranger to you.”
At that moment I had a peculiar feeling, like I was an undertaker going into a house where someone was dead and I had to go pull out the body and put it into a bag. But I didn’t say anything to Dad. I took a deep breath and held it as I lowered my chin and stepped into the house and marched directly into my bedroom.
It took me a while to get warmed up to throwing all my stuff away. At first I had to hold each thing in my hand and remember where I got it and what it meant to me and anything I had ever done with it. Only then could I toss it in the bag. I did that with a few things until I was tired from remembering every teensy detail of every button, shoelace, marble, or whatever it was that I touched. Finally I began to pick up the pace and then once I got going there was no stopping me. I tossed away the books that had my name in them and all my photographs. I ripped the posters and pictures off my wall and balled them up and shoved them in the bag. I even threw away the “Get Well, Joey” cards my class from school had sent me. Maybe they’ll think I died from my head injury, I thought, since I’ll never see them again. I threw away my bedsheets and pillows. I gathered up my stuffed animals and tossed them into a bag. I went into my closet and threw away all my games and toys from the top shelf. I shoved in all the clothes, except for one shirt, which stopped me in my tracks. It was my baseball jersey that Dad had given me which had PIGZA spelled across the back. It was my favorite shirt and it was faded and soft and it smelled like cut grass and dirt and sweat.
I pulled the jersey on over my T-shirt and went into the kitchen where Dad was emptying some cupboards.
“Can I keep this?” I asked in a small voice. I had my back to him so he could see the PIGZA name across my shoulders.
“In the bag!” he ordered. “Just like the rest of this cruddy old junk.” I turned toward him and he pointed to a mountain of lumpy bags piled up in the living room. “You have to get rid of the old to make way for the new—everyone knows that.”
“It’s hard to get rid of stuff you love,” I said. “Especially when it has your name on it. I promise I’ll never wear it out in public. I’ll hide it under my mattress.”
“Trust me,” he insisted. “The more you throw away, the easier it gets. I threw away all my old Pigza stuff—shoes, undies, socks—the whole shebang, and I never felt better.”
“But don’t you remember when we played baseball together?” I pleaded.
“Nope,” he replied.
“You were the coach!” I reminded him. “You even got a tattoo of my jersey on your arm!”
“That was the old Carter Pigza,” he said as he pulled up his T-shirt sleeve.
The tattoo was gone and replaced with a fleshy scar. I stood there with my mouth hanging open.
He smiled like a smug cat. “I’m Charles Heinz now. And you are Freddy. Got that? Now let’s move on.”
“You can’t possibly believe you are Charles Heinz,” I said, sputtering a bit. “I mean, that’s crazy.”
“But I am Charles,” he replied, and shifted his eyes toward a wall mirror to look at himself.
“Look me in the eye when you say that,” I said. “Eye to eye.”
“Man to man,” he said. “I’m Charles and you are Freddy, and just as you are erasing all traces of Joey I erased Carter.”
“Well, I know I’m not really Freddy,” I said. “So you can’t really be Charles.”
“It really hurts me to hear you say that,” he said softly. “All you have to do is stop being so stubborn about being Joey and join the Heinz family. You might as well get it over with because things are moving ahead faster than you think.”
“Then I’ll wait until later,” I said glumly.
“Good enough,” he replied, satisfied that I was getting a little closer to seeing things his way. “Now, give me the shirt.”
He stuck out his
hand. I pulled the shirt off over my head, balled it up, and tossed it to him. Then before I could see him stuff it in a bag I turned around and stomped back to my room.
I was pouting when he came in but he ignored my mood because he wanted that to change, too.
“Wow,” he said, surveying the empty room. “You should be happy now that you have been liberated from your junky old past.”
“I guess,” I said.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked, looking at himself in the cracked mirror over the dresser.
“Yeah,” I replied, even though keeping a secret was really hard for me to do. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t so good at faking being somebody else.
“Not a word to your mom,” he whispered, “but one of these days I’m going to take things a step further and surprise her by having this old face worked on.”
“Really?” I asked. “Like a nose job?”
“More than that,” he said, gently patting his cheeks. “A complete do-over. Someday I won’t just be acting like a whole new man, I’ll remove the bandages from my face and I’ll look like one, too.”
“Is this how big-time criminals change their identities?” I asked.
“Nah, it’s how big-time winners upgrade their looks,” he replied. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and removed a picture of a movie star he had ripped out of a magazine. “See this guy’s face?” he said, tapping on the paper. “There is nothing money can’t buy.”
“What about me?” I asked.
“When you turn sixteen,” he said. “Anything you want. You can have a new car and a dimple put into the middle of your chin. If you want to look like Elvis—”
“Can I get little horns on my forehead?” I blurted out. “I saw a picture of a guy who had horn implants and he looked cool.”
“Negative!” he said firmly. “No Heinz is going to have horns on my watch. You might run for president someday and you can act like you have horns but you can’t actually have them. There are limits, you know. Now let’s get going.”
We dragged the trash bags from my room out to the trunk of the Heinzmobile. We took them up the road and beyond the railroad bridge to a Goodwill collection box then returned for the next room. It took us four loads, and when we were finished Dad taped a note on the front door with the key in it for the new renters.
As I walked down the steps I muttered to myself, “Adiós, Casa Pigza.”
I could just imagine the house replying, “Buena suerte, Joey.”
In the car, Dad was sweating. “That was more work than I thought it would be,” he sighed, and popped open the last Diet Coke from the refrigerator. “Man, I need a breather.”
7
FAST FOO
I was standing at the edge of the diner parking lot holding my coat in my hands as I watched Mom’s taxi drive down the road toward Lancaster. When I had first heard the taxi pull up across the gravel and beep its horn I grabbed my coat and helmet from the house and ran to the driveway because I wanted to ride along with her and talk about little Heinzie. It was still our secret from Dad that I knew about the baby, so Mom and I couldn’t talk about it with him buzzing around us all the time. But when I reached the parking lot Mom was already in the taxi. I tapped on the window and after she rolled it down she told me to stay and help Dad.
“But I want to be with you so we can talk,” I said.
“We’ll talk later,” she whispered as if he were around the corner. “But right now he needs your help. Besides, I’m just going to be shopping for baby clothes all day after I see the doctor.”
“I love to shop for baby clothes,” I said.
“No you don’t,” she replied. “You have the patience of a gnat when it comes to shopping.”
She was right. “Okay,” I said glumly. “I’ll see you later.”
“Go in the house and ask your dad what you can do to make some money,” she said, and winked at me. “He’s loaded.”
Now that I wasn’t going to school anymore it made sense that I should spend my time making money. I went into the diner and ditched my coat and helmet. Dad was standing in front of the coffee counter with one hand on his hip and the other gripping a soda.
“For ten bucks I’ll get down on my hands and knees and scrub the diner floor,” I suggested.
“I already did it,” he replied, pointing down at the gleaming linoleum. “When I can’t sleep at night I like to scrub.”
“I’ll reorganize the food pantry for five bucks,” I offered.
“Did it two nights ago,” he said. “You will now find that all the supplies are in alphabetical order. I’ve also inventoried the glassware, dishes, cutlery, and cooking pots, so I know what we’ll need before we open.”
“I’ll clean out the grease traps then,” I shot back. “I’m not afraid to get dirty.”
“Been there, done that,” he replied.
“Then what can I do to make some cash?” I asked, feeling frustrated. “You know, to work at the diner like you said?”
He was ready for that question.
“I was just standing here thinking. Every person has a special talent in life,” he said slowly as he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He peeled a ten from the pack and laid it real nice and easy onto the palm of my outstretched hand.
“That’s more like it,” I said, smiling brightly. “So what is my special talent?”
“I couldn’t sleep the other night,” he said, “and then I was stung with a brilliant idea!”
Before I knew it I was dressed in a fuzzy black-and-yellow bee costume and standing out in front of the diner on the side of Highway 30. The head on the bee costume was so huge that Dad had to tape it to the bee body to keep it from falling off. I had a huge cardboard sign nailed to a stick, which I waved back and forth as cars passed.
COMING SOON!
BEEHIVE DINER FAST FOO
Dad had run out of room on the sign, so there was no D on food. When I pointed that out to him he just tapped the side of his head and said slyly, “When people see the mistake it will make them look twice. One of the great rules of advertising is that there is no such thing as bad publicity.” Below FOO he had written in smaller letters, NO JOB? NO MONEY? EAT THANKSGIVING DINNER FOR FREE—NOON TO THREE! It seemed to me that a car would have to be creeping along at about two miles an hour to read our free invitation.
“You drum up business,” he had said, putting the sign in my hand. “I’ve got some new numbers to play. Then I’ll make a food supply run and pick up your mom downtown.” He got into the Heinzmobile. “And remember, hardworking little honeybees harvest good karma for the hive. See you later, bee-boy!” he yelled as his tires kicked up gravel. “Good luck!”
Trying to sell BEEHIVE DINER FAST FOO might have broken that rule about no such thing as bad publicity. I waved the sign over my head and desperately tried to get drivers to notice me, but they seemed to either steer away from me and nearly hit oncoming cars or aim for me. The more I jumped around and waved my sign the hotter it got inside the costume, and before long sweat was rolling down my skin. Finally, with each passing car, I seemed to lose a little bit of my mind. After a few hours I was running into the middle of the road and swinging my sign and shouting at cars, “I’m a killer bee! Don’t mess with meeee!” Then I’d go running back to the side and hop up and down as if I were an escapee from a Beehive Mental Asylum.
It was time to take a lunch break. I buzzed off, and about five bee-sting-fast minutes later I was standing in our parking lot, shoving a box of Oreos I found in the “O” section of the diner pantry into my mouth. Suddenly a lady driver pulled in and slowed as she came toward me. I stepped aside as the car inched to a stop. The driver leaned toward me and I pressed my giant bee head against the outer edge of the window. “Buzz-buzz,” I said, and bits of cookie sprayed from my mouth.
“Are you guys finally going to open?” she asked.
To my surprise it was Mrs. Ginger. She was wearing a swea
ter with a bee applique on it.
“Yeah,” I said nervously, just waiting for her to say something to me about not returning to school even though it was a Saturday. But with my costume on she didn’t recognize me.
“Great,” she said. “I’ve been waiting, ’cause I love bees.”
“We are serving up a free Thanksgiving dinner next week,” I said. “So if you know anyone who wants some, send them on over.”
“That’s thoughtful,” she said. “I’m sure I can steer a few people in your direction.”
“Gotta go,” I said, and began to back away. In a moment she waved and drove on and I went back to work.
It was more of the same. When there were no cars I leaned on my sign and caught my breath, but as soon as a car was in sight I’d lurch back into the road again. Just as cars wanted to splat me against their windshields like a big fat bug, I wanted to swat them with my sign. Drivers looked scared then angry as they steered around me. I got so steamed up I bent over and waved my stinger at them. And the more irritated they looked the more I felt like a killer bee.
Just then a guy in a little car that looked like a circus car squeezed his ah-uga horn and scared me half to death. Without thinking, I picked up a rock and threw it at him with so much force it struck his clown car on the rear bumper. Instantly the guy hit the brakes.
“That not bee good,” I buzzed out loud to myself when I saw his reverse lights come on. I dropped the sign then turned and made a beeline into the diner, locked the door, and dove under a booth.
A minute later the angry guy hammered on the glass door with my sign. In a muffled voice I heard him yell, “Come on out, you little costumed criminal.”
I didn’t, and after a few minutes of threatening to rip my wings off he tossed the sign aside and left.
I crawled out from under the table. “I need another break,” I said out loud, and rubbed dirt off my fur. I still had my ten bucks so I thought I would walk down to Dutch Wonderland theme park and chill out. I had done enough work for one day. But when I tried to take the costume off I couldn’t reach the zipper in the back. What the heck, I thought, I’ll fit right in at a theme park and do some advertising on the way.
