by David Lubar
Before I could tell him to leave us alone, Andy said, "I'd be happy to buy you some food. You want a meal? Come with us."
I glanced at Andy, surprised. But then I figured out what he was doing. He was calling the guy's bluff. That was brilliant. The bum didn't want food. He wanted our money so he could go buy a bottle of cheap wine. No way he'd come with us.
"After you," Andy said, holding the door open.
The guy went in. Man, I'd have bet a million bucks he'd have walked away from the offer. I figured Andy would back off now, but he followed the man right in. I didn't. I was used to Andy doing what he wanted. I'd seen him do stuff at school-like talk with the kids who everyone else made fun of. But this was way over the top. Whoever the joke was on, it wasn't funny.
I thought about splitting. No way I wanted to eat with this guy. I glanced at my watch. It was too early to go back to church. Besides, I couldn't ditch Andy. He'd stuck with me a couple times when it would have been more fun to take off. And he was the only one from our school who'd visited me back when I'd had my appendix out. On the other hand, I'd never made him share a meal with a bum. "Let's just get it over with," I muttered as I went through the door.
The place wasn't exactly fancy. Even so, the waitress gave all three of us the same sort of look I'd probably just given the guy myself. I guess she'd already figured she wasn't in for much of a tip from two kids and a bum. She turned away from us and fidgeted with the coffee pot, then started wiping the counter with a rag.
We grabbed a booth. I slid in next to Andy. I didn't really want to face the guy, but it beat sitting next to him.
Andy pointed to himself. "I'm Andy. This is Tommy."
The man nodded toward Andy, then toward me, but he kept his eyes down and didn't tell us his name. His left hand was shaking. After a minute, he put it on his lap.
The waitress finally came over. "Ready?" she asked, her pad out and pencil poised. I guess she didn't want to invest too much effort in conversation.
"After you," Andy said to our guest.
The guy looked at the menu, but didn't speak.
"Get whatever you want," Andy said. "It's our treat."
Our treat? I shot Andy a look. He shrugged, as if he assumed I wouldn't mind. I guess there wasn't anything I could do about it right now. And he'd sprung for a movie last month when I was broke, so it sort of worked out.
The guy glanced up at the waitress, then back at the menu. I thought about the times when someone was treating me and I wasn't sure how much they wanted to spend. I always wrestled with what to get.
The waitress cleared her throat, then sighed. I didn't see why she was in such a rush. There weren't any other customers at the moment except for one guy at the counter eating a donut.
"How about a steak and a salad?" Andy suggested.
The man nodded. In my head, I could hear the ka-ching of the cash register.
"Cokes for us," Andy added. He glanced at me. "Split some fries?"
I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."
The waitress scritched her pencil across the pad, then left.
"Thank you," the man said.
"Our pleasure," Andy said. "Me and Tommy, we've known each other since we were little. I'm a jock. Tommy wants to be, but he's pretty uncoordinated. They let him on some of the teams because they feel sorry for him." He glanced out the window. "Nice day, today. Supposed to be sunny the rest of the week. I noticed they're tearing up part of Main St. for the new parking garage."
Andy kept talking, stopping once in a while to allow the guy to say something if he wanted to, but not asking any questions. I guess Andy talked because that's what people do when they're waiting for their food. And I guess the guy didn't talk because it was hard enough just asking for the food. I wondered how many people had turned him down today. And I wondered how he'd ended up on the street. This close, beneath the whiskers and the dirt, he could pass for one of my uncles. Actually, I had an uncle who looked worse. For that matter, I had an aunt with more whiskers, too.
It was starting to sink in that this wasn't any kind of joke. This was just Andy being himself. Of course, if his act of kindness annoyed the waitress, I suspected that was just fine with him, too.
I could smell the steak before it came out of the kitchen. My stomach rumbled, even though I'd stuffed myself on pancakes at breakfast. A whole hour ago. Across the room, the donut eater tossed a couple coins on the counter and headed up front to pay his bill.
A moment later, the waitress came out of the kitchen. She plopped down the thick, white plate with a loud clack, then gave us our sodas.
The guy tore into the food, eating so fast at first, I was afraid he'd choke. He finally slowed after half the steak and all of the salad had vanished. No question, he'd been hungry. I sipped my soda and thought about how lucky I was to have a home and a family. Even a family that dragged me to church every Sunday.
Andy kept talking. I talked some, too. The guy didn't talk, but he looked at each of us now as we spoke. I didn't look away when he caught my eye. I tried to imagine who he'd been. Tried to really see him.
Lifting his right hand, he pointed to the pile of French fries on his plate.
"Hey, thanks, don't mind if I do," Andy said. He reached out and grabbed a couple.
He nudged me. I took one and ate it. It didn't kill me. Actually, it tasted pretty good. The three of us sat there and shared the rest of the fries.
The waitress was back the instant the guy swallowed his last bite. I still hadn't finished my soda. "Pay there," she said, putting the bill down by Andy's glass and tilting her head toward the register. I gave him all my cash and he went up front.
"Thank you," the guy said as he stood.
"You're welcome."
He started to leave, then turned back and held out his hand. We shook. His grip was firmer than I expected. He headed out, stopping by Andy for a moment. They shook hands, too. Andy came back as I slurped the last of my drink. I saw he still had some money. He jammed a dollar in my shirt pocket. "Can't let my best friend walk around flat broke." Then he dropped the rest of the money on the table. Three dollars and eighty cents.
"What was that for?" I asked as we left the diner.
"Tip," he said. "She works hard. This place is open all night. She's probably been here since four."
"She wasn't very friendly," I said.
"Would a small tip make her more friendly?" he asked.
I guess he had a point. We walked back through town, reaching the church just as the crowd was coming out the door. I worked my way against the flow, hoping to hook up with my parents before they figured out I hadn't been there during the service.
"I'm toast," I muttered to Andy as I caught sight of Mrs. Skeffington talking to my mom.
When my folks reached me, my dad didn't waste any time. "I'm very disappointed with you," he said.
"Sorry."
"Getting thrown out of a church service. Of all the places to misbehave." He went on for a while and I nodded and made the proper noises to show how bad I felt. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Andy dancing through the same routine with his mom and dad.
Finally, my dad turned to my mom and said, "Let's go. I'm starving."
I followed my parents to the car and got inside. Behind us, I saw old Mrs. Wilming hobbling slowly along the sidewalk. Mrs. Skeffington cruised past her, not offering a ride. On the church steps, the Lindens were pulling their little kid by the arms as he dragged his feet and screamed his head off, pleading for a Happy Meal. When they reached level ground, Mrs. Linden gave him a swat on the rear to speed him along. Through my open window, I heard her say, "Just wait 'til I get you home."
"We're trying to raise you the right way," my mom said as dad shot out of the parking lot. "We want you to have some decent values. Not like that friend of yours."
"But he's —"
"Drop it," Dad warned before I could say anything to defend Andy.
I sighed and settled back in my seat. Dad c
ursed as he got caught in town by the long red light on Harmony Street. To my right, I saw the waitress from the diner. I guess she was on her way home. A guy in a long overcoat walked up to her, his hand out. She stopped and reached into her pocket.
The light changed and we drove off. I looked back, but I didn't get to see what happened. Maybe she gave him something. I'd like to think so.
In the front seats, my parents were playing Invisible Son, talking about me like I wasn't there.
"Tommy needs to show better judgment. That Andy kid is a bad influence," my dad said.
My mom nodded. "Teaching our son all the wrong things. Running around, getting into trouble. And his mother. Did you see the dress she was wearing? It was so tacky."
"We'll straighten Tommy out," my dad said. He floored the gas and tried to beat the next light. It was red by the time he went through it. "I'm gonna make goddam sure he doesn't skip any more sermons. Somebody's got to teach him right from wrong. I'll tell you something else. Next Sunday, he's sitting up front with us. We'll see he doesn't miss anything."
I reached into my shirt pocket and took out the dollar Andy had given me. As my parents continued to discuss the lessons I was going to learn, I held the bill near the window and let the breeze tug at it, then loosened my grip and watched it fly free.
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Hurricane Stephanie gets some of the credit for giving Dad a new hobby, Mom a good reason not to kill Dad, and me a taste of true power. She ripped her way up the East Coast, staying far enough off shore to spare most of Florida, Georgia, and the rest of the south, then swung inland and hovered over New Jersey long enough to turn the Garden State into an aquatic mud park.
About midway through the storm, we lost electricity. That wasn't a big deal. Dad had about eight billion candles left over from his millennium stockpile. I wasn't paying too much attention back in 1999, but apparently everyone was afraid there'd be massive problems when the year 2000 started. No electricity. No water. No computers. No sunrise. Didn't happen. But Dad likes to be prepared. Which is why, beside the candles, we had lanterns, flashlights, a kerosene heater, a bicycle-powered generator, a case of dehydrated food, and some kind of gas thing plastered with warning labels about how it would kill all of us if we used it indoors.
So we had light. But no television. I paced around the living room, looking out the window every couple of minutes in hopes of seeing one of those orange cable TV vans or the green electric company trucks — anyone with the power to return the universe to its normal state of wired entertainment.
"Don't you have homework?" Mom asked.
"Just an English project. But it's not due for two months." Okay, it was due the beginning of November, and this was the end of September, so I guess it might not be two whole months away. Still, I figured I'd told the truth.
"Maybe you should get started now," she said.
"I can't. I need to use the computer for research." I guess that was pretty much true, too. Besides, I couldn't do any research until I knew my topic. Unfortunately, Ms. Cowan had told us we could write about anything we wanted. I was having a hard time narrowing down the possibilities. I'd thought about doing something on video games, but I was pretty sure that anything you wanted really meant anything except what you're really interested in.
"You don't have any other homework? Nothing at all?"
"Nothing. You don't have to look over my shoulder every day. I'm not in middle school anymore."
Mom shook her head. "You would be if I didn't keep on top of things."
"This year will be different." I didn't feel like going over the same old argument. Mom seemed to think I'd totally fail if she didn't check everything I did. More often than not, she'd stand behind me when I did my math, and clear her throat if I made a mistake. Sometimes, I was surprised she didn't follow me around performing CPR just in case I forgot to breathe. Maybe I'd gotten a couple bad grades, but I was never in serious danger of staying back.
"Well, find something to do," Mom said.
"Read a book," Dad suggested.
"I don't have anything good to read," I told him.
"I can fix that." Dad grabbed a flashlight and headed for the basement.
"Now look what you've done," Mom said as the inevitable sound of toppling boxes drifted up from below.
Dad saves stuff. He's got old clothes he'll never fit into again, magazines, postcards, junk mail, cardboard tubes, coffee cans, and the accumulated equipment from a lifetime habit of switching hobbies. Within the span of my memory, dad has photographed birds, carved walking sticks, made fishing lures, brewed beer, collected stamps, designed stained glass windows, played the zither, and bred Siamese fighting fish.
Unfortunately, the leftovers tend to get mixed together. Dad isn't very organized about storing things. And each search mission makes the jumble worse. Mom keeps asking him to get rid of some of it, but he's never gotten more than halfway to the garbage can without freezing, staring at whatever he's carrying, and saying, "It would be a shame to throw it out. I'm sure somebody could use it."
The big problem is that I'm usually the "somebody" he has in mind. He's always trying to get me interested in his latest obsession.
After about twenty minutes down below, Dad emerged from the basement and held out a musty paperback. "Try this," he said.
"No thanks." My teachers already fed me enough books.
"Come on. I'll make you a deal. Just read the first page. If you don't like it, I won't say another word. Okay?"
I glanced at the cover. Harridan, Barbarian Swordsman by Brutus Jacobs. The guy on the cover looked like an ad for steroids. I could just imagine what would happen if you pricked him with a pin. Pop go the biceps. He had a sword in one hand, and somebody's head in the other. Just the head.
"One page," Dad said. "It won't kill you."
I shrugged and took the book from him. If I read the page, he'd leave me alone. Besides, the first page didn't start at the top, so it wasn't really even a full page. It wouldn't take long. I started reading.
Three hours later, I put the book down.
"Well?" Dad asked.
"Pretty cool," I admitted. Actually, it was one of the best books I'd read in a long time. Okay — that wasn't exactly a long list. Mostly, I just read the stuff they assigned in school. This was way different. It was full of action, but it was also really funny. Harridan might spend all his time killing evil sorcerers and fighting enemy warlords, but he did it with wit and style. Sort of like James Bond in a loincloth. And the chapters had great titles, like It Takes a Sharp Sword to Get Ahead, Don't Make Me Axe You Again, and How to Dis-arm Your Opponent.
"Got any more?" I asked Dad. I swear, if we read books like that in English, I'd be an A plus student, which would get Mom off my back.
"You're in luck," he said. "Jacobs wrote at least twenty Harridan novels."
Mom groaned and mumbled something that sounded like, "literary popcorn," as Dad sprang up from the couch and disappeared once again into the great subterranean crap mines.
After the usual interval filled with the muted thumps of crashing piles, Dad returned balancing a towering armful of books.
I tore into them like they were a plate of fresh-baked brownies. Or popcorn, I guess. Even after the power returned, I kept reading. I put on the TV for background noise, but I didn't put down the books.
All the Harridan novels were numbered. I decided to read them in the order they were published, which was no problem for the first six books. But, as I discovered a couple days later, number seven wasn't in the stack. According to the list I found in number eight, the missing one was Harridan and the Dragons of Dragoff.
"Where's number seven?" I asked Dad.
"It's not there?"
"Nope."
"I'll find it."
Dad dashed downstairs. Mom gave me an annoyed look, then asked, "Don't you have homework? It's bad enough we have a basement full of trash. I hate to see you filling your mind with it."
An hour later, Dad came back up, slumped in defeat. "Maybe I loaned it to someone," he said. "Always a bad move. You never get books back. Try the bookstore."
I headed out that afternoon for Book Locker. They had the first three Harridan books on the shelves, and some of the higher numbers. But they didn't have Harridan number seven.
I checked with the girl at the register. "Do you know if you have any other Harridan novels in stock?"
She gave her gum a couple careful chews, then asked, "Who?"
"Harridan. By Brutus Jacobs."
"Did you look on the shelves?"
"Yeah."
"Well, if it's not on the shelves, I guess we don't have it."
"Can you check?"
"Uh, I guess. What was the name?"
"Harridan."
"Hold on. Darn this computer. Wait. Oops. Okay. Here we go. No books by any Harridan. We got a couple Harrisons and a Harriman. You want one of those?"
"No, Harridan is the title. The author is Jacobs."
"Jacobs? How do you spell that?"
"J-a-c-o-b-s, Brutus Jacobs."
"Hold on. Darn this computer. Wait. Here we go. Got it." She grinned at me in triumph. "We have Harridan the Barbarian Swordsman, and we have —"
"That's number one. Do you have number seven?"
"Is it on the shelves?"
"I didn't see it. Look for Harridan and the Dragons of Dragoff?"
"Dragoff? With a D?"
We went a few more rounds with no results other than a strong suspicion on my part that I was being helped by someone who read a lot less than I did. I tested my suspicion by asking if they had the new William Shakespeare novel in stock. She wasn't sure, but told me, "If we had it, it would be on the shelves."
I headed across town to the used book store. They had a good assortment of fantasy paperbacks, but no sign of Harridan number seven. Then I tried the library.
