“To be real honest, Jeffrey, you’re not making much progress,” said Greg. “Are you practicing at all?”
“Well, yeah. Mom makes me. She sits there watching to make sure I’m getting the right fingering and phrasing.”
“Hmm. I might need to talk to her about that.” Greg hated when kids were forced into musicianship. He had been teaching private music lessons for more than ten years, and had seen it often. Parents made their kids miserable. It rarely worked anyway. “You don’t really want to take piano, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well… “
“I wish my mom would let me take guitar lessons. That would be cool.”
“You know you’d get calluses like this.” Greg held out left hand and showed Jeffrey his fingertips.
“Yeah! My friend, Zach, has calluses. They’re hard like plastic.”
“Well, you know, it hurts for a while—until you build them up.”
“I don’t care. I love the guitar. I’ve been begging Mom to switch me from piano to guitar.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Great! I already have a guitar and—”
“—don’t get too excited yet. We’ll see what she says.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenorly.” He jumped up and ran for the front door. Then he stopped, rushed back over to grab his piano books, and raced out the door.
Greg’s 3:30 lesson had been cancelled, so he now had a thirty minute break. Oftentimes, during a break, he would step outside and wander down the sidewalk, observing the townspeople going in and out of the shops around Coreyville Square.
But something was bugging him. His dad’s birthday party was only a few days away. He hoped he wouldn’t regret letting Cynthia talk him into going.
Then he began to think about his uncle. He had not seen Uncle Ed in a long, long time. He hoped they would be able to just pick up where they’d left off. They always seemed to be able to do that.
Edsel Torkman was his mom only sibling. Ed had always been odd—even as a child. Kids made fun of him because he talked faster than most people could listen. Sometimes, he would begin to stutter. Then the kids would laugh out loud. But it never seemed to bother Ed.
As a child, Greg had been afraid of his uncle. But there was one thing about him that Greg had grown to admire. Edsel Torkman didn’t believe in check books and credit cards. He preferred carrying cold hard cash. And Greg always looked forward to that crisp new fifty-dollar in each Christmas and birthday card.
But that was about the extent of their relationship—until Greg bought his first car at age 16. He paid cash for the thing, from his paper route earnings. The big 1975 Ford Thunderbird had 250,000 miles on it, and weighed in at some 5,000 lbs. It got 8 miles per gallon—on the highway.
Uncle Ed had his own auto repair shop. And when he heard about Greg’s purchase, he insisted on overhauling the engine—for free.
Greg was thrilled—until he found out that Uncle Ed expected him to act as assistant mechanic. But he really wanted to get his car running. How would he ever ask a girl out if he didn’t have a car? And it turned out to be a fun learning experience. Ed was different—but he wasn’t weird. In fact, he was the coolest guy Greg had ever known.
Greg sat down at his computer, and looked up Edsel Torkman’s Auto Shop.
The phone rang ten times. Greg was about to hang up, when Ed answered.
“Torkman’s.”
“Uncle Ed?”
“Yeah. Greg, is that you?” He talked so fast and so excitedly that he sounded as if he’d polished off a gallon of coffee in less than an hour. “I mean, are you Greg? Greg Tenorly. Are you my nephew Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes, Uncle Ed, it’s—”
“—so, it’s Greg?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, what have you been up to, Greg? Not flipping cow patties, I’ll bet, huh?” Then the stuttering kicked in. “Not doing that, ah-are ah-are you, ah-are you, Greg?”
Then Greg remembered the key to slowing him down. Talk to him very slowly. “How are you, Ed?”
“Doing fine,” he blurted. Then he slowed his speech just a little. “I’m doing fine.”
“Well, the reason I’m calling—”
“—you got another engine that needs overhauling? We had one trick of a time doing your Thunderbird, didn’t we? When was that? Two years ago?”
It had been nearly 20 years. And Greg had never understood why his uncle used the word ‘trick’ instead of ‘heck’ or something else. He’d say things like: We’d better get tricking. Or, what in the trick are you doing? Or, I torn the trick out of my knuckle when the wrench slipped. It was like the Smurfs. The Smurfs use the word ‘smurf” to mean a lot of different things, depending on the context. Uncle Ed used ‘trick.’
“No, Uncle Ed. It’s been quite a while since we did that.” Get to the point, Greg told himself. “Are you going to my dad’s birthday party?”
“Well, sure—if somebody invites me. Oh, trick! That’s right. Norma invited me to the party. Did you know your dad remarried?”
“I just found out.”
“Yeah. I’d like to get married someday. Someday.” He said the word a second time, as though he’d forgotten to say it the first time.
“Someday? Ed, you’re 50 years old. What’s stopping you?”
“Well… “
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Angie. Well, she’s not really my girlfriend, but—”
“Angie Silverstern? She’s married, Ed.”
“No. She’s not.”
“Yeah. Don’t you remember? That’s why her name’s not Mayberly anymore—she married Clifford Silverstern. I know you used to have a crush on her, but—”
“No. She’s divorced.”
“Really? Okay. Well, then go for it, Uncle Ed.”
“I will.”
“No. Don’t put it off.”
“I won’t.”
Greg wasn’t convinced. “I’ll tell you what: I’m coming down for the birthday party, and if you haven’t told Angie how you feel by then—”
“—then you’re gonna help me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
“And my new wife, Cynthia, is coming too.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard you were getting married.”
“Ed, I sent you a wedding invitation.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s where I heard it.”
“I hated that you couldn’t make it. I would love for you to have been there.”
“I was planning to come… “
But you forgot, thought Greg. “It’s okay. Well, I’ll see you soon. Now walk across the street and have a talk with Angie. She does still work at the restaurant?”
“Of course.”
“Then, go. Tonight.”
*
Sondra strapped her guitar on, and adjusted her mike stand. “Ready?” Her voice echoed.
Cindy Banya nodded from her place at the drums.
E. Z. Bender grabbed the guitar pick from her between her lips and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Okay, let’s try ‘Crash and Burn,’” said Sondra.
Cindy knew of several songs by that name, but took a guess that Sondra wanted the one by The Bangles. A song about deliberately killing yourself in a car crash seemed like something Sondra might like to sing.
E. Z. Bender made the same guess.
Craig Buttard watched from across the huge hall. He could hardly wait to see Billy-Eye’s filled with excited, money-squandering teenagers. The free cokes and popcorn would help lure them in. And then they would spend loads of money on hot dogs, pizza, and candy.
When they had finished the song, and the reverberation had died down, he yelled, “Alright! Sounded great!” He walked toward the stage.
“Not too bad,” admitted Sondra. “But we’ve got a ton of work to do before Friday night.”
“What about your friend, the bass player?” said E. Z.
“I talked to her this afternoon,” said Sondra. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Cool,” said Cindy.
Craig winked at Cindy. She smiled at him.
He had succeeded in getting her into a band. Now he would work at getting her into his bed.
*
Val lit up another joint. She had such amazing thoughts while she was high. But the next day she would realize that she must have forgotten most of the details, since none of it made any sense.
She loved to sit in the wooden swing on her back porch and watch the sun go down. Sometimes the clouds were so colorful. And it was fun to look for shapes. Like the girl walking her dog.
When Sondra was five years old, she brought a puppy home and begged to keep it. Muttly never got very big—even when he was a full grown pooch. But Sondra’s father, Buster, made her start keeping him on a leash after that night he came home drunk and tripped over him.
Buster always came home drunk on Friday and Saturday nights. Not on Sunday nights, though. Sunday was the Lord’s day, he’d say. This was ironic, since Buster never had much use for church or the Lord.
Sometimes Sondra would get busy with her friends and forget to feed Muttly. By the end of the day, he’d be alternately crying and growling, and wouldn’t stop until somebody fed him.
One particular Friday night, while Sondra was attending an out-of-town football game, Buster came home drunk and heard Muttly whining. He was determined to teach Sondra a lesson, and to fix the problem once and for all. So, he staggered into the back yard and took care of it.
When Sondra finally made it home, at around midnight, she went to the back yard to feed Muttly. She opened the big plastic container that was next to his little doghouse, scooped out a serving and poured it into the bowl while calling his name softly. There was no response.
Sondra knelt down and looked inside the doghouse. By the light of the moon, she could see that he was gone. She noticed his leash, latched to the doghouse, as always. But it was pulled tight. She began calling his name again, as she felt along the leash, which led her upward. Her stomach began to knot. The leash was pulled taut, over the five-foot fence.
She peeked over the top, and to her horror, saw her beloved pet hanging by his collar. She pulled him up quickly and took his lifeless little body in her arms, and cried for twenty minutes.
How could this have happened? She knew exactly how it happened.
She cried herself to sleep and didn’t get out of bed until Saturday afternoon.
That night, when Buster came home drunk, he had a terrible accident. It appeared that he lost his footing at the top of the front porch steps, and fell backward. His head hit the concrete sidewalk like a bag of ice thrown from a third story window.
Buster Crench would never again harm an innocent, defenseless creature.