Well, with a real woman like me around you all would be lost to each other and as straight as an arrow. I can tell you that.”
With both hands Frank clutched his heart. “Oh, my God,” he yelled, shoving Stephan off the granite sidewalk. “Beat it, boy! Oh, it’s happening to me, Josie. It’s happening to me now.” He dropped to one knee. “Finally, true love has struck. Oh, Josie, oh, Josie, it’s you!”
Josie snapped the yellow dish towel at her waist at a surprised Frank. “Laugh all you want to, but just remember you don’t know what you don’t know if you don’t know it! Now ain’t that so? You just remember to come on back to see me, you heah?”
“Yes ma’am,” Frank called out. Laughing, both men headed smartly up winding corkscrewlike Bennett Street toward their shop.
The morning sun was just now peeking over the ridge of the mountain, and they both felt acutely aware of being alive and especially happy to be alive in their funny little, funky littleplace high in the Arkansas Ozarks. Frank wondered how many places there were where people could come together with nothing more or less to bind them together than the joy of being human. Here in this place it really was true what they said—even the misfits fit.
The two felt wrapped in this special privileged glow—until they reached the front door of Forgotten Treasures, when their bubble of contentment popped and all their warm and wonderful feelings ended with a sudden crash. Across the door and window of their shop, black spray paint sloppily spelled out one seven-letter word: F A G G O T S ! ! !
For several moments, Stephan and Frank wordlessly stood and stared at the desecration, as though ultimately it would dawn on them exactly how and when and why—especially why this would happen here in this lovely and loving mountain village. Finally it was Stephan who broke the silence. “There’s at least a quart of turpentine in my workshop. That should do the job.”
The offensive graffiti was laboriously turpentined from view, but it could not as easily be wiped from their consciousness. They couldn’t even guess at how many days, weeks, or even years it would take for the stain to be similarly scrubbed from their hearts and minds.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Frank’s stomach began growling out the low, angry, roarlike warnings that it needed nourishment, since for all practical purposes, it hadn’t been attended to all day. Not unless the not-quite-fresh glazed donut that he had eaten that morning while driving the monster to work counted. Sticking his head into the workshop, he called out, “I’m starved! What’s for lunch, Stevie?”
Stephan glanced up from the art deco clock he was rewiring. “There’s a hot thermos of bean and barley soup and meat-loaf sandwiches made with whole-wheat bread, romaine lettuce, and Dijon mustard.”
Frank and Stephan sat down to steaming bowls of golden-yellow liquid. “Hmm,” murmured Frank, taking in the sight and the smell. “What is it about soup that makes it taste even better the second time around?”
“I don’t understand you,” Stephan flatly announced.
Frank sipped a spoonful of soup before answering. “What’s to understand? I’m just your average, everyday, wonderful fellow.”
Stephan rested his chin on his fist. “Here we are harassed at home, harassed at work, harassed through the mails, and that’s not even taking into account the first-degree burns I suffered, so what do you do? Compliment my cooking!”
Frank threw his friend a look that was every bit as cutting as a chain saw. “Now you just wait up one damn minute! I didn’t say I didn’t want to do anything, now did I? Think back, the only thing I insisted on this morning was that we shouldn’t go rushing off to the police. At least not until we calmed down, talked things over, and considered our options. All our options.”
When Stephan didn’t answer, Frank continued. “If you’re offended
With both hands Frank clutched his heart. “Oh, my God,” he yelled, shoving Stephan off the granite sidewalk. “Beat it, boy! Oh, it’s happening to me, Josie. It’s happening to me now.” He dropped to one knee. “Finally, true love has struck. Oh, Josie, oh, Josie, it’s you!”
Josie snapped the yellow dish towel at her waist at a surprised Frank. “Laugh all you want to, but just remember you don’t know what you don’t know if you don’t know it! Now ain’t that so? You just remember to come on back to see me, you heah?”
“Yes ma’am,” Frank called out. Laughing, both men headed smartly up winding corkscrewlike Bennett Street toward their shop.
The morning sun was just now peeking over the ridge of the mountain, and they both felt acutely aware of being alive and especially happy to be alive in their funny little, funky littleplace high in the Arkansas Ozarks. Frank wondered how many places there were where people could come together with nothing more or less to bind them together than the joy of being human. Here in this place it really was true what they said—even the misfits fit.
The two felt wrapped in this special privileged glow—until they reached the front door of Forgotten Treasures, when their bubble of contentment popped and all their warm and wonderful feelings ended with a sudden crash. Across the door and window of their shop, black spray paint sloppily spelled out one seven-letter word: F A G G O T S ! ! !
For several moments, Stephan and Frank wordlessly stood and stared at the desecration, as though ultimately it would dawn on them exactly how and when and why—especially why this would happen here in this lovely and loving mountain village. Finally it was Stephan who broke the silence. “There’s at least a quart of turpentine in my workshop. That should do the job.”
The offensive graffiti was laboriously turpentined from view, but it could not as easily be wiped from their consciousness. They couldn’t even guess at how many days, weeks, or even years it would take for the stain to be similarly scrubbed from their hearts and minds.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Frank’s stomach began growling out the low, angry, roarlike warnings that it needed nourishment, since for all practical purposes, it hadn’t been attended to all day. Not unless the not-quite-fresh glazed donut that he had eaten that morning while driving the monster to work counted. Sticking his head into the workshop, he called out, “I’m starved! What’s for lunch, Stevie?”
Stephan glanced up from the art deco clock he was rewiring. “There’s a hot thermos of bean and barley soup and meat-loaf sandwiches made with whole-wheat bread, romaine lettuce, and Dijon mustard.”
Frank and Stephan sat down to steaming bowls of golden-yellow liquid. “Hmm,” murmured Frank, taking in the sight and the smell. “What is it about soup that makes it taste even better the second time around?”
“I don’t understand you,” Stephan flatly announced.
Frank sipped a spoonful of soup before answering. “What’s to understand? I’m just your average, everyday, wonderful fellow.”
Stephan rested his chin on his fist. “Here we are harassed at home, harassed at work, harassed through the mails, and that’s not even taking into account the first-degree burns I suffered, so what do you do? Compliment my cooking!”
Frank threw his friend a look that was every bit as cutting as a chain saw. “Now you just wait up one damn minute! I didn’t say I didn’t want to do anything, now did I? Think back, the only thing I insisted on this morning was that we shouldn’t go rushing off to the police. At least not until we calmed down, talked things over, and considered our options. All our options.”
When Stephan didn’t answer, Frank continued. “If you’re offended
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