was thinking, a case of Alpo. We give the dogs something to eat, maybe they won’t eat us.”
10
I T WAS TIME to set other problems aside temporarily and start tackling the chores at Denny’s Cabins. Helping out around the place was, after all, the initial reason for my decision to hang in, although other things that threatened to keep me here longer seemed to be growing exponentially.
“This is dump day,” Dad informed me.
“Shit,” I said. “I forgot to get you a card.”
“Do you want to help, or do you just want to be a smartass?” Dad asked. It was, I had to admit, a tough question. I believed it was possible, with some effort, to do both. I had been pissed at him ever since Timmy Wickens’s visit for not being creative enough to come up with an excuse to get us out of dinner with people we were trying to find a way to evict.
“You could have said something,” he said accusingly.
“He was inviting you,” I said. “I was just an afterthought.”
We bickered about that for a while, got nowhere, finally decided to move on. “Tell me what needs to be done around here,” I said, which had brought us to the exciting news that it was dump day.
But there was more. “Once you do a run to the dump, there’s grass to cut, fish guts to bury, we need to make sure we’ve got worms, there’s—”
“See if we’ve got worms?”
“Night crawlers, bait, for crying out loud. I keep ’em in a fridge out in the shed.”
I sighed. “And the fish guts?”
“You’ve seen the bucket under the fish-cleaning table down by the docks?”
Who could forget?
“Well, they won’t let us put raw fish guts in the municipal dump, so we have to deal with them ourselves.”
“I’m guessing they won’t flush.”
“You have to take them out to the woods and bury them.”
“Are you kidding?”
“There’s already a hole dug out there. There’s a big board over it. Take the guts up, dump it in the hole, throw some dirt in over it, put the board back over.”
I nodded tiredly. “Okay, you stay here, I’ll get these things done.”
“You know how to drive a garden tractor?” Dad asked. “ ’Cause the grounds are really looking a bit unkempt. I would have done it yesterday if it hadn’t been for all this other shit happening.”
“I think I can figure it out.”
“Because it’s a bit special, this tractor, because—”
“Dad. I can figure it out.”
Dad held up his hands. “Okay, okay, you’re the expert, I don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Whatever,” I said, heading out the door.
“Yeah, whatever!” Dad shouted as the door slammed shut. I was tempted to go back, say “Good comeback!” but decided someone had to be the mature one. An hour ago, I was a genius and a hero, coming up with the plan to talk to a lawyer about evicting the Wickenses, but now I was an idiot again.
I decided to tackle the garbage run first, loading half a dozen plastic cans jammed with green garbage bags filled to bursting into the back of Dad’s Ford pickup. Leonard Colebert strolled over, hands parked in his front pockets so as to reduce the risk of being asked to lift something.
“So, this is garbage day?” he asked, smiling. I decided Leonard was probably undeserving of a smartass response—although that could change—so I merely nodded. “That was a good time last night,” he said, referring to the party at Dad’s cabin. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you even a fraction of what’s involved in the diaper business, or all the plan for my big resort.”
“Well, it was pretty busy,” I said, loading a can into the back of the truck and making sure the lid was secure.
“You mind if I tag along with you?” he said, one hand already on the passenger door. I couldn’t think of a way to say no, so I motioned for him to hop in.
“I rode with your dad to the dump one day,” he said. “You pass right by the property I’m getting to build my resort on. I’ll show you.”
Oh boy.
When we
10
I T WAS TIME to set other problems aside temporarily and start tackling the chores at Denny’s Cabins. Helping out around the place was, after all, the initial reason for my decision to hang in, although other things that threatened to keep me here longer seemed to be growing exponentially.
“This is dump day,” Dad informed me.
“Shit,” I said. “I forgot to get you a card.”
“Do you want to help, or do you just want to be a smartass?” Dad asked. It was, I had to admit, a tough question. I believed it was possible, with some effort, to do both. I had been pissed at him ever since Timmy Wickens’s visit for not being creative enough to come up with an excuse to get us out of dinner with people we were trying to find a way to evict.
“You could have said something,” he said accusingly.
“He was inviting you,” I said. “I was just an afterthought.”
We bickered about that for a while, got nowhere, finally decided to move on. “Tell me what needs to be done around here,” I said, which had brought us to the exciting news that it was dump day.
But there was more. “Once you do a run to the dump, there’s grass to cut, fish guts to bury, we need to make sure we’ve got worms, there’s—”
“See if we’ve got worms?”
“Night crawlers, bait, for crying out loud. I keep ’em in a fridge out in the shed.”
I sighed. “And the fish guts?”
“You’ve seen the bucket under the fish-cleaning table down by the docks?”
Who could forget?
“Well, they won’t let us put raw fish guts in the municipal dump, so we have to deal with them ourselves.”
“I’m guessing they won’t flush.”
“You have to take them out to the woods and bury them.”
“Are you kidding?”
“There’s already a hole dug out there. There’s a big board over it. Take the guts up, dump it in the hole, throw some dirt in over it, put the board back over.”
I nodded tiredly. “Okay, you stay here, I’ll get these things done.”
“You know how to drive a garden tractor?” Dad asked. “ ’Cause the grounds are really looking a bit unkempt. I would have done it yesterday if it hadn’t been for all this other shit happening.”
“I think I can figure it out.”
“Because it’s a bit special, this tractor, because—”
“Dad. I can figure it out.”
Dad held up his hands. “Okay, okay, you’re the expert, I don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“Whatever,” I said, heading out the door.
“Yeah, whatever!” Dad shouted as the door slammed shut. I was tempted to go back, say “Good comeback!” but decided someone had to be the mature one. An hour ago, I was a genius and a hero, coming up with the plan to talk to a lawyer about evicting the Wickenses, but now I was an idiot again.
I decided to tackle the garbage run first, loading half a dozen plastic cans jammed with green garbage bags filled to bursting into the back of Dad’s Ford pickup. Leonard Colebert strolled over, hands parked in his front pockets so as to reduce the risk of being asked to lift something.
“So, this is garbage day?” he asked, smiling. I decided Leonard was probably undeserving of a smartass response—although that could change—so I merely nodded. “That was a good time last night,” he said, referring to the party at Dad’s cabin. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you even a fraction of what’s involved in the diaper business, or all the plan for my big resort.”
“Well, it was pretty busy,” I said, loading a can into the back of the truck and making sure the lid was secure.
“You mind if I tag along with you?” he said, one hand already on the passenger door. I couldn’t think of a way to say no, so I motioned for him to hop in.
“I rode with your dad to the dump one day,” he said. “You pass right by the property I’m getting to build my resort on. I’ll show you.”
Oh boy.
When we
Similar Books
