even a beat-to-crap Plymouth, going to do his shopping—nickels and dimes squirreled away in one of those little red plastic cases that looked like a mouth opening when you squeezed it.
There was Wayne, up in his tree house in a good stand of oak, watching this dude, pedaling away in his jeans and blue work shirt, watching on the monitor that fed in from the camera he’d planted down at the south end of this little road. He had one at the north end too. Wayne fed the power out of lines, carefully camouflaged, that he’d run from that shed over there where a man named Huckaby played with his woodworking tools when Miz Huckaby got on his nerves. Wayne knew that because he’d bugged their house, just for the practice. There was nothing much interesting going on there. Though their niece had been coming to visit the next week, and he’d thought that might be worth another little camera—in the bathroom. In the meantime, Wayne was just riding high, living off the fat of the land and what he stole from the Grand Union, Radio Shack, and the FrankFair.
He was happy as a clam to be out of that halfway house. Halfway between what and what, he used to ask. Old Miz Mizery—that’s what he called her, the woman who ran the place, didn’t have the sense God gave a duck, just knew how to cash those government checks—she didn’t have any answers.
Wayne did. Wayne knew the answer to most problems in his world was to walk away. People didn’t want to deal with love, pain, need, dreams—the things that cut too close to the bone. It was easier to scram. Nobody gave a crap, not really, not about another crazy, which is what Wayne, most days, knew he was.
Of course Miz Mizery did like to keep up the head count, keep those checks rolling. But like his friend Thelma Thirty, that’s what they called her because she had that many fingers and toes, used to say, They care so much about us, how come they cut us loose? Threw us out of the crazy houses that used to at least give us three squares and a cot, keep us out of the rain and snow, Christmas party every year with the do-gooders singing songs, bringing green punch and cookies with red sprinkles?
Wayne had walked away lots of times. Then he’d let himself get picked up, shipped back to some kind of shelter or halfway house every once in a while, when he was sick or just needed to rest up.
But this hadn’t been one of those times, this day that he saw what turned out to be Mr. F pedaling down the road. It was early May, the weather getting to be real nice, and Wayne was feeling good. He hadn’t had any flashbacks in quite a while from those bad Mexican drugs that had nearly fried his brain. And the electric shocks, well, there were those blank spots, but you could get used to anything, Wayne had learned. So there Wayne was, having a good time living up in his tree house, practicing what he’d learned about electronics and surveillance courtesy of the United States Army—a class A outfit until you wanted out.
Then you had to walk away from that too. And if somebody got in your way, somebody had gotten in Wayne’s way, you might have to close them down.
With that thought Wayne had zeroed in through the telescopic sight of his rifle on the bicycle man pedaling down the road, thinking about zapping him. But why? Why not? Why? Why not?
The bicycle man was getting closer now; Wayne could see he was blond and round-faced like John Denver. He was wheeling along, whistling something out of tune. Whatever it was it reminded Wayne of when he was a little kid, sharing a crib with brother John. Now, that made him nuts.
The very thought of John made him think he might decide to zap this bicycle sucker anyway, when all of a sudden the bicycle man, hidden down there somewhere under the spring-green foliage, Wayne couldn’t see a thing, hollered: You gonna blow me six ways to Sunday or you just fooling around?
Next thing you know, Wayne never did know exactly how it happened, the
There was Wayne, up in his tree house in a good stand of oak, watching this dude, pedaling away in his jeans and blue work shirt, watching on the monitor that fed in from the camera he’d planted down at the south end of this little road. He had one at the north end too. Wayne fed the power out of lines, carefully camouflaged, that he’d run from that shed over there where a man named Huckaby played with his woodworking tools when Miz Huckaby got on his nerves. Wayne knew that because he’d bugged their house, just for the practice. There was nothing much interesting going on there. Though their niece had been coming to visit the next week, and he’d thought that might be worth another little camera—in the bathroom. In the meantime, Wayne was just riding high, living off the fat of the land and what he stole from the Grand Union, Radio Shack, and the FrankFair.
He was happy as a clam to be out of that halfway house. Halfway between what and what, he used to ask. Old Miz Mizery—that’s what he called her, the woman who ran the place, didn’t have the sense God gave a duck, just knew how to cash those government checks—she didn’t have any answers.
Wayne did. Wayne knew the answer to most problems in his world was to walk away. People didn’t want to deal with love, pain, need, dreams—the things that cut too close to the bone. It was easier to scram. Nobody gave a crap, not really, not about another crazy, which is what Wayne, most days, knew he was.
Of course Miz Mizery did like to keep up the head count, keep those checks rolling. But like his friend Thelma Thirty, that’s what they called her because she had that many fingers and toes, used to say, They care so much about us, how come they cut us loose? Threw us out of the crazy houses that used to at least give us three squares and a cot, keep us out of the rain and snow, Christmas party every year with the do-gooders singing songs, bringing green punch and cookies with red sprinkles?
Wayne had walked away lots of times. Then he’d let himself get picked up, shipped back to some kind of shelter or halfway house every once in a while, when he was sick or just needed to rest up.
But this hadn’t been one of those times, this day that he saw what turned out to be Mr. F pedaling down the road. It was early May, the weather getting to be real nice, and Wayne was feeling good. He hadn’t had any flashbacks in quite a while from those bad Mexican drugs that had nearly fried his brain. And the electric shocks, well, there were those blank spots, but you could get used to anything, Wayne had learned. So there Wayne was, having a good time living up in his tree house, practicing what he’d learned about electronics and surveillance courtesy of the United States Army—a class A outfit until you wanted out.
Then you had to walk away from that too. And if somebody got in your way, somebody had gotten in Wayne’s way, you might have to close them down.
With that thought Wayne had zeroed in through the telescopic sight of his rifle on the bicycle man pedaling down the road, thinking about zapping him. But why? Why not? Why? Why not?
The bicycle man was getting closer now; Wayne could see he was blond and round-faced like John Denver. He was wheeling along, whistling something out of tune. Whatever it was it reminded Wayne of when he was a little kid, sharing a crib with brother John. Now, that made him nuts.
The very thought of John made him think he might decide to zap this bicycle sucker anyway, when all of a sudden the bicycle man, hidden down there somewhere under the spring-green foliage, Wayne couldn’t see a thing, hollered: You gonna blow me six ways to Sunday or you just fooling around?
Next thing you know, Wayne never did know exactly how it happened, the
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