bicycle man’s up the tree with him— that’s when Wayne first saw he was missing his right arm, how could he climb—watching both ends of the road on the monitors, listening in to Miz Huckaby in the house talking to her dog. The man’s bright blue eyes were all lit up like Christmas. He said, I think I’ve got a use for you, my good man, in my stores. Of course, Wayne thought, here’s another member of the club. Another crazy. What was a one-armed bicycle man talking about, My stores?
As it turned out, he was talking about one hell of a lot.
The man owned half the world. Furthermore, he immediately recognized Wayne’s innate worth.
Mr. Tru Franken told him all about that, about how valuable each and every human being was. From little acorns great oaks grow. (Wayne thought, yeah, except my brother John, but he didn’t tell Mr. Tru Franken that.) He understood about Wayne wanting to live in a tree house, be left alone to play with his electronic toys.
He said, Wayne, the world’s your oyster, you can live anywhere you want, and I’ll give you a super-duper bunch of gadgets. And Mr. F had always been as good as his word. He’d worked Wayne in surveillance in FrankFairs for a good long time, then moved him here to the Monopoly—which Mr. F had up and bought one day, the way other people might buy a new TV.
Of course, a man like that wasn’t happy when people didn’t return the favor.
Just like late this afternoon when Mr. F had called him in and said he’d reviewed the tape Wayne had thought he would find interesting, Thank you very much, Wayne. Mr. F was always very polite. You did great, he added.
That made Wayne feel great. So there he was, ready and waiting, standing on his tippytoes, to see if there was anything else Mr. F wanted him to do.
Especially since Dougie had showed up from Wharton, the same business school as Donald Trump, Wayne had felt like he really had to hustle his butt to prove to Mr. F he was the truest, bluest, most loyal human being he’d ever saved, with probably the most innate worth—stuff you couldn’t learn in some fancy business school. He was hoping against hope Mr. F didn’t lay a lot of store in blood being thicker in water.
If he did—well.
Mr. F pushed the remote control in his left, and only, hand and rolled the tape. When he got to what he wanted to show Wayne, yep, it was the part he thought Mr. F’d want to see, he did a freeze frame. Then he backed it up and played the audio again.
“You hear what this man’s saying?”
Yep. That’s why he’d brought it to Mr. F’s attention.
“That’s the kind of behavior we have to guard against,” said Mr. F, his blue eyes very serious behind his glasses. Then Mr. F walked up to the monitor and put his left, and only, forefinger on the screen. “I’m going to have to think about this. This is good, Wayne.”
“Anything else you’d like me to do, Mr. F?” Wayne touched the bill of his black Monopoly Special Staff cap, the one Mr. F had given him and nobody else.
Just about then, Dougie had walked in the door. Waltzed in, actually, big as you please, without even knocking. Took a seat. Poured himself a glass of the orange pop Mr. F was partial to. Mr. F always kept a few bottles on a silver tray, along with an ice bucket, crystal glasses, Mr. F being a gentleman of class and distinction. Dougie didn’t say a word, but he had that smirky look on his face like, What’s happening, scumbag? You could feel that he thought he was Mr. F’s only begotten heir, being Mr. F’s only sister Vivian’s only son. Which meant his name ought not to be Franken, unless he was illegitimate, which wouldn’t surprise Wayne one bit, but when he’d asked Dougie about it, Dougie had just given him a look: Like that’s for me to know and you to find out, sucker.
Mr. F turned, and Dougie started talking with him about something—market share, recession, numbers of players down, same thing in Vegas—Wayne didn’t
As it turned out, he was talking about one hell of a lot.
The man owned half the world. Furthermore, he immediately recognized Wayne’s innate worth.
Mr. Tru Franken told him all about that, about how valuable each and every human being was. From little acorns great oaks grow. (Wayne thought, yeah, except my brother John, but he didn’t tell Mr. Tru Franken that.) He understood about Wayne wanting to live in a tree house, be left alone to play with his electronic toys.
He said, Wayne, the world’s your oyster, you can live anywhere you want, and I’ll give you a super-duper bunch of gadgets. And Mr. F had always been as good as his word. He’d worked Wayne in surveillance in FrankFairs for a good long time, then moved him here to the Monopoly—which Mr. F had up and bought one day, the way other people might buy a new TV.
Of course, a man like that wasn’t happy when people didn’t return the favor.
Just like late this afternoon when Mr. F had called him in and said he’d reviewed the tape Wayne had thought he would find interesting, Thank you very much, Wayne. Mr. F was always very polite. You did great, he added.
That made Wayne feel great. So there he was, ready and waiting, standing on his tippytoes, to see if there was anything else Mr. F wanted him to do.
Especially since Dougie had showed up from Wharton, the same business school as Donald Trump, Wayne had felt like he really had to hustle his butt to prove to Mr. F he was the truest, bluest, most loyal human being he’d ever saved, with probably the most innate worth—stuff you couldn’t learn in some fancy business school. He was hoping against hope Mr. F didn’t lay a lot of store in blood being thicker in water.
If he did—well.
Mr. F pushed the remote control in his left, and only, hand and rolled the tape. When he got to what he wanted to show Wayne, yep, it was the part he thought Mr. F’d want to see, he did a freeze frame. Then he backed it up and played the audio again.
“You hear what this man’s saying?”
Yep. That’s why he’d brought it to Mr. F’s attention.
“That’s the kind of behavior we have to guard against,” said Mr. F, his blue eyes very serious behind his glasses. Then Mr. F walked up to the monitor and put his left, and only, forefinger on the screen. “I’m going to have to think about this. This is good, Wayne.”
“Anything else you’d like me to do, Mr. F?” Wayne touched the bill of his black Monopoly Special Staff cap, the one Mr. F had given him and nobody else.
Just about then, Dougie had walked in the door. Waltzed in, actually, big as you please, without even knocking. Took a seat. Poured himself a glass of the orange pop Mr. F was partial to. Mr. F always kept a few bottles on a silver tray, along with an ice bucket, crystal glasses, Mr. F being a gentleman of class and distinction. Dougie didn’t say a word, but he had that smirky look on his face like, What’s happening, scumbag? You could feel that he thought he was Mr. F’s only begotten heir, being Mr. F’s only sister Vivian’s only son. Which meant his name ought not to be Franken, unless he was illegitimate, which wouldn’t surprise Wayne one bit, but when he’d asked Dougie about it, Dougie had just given him a look: Like that’s for me to know and you to find out, sucker.
Mr. F turned, and Dougie started talking with him about something—market share, recession, numbers of players down, same thing in Vegas—Wayne didn’t
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