But there I was, thinking about that and every other bad thing. About some leg that went on a stump that my dad had to look at, all because my mother died from a freak stroke that she never should’ve died from. I could hardly remember her. I could hardly remember what it was like to be near her. My throat closed like a fist.
I heard the low rumble of my dad’s truck trundling down the alley. A distinct throttling sound, like the engine was held together by a bunch of loose bolts. It rattled and knocked until he turned it off and then it blew a huge hiss, like a giant dog settling down for a nap. The presence of my dad, in the afternoon, in the truck, could only mean one thing: he was bringing home an overage.
I jumped up wobbly and ran outside. He had the emergency lights flashing, and he was already rolling up the door in back. “Get ready,” he said.
“What now?”
“Take a look at this,” he said, and I peered into the back of the truck. Whatever it was, there was a lot of it. Case upon case of—
“Toilet paper?”
“You can’t have enough.”
“We’re keeping all of that?”
“Seventeen cases,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction.
“Inside?”
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, and started stacking the cases on his dolly and wheeling it toward our door. He went inside first and moved his antigravity rack out of the way, then rolled the dolly in and started stacking the cases in the corner. I noticed the figures were printed on the box. Ninety-six. 96 x 17 = 1,632 rolls.
“Dad, we don’t need this much toilet paper!”
“We’ll give it to people. It’s something everybody wants.”
“I’m not taking it to school!”
“Stop complaining.”
Overages were his pride and joy. People on loading docks often didn’t know how to count, it seemed. About every other month, my dad would find himself with an extra pallet of some junk. One time, we had five cases of Mr. T — head piggy banks. They were super tacky but he made me take them to school and give one to everybody in my grade. That was embarrassing, though some kids liked them. Another time, he had a bunch of cases of potato chips, which kept us going for months, not to mention all the bags we gave away.
“We need to go do something,” I told him. “Right now.”
“Okay.”
That was a good thing about Dad: he perked up at any reasonable request.
I ran back inside and grabbed the hanging coat before I climbed into the truck. I hadn’t been inside my dad’s “office” in a while. It was full of the crumbs of hundreds of sandwiches, cookies, and chips he ate while exercising his daily duties — a thousand cigarettes and a legion of old rancid coffee cups. He liked to horde brochures, so there were a bunch of those from anywhere brochures could be found, stuffed into the door pouch and the crack of the seat, advertising hot tubs and wild animal safari parks and colon cleansers.
I told him which way to drive, and I liked how he didn’t asked me a single question. It’s like he knew he owed me somehow.
We pulled up at the church on High Street. Peace United. I decided to wear the brown coat. My dad followed me in and sat in back while I went through the line where they were greeting people. When I got to Teddy we hugged again, like it was starting to become normal. When I came to his mother, she stared at me for a second, then said, “I just lost a coat like that.”
It was hard to tell where the creep meter was finally going to land. I shrugged. “Huh,” I said to her, “I guess it’s hard to think about a missing coat right now, when there’s so much to think about for Teddy.”
She frowned, and I moved on to sit in the back.
I couldn’t help wishing Joe had never gotten me involved with this one. I couldn’t let go of it. For weeks after, I’d see Teddy slouching around school, and stupid fear would nag at me, that something wasn’t going right for him.
But what was I supposed to do, worry about him the rest of my life? Run around hugging him every second? And anyway, no matter what you do, what could ever be right?
Death and Taxes
by Jill Wolfson
Mission Street
This is Cody’s first day as a sign dancer. He pops a tab of Adderall at the beginning of his shift and stands at the corner of Mission and Swift in a Statue of Liberty costume, urging people driving by to get their taxes done by this outfit called Liberty Taxes. The spiky plastic crown on his forehead leaves an indentation, but the crown adds inches to his height, which he’s touchy about, always wanting to be taller, at least 5'11", like Tyler, Stepfather #3, who Cody doesn’t chill with that much anymore, due to Tyler’s my-shit-don’t-stink attitude and their whole family situation being fucked up.
This Liberty gig has got to be the best job ever. Smell the ocean air, throw your head back, and pound your chest like a surfer dude. Open your arms wide and feel the sun on your face. The flowing green fabric of Cody’s gown catches the early-spring wind and for a second it holds the sleeves out stiff.
Does Tyler, that lazy dickhead Mr. Stepdad of the Year, get to work all afternoon in the great outdoors? No, he doesn’t.
Red light turns green and cars rev up. Here they come: Ford, Chevy, Toyota.
Sure, Cody’s kind of nervous, being just seventeen and his first day on the job and all. But he’s ready.
Ready for what?
Ready to blow the drivers’ minds with extraordinary feats of sign-twirling never before seen anywhere. Not even if there are sign twirlers on a planet in a whole other universe. And yes, human-type beings ARE up there with all those stars, and people who think otherwise, dickwads like Tyler, should get their fat heads out of their dumb asses and do the math.
Showtime!
Spin that tax sign clockwise like it’s a Boardwalk ride. Toss it in the air, hurl your body around in a one-footed, tiptoed 360, and catch the sign behind your back. Ta-da.
Holy crap on a strap! He actually caught it! Thumbs-up from a Prius driver.
Another Prius, another Prius. Is there a fuckin’ sale on Priuses or what?
Yesterday, this corner was just another place. Cody must’ve eaten a million slices of pepperoni at Upper Crust. Carved his initials into the oak by the U-Wash-It car place. Felt up that hippie chick Sequoia by the dumpster behind the Chinese place.
But now? Cody owns this corner.
Cranks up the death-metal drum solo playing in his head: Ba-dum-bum-CHING ba-dum-pump chsh-ba-dump-dump-chshshshshshshsh-Ba-dun-DUN.
His mind switches channels to an outstanding game he invented. Yes, he invented it himself even though Tyler says the game’s too sick, that a stupid kid like Cody must’ve ripped it off from someone else.
Did not!
Here’s the game: add the word “anal” before the name of each car passing by.
Anal Probe! Anal Hummer! Anal Rover!
Cracks himself up.
Is this a lame job like Tyler said it was? Is this a job that only a kid right out of juvie would take? Could anyone stand on a street corner and get total strangers to go see Mr. Liberty — check it, that’s his real name, Frank Liberty — who does taxes fast and cheap?
First day on the job and Cody’s already learning stuff. Important info you need. Like how taxes are one of only two things in life you can’t avoid, the other one being death. Words of wisdom from the best fuckin’ boss ever, Frank Liberty.
Cody’s feet do a happy, crazy tap dance for an Anal Fit with a dent in one of its back doors.
So today is Saturday and in six more days, it’s payday. Best day ever!