Sure, plenty of times Cody prayed Tyler croaked in some gruesome way, like choking on a ham sandwich while also being chewed up to his nuts by a pit bull. But Tyler did get him his first BB gun — taught him to roll a joint the very best way.
Cody’s eyes turn up to heaven in prayer. Tells God he wants to take back the Tyler death wish. Really! A psycho dad is better than a dead one.
This sudden appreciation of the good things in his own life does something to Cody’s insides. A melting sensation all through his chest.
What’s with him today, opening and expanding with such tender feelings?
Here’s what he should do: Say something nice to this Milo. Reach out dude to dude. Milo’s one of those sensitive types, for Chrissakes. Those people feel. What do you say to someone whose dad is RIP?
He rehearses in his mind: Milo, may I take the occasion of my work break from Liberty Taxes to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your most beloved father?
Nice.
Cody raps on the counter to get the kid to look up from his book.
Milo looks up.
Milo’s mind-aperture clicks open. Master shot.
Some guy in a dress? Yes, in a polyester gown, with a crown, who — no polite way to say this — reeks really bad.
Oh, it’s the sign-dancing guy from down the street. That must be the worst job ever. Only not the same guy as yesterday because this one has close-cropped blond hair. Yesterday’s Liberty had stringy dirty-brown hair.
Zoom in. They’re multiplying! Cloning themselves in a plot to repopulate the world with Statue of Liberty look-alikes!
Statue’s lips are moving. He is not saying: Give me your tired, your poor. He’s saying: “May I take the occasion to...”
No way!
He knows this guy.
Crazy Cody! His nemesis from Miss Merlotti’s class. Made Milo’s life a living hell. Spent the entire year behind Milo flicking his ears. Went into his backpack. Stole money and pencils. Singled him out every dodgeball game and smacked him so hard that Milo nearly peed himself one day.
Okay, he did pee himself. In front of the whole class.
Does Cody still have that problem where his eyeballs vibrate in their sockets?
Milo sneaks a quick look. Yes, he does.
Be careful. Tread lightly.
Be uber-polite: “Can I help you? Is there a particular donut that catches your fancy?”
Holy crap in a sack!
Cody just screwed open his heart and poured out every pity thing he could think to say to a fag kid with a dead dad, and does he get a thank you?
No, he does not.
Milo with his stupid-ass haircut. What the hell?
Ba-dum-bum-ba-donk-a-donk-dum-chssk.
Something else. Tap tap on his forehead. It all comes back to him. Fourth grade. Who ratted on Cody? What little shit was all Teacher, teacher, Cody stole from me? Who turned Miss Merlotti and every kid in the class against him? Whose fault was it that the principal called and Tyler beat the shit of Cody to teach him a lesson?
Cody takes five giant steps down the length of the counter. A blur of donuts. Apple-filled. Custard-filled. Special of the day: pink frosting and sprinkles. Ew.
Cody asks: “Donut dude, how much for six of the ones that cost the most?”
“The most?” the kid asks.
Like he can’t believe Cody can afford a half-dozen donuts. Like Cody doesn’t have a real job. Like he’s a piece of trash who just got out of juvie and sponges off other people’s donuts.
Cody reaches for his waistband. Tap tap, pat pat on his good luck charm. He imagines the heft of it. The sound of it. Assurance against unwanted surprises. He straightens his crown.
Face to face with Mr. Donut. “Only two things in life are unavoidable. Guess what they are. Guess!”
Milo’s face is all twitchy.
“Taxes,” Cody says. “And death.”
Don’t say it, Milo orders himself. “I beg to differ,” he says.
Do not add any more dialogue to this scene with Crazy Cody. Do not say: What about defecating? We all have to poop.
No, too late. Milo said it all out loud.
He puts his hand over his mouth. He notices: Cody’s fist hardening into a ball. His feet doing this strange agitated shuffle, then coming to a pigeon-toed stop.
What’s Cody asking? Come on, Milo! Focus. Attention.
“... I need to take a whizz. A piss palace?”
Oh, thank goodness.
Milo points to the bathroom.
Fuck a duck. Fuck a big, quacking duck!
Palm slap against his forehead.
Cody takes a piss and rezips.
This Milo must think he’s stupid. Must think he’s a loser, like Tyler does. Like everyone does, right?
Yeah, even Frank Liberty. Cody imagines Frank laughing his ass off, telling Mrs. Liberty — Yeah, dumb juvie kid believed me. Ha-ha. Little loser even said he was gonna get a tat: Death and Taxes.
Cody’s face flushes. An embarrassment so familiar, like a second beating heart.
His mind goes all wrecking ball.
Fuck you, Milo. Little know-it-all.
He reaches down and touches his good luck charm. Nice and heavy, there when he needs it.
Time for a demo.
Cody steps out of the bathroom.
Zero in on Milo.
Why is the kid just standing there like an idiot by the cash register? Why’s he got his hands in the air?
Oh, shit on a shingle. Dump on a bump. Some dickhead with a flowered cloth tied over his nose and mouth, pointing a gun at Milo.
Cody ducks low behind the cold drink case for a better look.
The dickhead with the gun? No fuckin’ way.
Yes fuckin’ way!
He knows the thickness of that neck, the bend in the arm from where it broke. Hell, he even recognizes the yellow floral print of the scarf.
Tyler.
Asshole cut up Mom’s favorite scarf to rob Ferrell’s Donuts.
And what’s this? No! Flamin’ poo on a shoe! There’s a long wet stain spreading down the front of Milo’s pants.
Little Milo, with the dead dad and no homies and a crap donut job where he pays taxes, just went and pissed himself. All because dickhead Tyler stuck a gun in his face.
He should do something about this.
And before Cody has another thought, he is doing something.
Milo’s mind camera — tracking shot:
Ninja Statue of Liberty, legs akimbo, a soldier yell of outrage. Whips out a set of nunchucks, whirls them in a ferocious figure eight. Whoosh.
Dialogue:
“Thanks for telling me about this place, Code-ster.”
“Not why I told you, Tyler.”
“Easy, boy. Looks like you were planning this job yourself.”
“Naw, just a demo of my skill. Was gonna mess up some fritters big time. Send them to the trash can.”
“You want in then? Father/son action?”
“Don’t get all flesh-and-blood-ish with me, dickhead.”
“Put down the numbnuts, Cody.”
“Pay your taxes, Tyler!”
“Huh?”
“Don’t mess with my homie Milo!”
At the sound of his own name, zoom in.
Cody’s nunchucks moving fast, snapping from shoulder to shoulder, like the Statue of Liberty patting himself on the back.
Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and—
Oh no!