“They was more'n a
'ting dat' you all would wanna' save, dey was.” Hoplite Harry
(long of tooth and short of brain) held up the tinny-tinny lunchbox.
Rattled its contents and smiled, he did.
“Puttit down,
shineboy!” cried out Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole. “Puttit down,
'cause you break it you buy it. That what the sign say, shineboy.”
“Don't calls me no
shineboy, Bessie. I don't calls you no shinegirl, you know.”
“Jess puttit down,
OK?”
Hoplite Harry
shuffles down row after row of Hogan's Heroes lunchboxes and Schlitz
beer pitchers and art-deco marital aids. Places a long, moist finger
on the layer of dust covering the black bakelite telephone and draws
the tip across, leaving a darker black mark.
“Can black be
blacker den black?”
“Shaddup, now,”
says Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole. “You always talkin' nonsense and
I can't takes it no more, shineboy.”
“I sez not to
calls me shineboy, you damn ole' hairy-mole-lip-witch.” Hoplite
Harry says this and then shrinks, pulling his head inside his torso
like a turtle.
“You stick your
damn head out here dis' minnit!” Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole is
livid and turns red in the face. Her mole pulsates, the little hairs
doing a dance like few have ever seen.
Hoplite Harry sticks
his head up, and draws a forearms across his face, defending against
any potential blows. Wise move, it proves to be, as
Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole grabs a martini shaker that is in arm's
reach, hauls back and lets it fly. The shaker misses Hoplite Harry
and strikes a set of small, felt-covered reindeer in a Christmas
display. They topple over and fall to the floor. The shaker
ricochets and bounces off a Hamm's Beer sign that shows an endlessly
looping lake scene complete with canoe and campfire...over and over
and over and over. You know the sign. I told you about it before.
“Crap-O! Whatchoo
doin'?” shouts the hairy-navelled Pucker. Pucker runs his antique
store with an iron fist. “Getda' helloutta' my store!”
Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole
turns away from Hoplite Harry and makes for the door with fast little
orthopedic shoes. Hoplite Harry wets himself and follows quickly
behind, mumbling and mumbling.
“Dats' de'
lasstime! An' stayout!” Pucker fumes, sits, smokes. Pucker spits,
coughs, sips.
30th
Street is busy and Hoplite Harry looks down at a wet patch on his
faded jeans. Bessie-with-the-hairy-mole looks at him and shakes her
head.
“I'll go buy us a
sody-pop next door,” she tells him. “We'll pour half down your
front so no one knows, and den' we drink de' rest.”
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