The Not-So-Great American Novel
Friday, September 27, 2002
For a minute, I just stare at the bill. Benjamin Franklin stares back at me. We stand there for a while, getting acquainted, this being the first time I've held anything larger than a $20.
Ben, Gruber. Gruber, Ben. Nice to meet you, pal. What's a nice Founding Father like you doing in a place like this?
Not knowing what else to do, I stuff the bill into my front pocket and scoop up the trays from the parking lot, such as it is. It's really nothing more than a wide spot of gravel on the side of the road. The Highway Department keeps sending Donler threatening letters claiming he built the stand on the state's right-of-way. He says he's going to hire a high-class lawyer out of Bismarck to sue them for all they're worth. I'm no lawyer, but even I can see the stand was built smack dab in the middle of the shoulder. Back before 290 was built and trucks still whipped by at top speed, Duney would occasionally hold freshly cooked Tater Dogs out the window, the better to be coated with a thin layer of dust and smashed gravel. Whatever he's studying at his fancy-pants school in Goshen, I'm guessing it's not hotel and restaurant management.
I'm starting to get the feeling that I shouldn't keep the money. If he's serious about staying in Hoople, Sportcoat might need the cash to pay Mrs. Gunderson for the drafty, mothball-filled attic room she'd undoubtedly offer him. And besides, I don't have a car and can't think of a single thing in town to spend $100 on. I could splurge on 200 Tater Dogs, I suppose. It'd almost be worth it, just to see the look on Donler's face, right before he keeled over from shock.
So it's settled--Ben and I are going to have to part ways. If nothing else, it gives me an excuse to close up without cleaning up. Of course, I clean up anyway -- I'm a pushover, as Lucy keeps reminding me. By the time I lock the door behind me, the wind has picked up and the first few flakes of snow have started to fall.
Like everything else, I'm starting to get the feeling that this is going to be more trouble than it's worth.
It's a 20-minute walk into town, but I'm pretty much used to it. Like I said, we don't have a car anymore, not since Dad peeled out of the driveway in the beat-up Maverick after his final argument with Mom. He sent me a postcard from Santa Monica for my birthday. "It's warm here," it read in his semi-literate scrawl. "Eat a Tater Dog for me." Yeah, right. "Eat me" was pretty much the gist of it.
I pass Cemetry street, glancing at -- what else? -- the cemetery on the corner. The snow's really starting to come down now, so it's hard to make out Mrs. Gunderson's house, a faded four-square building hard on a corner lot on the next, mostly empty block. The Hoople Land Development Co. obviously didn't have much luck in this corner of town, so the boarding house and the cemetery are pretty much the only things nearby. Guess Gunderson's boarders don't want that last trip to be a long one.
Blinking to keep the snow out of my eyes, I make my way to Mrs. Gunderson's house. One of the steps up to the door creaks precariously and I flinch, reminded of the time she boxed my ears when I showed up selling subscriptions to Grit. Until she did that to me, I always thought that expression was something out of old kids' stories like the Hardy Boys -- something from the 1870s, not the 1970s. Suffice it to say that Gunderson's not exactly easy to talk to, except on the first on the month. That's when the Social Security checks come, and she sweet-talks her boarders into signing them over.
Of course, this isn't the first of the month--in fact, it's the 24th, meaning the money, and her patience with unsolicited solicitors, would both be growing scarce. I pull my hands out of my pockets just long enough to knock.
"No visitors after 3," is the curt reply.
"Mrs. Gunderson?" I stammer. "It's me. Gruber. Carol's son. Can I come in?"
Silence.
"Mrs. Gunderson?"
"Hold on, hold on," she says, unbolting one, another, and then a third deadbolt before opening the door. A gust of arctic air practically blows me into the living room, but isn't strong enough to overcome the overpowering smell of ammonia and Ben-Gay. The Flip Wilson show's on the ancient TV, holding court over a semicircle of semi-awake seniors. I roll my eyes. First they canceled the Ed Sullivan show, and now we're supposed to watch a man dressed up like an old lady? For a second, I wonder if Sportscoat works in TV. He's from California, after all, but then again, my father's in California, too, and the closest he'll come to being on TV is if he's busted running his driveway-repair scam.
"Why are you here?" Mrs. Gunderson asks, mercifully drawing my attention away from Geraldine. She was never one for small talk.
"Oh. Right. I was wondering if you had seen a guy wearing a sports coat with an enormous dog. He mentioned that he was thinking about staying here."
"Here?" Gunderson snorts. "Not likely. But I know who you're talking about."
"You do?"
"Yep. Everyone does, or so I thought."
