The Not-So-Great American Novel
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
All of the sudden, I feel my brain make contact with the back of my skull. Lest anyone take this for some dumb metaphor for my reaction, I need to add that Lucy had swung open the door, knocking me to the floor with a grace I'm sure wasn't lost on my female guest.
"Ooopsie," Lucy says in a syrupy sweet voice as she sweeps into the room. "Sorry, Gruber. Hope I didn't interrupt anything." With that, she plops on the bed next to Daphne and rubs Molly's belly. Hell Dog responds with a contented growl, sliding her head from Daphne's lap to Lucy's.
"No problem," I mutter as I pick myself up, reminded of a similar fall I took while trying to dance with my ex-girlfriend, Darlene Stuker, at junior prom. "Tried" being the key word, the main problem being that she was there with Stu Williams, the captain of the debate team. There was some shoving, and we wound up in a messy, klutzy pile. Stu gave me a good thrashing out in the parking lot, which would have made for a semi-decent story, had he been captain of the football team, not the debate team. Story of my life.
Trying to make it across the room with some shred of dignity intact, I slide next to my sister on the bed and smile at Daphne, gently tickling Molly's neck. Damned if the dog doesn't attempt to take my index finger clean off at my class ring.
"Yikes!" I shout, sliding off the bed in a less than fluid motion. Daphne leans over and grabs Molly's collar, presumably to keep her from jumping off the bed and repeating the Stu Williams treatment. Lucy, ever the supportive sister, just laughs.
"He's great with animals," she tells our visitor, snortling. "And you should see him around babies. They scream their heads off."
Brat. Unfortunately, she's right. I've given up smiling at the kids at the stand. It would be hell on the tips, only Donler doesn't let us accept them, even on those rare occasions someone's so bowled over by the tater dog experience they feel compelled to leave one.
Which, of course, reminds me of the now-soggy hundred dollar bill in my pocket, and the incredibly pretty girl next to my sister on the bed. Daphne's loosened her grip on Molly's collar and is just sort of looking at me.
"Don't worry about Molly," she says. "She's a little weird around strange men. Finds them threatening. We adopted her, and I have a feeling her previous owner was a guy and wasn't real nice to her." Unless her previous owner was Paul Bunyan or maybe the Jolly Green Giant, I find that hard to believe, so I just nod.
At this point, Daphne's nose wrinkles up, revealing some freckles I somehow missed. Oh, right—California. Sun. They're disarmingly cute, but still I brace myself for the question every newcomer to Hoople eventually asks.
"What's that smell?"
"Hoople," I reply with a sigh, hoping that's enough. People from cities never get used to the smell of the country, and with the poultry plant on the far side of town, Hoople's got country aroma to spare. Fortunately, Daphne seems satisfied with my answer and nods, staring off into space.
I feel the moment slipping away. "So," I say. "You guys know my dad."
"Uh-huh," Daphne smiles, absentmindedly petting Molly, who's long forgotten threatening Gruber.
"And you're here for me," I continue, glancing over at Lucy for help. If she knows anything, she's not talking. The brat.
"Yep," Daphne says, giving Lucy a knowing glance. Both girls giggle, making me feel even more the odd man out.
At this point, I just want to scream, but before I can, I hear the back door slam. Molly leaps off the bed, damn near giving me a heart attack as she jumps over me before bounding out the door, rounding the corner to the stairs with a loud thud. Sportscoat must be back.
"That's Harold. C'mon," Daphne said, standing up and heading for the door, Lucy in silent tow. I make a mental note to enjoy the quiet while I can as I follow them downstairs.
Walking into the kitchen, I see Harold, still wearing his sportcoat as he stomps his feet, scattering bits of snow and slush across the linoleum floor. For someone who's apparently been outside in a blizzard for some time, in now-soaked loafers, even, he doesn't look cold at all. Just tan, rested and ready. My mother follows him inside, closing the door behind her. When she turns to look at us, it looks like she absorbed the cold for both of them; her face is all ruddy and her eyes are swollen. Then I realize that she's been crying.
"Gruber," she says, wiping her eyes. "This is Harold."
"We've met," I reply, fingering the money in my pocket. I can't think of anything else to say.
"He's a friend of your father's. And he's got some news for you."
"Hi again," Harold said, taking off the sportscoat for the first time since I met him. It must be soaked through. "Your dad said to say hello, by the way."
And to eat a tater dog for him, too, I'll bet. What the hell is this all about?
"What the hell is this all about?" I snap. Lucy gasps. Molly growls. Mom looks away. Daphne just smiles that knowing smile.
"Relax, son," Harold smiles, patting me on the back. "I'm actually here to help." Noticing my blank stare, he blinks. "You don't get out much here in Hoople, do you?"
Now I'm annoyed. "Nosiree, Bob," I say, affecting my best rustic accent, shooting for deep Mississippi but probably only managing a drawling Illinois. "Garsh, they just put in the traffic light last year, and that's still keeping me right occupied!"
"Gruber!" Mom yells, clearly embarassed. She hates my sarcastic side, though I often think it's the only interesting thing about me.
But Sportscoat—even with it off, Harold looks like he's got one on–just laughs. "Relax," he says. "It's cool. I'm here to help you lose that rustic patois. Shake off that small-town dust. Get your bootheels a-wandering, as Bob Dylan once said."
I just blink. What the hell else am I supposed to do?
"Grab your stuff," he says. "We're heading to Hollywood."
