Don Bruns: Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

It was eight thirty. We’d been jammed for a full hour and forty-five minutes. Not much time in the scope of eternity. “James, I don’t think I’ve ever worked that hard in my life.” I wiped my face with the sleeve of the white cooking coat, noticing the sleeve was more damp than my face.

“Man, Cap’n Crab is never this busy. I didn’t think we were going to keep up.”

“I don’t want to depress you, but we didn’t.”

“Wow. It just never seemed to stop.”

“James, I don’t think I want to do this again. That was crazy.”

He stooped over his boxes, lifting and sorting.

“James did you hear me?”

“I heard you, my friend. Have you counted the money?”

I hadn’t. It was jammed into the cash box, and I’d taken some out and dumped it into a large canvas bag that sat on the floor.

“Well, if your cash deposit matches the food we sold — ”

“Yes?”

“We did about thirty-eight hundred ninety dollars tonight. Minus the rev’s five hundred.”

“Thirty-three ninety? Not bad. Not bad at all.”

He had a big grin on his face. “Still want to bow out?”

I shook my head. “No, I think I’ll be here tomorrow night.”

“Great. Bring the dog, I love animals. I’m a great cook.” I had to think for a minute. Obscure as it was, it came to me. “Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.”

He wiped his wet, greasy hands on his dirty apron. “You know your movies. I’m proud of you, pard. Proud of you.”

T he fairground restrooms had six public showers, like a college dorm. The cement block facility smelled sour, like ripe laundry, and as I washed off the stench of the grease and onion, I wondered which was worse. The running water echoed off the block walls and I scrubbed for all I was worth.

We cleaned up as well as we could, glad that we’d brought a change of clothes, and we put on less offensive jeans and T-shirts and walked down the path.

James found Stan’s pizza wagon. If it involved cards, a scheme, a business idea, or making and losing money, James could always sniff it out. The vehicle was painted like a circus wagon, with bright colors, big fake wooden wheels, and a huge slice of pizza painted on the side to look like a clown’s face. Two slices of pepperoni for the eyes, an olive for the nose, and a slice of red ripe tomato for the mouth.

They’d already dealt a hand and cracked their first beers by the time we arrived, and my nose told me that one or two of the six had not yet showered.

“Pull up a chair, boys.” Bruce Crayer waved, motioning to us to sit, so we watched the game close-up. The folding table sat outside the wagon, and an assortment of bugs buzzed the lights strung from Stan’s pizza emporium. Some of the six players had tossed a handful of poker chips in the center of the table and we watched as the game unfolded.

No one said another word to us. There were glances, each of the players secretly sizing us up. Occasionally Crayer would look up and smile at me, but the others kept stern looks on their faces. I wondered if the rest of them were as interested in our participation as Crayer had been. The one thing they did know was that we’d made some good money in the last couple of hours, and I assumed they were ready to take it away from us. Twenty minutes later, the first game was over and after a whispered sixty-second conference with a cigar-smoking ringleader, two of the players left.

“Sorry, guys.” Crayer nodded to us. “Should have introduced you, but the first game we play every year is all seriousness. Kind of sets the tone for the rest of the weekend. Stan, this here is Skip, and this is James.” He introduced us to the cigar smoker, who checked us out through squinty eyes. “They got the number fifteen booth up there. Burgers, brats. By the looks of things they did well tonight. Right, boys?” There was no recognition of the other two unknown players.

“We didn’t know exactly what to expect.” I glanced at James.

“I’d say we did very well.”

Crayer smiled. “Well, what you made, we’d like the chance to take away. Are you boys in?” I knew it. For a couple of bucks we’d be accepted about anywhere.

We played the first few hands and broke even. The conversation centered around the reverend himself. A guy I knew very little about.

“Well, another season and more pickin’s for the rev.” Bruce Crayer settled back in the rickety wooden folding chair. “The rubes are out in number.”

“Rubes?” James looked up from studying his cards.

“Cashdollar’s flock,” Crayer said. “He has them all believing that if they follow his lead, they’ll be rich. ’Course, he makes sure that he gets rich first.”

Stan, the pizza man, leaned back in his chair, keeping his cards close to his chest. Lighting another cigar, he studied us, not hiding his hard look. It was as if he was gauging our reaction.

“And he’s back at it, pickin’ his targets.” A big mouthed guy who’d been silent up to now leaned back in his folding chair. He waved his hand at me. “The rev. Every campaign he picks a different target. Tonight he was working on this right-wing Miami talk show host, Barry Romans.”

“He’ll get him, Mug. End of this tent meeting, Romans won’t know what hit him.”

James sipped on his beer, holding his cards tightly. “I’ve heard Romans on the radio. Like a local Rush Limbaugh.”

“Bigger than local.” Stan, the pizza man, took a puff off the fat cigar. “He’s got stations that carry him all over the state. Some even up in Georgia, I believe. So you boys are aware of him, huh?”

The big-mouthed man referred to as Mug continued. “It’s gonna be brutal. Rev’s gonna accuse him of being the Devil, get his congregation all riled up.”

“They’ll picket this Romans,” a tall skinny guy with thick glasses spoke for the first time, “and send hundreds of letters of protest to the newspaper, the radio stations.”

“And,” our neighbor Crayer gave us all a broad grin, “we make more money every meeting. Right, Dusty? Cashdollar’s loyal following love to blame somebody else for all the world’s evils. Yes, they do.”

I couldn’t help but smile too. More money was just what I needed right now.

James added to the pot, apparently sensing a big win. It didn’t happen.

For some reason I needed to know the outcome. “So does the reverend get his man? Does he bring down the target?”

“Sometimes.” Crayer shuffled the deck.

“What happens to Barry Romans?”

Mug ran his hand through his unruly, greasy mop of hair. “The rev’s nailing him for being a racist, for being a card-carrying member of the NRA, for being anticivil rights, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I think he was just makin’ shit up this afternoon, just to get more reaction. He gets a good reaction when he threatens right wingers. Even a better reaction if something happens to them.”

Mug laughed, almost like a rumble deep in his throat. “Make stuff up? The rev?”

“And?”

Crayer looked around at the five of us. “And? If the rev gets three or four thousand people riled up, they take Romans on. Tear him down.”

James was engrossed. “Is that what you mean about ‘something happening to them?’ You mean he influences that many people?”

“Kid,” Stan was puffing like a locomotive, “he’ll influence maybe ten thousand people just this weekend.”

“Wow.”

“You remember what happened to that talk show host, Don Imus? He made some comment about some black college girls, and got fired inside of a week, from TV and radio.” Stan took another puff on his cigar and a spiral of smoke climbed high and disappeared in the dark. “Reverend Al Sharpton took him on. Crucified him. Kid, ministers and public opinion are powerful forces. They can bring down mountains.”