Edward Lee - Header 2

“But how, Paw?” Dumar’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “ How we gonna do it?”

“All things at their proper time…”

Helton directed Dumar through several more turns, then instructed him to park in an extensive parking lot.

“Dang!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “Lookit them buildings!”

“They stores, Paw?”

“That they is, and they’se stores we’se gonna have to do some shoppin’ in.” He pointed through the large windshield. “See that ‘un there? Dumar, I know you ain’t much fer readin’, but what that sign there says is, it says Home Depot. It’s a big-ass place they’se sell tools in.”

“Shee-it, Paw, we’se got plenty’a tools—”

“Not the kind we need fer this.” Helton gave his son a handwritten note. “Take this list, son, and give it to the first fella ya see who’s workin’ there. Then once he gathers up ever-thing on the list, ya take it to the counter and ya buy it. Then bring it back ta the truck,” after which Helton placed ten $100 bills in his son’s hand.

“Dang, Paw, that’s a lot’a money! ”

“Don’t waste time runnin’ yer mouth. Just git in there, git the tools, then git back.”

“Shore thing, Paw!” and then Dumar was off.

“You’re a bit better at readin’ than Dumar,” Helton told his nephew, “so’s what I want’cha to do first is run over yonder to that buildin’, ’cos it’s what they call…a grocery store.”

Micky-Mack cast a confident grin. “Shee-it, Unc Helton. “I’se been ta grocery stores—three or four times at least!”

“Good. Now, we’se gonna need food durin’ our trip, but it gotta be canned food on account we ain’t gonna be doin’ much cookin’. Get’cha as much as ya can carry, boy.”

“Shore, Unc, but what kind’ a canned food?”

“Beans, I reckon, git lots’a beans, and they’se got this other stuff ya probably heard’a, called spaghetti. There’s this famous chef, and I think his name is Boy-Are-Dee. Ya gots that? Boy-Are-Dee. See, he sell his spaghetti in cans. Oh, and pick us up couple’a six-pack’s of Coca-Cola. Can ya remember all that, son?”

“Aw, shore, Unc!”

“Then after ya got us the viddles, ya go over yonder.” Helton pointed. “That there’s a convenience store, kind’a like Old Man Halm’s Qwik-Mart in Luntville, only bigger. ”

The sign on the store read SHOP-SMART. “What’cha want me ta fetch there?” Micky-Mack asked.

“A girlie mag.”

“ Huh? ”

“You know what a girlie mag is, Micky-Mack?”

“Well, shore, but what the hail we need a girlie mag fer if’n we’se fixin’ to revenge the terrible murder’a Crory?”

“We’se need something—and I thinks the word is… provokertive, to look at.”

Micky-Mack peered in utter confusion.

“Somethin’ to keep our peters feisty, you know? Somethin’ we’se can lookit ever so often to keep our bones fit ta spit.”

“Uncle Helton, I’se just don’t understant…”

Helton’s stern finger pointed. “Just do as I say!”

“Yes, sir!”

“And here’s some money—”

“Aw, don’t bother with that, Unc. I’se got some’a my own on account last week I help Nuce Wynchel’n his boy Tube finish diggin’ post holes fer his new fence ’round that land’a his he’s fixin’ ta raise sheep on. This bein’ a family emergency, I’se reckon it’s only proper ta contri-bit my own earnin’s,” and then Micky-Mack withdrew several $20 bills from his jeans.

Helton beamed with pride. “Boy, what you got is what they call character, and that’s a rare thing in these dark days. I’se proud’a ya fer yer fine gesture, but see here. Ya put yer money away and use my Maw’s. It’s the way she’d want it.”

“Well, okay, Unc, whatever ya say.” Micky-Mack took the mint-condition $100 bill from his uncle and started out the truck door, but after a second’s thought, he stopped and turned back to his elder. “But where is you goin’, Uncle Helton?”

“To that great big fancy store ‘cross the street.”

Micky-Mack looked. “You’se mean the one with the giant yeller’n black sign?”

“And all them blinkin’ Christmas lights in the winders, yeah.”

“B-E-S-T…B-U-Y,” he slowly read. “What’cha fixin’ ta buy there?”

Helton stroked his beard. “See, what I’se fixin’ ta buy there…is a camera…”

(II)

“So what time are we going for pizza?” Veronica asked when Mike came out of the office.

“Huh? Oh, Veronica—”

“Yeah, Veronica—you know. Your girlfriend? ” She giggled it off, knowing this was just another of his macho games. But—

Did he discretely wince when she’d uttered the word girlfriend?

No, no. Don’t be so paranoid, she scolded herself.

He turned his back to her, dropped change into the employee soda machine, and out clunked a can of Mr. Pibb. He popped it open and took a sip. “Oh, damn. I’d buy you one but I’m out of change.”

Veronica bristled. I don’t want a MR. PIBB! I want YOU!

Mike walked back to the showroom, talking as he walked. “Oh, pizza, wow. You know—jeez—I forgot, I’ve got all this year-end paperwork to do, and I’ll have to take it home. We’ll have to do pizza another time.”

Veronica’s breasts bobbed smartly as she hurried to keep up. “Oh. Well, okay. Tomorrow then, right?” but even just looking at the back of his head, she thought, God, I love him SO MUCH…

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow. We’ll have pizza and talk.”

Veronica’s freshly tweaked nipples deflated when he’d said that. And TALK? What did that mean? It sounded…ominous. “Mike, is everything all right? With us, I mean?”

“Huh?” He hurried around the front check-out. “Oh, sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“But-but—”

The bell dinged, then the Greeter—a perky and utterly empty headed teeny bop pert-breasted pixie—said, “Welcome to Best Buy, sir!” She had one of those sticking-out-at-the-top ponytails.

Mike sipped more Mr. Pibb. “Chop-chop, Veronica. Looks like you got a customer…”

The bad vibe was already needling her. Distracted, she noticed the large man loping around the camera counters.

Who is…THAT?

Veronica hustled right over.

It was a very big man, with a jacket she could only think of as “shaggy,” big clunky boots, and a hat like in that old Clint Eastwood movie she’d watched with Mike not too long ago. Something about a sister named Sara. And…

He didn’t smell good.

“Hi, welcome to Best Buy, sir. My name’s Veronica.”

The looming man turned and looked down. Veronica flinched.

He had shaggy grayish hair and a big bushy beard.

“Why, hey there, Veronnerka. My name’s Helton,” and he thrust out his hand which, when fully opened might be able to cover her entire face and half her head. It was with some reluctance that she shook it—it looked kind of dirty—and she flinched again by the texture of his palm: like sandpaper.

“What can I help you with today, sir?”

“Helton, missy. No need ta call me sir. And, see”—he scratched his beard, releasing some trace dandruff. “What it is I need is a camera.”

“Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place—we’ve got the best selection in town.” She manned her station at once, going into saleswoman mode. “We’ve got the new line of Nikon Cool Pix just in.” She picked one up and showed him. “Versatile, easy to use, and modestly priced. They’re practically flying off the shelves.”