33  

THE SIT OF YOUR LIFE

Monday morning, a new day, a new week, Oswald told himself. He thought about going next door to the Edwardses’ to see Zola and Melvin. Maybe I should move out, too. He smoothed his face while looking in his can-lid mirror. He saw a coward and a failure. He’d lost his best human friend, put the boy’s mother in jail, and another possum was traumatized, all on his watch.

I need to get them out of the house.

He got out of his home from under the deck and stopped in his tracks when he heard her voice. Pixie. She was on the deck, braiding Tiny’s tail as it hung through the back of a plastic chair. She was wearing a bright-orange plastic shopping bag, with holes for her head and arms. Her fur was decorated with twist ties, rubber bands, and a few pop-tops. She had her sparkly cat-eye glasses on and was chatting away.

“Now don’t forget to tell everyone where you got your fur done,” she said.

“I won’t,” Tiny said.

“Where have you been, Pixie?” Oswald said.

Pixie stopped braiding. “I heard the news. Terrible. Poor thing. Will she be all right?” Pixie gnashed her teeth.

“Yes, they think Esmeralda just fainted, more from all the pandemonium than anything else. The chili was only warm. But they took her in for a full checkup, to be sure,” Oswald said, “Where’d you go?”

Pixie started on another braid. “My sister’s. I forgot she asked me to stop over.”

“Oh,” he said and started to go in when he saw that the cat flap had been removed and all that was left was a large hole.

He turned to Tiny, “How did this happen?”

Tiny craned his neck while Pixie continued her furdressing. “Oh, that. We enlarged it—removed the cat flap part so we larger beings can get in and out.”

Pixie nodded confirmation.

Oswald started to protest, but lost strength and went into the house to see everything he was facing before choosing his battles.

The house was even more of a mess than yesterday. There were open takeout containers with food still in them. An empty pizza box on the dining room floor. Oswald heard voices, one unfamiliar. He peered into the living room. A huge raccoon with a bald tail and a patch over one eye, like a pirate, lolled on the couch.

“Oh, this is good. This is real good,” Baldy said. Mo stood next to the couch like an usher at a theater. “Can I have another ten minutes? I’ve got the money,” Baldy said as he wriggled back and forth, eyes closed.

“You’ll have to get back in line. It wouldn’t be fair to the others. But you can buy refreshments while you wait,” Mo said.

The raccoon rolled off and wandered out the front door. A skunk came in and handed Mo some coins. After he studied them and clicked them against his teeth, he dropped them into a mug on the floor. He looked at a clock on the wall, “Your time starts . . . now,” he said to the skunk who clambered up onto the couch.

Oswald went out the front door. There was a line of about ten animals on the porch and down the steps. These included raccoons, skunks, a porcupine, someone’s dog—she had a collar—and a tortoise. Chuck had set up shop. There was food in piles, a tube of toothpaste, a bottle of ketchup, and juice boxes lined up under one of the old chairs.

“Two cents a squirt, ketchup or toothpaste,” Chuck said to a skunk.

“How about one cent for the ketchup?” the skunk said.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. This is premium brand stuff, my friend,” Chuck said. He drummed his fingers on his stomach.

Oswald scurried down the steps and around the side of the porch before he hoisted himself up. “Psst. Chuck—what are you doing?”

Chuck startled, then broke into a grin. “Isn’t this great? Where’ve you been? We’ve already made a dollar and thirty-five cents. We’re going to split it fifty-fifty with Miss Ann to help with her legal fees.”

“You can’t sell time on the couch. What if someone goes to the bathroom on it?”

This got a roar of indignation from the waiting crowd.

“What sort of animals do you think we are?” huffed the tortoise.

“I’m house trained,” the dog said. “I’m just not allowed on the furniture—”

“Oh, and a couch . . . ,” one of the waiting raccoons said, and almost swooned with the thought.

Oswald climbed onto the porch. This was not a private conversation anymore. Then he saw the sign taped to a porch post. In poorly drawn block letters it read:

THE SIT OF YOUR LIFE

TEN MINUTES ON A REAL COUCH

10 CENTS.