Chapter 52

The new grass supply sends everyone into overdrive; pans are greased, Muller’s in an apron. Max puts the grass in the oven, while Otis crouches, looking through the oven window like it’s a television. “How do you know when it’s done, Max?” he says, and Max tells him he’s not particularly versed in drying pot. “I know as much as you do,” he says, and Otis crouches nervously, worried the grass is going to burn up and disappear. When the grass is suitably dry, Muller stirs the ingredients together, dumping the batter out in big brown globs. Otis keeps trying to lick the batter bowl. Bisquick flies about, jumping from head to head, grabbing a nipple here and there.

Down in the basement, Margot rants away, telling listeners to grow up. “Clean up your act, for God’s sake,” she says to one person. “The world doesn’t owe you any favors. Tina who texted earlier? You want a baby? Get married first. I don’t care who the hell you marry. Just stop saying your mother will help you out. What if she drops dead tomorrow? Where will you be then, young lady?”

The more Margot gives people shit, the more her message board fills up. She’s got three computer screens going now. Radio and television stations have to screen their callers. Margot takes all calls, telling the slackers they’re either a nincompoop or a tire biter. Some even send notes of appreciation. Maybe it’s Margot’s voice. When she says, “Get your act in gear,” people pull up their socks. One of her latest inventions is the “I Cleaned Up My Act” board. People blog and tell others how they changed their lives. The numbers keep growing. These people are proud of themselves, and Margot’s proud of them.

The rest are still nincompoops.