Toby

It was warm out this morning so I was sitting on the top step of the front porch with my boxes of cards, open for business, trade or buy, a tall stack of toast and jam on a plate beside me.

Mom made the jam herself, with actual strawberries.

She still wasn’t back from Mass. She probably lit some candles afterwards in front of Mary and said a rosary. Plus it takes her a while to walk from there. It’s only a couple of blocks but it takes her quite a while.

Poor thing.

Anyway, so far it was a slow morning. This bony old Greek guy across the street, Mr. Pappas—no hair, no teeth—came out in his bathrobe and grabbed the rolled-up newspaper off his porch, and then he just stood there looking up at his tree. He’s got this tree on his lawn, the leaves all red and yellow now, very pretty I admit, and he stood there looking up at it—or maybe at a bird in there, you could hear it whistling away, tweet-tweet. He stood like that for five minutes, I swear. Then he looked over at me with a gummy grin and held up his thumb like he does.

I don’t think the guy’s got all his marbles.

After he went back inside I sat there listening to that stupid bird. Why do birds sing like that anyway? What are they trying to prove, how happy they are? Compared to us down here?

Sometimes I wouldn’t mind owning a BB gun.

I asked Mom for one last Christmas but she doesn’t trust me. I told her if I had a father I bet he would trust me. She told me go get myself a father, then. I’m not always able to use that on her. Depends on her mood.

Anyway, somebody finally came along, this kid Joey Olson, with his entire collection of cards held together in a single rubber band.

“Hey, Tubs,” he goes.

I told him, “Keep walking.”

He apologized for calling me Tubs.

I put my hand behind my ear. “Come again?”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For calling you Tubs.”

“Say the whole thing.”

“I’m sorry for calling you Tubs.”

I sat back. “Approach and state your business.”