6

“Another day, another dollar,” Angie said, peering out from behind a rickety rack laden with small sacks of potato chips. Behind her hung a picture of her son dressed in his army uniform. Under the enormous hat his dark eyes stared out accusingly, his little sloping chin almost swallowed up by his uniform. A small, limp American flag adorned one side of the picture. On the other a pair of gilded baby booties kept watch.

“Just in time.” Angie dangled a slightly used tea bag in front of Fex. “This one’s been around the track once or twice, but there’s life in it yet.” She whipped out a tissue from a box she kept handy and wiped off the counter.

“You want cream?” Angie slid a fat chipped cup banded with blue over to him. “Well, not real cream. Half and half.”

Fex knew Angie’s half and half. Always on the verge of turning sour, it formed little oily pools on the surface of the tea.

“No, thanks,” he said.

“Cracker?” She held out a box. “No sugar in these. You only got one set of teeth. If you don’t watch ’em, who will?”

“My mother,” Fex said.

Angie tapped her own teeth with a fingernail wearing traces of bright red polish. “Gold, pure gold, worth a fortune,” she said, laughing. “A burglar breaks into my house, he heads straight for my teeth. I got all my money in my mouth.”

Fex drank his tea and studied Angie from behind his cup. She’d taken off her glasses and was rubbing the red spot they’d left on the bridge of her nose. Without them, he thought, her face looked naked. There were dark purple circles under her eyes. Today, as on all other days, she wore her black sweater and old khakis, which she’d cut down from her son’s old army pants.

Suddenly she ducked her head at Fex.

“I’m thinking of dying my hair,” she said. “Whadya think? Blond or red? My husband says he’ll send me back if I do. Too bad for him. Look at that,” she commanded. “Gray hairs. Lots of ’em. How can I keep up with the young chicks with that kinda junk?” She straightened up and put her glasses back on.

“I like you the way you are,” Fex said, unexpectedly shy. To his relief, a man came in and asked for his usual.

Angie handed over a pack of cigarettes. “You know what they call these things, Ed? Coffin nails, that’s what.”

“How about some matches, Ange?” Ed slapped down his money. “You been telling me that for years, kid. Look at me. Strong as an ox.” He thumped his chest vigorously and coughed in an exaggerated way.

“You got a nice wife, nice kids,” she warned. “You oughta quit.

Ed pocketed the cigarettes. “Maybe next week, Angie. I’m cutting down. That’s why I smoke this brand. They taste like old socks. See you around, kid,” and he left.

Angie shook her head. “What people do to their bodies. Now take me. Bacon is my downfall. I love bacon. Makes the old cholesterol count go sky-high, right? Do I give it up? Not on a bet. I love bacon. In this life, Fex, you got to have discipline. My mother told me that and, believe me, I’m still looking for it.”

Fex’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Yeah,” he agreed. Then he decided not to beat around the bush.

“Angie,” he said. “I have this friend. He’s got a problem.”

“There’s very few folks wandering around out there,” Angie said, “don’t have at least one. What’s your friend’s problem?”

“Well, he’s got this thing about taking a double-dare,” Fex said. “Every time somebody double-dares him to do something, he does it, no matter what.” Fex frowned down into his empty cup. “He doesn’t want to and he knows he’s a jerk, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t know what to do to make himself stop.”

“That’s a tough one,” Angie said. “Let me think.”

A little kid came in and marched importantly to the rear of the store. He brought back a bottle of milk and, with the air of a stockbroker involved in a big deal, plunked down two quarters.

“Hey!” Angie said. “That’ll be sixty-two cents, sonny.”

The kid scrunched up his freckled nose and with his free hand scratched himself. “That’s what my ma give me.”

“You tell your ma she owes me twelve cents. Tell her not to send you for anything more until she gives me the twelve cents,” Angie told him. The kid made a face and left with the milk tucked under his arm.

“Chiseler,” Angie said. “That dame’s a chiseler. She knows what milk costs, she figures she sends the kid over, she don’t have to pay full price. She’s a first-class chiseler, that one.”

“Don’t let her get away with it,” Fex said.

“What’re you gonna do?” Angie said. It was her favorite expression. “What’re you gonna do?” she said after her son married a divorced woman ten years older than he was and with four children.

“What’re you gonna do?” she asked when fire broke out in her back room and she’d forgotten to renew her insurance and lost a lot of money.

And “What’re you gonna do?” she sighed when her husband had a heart attack and the doctor said he might have to have open-heart surgery.

She didn’t expect an answer to her eternal question. Fex had figured out that long ago. She kept right on running the store in her son’s cut-off army pants, stood guard over the cash register, and kept a sharp eye out for shoplifters.

“O.K., this friend of yours, he’s your age, right?”

Fex nodded. “He keeps doing the same dumb thing over and over. He makes a fool of himself and he can’t seem to stop.”

“I get it!” Angie snapped her fingers. “He’s powerless in the grip of his obsession! That’s it. When you got an obsession,” she told Fex, “it’s tough, very tough.” Angie was fond of watching soap operas on television. Sometimes she sounded like one of the characters.

“I guess,” Fex said. He had no idea what “obsession” meant. But he knew he was powerless.

“An obsession means like he’s got to do it. There’s something stronger than he is forcing him on, right?”

“That’s right,” Fex agreed. “That’s exactly how it is.”

“This friend, he must be a pretty good pal, eh?” Angie asked.

Fex kept his head down and nodded.

“This’ll take some thought,” Angie said. “Solutions to deep problems don’t come easy, you know.”

“Tell me,” Fex said fervently.

“You don’t think you—your friend, that is—could just talk himself outa this thing? Tell himself to shape up. Or maybe he could just grow out of it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Take my own kid. He had an underwear obsession.” Angie tapped herself on the side of her head. “It was all in his mind.”

“His underwear obsession was all in his mind?” This was getting more complicated than Fex had bargained for.

“Sure. He thought if he didn’t change his underwear it would bring him good luck. He read somewheres that the Chinese or maybe the Irish—I can’t remember—had an old superstition that if you didn’t change your underwear for a long time—a year maybe—it brought you good luck. So he had an underwear obsession. I thought I’d go nuts. You could smell the kid a mile away.”

“What finally happened?”

Angie ate a graham cracker. “Girls,” she said. “He got interested in girls. Got so he’d change his underwear six, seven times a day. Couldn’t keep up with the wash.” She shook her head.

A man came in looking for a screwdriver. “Got some at home, couldn’t find a one,” he said.

“In the back,” Angie directed. “Third drawer on the left. You can’t locate what you want, give me a holler.”

In a minute he shouted, “Can’t find a one!”

“Men.” Angie rolled her eyes. “Can’t find their elbow unless it’s sticking in their eye. I’m coming,” she called.

Fex said good-bye and rode his bike slowly, thinking over what she’d said. Halfway home, he felt his rear tire go flat. He got off and pushed.

If I could only shed my skin, he thought, just walk out of it like a snake in the spring, it might be the answer. This was a nice time of year. Everything was starting fresh. Not a bad idea, starting fresh.

The idea of leaving his old self crumpled in a heap by the side of the road, tired and beat up from practically twelve years of strenuous living, and taking on a thin, taut covering like a skindiver’s wet suit appealed to him.

There wouldn’t be a trace of the old me, he thought, pleased. I would be strong. Nobody could make me do anything I didn’t want to do. I would know exactly who I am. I would say the right thing at the right time, do the right thing at the right time. There would be no mistakes. I would never feel foolish again.

I would be my own master. I would be kind. I would think of other people’s problems, not just my own. I would be just. I would love my fellowman. I would never hate anyone. I would make God like me.

A tiny voice spoke inside his head.

You might just be a pain in the butt, it told him. If all those things happened, you’d be so perfect it sounds to me like you’d be a real pain in the butt.

Fex paused. “That is a possibility,” he said aloud. Still, he couldn’t let go. I would be smart. I would be in the top ten percent of my class. Everyone would want me on their team. I might even be rich. And famous.

He stopped pushing his bike. A dazzling picture of himself, rich and famous, overwhelmed him. I might win the lottery. Or the Nobel peace prize. I might discover something that would cure cancer. I might think of a way to eliminate death.

I might even think of an idea that would bring peace to the world.

He stood still. A large Doberman came bounding from behind a picket fence at him, making low noises in its throat. Fex felt the blood drain out of his head and down to his sneakers. He looked at his feet, half expecting to see a pool of blood there. The backs of his hands tingled—a sure sign of danger.

With a trembling hand Fex reached out and touched the dog’s warm side.

In a phony English accent he said, “Old boy, how are you? You’re looking simply ripping, what?” For some reason the phony accent gave him courage. “Jolly, what, ho ho, pip pip, and all that rot.”

The dog looked puzzled, backed off and made more rumbling noises. “You seem to have a touch of indigestion, old thing,” Fex said. He kept up the patting. “Where’d you get that kisser?” He kept his voice light, friendly, soothing. “You have a face that only a mother could love, old chap.”

The dog put its head to one side, regarded Fex with its flat yellow eyes.

“Buzz off, baby, if you know what’s good for you.” Fex smiled at his new friend.

The Doberman turned and did as it was told.

Fex was exhilarated by his success. He pushed his bike rapidly the rest of the way and left it in the garage. He had one more thing to do before he went inside. But, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he twisted and turned, bent himself out of shape, he found it impossible to stick his elbow in his eye.

Good old Angie.