The Absolute Value of Mike (10 page)

“No, I can see perfectly fine. In fact, I was looking at your sign and it says—”

He chuckled. “I know. To tell you the truth, I get a lot more business now than I did when it was correct.”

“Business? People just walk in and decide they need glasses?”

“Not my business. My wife's. She sells fruit spreads and cakes. After the sign got . . . rearranged, she changed her label to ‘Ye Ass Homemade Goods,' and business really picked up.

He pointed to the counter beside the cash register with a huge basket full of plastic-wrapped packages next to a pyramid of jam jars.

Past was over at the counter faster than a speeding shopping cart. “Lydia's fruit spreads are great!”

“Yup,” Dr. Perrello said proudly, “all fruit, no sugar.”

Past whistled, staring at a label. “Blueberry, huh?” He whipped his head around to face the eye doctor. “Fresh or frozen?”

“Fresh, of course.” The doctor glared at Past over his glasses.

“Lots of antioxidants in blueberries.” Past rubbed his chin. I started tapping my foot impatiently. “How much are they?” he asked.

“Four dollars.”

Past dropped his head like a brick had hit it.

“Aw, go ahead and take one,” said Dr. P. “Lydia would want you to have it. And take a couple of her fruit squares while you're at it.”

“Hey,” I said, seeing an opportunity, “would your wife like to sell some of those for Misha, the kid Karen's adopting?”

His eyes brightened through his shiny glasses. “She already is! She's made a modest amount at the flea market. The thing is, lots of people around here make their own jam, so there's not a huge demand.”

“No problem. We can put them on the Web—eBay and anywhere else I can think of, like YouTube.” I asked if we could borrow his video equipment and explained it all to him. How I was going to record videos of porch pals, vinegar, whatever we could, and appeal for buyers or even donations. The videos would be short so people would actually watch them, sort of like public service announcements. Only more desperate.

“You know who should go on the Web?” said Dr. P. “Gladys.”

“Gladys from the bank?”

“She used to do solos in church when she was a tiny little thing. What a beautiful voice. I was always sorry she didn't keep it up. But her mother—I guess it was really her father's fault—well, anyway . . . maybe you could ask her, since it's for a good cause.” His eyes landed on Past's cart. “Let me go get the equipment and load up the cart.”

I walked over to Past, who was scrutinizing the ingredients list on a fruit square. “What's the story with Gladys?”

He didn't take his eyes off of the label. “Sugar—but she doesn't say what kind. Well, at least it's not high fructose corn syrup. That stuff means instant diabetes.”

“Past. What were her parents like?”

“Stay away from that high fructose corn—”

“Hello! Could you answer the question?”

He looked up from the fruit square. “I don't know Gladys's story because I've only lived here a couple of years. I know she plays guitar and sings, that she has poor taste in men, and that Moo has tried to take her under her wing because Moo is this town's savior of lost souls, but I don't know Gladys's past, okay, Igor?”

Past finished rearranging the pyramid of fruit jars, now that he'd removed one, as Dr. P came out with an armload—camera, tripod, mikes, cables. “Happy filming!”

Past opened the blueberry jar before we were even out of the store. I stared at him as he slurped the spread right out of the jar and purple juice dribbled down his chin.

“Jeez, you attack it like my dad attacks a Snickers—like it's going to run away if you don't grab it.”

Past eyed me from around the jar and slowly took it away from his lips. “Snickers have hydrogenated fat. He shouldn't be eating those.”

“There's a lot he shouldn't be eating.”

“Is he overweight?”

“Big-time.”

“You've got to get him to go on a diet!”

“Oh, right, like he'll listen to me.”

“You're his son. You care about him. Of course he'll listen to you.”

I shook my head and continued pushing his cart.

“You have to try. Promise me?”

“Okay, fine, I promise. So, now that we've got the camera equipment, we need to find a laptop and somewhere that has a high-speed connection to upload the files.”

Past used his finger as a spatula to get the rest of the blueberry glop. “I have Wi-Fi.”

I eyed him. “Seriously?”

Past gave an overexaggerated sigh. “Oh, ye of little faith.” Then he gave me a smile. “It's from the lawyer's office right by the park. Often people can get a signal, sometimes not.”

I knew how to handle that. “I need a can of Pringles.”

Past frowned. “Fruit would be a better snack.”

“No, it's for a Wi-Fi antenna to get better reception. Sasha and I built one out of a Pringles can so we could use his neighbor's Wi-Fi.” I explained how, and Past assured me he'd get all the parts I needed for the antenna if I agreed not to eat the Pringles.

We shook on it. “You are nothing if not resourceful, Mike.”

I shrugged. “I still need a laptop to upload the pictures and videos.”

“I'll ask if I can use the soup kitchen's laptop for the uploads.”

“They have a laptop?”

“It's almost brand-new, just given to them by”—he started blinking rapidly—“someone . . . who wasn't using it anymore.”

“I can design a website to raise money for Misha by selling Moo's vinegars, Mrs. P's fruit spreads, porch pals—”

“Porch pals?” He got that goofy look on his face that porch pals seemed to inspire in him, and nodded.

“Good. Now, I just have to think of a video that'll get people to buy porch pals.”

“I'm sure you'll find some sign, Igor.”

“Would you stop calling me that?”

Past sighed. “I guess I'll have to go back to calling you by that culturally common name of
Mike.
”

“Look. I know you don't think it's a sign that Misha and I have the same name. And you have a point. But it's not just the name. Or the T-shirt. Or even the LEGOs. It's the eyes.”

Past stopped the cart and studied me. “Yours are brown. His are blue.” He paused. “They both start with
b.
Is that the sign?”

I folded my arms. “No. His eyes are . . . I don't know . . . trying to say something.”

Past raised his eyebrows.

I pushed the toe of my Clarks against a wheel of his cart. “It's like . . . okay, this is going to sound really weird . . . it's like he's trying to tell me something.”

Past's eyes were wide and his face was frozen.

“Never mind! Forget I said anything!”

“No.” He started blinking again and leaned his forearms on the cart, bending over like I'd knocked the wind out of him. “I believe you, Mike,” Past said quietly. “If you're feeling something at a gut level, then you know what? You're right. That's a sixth sense. Or spirit. Or whatever you want to call it.” He looked up and stared at me with his Bono eyes. “I want that kid adopted, too.” For a long moment, he just kept staring at me. Then he scratched his stubbly chin and a smile started growing until it was a broad grin. I realized that I'd never seen him smile this much, because now that I saw it, I knew for sure that he was a guy the girls would drool over. Jeez, why didn't I get his face? I mean, if I wasn't going to get a brain, couldn't I at least look good? Past even looked great in a frayed green-striped button-down shirt and tweed jacket. Maybe I should wear—

“My shirt!”

“What?” It came out croaky because I couldn't believe he'd been inside my head.

“My shirt! I can sell my shirt on eBay!”

I felt better realizing that he hadn't known what I was thinking, but it took me a moment to catch on to what he said. “EBay? A shirt?”

“It's not just any shirt. It's a shirt worn by a real street person.”

“Don't you . . . need it?”

He waved his hand. “Plenty more where this came from. In fact, I'll put one shirt a week on eBay.”

“Do you have that many shirts?” I asked.

He gave me a funny look. “I believe I can part with that many shirts, yes.” He put the blueberry jar in his cart, whipped off his jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt, taking it off quickly. He handed it to me as he started to put his jacket on over his gray T-shirt with his free arm.

I was doubtful, but I decided to humor him. “Okay,” I said, slowly reaching out for it, trying not to act like I didn't want to touch it. “Uh . . . I'll take care of washing it.”

He jerked it back. “What? Are you crazy? And devalue it? This is a shirt worn by a real live homeless guy. This shirt has lived against the man's skin! This shirt has lived on the street, night and day, for . . .” He froze, went pale, and then slowly a look of resignation came over his face, gentling out the lines in his forehead. His voice came out low and in a monotone. “I've been forgetting to count. Wow,” he said quietly. “Anyway, it's been”—he looked at his watch—“two months, twenty-seven days, six and a half hours.”

“Since what?”

He blinked rapidly, not looking at me and not answering. “I—I have to get to the soup kitchen. In the meantime, I'll head you in the right direction for home.”

—the order in which a problem is solved

 

 

I
was a little frustrated that we couldn't get started on videos or website design right away, but I figured I couldn't begrudge a homeless guy a free lunch. Past told me how to get back to Moo's and drew a map on the back of a flyer from Natalie's Natural Products health food store. Those were the flyers he had in his cart, and for some reason he had a ton of them. I guess they weren't any use to Natalie anymore, since her store was out of business.

Fortunately, there was only one turn to get to Moo's, so even I could follow a map like that. It was still a long walk, but I had a lot to think about, so I made a list in my head.

 

And the list went on and on.

I was thinking so hard, I almost missed my turn. When I got to Moo's, I maneuvered around the buckets in the front yard and walked up the carpeted steps. And stopped.

A life-size rag doll sat on a chair on the porch. Wearing shorts and a striped T-shirt, like an overgrown kid. And a pink Life Is Good baseball cap. Its face was a round pale blue pillow with brown yarn hair. He had buttons for eyes, a dangly red pom-pom for a nose, and a wide, grinning mouth drawn on with black marker. It was so hideous that, well, it was kind of cute. I stared at it for a moment before I noticed the note sticking out of the shorts pocket:

I couldn't help smiling at him until I noticed the smell. Coming from the house. It was sickly sweet. And burning.

I yanked the door open. “Moo!” I shouted.

“In here, Mike!” Moo called from the smoky kitchen.

Poppy grunted as I ran through the living room.

“Moo, what's going on? What's that smell?” On the kitchen counter, I saw four cookie sheets completely covered with thick, black, smoking glop.

Moo sighed. “These cookies are for a bake sale for Misha. They didn't turn out very well, did they?” She looked down at her recipe card and read off the items as she put her hand on each of the ingredients on the counter. “One cup of sugar, three cups of flour—”

“Moo?”

“Yes, dear?”

“That's not flour. You've got two bags of sugar.”

She peered at the bags. “I could've sworn one of them was flour.”

“Moo, maybe you need new glasses. Your eyes might be getting—”

“My eyes are perfectly fine!” she said, whipping her head around to glare at me.

“I'm just saying . . .”

Moo turned to glare at the cookie sheets instead. “Well, that was a bust! Never mind, I'll clean this up and get our meal started. You go relax with Poppy for a few minutes.”

I went into the living room and frowned at Poppy. For the first time, I noticed his feet. He wore huge duck slippers. They were realistic-looking ducks, the type with the dark green heads and necks. Other than the duck slippers, and the yellow yardstick now leaning against his recliner instead of across the arms of the wing chair, nothing had changed. Except the cat clock, which now said 5:15. Before, it had read around 8:00. Weird. I looked at Poppy. He had the same stubborn expression and devil-horn hair. His eyes were still fixed on the broken TV.

“So, Poppy, what up?”

No answer.

“How are those boxes coming?”