Losing Joe's Place (2 page)

“I don't like to say ‘I told you so …'” began Ferguson.

“Then don't,” snapped Don.

The Peach was making a sketch on a file card of several possible expressway routes to alleviate traffic. Don was flaked out in the back, leafing through
The Toronto Star,
searching for ways to spend our first day in the big city. It wasn't a tough job. Everything sounded great.

We took in the afternoon baseball game, and watched the Blue Jays take the White Sox into extra innings before blowing them away in the 12th. Don insisted that we needed new clothes so we wouldn't look like hayseeds. That meant shopping — which I usually hate, but that day in Toronto I really got into it. Now possessing cool wardrobes, we required cool haircuts, so Don and I blew a bundle at this fancy stylist's place. Don looked hip, but when I checked the mirror, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had been in a knife fight where my opponent had cut off both sides of my head. At that point, the Peach returned from the bookstore with his only purchase of the excursion —
An Illustrated History of Stonehenge.

We were ready to call it a day after a trip up the CN Tower when we found out that Electric Catfish was playing at Maple Leaf Gardens, and there were still tickets left. You don't pass up a chance to see a big-time rock concert when you come from Owen Sound. This forced us to have dinner downtown, and Don picked a Serbo-Croatian restaurant where we ordered the weirdest things on the menu. This included — and I'm
not
kidding — stewed crabgrass. There Ferguson sealed his traffic sketch in an envelope and addressed it to the mayor of Toronto. He mailed it outside the Burger King, where we went for some real food.

The concert was amazing, and we were so wired up, we rented seven ninja movies. The night was a blur of poker, Nerf basketball, and ninja attacks. I estimate we got to sleep around seven
A.M
.

* * *

My parents called at seven-thirty. I feel like I dreamed the whole conversation. I yawned out that everything was fine and Joe was on his way to London. Ferguson and Don threw pillows at me. I had lost the bet, as I knew I would. The guy whose folks were the first to call had to clean the bathroom all summer. Way to go, Mom.

She sounded suspicious. “Jason, are you getting enough sleep?”

“No,” I said honestly. “Somebody phoned at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. Can you believe that?” Parents have no sense of humor.

We had just gotten back to sleep when the phone rang again. Mrs. Peach; seven forty-five. And Don's mom was on the line at eight-ten.

“Is that everybody?” moaned Ferguson.

We counted noses and phone calls, and agreed that it was safe to go back to sleep.

When we finally woke up, it was two-thirty in the afternoon.

Don yawned hugely. “Did my mother phone a few hours ago?”

“Everybody's
mother phoned,” I amended. “Just don't ask me what we told them.”

“Yours was first,” Ferguson reminded me. “And by the way, I like my toilet to really sparkle.”

Don sprang to his feet and stretched. “Come on! Let's get out there and do it all over again! Yesterday was amazing!”

“Here's something to amaze you,” put in Ferguson, making quick calculations in a notebook. “We're $300 poorer.”

My first thought was
we've been robbed!
“Oh, no! We
spent
that much? How?”

We gathered around the paper and gawked. As usual, the Peach was right on target. Between the concert and baseball tickets, purchases, food, hairdos and parking, we'd blown $317.45 in all. At a pace of three hundred bucks a day, this summer was going to cost us over twenty grand, not including rent. So much for not making it in the big city. We were going to have room and board for as long as we wanted it, and more — with bars on the windows.

“Give me that!” Don snatched the notebook from Ferguson and began crossing out vigorously. “Scratch all the one-time expenses, like the clothes and the hair, and take away all the stuff we did just because it was our first day, and things we got suckered on, but now we know better, and
voilà!”
He held the result in front of the Peach.

“Dinner for three at Burger King, $9.50,” read Ferguson. Don looked proud.

“Forget it.” I grabbed the notebook and tossed it onto the beanbag chair. “Let's continue our tour of the city. Today we go to everything that's either cheap or free.”

We headed down to the car.

“I don't know how safe this is,” said Ferguson on the staircase. “I think the supporting wood's almost rotted out.”

“It's holding
you
up,” snapped Don. “That's a miracle right there.” Ferguson is a little chunky, but definitely not what you'd call fat.

“The building probably went up in the fifties,” the Peach decided. “Which means the wood should be replaced — based on average maintenance, and humidity —”

“Shut up!” warned Don.

“ … in the next three or four years. Of course, this architectural style began as early as 1941, in which case the stairs would become a hazard” — he paused again, calculating — “now.”

No sooner was the word out of his mouth than a basketball-sized hole opened up under Don's foot, and his leg disappeared to the thigh.

“Yep, 1941.”

When we lifted Don and his leg out, he was looking at Ferguson as if to say,
He's a witch! Burn him!

“Don't worry, guys,” I stepped in. “We can mention this to the landlord when we go to introduce ourselves. He'll be happy no one was hurt.”

We stepped outside into the hot afternoon and scanned Pitt Street for the Camaro. I frowned. In all the excitement yesterday, I'd forgotten where I'd parked the —

“Hey, Jason. Didn't we leave it right here?” Don was pointing to a spot in front of the deli.

My heart stopped. In the line of parked vehicles was an empty space just about the size of an aerodynamic black hole.

Oh, no.

* * *

“Don't worry,” said Ferguson sarcastically. “Filing stolen vehicle reports is part of life in the big city.”

Don and I glared at him. We were standing in front of 1 Pitt Street, where a police officer had just finished taking our report about Joe's car being gone.

“This isn't funny,” I said.

“That cop sure didn't seem too upset,” Don observed.

“What did you expect him to do?” asked Ferguson. “Weep? Tear his hair? Drag Lake Ontario?”

“Ferguson's got a point,” I said. “After all, it's just a car. And it's insured. We'll probably get it back, but if we don't, the insurance money will buy Joe another one. We can't panic about this kind of thing. Meanwhile, we'll take buses and subways. With the traffic, it's just as fast.”

“Right,” said Don. “City people never lose their cool, because anything can happen in the city. Why, do you realize that, at any second, something amazing could happen to us?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the deli door flew open, and out stormed an old man — short, round-faced, with an incredible paunch hidden behind a greasy white apron. His stomach formed a little shelf in front of him. It would have been a great place to put a bowling trophy, but somehow I doubted he had one.

He shook a two-pronged meat fork at us. “Are you crazy, Mr. Cardone, bringing the police to my building?” His many chins bobbed as he spoke and, below them, the apron jiggled. “Police bring health inspectors, and building inspectors, and before you know it — hassles!”

“How do you know my name?” I asked. It took a few seconds to sink in that this was Plotnick, our new landlord.

“Because you look just exactly like the other Mr. Cardone, without the muscles.”

Joe and I look absolutely nothing alike. “Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Plotnick, but we had no choice. My brother's car's been stolen.”

The landlord shrugged. “What's one little car compared to the health of a real person? I'm an old man. It could be on your conscience that I have a heart attack.”

“You should consider a low cholesterol diet,” said Ferguson seriously.

Plotnick looked daggers at him. “Who is this person?”

I introduced Ferguson and Don. “They're houseguests.” Plotnick looked suspicious. “They're staying with me for — for a little while.”

“How little?”

“We don't know yet.”

Plotnick's eyes narrowed. “Okay, Mr. Cardone, but you should remember — apartment 2C is a one-person apartment. In a one-person apartment lives one person. If three persons live there, it isn't a one-person apartment anymore.”

“One more thing,” I remembered. “One of the stairs was weak, and Don kind of fell through when we were —”

“What?” Plotnick reached up to tear at his hair, but he didn't have any, so he clutched at the air just above his head. He glared at Don. “You broke my stairs?”

“The wood was all rotted out, and I guess my foot went right through.”

“Vandalism!” cried Plotnick. “Mr. Cardone, I'm afraid I'll have to ask your brother to terminate his lease.”

I was horrified. “Terminate it? Why?”

“He has brought an undesirable element to this neighborhood,” Plotnick said haughtily.

“Actually, Mr. Plotnick,” the Peach put in, “I don't follow your line of reasoning. The hole in the stairs comes not from Don, but from your negligent upkeep.”

“There's something annoying about you, Mr. Peach,” said Plotnick. “Could it be the fact that you have a big mouth? You accuse me of not taking care of my building? Me? Plotnick, a respected member of this community? I ask you, is it my fault this big dummy goes stomping down my stairs like a wild man?”

“What if we agree to pay for the repairs?” I said suddenly. I knew the hole in the staircase wasn't our fault. But if Joe came home and found his lease terminated, the three of us wouldn't be too far behind it.

“I'll give you the bill,” said Plotnick pleasantly. “Welcome to my building.” And he walked back into the deli without another word.

We went to the supermarket and bought instant everything. Instant macaroni and cheese, instant rice, instant potatoes, instant pasta, frozen vegetables, precooked chicken, and an assortment of TV dinners. It was the instant hash browns Don set fire to as we were getting ready for our first day of work the next morning. I was still in the shower when I heard Plotnick's distant voice through the ventilation duct yelling,

“Put it out, Mr. Cardone! Smother it! Put water on it! Don't burn down my building!”

Wrapping myself in a towel, I ran out to find the apartment thick with black smoke. Ferguson and Don were standing there staring at a flaming fry-pan.

I threw open the sole window in the bathroom, which did little to clear away the smoke. Then I put my face right up to the ventilation duct and bellowed as loud as I could,
“No problem! Just a little accident cooking breakfast! Everything's under control!”

“I'm not deaf, Mr. Cardone,” came Plotnick's reply. “Come down to my restaurant. I'll make for you a breakfast.”

By this time, the fire was out, but thick clouds of dense smoke were billowing from the burnt pan.

“You have to use low heat,” the Peach was lecturing, “especially with this type of pan —”

“I give up.” Don threw his hands in the air. “I'm sorry I didn't take the Peachfuzz course on how to do everything in the known universe. I'm a moron.”

“Not a moron,” said Ferguson. “Just a pyromaniac.”

“Hey.” I stepped between them. “Plotnick's got breakfast on for us in the deli.”

The inside of the Olympiad Delicatessen was almost, but not quite, cozy. It was also almost, but not quite, clean, and almost, but not quite, comfortable. Plotnick was the nerve center, cooking and delivering steaming plates of almost, but not quite, food to a handful of customers scattered throughout the deli's booths and tables. He presided over the counter like a king over his court, brandishing the lethal meat fork, his royal scepter.

He waved us over to the corner booth, where three glasses of orange juice and three steaming cups of coffee waited. “Good morning, Mr. Ferguson Peach, who is just only a houseguest and not really living in my building,” he said sarcastically, tossing an envelope in front of Ferguson. “So how come today you got a letter sent right here?”

I looked at the return address and then the postmark. The Peach's mother, anticipating her precious child getting homesick early, had mailed the letter three days before we'd even left Owen Sound. Don looked completely disgusted.

Ferguson was unperturbed. “I told my mother where to reach me,” he explained blandly.

“What are you — a brain surgeon that you should be available twenty-four hours a day? Maybe I should change my restaurant to Olympiad Delicatessen and Message Center, just in case the President of the United States needs to talk to you while you're just only a houseguest who's not really living in my building.”

“The President probably won't call,” said the Peach, turning his attention to his juice.

With a haughty snort, Plotnick took our orders and came back five minutes later with three plates of scrambled eggs. The food may not have set us up for the whole day, but it sure lubricated our chassis. Plotnick's idea of breakfast was grease smothered in grease. Afterward, we settled back to let it all ooze down.

“This place is great,” sighed Don, interrupting Ferguson's cholesterol count. “This is the real world — good old-fashioned food in a down-to‑earth restaurant while you're living on your own, and you're heading out to a day's work for a day's pay.”

I nodded enthusiastically. What's a little grease when you're having the summer of your life?

“We'll probably be regulars here,” Don continued, “and this will be considered ‘our booth,' and no one else will sit here, and —”

“Hey, Mr. Champion,” piped Plotnick from the counter. “Get out of ‘your booth' and come and pay ‘your bill.'”

We paid up. Behind the cash register stood an old mesh playpen, full to the brim with an assortment of hubcaps, each with its own price tag. My eyes met Ferguson's, and we both shrugged at the same time. That was weird. Salami, yes. But hubcaps? Where did they fit in?

No sooner did the thought cross my mind than there was a screech of tires, and Plotnick stiffened like a pointer. We all watched as a dark sedan shot up Bathurst Street at top speed. Right before Pitt, a huge pothole yawned in its path. An enormous clang rocked the neighborhood, and suddenly a shiny, spinning hubcap was airborne. In a single motion, Plotnick reached under the counter, produced a butterfly net, and was out the door. He threw himself heroically in the path of the hurtling cap, and netted it with a delicate flick of the wrist. We joined in the applause.

Flushed with triumph, Plotnick waddled back into the deli, rushed to the griddle to flip a pancake, and stopped to examine his prize. “Very good condition,” he said with satisfaction; he slapped on a sticker that read
$19.95
, and tossed the hubcap into the playpen with the rest.

* * *

Rush hour in the city: We saw more cars than pass through Owen Sound in fifty years. They were all right in front of our streetcar and then, after we transferred, in front of our bus. At a quarter to nine, still sitting amidst the honking of horns and the cursing of drivers, we abandoned the bus and sprinted the remaining twelve blocks to Plastics Unlimited.

The factory was a thing of beauty, and I know this because Ferguson couldn't think of a single thing wrong with it. It was a sprawling chrome complex in an area of light industry, and somehow it looked like success. I was really impressed when Don's uncle's personal file clerk led us on a tour of the manufacturing plant. Plastics Unlimited was gearing up to fill an order for 800,000 of those wands with the rings on the end that little kids dip in soapy water and blow bubbles with.

Finally the tour was over, and we were led into the plush outer office, and through the heavy oak door marked
Harold P. Robb, President.

Don's uncle looked like a taller, older version of Don. But apparently he didn't notice the resemblance, because he leaped out of his padded leather chair, and enfolded Ferguson Peach in a massive bear hug.

“Donny!” he bellowed jovially. “I'd know you anywhere! You look just like your mother!”

“No, no, Uncle Harry!” said Don in consternation. “Over here!
I'm
Don!”

“Right — uh, right.” Without embarrassment, he transferred his hug to the correct nephew. “Yes, I see now. Just like Miriam, my favorite sister.”

“My mother is Anne,” Don reminded his uncle.

“She's great, too,” said Mr. Robb, unfazed. “Too bad she moved to that little dumpy town up north somewhere. Now let me see — what was the name of that place?”

“Owen Sound,” said Don.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

Don was getting impatient. “I moved with her. I'm her son.”

His uncle was thunderstruck. “Miriam lives in Owen Sound, too? Boy, we sure do lose touch. Well now — welcome to Plastics Unlimited. You three are going to be feeders. I want you to know that's a tremendous responsibility.”

I couldn't contain my excitement. “What do we do?”

“You feed a sheet of plastic into the stamping machine, which cuts out twenty-four bubble wands and sends them on the conveyor belt to packaging.”

“And then?” asked Don.

“And then you feed another sheet,” his uncle replied.

“That's it?”

“That's it,” he said cheerfully. “Until coffee break. Then until lunch. Then until five.”

I felt my eyes glazing over. A guy who didn't speak English escorted us to our places in a huge assembly line, issued us safety glasses, wished us what sounded like, “Fuffle leffer thuffs,” and left us to our fate.

About eight thousand bubble wands later, I dared to look up and glance over at Ferguson. He had already run out of plastic sheets and, while awaiting a new supply, was gazing around with rapt interest. Now, that was always a danger sign. When the Peach started thinking about something, chances were he was redesigning, fixing, and improving in his mind.

Don noticed this, too, and at coffee break made his opinion clear. “Look, Peachfuzz, if you stick your nose into everybody's business and get yourself fired, don't expect Jason and me to support you.”

“I haven't said a word,” said Ferguson blandly. “I'm too involved in this fascinating job.”

Don flushed red. “You think you're too good to work on an assembly line? During World War II, what made this country strong? Our production lines, that's what!”

Ferguson nodded sagely. “I guess World War III is going to be fought with bubble wands. What are we going to use for ammo — atomic soap?”

I had to step in. “Cut it out, you guys. There's nothing wrong with our jobs. Everybody has to start at the bottom.”

At that point, the foreman stood up and bellowed, “Flangel dipla noof-spif!” and about sixty people went back to work, so we went, too.

It happened less than an hour before quitting time. I was carrying my bin of plastic cuttings to the recycling station when I noticed that Ferguson had left his machine. I spotted him seated at the production computer, explaining something to two fascinated engineers.

“I'll kill him!” hissed Don behind me.

“You'll have to get in line!” I was feeling pretty homicidal myself. Here we were, first day on the job, dying to make a good impression, and there was Ferguson, goofing off, playing with a computer. We both stood there, signaling at the oblivious Ferguson, until the foreman ordered us back to work. At least, I think he did. I had developed the theory that “noof-spif” meant “work.” What
language
was that?

All the way home, we gave it to Ferguson. As usual, the Peach was totally calm.

“I didn't desert my machine,” he explained, hanging on by two fingers to a leather strap while our packed bus sat in traffic. “The chief engineer was having a temper tantrum, and he yelled that he couldn't understand why no one in the company was familiar with the Magnetronic 500 series computer. So I told him the truth. I know all about it.”

“You were supposed to mind your own business,” growled Don. “Make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Ferguson. “The design software is all de-bugged now. Tomorrow I can go back to the business of making bubble wands, for in a world without bubble wands, I do not wish to live.”

Score another one for the Peach. Don seethed the rest of the way home.

* * *

Bubble wands became as much a part of our world as breathing, eating, sleeping, and calling the police to ask about Joe's car. As the week went by and the numbers mounted up towards that magic tally of 800,000, I started having dreams about traveling through the universe, trapped inside a giant bubble, blown by colossal lips through the great-granddaddy of all bubble wands.

Don, too, was having bubble trouble in his dreams, and woke up each morning with the taste of soap in his mouth.

Each day we spent our commuting time counting up all the bubble sets we'd owned in grade school. We'd been so young we'd thought they'd grown on trees or something, not that some poor sap had to stand there all day, feeding dumb sheets of plastic into a dumb machine.

I suppose I don't have to mention the interest factor, which was approximately zero. In fact, the only thing that kept us from lapsing into a coma on the job was the noise. The stamping machine made a crashing sound that would jar your back teeth loose. One night I caught Ferguson, crouched over Don's sleeping form on the couch, yelling,
“Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!”
into his ear. The Peach dove back into his bed just as Don awoke with a start, scared that he'd fallen asleep at his machine. The Peach was like that sometimes.

Impressions of my first job: When I pick my real career, it's going to be something quiet, like florist, or mortician.

Ferguson had none of these problems. As the week progressed, he spent less and less time making bubble wands. When we arrived at the plant on Tuesday morning, four engineers and two computer programmers were crowded around the Peach's machine, waiting for him. He was whisked off to the production computer for a consultation that lasted until noon.

Back at his machine after lunch, the Peach barely had the chance to make a few hundred bubble wands before two men from the executive offices came and spoke at length with the chief engineer. In no time at all, Ferguson stuck his nose into that, too, and soon he was typing away at the computer, as the execs were laughing, applauding, and patting him on the back.

Don was furious. “You know what's going to happen when they count his production and see how many wands he
didn't
make today? He's putting all our jobs in jeopardy!”

I was looking in perplexity at the production computer. “He certainly seems to be getting along well with all the muckamucks.”

“Sure. He's goofing off, making friends, while we work our butts off. It can only end one way. He's going to get canned.”

I shrugged. “Well, if he does, he'll just have to find another job. He can't expect us to support him all summer.”

Don jammed a sheet savagely into the stamper. “I'm not feeding him. Peachfuzz starves. The world will be better off.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Come on.”

“It'll be a national holiday,” Don insisted, his eyes growing dreamy. “‘No More Peachfuzz Day.' I can see it now — a big parade, with little children carrying peach pits. And after the mayor's speech, they all chant, ‘Nothing needs fixing! It's all okay!' Then they throw their peach pits down the sewer.”

We both laughed. We feeders get a little crazy sometimes. It comes from all the responsibility. It's one of those big stress jobs.