One of the Hummels depicted a small boy with a beagle. Matthew had given it to her when he was eleven out of money he had saved mowing lawns. He remembered that the statue had cost thirty-five bucks. It had been a lot of money at the time, but he wanted her to have it. He wanted her to have something really nice. Jesus, what kind of shit was he pulling here? He didn’t know, he was just playing things by ear. He went back into the kitchen and pulled some candles out of a drawer. He set them on the freezer and lit them in her honor. The morphine was kicking in nicely now. Matthew said, “Look at it like this, babe: you aren’t really dead until I thaw you out and call the doctor. In the meantime, as long as I can forge your signature, I’ve got all the job I need.”

He thrust out his narrow chest and began to strut before the freezer, his movements suddenly fluid and rhythmic. Released from the morass of his neurotic fears, he was suddenly a kinetic art form as he popped his fingers and jived about in the garage. The Panasonic was airing a commercial in which a phalanx of ants was carrying off a bottle of Budweiser: “Do a little dance; make a little love; get down tonight! Get down tonight!”

Matthew was in a “get down” mood. He said, “ ‘Get a job’? Who, me? Baby, you’ talkin’ to the kid! Get a job? Shee-it, man! Anyhow, why in God’s name should we drag this through probate and take it up the ass from the government? Those fascist bastards! Why?”

Yes, why? Matthew retrieved a Diet Coke from the refrigerator in the garage. Back in the Green Room he shook out another four-and-two combo and slugged it down with Coke. Then hopped into the Slumber King and assumed the position. Dateline Monday was coming on and Matthew Billis felt absolutely, positively, right-on-the-money cap-ee-tal.

Tarantula

JOHN HAROLD HAMMERMEISTER arrived at W. E. B. Du Bois High School with grand ambitions. Harold loved to work, thrived on challenge, and could scarcely contain his excitement at the prospect of a new and difficult assignment.