Well kiss my ass, Mr. P. thinks.

Mr. P. can’t say anything to this man. He knows what it is. His wife’s been writing checks at the Fabric Center again. For material. What happened was, the girls needed dresses for the program at church, capes and wings and things. Plus, they had to spend $146.73 on a new clutch and pressure plate for the tractor. Mr. P. had to do all the mechanical stuff, pull the motor and all. Sometimes he couldn’t find the right wrenches and had to hunt around in the dirt for this and that. There was also an unfortunate incident with a throw-out bearing.

Mr. P. closes his eyes and leans against the wall and wants to get back on the couch. Today, he just can’t get enough of that couch.

“Can I borrow from the fund?” says Mr. P. He’s never borrowed from the fund before.

“Borrow? Why. …”

“Would it be all right?” Mr. P. says.

“All right?”

“I mean would everything be fixed up?”

“Fixed up? You mean paid?” says the voice over the phone.

“Yes,” says Mr. P. “Paid.”

“Paid. Why, I suppose. …”

“Don’t suppose,” says Mr. P. He’s not usually this ill with people like Jim Lyle of APABS. But he’s sick of staying up with that cow every night. He’s sick of his wife writing checks at the Fabric Center. He’s sick of a vet who’s scared of animals he’s sworn to heal. He doesn’t want Jim Lyle of APABS to suppose. He wants him to know.

“Well, yes sir, if that’s the way. …”

“All right, then,” Mr. P. says, and he hangs up the phone.

“Goodbye,” he says, after he hangs it up. He goes back to the couch and stretches out quick, lets out this little groan. He puts one forearm over his eyes.