Big Dave

(continued)

By Barry C. Davis

For some reason, the man liked me. Maybe cause he always had the game, any game, on the radio, and I would lean up against his worn wooden counter, give him my brightest Brother smile, and talk to him about the game. Fact is, I didn't like sports, had no interest whatsoever, but I found that Mister Kearney liked sports, liked them a lot, so that the more I flapped my gums about them, the more he forgot to charge me for that soda I was drinking while he told me about the dude from way back when who could slam-dunk Wilt with his left hand.

By the time I got there, the radio was playing rock 'n' roll, WFIL having completed its post-game show and reverted back to its usual white rock format. Mister Kearney, never an energetic man, had not yet willed his body to rotate itself in the stool to shut off the radio immediately behind him. Some white guy was singing "Let It Be." I might be wrong, but it didn't seem like something I would find on Mister Kearney's hi-fi at home.

Immediately, I saw that Mister Kearney was depressed. A Sixers loss always did that to him. It sure made my job harder.

I strolled over to the counter, did my usual lean, and gave him my usual smile. He barely turned his massive head to greet me. Man, this was gonna be tough. I needed to get loose. I unzipped my jacket and prepared to jump into action.

I stopped leaning, and I got my arms moving. I described the DeBussere last second shot in every detail, from the look on Carter's face as Walt flew by him, down to the color of Head Coach Gene Shue's tacky leisure suit.

Mister Kearney started to perk up.

I started describing the game in reverse, giving Mister Kearney only the Sixers highlights. Pretty soon, Kearney had shut the radio off so he could hear me better, and was sitting straight on his stool, a big grin on his face. By the time I was done, he probably thought the Sixers had won the darn game.

The room was full of grins and good feelings; no better time to put it to him. I explained about Bobby Jackson's misunderstanding with the Cokes and how regretful he was. Mister Kearney's smile, like the light from a dying bulb, fluttered for a moment, then disappeared completely.

"That Bobby Jackson's a thief," Mister Kearney said. My eyes chose this moment to settle on the unpaid-for Pepsi sitting on the corner of the counter, consumed, I think, at the halftime of my highlights.

"He's awfully sorry," I offered.

"If he's so sorry, tell him he owes me ninety cents for the sodas."

"If he pays up, you'll let him back in your store?"

Mister Kearney thought a bit, then nodded his burly head.

Now, money and the Jackson clan were not frequent companions. By the time Bobby Jackson coughed up ninety cents for already-consumed sodas, I'd be driving around in a real car, no longer concerned about Hot Wheels. Against my will, my hand reached into my pocket and handed my ten-dollar bill to Mister Kearney.

"Bobby says for you to take it out of this."

Kearney took the ten, quick as a mongoose. Fact is, I didn't think the old fella could move so fast. He looked over at my empty bottle.

"I guess he wouldn't mind paying for your soda, too?"

I silently nodded my head, a beaten man. I was busted, dusted and disgusted as he counted back eight singles and sixty-five cents into my palm.

After giving Bobby the good news and watching him as he dialed Chandrell's number, listening with my ear to the receiver as he and the witch spoke, I headed back to my thinking place. Time to regroup.

I retrieved the catalog and considered my options. Below the picture of the Hot Wheels Circus Set, with its smiling white boys, was the Mini Hot Wheels Super Set. There was no loopty-loop and no smiling white faces, but it would suffice. It was eight dollars and ninety cents, in my price range if I could scare up the extra quarter.
Where would I get that quarter? Big Momma would chop my hand off if I touched any of Joel's money. And that little sucker would surely tell her if I did. Carol and Simon, I knew, were both tapped out by now. As my mind traveled up and down our block, it settled on one name. Miss Fasick.

She had hired me in the past for odd jobs: cutting grass, shoveling snow, getting groceries. The grass was long dead, and there were no clouds in sight, but I hoped that maybe her cupboard was bare and that she could use a little help.

I rang her doorbell and, in what seemed like an hour later, her door opened. She stood in the doorway, and my eyes instantly bugged out. She was an old white woman, abandoned in the hood by her not-so-loving family long ago. I mean, she had to be close to a hundred years old. She had on this shear thing that really didn't hide nothing. Not that I had never seen a woman naked before — Charlie's father's stash of Playboys and Players had taken care of that — but what Miss Fasick was showing me, I was sure, was capable of causing blindness.

She smiled warmly, totally unaware of her nakedness, and invited me into her house. She led me into her kitchen. I was forced to follow her and, watching from behind, saw her buttocks move like two shriveled grapefruit.

"I'm glad you came over, Brother," she said. "I could use a few items from the store."
I kept my eyes on her face, too afraid to look anywhere else.

She made out her list, only ten items, handed me five dollars and told me to hurry back. I hoped that when I returned, she would have clothes on.

She didn't. She opened her front door, and I was confronted with the same pair of hairy, shriveled breasts hanging nearly to her knees. As we once again walked into the kitchen, this time I kept my eyes on the patch of black hair that graced one of her shoulders.

She slowly examined the groceries and then counted out the change I had handed her. She placed all the change back into her small red pocketbook. Then, like she was awarding me an Oscar or something, she handed me fifty cents.

"This, Brother, is for you," she said. She always said the same thing, like there was someone else in the room with us, someone else she could pay for my work. I thanked her, maintaining strict eye contact, and then practically sprinted out of there, declining her offer of milk and cookies. Maybe when you're dressed, I felt like saying.

My money was back up to nine fifteen. I was ready to go back to Sears.

The next day, early, before the witch woke up, Joel and I were at Dave's house. Dave, with a big grin on his face, stepped outside, ready to go. He asked where we were going. With a smile on my face, I patiently explained that we were going to walk up to Sears. I thought I had told him this yesterday, but maybe I didn't.

Dave twisted his face up. "Walk?" he asked, like he had never heard of the concept.
In order to demonstrate and to get the show on the road, I grabbed Joel's hand and walked a few steps in the direction we needed to go.

He gave me the same twisted look. Worse yet, his size thirteen double wides remained planted at the same spot.

"Big Dave don't walk," he said.

"What do you mean, you don't walk? Everybody walks. Why, you had to walk out of your house in order to tell me that you don't walk."

He thought about this for a moment. I could smell the wood burning. His twisted look became an angry look. "Big Dave don't walk all the way to Sears."

I looked in his angry face. Then, for some reason, I looked back at his house. A face — a grinning, ugly face — sat in one of the upstairs windows. The witch. I knew she was behind this.