Losing Joe's Place (10 page)

I got so freaked out that my eyes unfocused, and the room was a blur. I just said, “Oh.”

Then there was Don. “What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are we going to do? There's no
payday
between now and Wednesday!”

Even Ferguson was unnerved. “We're in big trouble.”

“It's all your fault, Peachfuzz!” Don accused. “You and your stupid mistake!”

“The real mistake wasn't the hubcap,” said Ferguson tersely. “It was the money.”

“Or you, Jason!” Don exploded. “What's that dumb checkbook for — doodles? Why didn't you warn us we didn't have enough money for the rent?”

“I made a mistake!” I babbled.

“Another mistake! I'm surrounded by mistakes! What are we going to do?”

“We could always ask our parents to front us the money,” suggested Ferguson.

“No way,” I said. “My folks would look at it as an excuse to drag me home.”

“Mine, too,” said Don. “No more stupid ideas, Peachfuzz! You're the big executive! Why aren't you rich?”

“Because I didn't let Plotnick be my manager!” Ferguson snapped.

“Rootbeer!” I exclaimed. “He's our only hope!”

“He has less than we do,” said Don, “even with the toilet brush.”

“He's got the harp,” I argued. “He can hock it.”

We looked over at Rootbeer's corner. There sat his paper bag of underwear, with the knitting needles, stamp albums, Parcheesi game, and his other discarded hobbies. The harp was gone.

“Oh, no!” moaned Don. “Could it have been stolen?”

“Are you crazy?” returned Ferguson. “Only King Kong could steal that harp!”

“He's hocking it!” I exclaimed. “We're saved!”

“Not necessarily,” said the Peach. “What if he got another hobby?”

We fought about it all afternoon, and no matter how we sliced it, it all came up Rootbeer. Not that we were so thrilled about asking the universal dispenser of
bad luck
to hand over his hard-earned cash. The entire summer, which I now knew was not the sunshine and roses that the boy from Owen Sound thought it would be, had come down to $685 we didn't have.

There were problems. One — what if Rootbeer said no? Two — what if Rootbeer got mad? Three — where was Rootbeer? With a flaky guy like him, “See ya later,” could mean a twenty-minute absence or a trip around the world.

Being behind the financial eight ball, we had two dates with Jessica to cancel. Don blew off his afternoon rendezvous with a phony sore throat. Ten minutes later, Ferguson called to weasel out of the evening slot, and confessed the whole thing, to Don's dismay. Jessica offered her life savings, thirty-eight bucks, but manfully, they turned her down. I would have taken it, but she never offered it to me.

“I can't believe you, Peachfuzz!” roared Don. “Why'd you have to make it look like I told her a lie?”

“Because you did.”

“And you should have backed me up. You should have said you caught my sore throat!”

“A sore throat isn't very creative,” Ferguson decided. “People expect more of me. Maybe — pellagra, elephantiasis, scurvy —”

“So next time
you
pick the disease!”

Then — perfect timing — my mother called.

“Hi, dear. How's everything?”

“Great.” Terrible.

“What's new?”

“Nothing.” Bankruptcy. Eviction. Death.

In the background, Ferguson and Don were starting to fight again.

“Jason, what's that noise? It sounds like an argument!”

“Uh — no, Mom. We're watching a war movie on TV.”

“How are Ferguson and Don?”

“Fine,” I said, stepping in between them. “They both send their regards.”

“Hi, Mrs. Cardone,” they called into the receiver, and resumed their bickering.

“So, are you going someplace fun today?”

“Oh, sure.” The street, with all Joe's furniture.

“That's lovely, dear. Your father wants to say hello.”

My dad came on. “Hi, son. Flat broke yet, ha-ha?”

“No way, Dad.” At least, not till Tuesday.

“I ran into Doug Champion at the bowling alley last night, and we talked about how proud we are of you kids. We had our doubts, but you're sure showing us. Keep it up, son. So long.”

“ 'Bye, Dad.”

Grimly we settled in to wait for Rootbeer.

* * *

He came at four in the morning, and was greeted by three very light sleepers. My hopes were dashed almost immediately. He was carrying the Betelgeuse T-5000 Deluxe high Magnification Telescope. It looked expensive. It looked like the August rent.

I was too frazzled for tact. “You have to return it!”

“I could do that,” said Rootbeer thoughtfully, “but they might not like it too much back at the store. It's a little broken.”

“How broken?” asked Don fearfully.

“The telescope's okay,” Rootbeer assured us, “but all the glass fell out.”

“It's defective!” I cried. “They
have
to take it back!”

Rootbeer looked vaguely ashamed. “Well, it kind of happened when I hit that guy.” He then occupied himself with stacking his harp music on top of the stamp albums.

“Now what?” whispered Ferguson desperately.

“He's still our only hope,” I hissed. “None of the rest of us can come up with fast money.”

“Oh, God,” said Ferguson. “You're asking the guy to go out and get clobbered by a two-by-four.”

I shrugged lamely. “Maybe he'll just bite tires or something. Look, I wouldn't ask him if there was any other way! Joe's lease is on the line here!” I cleared my throat very carefully. “Uh — Rootbeer, you wouldn't happen to have any money left, would you?”

“Sure.” He shook the upper-right-hand corner of his poncho, and a shower of coins hit the floor, along with a few elastics and paper clips. He looked down for a quick count. “On second thought, I'm broke. How about that.”

“Oh, wow, Rootbeer,” I moaned. “We've got kind of an emergency. Our rent is due on Wednesday, and we're short more than $400.”

Rootbeer whistled, the longer beard hairs rustling in the breeze. “That's a few bucks. Lucky for us it's carnival season. Just let me grab some Z's.” And he flopped right down on the floor and was asleep at once.

* * *

Summerfest was a giant carnival in the north end of the city. Three bumpkins from Owen Sound were very impressed. There were rides, activity booths, exhibits, and carnival games. Junk food was everywhere. All three of us went along, mostly out of curiosity. What would Rootbeer find to do at a fair like this that would bring us our rent money? Ninety percent of the crowd was under the age of eight.

Ten feet inside the front gate, our savior handed over fifty precious cents at the Test Your Strength booth. He swung the hammer and hit that thing so hard that not only did he ring the bell, he broke the machine for good and always. This won him dirty looks and a kewpie doll worth substantially less than fifty cents.

“Isn't it great?” said Rootbeer, pleased.

“Maybe,” I admitted grudgingly. “But, Rootbeer, we have to pay the rent. Plotnick doesn't accept kewpie dolls on account.”

“On account of he prefers money,” Ferguson finished.

Rootbeer was unconcerned. “Hey, look — Skeeball!”

Rootbeer had a lot of fun that day, and won a lot of prizes, none of which would have counted for two cents at the Olympiad Delicatessen. Also, he was spending money, and making none. We were getting desperate, and kind of tired from carrying an assortment of stuffed toys, pennants, posters, balloons, T-shirts, buttons, and a giant plush water buffalo that was just under actual size. I kept hinting that it must be pretty near time to go for the money. But then Rootbeer would say, “Hey, look —” and we'd have to tour the haunted house, or throw a baseball at some milk bottles, or get on another stomach-turning ride.

On the Enormo-Coaster, Don lost his grip on the stuffed water buffalo. It sailed through the air and landed right in the dolphin pool, where it sank like a rock. The dolphins scattered. I don't blame them. And by the time we got off the ride, the giant toy had soaked up so much water that it had to be lifted out of the pool by crane. We walked by and pretended we'd never seen it before in our lives.

By this time, I'd given up on the idea of paying the rent. But Rootbeer pointed to the Arena, where a sign declared
MEET LIVE WRESTLING STARS
. We followed him, carrying the spoils, minus the water buffalo.

Inside was a madhouse. A three-thousand-seat hockey arena was packed to the rafters, and all attention was focused on a small ring, where six of the most famous faces in wrestling were putting on exhibitions.

When we walked in, Megaman the Towering Dynamo had a sleeper hold on some poor contestant from the audience. He slammed the guy effortlessly to the ground, and pinned his shoulders. The referee counted three, and the audience went wild.

“That was Ralph from Mississauga. Better luck next time,”
said the ring announcer, his voice echoing throughout the building.
“Who'll be our next contestant? For five dollars, you can fight one of our wrestling superstars. If you stay in the ring for sixty seconds, we'll give you one hundred dollars cash!”

Oh, my God! My heart skipped a beat. Surely this wasn't how Rootbeer planned to make money! A two-by-four was a two-by-four, but these were live professional killers!

“Come on
,” coaxed the announcer.
“Who will come forward and face Mako Wako the Shark Man?”

“Hey,” said Don suddenly. “Where's Rootbeer?”

Ferguson saw him first, and pointed. “There — getting into the ring.”

The three of us ran screaming towards ringside, kewpie dolls flying in all directions.

“And our next contestant is Rootbeer from Toronto, facing Mako Wako the Shark Man. Good luck, Rootbeer.”
The crowd booed lustily.

“No-o-o-o-o!” howled Don.

I stared in horror. Rootbeer was bigger than Mako, but not by much, and the professional's muscles looked harder than iron. On his fierce head he wore the upper jaw of a shark, and his body, which would have made Joe Cardone look like a ninety-eight-pound weakling, was covered in shark fins.

“We can't let him do this for
us
!” I quavered. “This monster makes his living fighting guys!”

The Peach was looking critically up at the ring. “Maybe Rootbeer can take him.”

The bell rang and Mako, three hundred pounds of fierce fighting machine, dealt Rootbeer a mighty smash to the chest. Rootbeer was unmoved, but the Hope Diamond tumbled from the poncho, rolled across the ring, dropped off the apron, and shattered on the floor.

Rootbeer looked annoyed. “Hey! Lay off my stuff!”

Mako readied another smash, but Rootbeer grabbed him by the fins and lifted him a foot off the floor. Enraged, Mako rained a volley of blows on Rootbeer's face.

I wanted to die. Right before my eyes, our loyal friend was getting his face punched in because I had forgotten about rent day. All around me, the crowd was cheering encouragement, except for Don, who was hiding his eyes and moaning. The Peach looked on with eager interest.

Suddenly Rootbeer reared back his shaggy head, and brought it forward with the force of a battering ram. Any castle gate would have opened instantly. I'm amazed the Shark Man's head didn't. The conk made
three
echoes. It was like Don's Moontrix coco-bump, times a hundred million.

Mako Wako the Shark Man went limp in Rootbeer's arms. Our hero carried the vanquished wrestler over to his seconds, and set him down quietly outside the ring. Rootbeer was presented with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, which he crumpled up and jammed under the poncho. The three of us cheered ourselves hoarse, but otherwise the crowd was silent.

“Guess what everybody? Rootbeer from Toronto is going to try again.”
An uneasy murmur passed through the crowd.
“Bring on Brother Barnabas the Holy Terror.
”

Brother Barnabas didn't do much better. At the sound of the bell, Rootbeer hurled him bodily out of the ring. Dazed and disoriented, the Holy Terror spent the rest of the sixty seconds trying to climb back in again. And another hundred dollars went under the poncho.

That brought up Captain Concussion the Human Bomb. If the two wrestlers before him had taken Rootbeer a little lightly, the Captain would not make the same mistake. He was ready to give this amateur a taste of real, all-out competition. At the bell, he threw a running body slam at the upstart challenger. I already knew that the Captain was history. This stuff was Rootbeer's specialty. What could a human bomb do that a two-by-four couldn't? Captain Concussion bounced off like a Ping-Pong ball, and hit the canvas flat on his back. Before he could regroup, Rootbeer sat on him, and the poor man was forced to endure what must have been the longest sixty seconds of his career. He floundered like a fish out of water, but was unable to get up.

By this time, the three thousand fans were heading for the exits, and the Arena rang with boos and catcalls. I guess people didn't like to see their TV heroes mashed to a pulp. I was insulted on Rootbeer's behalf. Didn't these fans realize they were watching the greatest natural fighter in the world?

But the show must go on, and that was bad news for Billy Baxter the Bull Moose, Megaman the Towering Dynamo, and Plow Horse the Farm Executioner. Rootbeer was just hitting his stride, and one by one, down they went. He didn't have to go sixty seconds with any of them, because not one lasted ten seconds with him. Plow Horse, the last, wound up in the seventh row of seats, which was empty by that time.

“Come back, folks!”
the announcer was pleading.
“There's lots of action still to come! Honest! Let's have some more challengers! And let's have a big hand for Rootbeer, who is LEAVING RIGHT NOW! Come on, people! The action's just begun! Step right up … aw, nuts!”