Dirty Lip, Lumpy, and the Zube

By Rick Noel

Richard Nolan has returned to his hometown on the day after a vicious storm ravaged the area and left in its wake the devastated remains of an old barn; a relic, with a compelling history, of Richard's past.
At the site of the destruction, in a series of haunting memories, Richie recalls the barn and the horrifying events that occurred within it, which shook him to the depth of his being, and brought him face to face with evil.
It was Halloween weekend 1958--a time of calm in America, a time of innocence. It would be a long weekend for Richard and his friends, Danny and Lumpy, with days that carried the promise of a glorious Indian summer holiday. And, to amplify the excitement, the carnival was in town.
What an amazing time it should have been: A time of friends, of excitement, of fun - but not one of dark terror.
From the beginning, led by youthful shenanigans and the contemplation of all things exciting and interesting, the boys expected nothing more than a fun time of running wildly through the backyards of Farmington pursuing adventure.
They expected nothing from the days except the opportunity to play and deepen their friendships. They expected nothing from the nights but the sweet promise of Halloween-with its offering of treats or tricks, a magnificent Fall festival, and a carnival at the town park.
Then fate stepped in with a vengeance.
During the course of that weekend, while the boys rambled through one situation after another; with bullies, with unprecedented events, with oddities, with unique characters, and with local traditions (including the sweet mystery of the ghost of the barn where they played), they were inexorably drawn toward a confrontation with a malevolent carnival worker.
The boys, by a series of odd circumstances, witness a horrible event between the carnival worker and his wife. What began, during an argument, as a strangely unfortunate accident, escalated into a crime when in an angry panic the man decided to cover the episode up, and in the process came into confrontation with one of the boys. The man was compelled by the situation to subdue the boy and make him part of the terrible plan.
The chain of events which follows lead the other two boys along a chilling race through the night as they pursue the man while trying to find a way to somehow help their friend. The man is hauling his unfortunate victims in a small trailer that the boys had been able to secretly hop aboard. They hide there until the man finds a secluded area at the edge of town. The boys do not know their friend's condition, but they are driven by the hope that they will be able to do something to help him.
While most residents of the small community are either languishing in their cozy homes or taking part in the huge festival at the town square, the man gathers his victims from the trailer and makes his way across a meadow to the huge dairy barn. The barn the boys know as "Glory" and which is their most cherished playground.
The boys stalk the man while he makes his way into the barn and disappears into the shadows. And, it is in the barn that, while Richie's friend runs for help, that Richie finds his way to a situation of ungodly horror that is unfolding in the darkness of the hay loft.
The final confrontation with the evil man during that dark autumn evening has lived in Richie's nightmares and memories ever since. It was an event of agonizing horror, and of unspeakable acts, but also an event, which may have ended with a miracle.
It was that miracle which had the most profound impact of all on the young Richard Nolan. It was a miracle that saved his life and blessed him with a future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Noel
• Release date: Oct 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311717887

Rick Noel

Working many years in the communications and advertising departments of several corporations as an art director and illustrator aroused in me an avid interest in the relationship between words and images. So, I began to explore the craft of writing fiction. I live in Davenport, Iowa with my wife, Bonnie and am devoting my time to the creative arts.

Book preview

Prologue

The storm swept viciously and immediately through the little community. And, although the broadcast media had spread advance news of the storm’s arrival, no one was quite prepared for the alarming intensity of its strike.

The sudden savageness of its tempestuous assault sent the citizens of the small town scurrying frantically for the nearest available shelters. Mothers gathered their small children and herded them ahead as they hustled into the safe havens of their basements. Fathers and older sons raced to roll up car windows and to secure things outside before moving on to safety, listening tensely while worried loved ones yapped angrily at them to hurry along. People left the streets and yards in droves, seeking the sanctuary of warm, dry, and hopefully safe shelter. The last of the people were just settling into secure places when the beast struck.

The storm’s attack was angry and it was treacherous, and in the face of that violence it was miraculous that no lives were lost.

The actual front of the storm raced across Fulton County in just twenty-seven minutes, arriving at the northwestern edge of Farmington at seven minutes before six in the evening. Fifteen and a half minutes later, the tempest had passed completely through the small community. In that wild few minutes, it unloaded a massive barrage of high-velocity, marble-sized hail and two and a quarter inches of howling rain.

It became a matter of much conjecture afterward as to whether a storm-borne tornado had actually touched down or not. The debate wasn’t all that important though. What was important was that, tornado or not, the storm had kicked the living hell out of the town leaving it aching, frightened and in a weary shambles.

The brunt of the storm had moved along the northern edge of town and had expended most of its force in that area. Ironically, most of the fury had been directed toward things of nature, not things of man. Trees of all sizes were uprooted along the path of the storm’s mightiest uproar while flowers, shrubs and the last remnants of summer gardens were torn apart and scattered every which way by the screaming winds.

There were three houses in a row along Pearl Street that gave up a fair amount of their shingles, and Bill Moran, though he would search for quite sometime, would never find his brand new forty-gallon, rust-resistant galvanized garbage can. He did find the lid to it quite by accident nearly a week later and about a mile away, as he was returning home from his sister’s place up on Elmwood road.

A good-sized tree crashed onto the roof of Liz Bracken’s house and entered her kitchen in a most unorthodox manner. It didn’t make much of a difference to Liz, though, for she had passed away in the summer a year before and her house had been empty since then.

Liz had no living relatives, so her small property went by default to the city. The city fathers had been trying in committee for over eight months to figure out just exactly what to do with the place. The storm did settle that issue. Down the old house would come, and the freshly groomed, in-town lot, would be offered for sale to the highest bidder.

When all things had passed and the damage had been surveyed and assessed, the people of the small community agreed that the storm hadn’t been all that bad. That Midwestern optimism, which is carried in the hearts of all the people who live there, rallied forth and the tasks of clean up and rebuilding began.

The Canton Daily Ledger carried the news of the storm in the next evening’s paper. The Ledger’s account defined the storm’s violence and went on to report the unique weather statistics that had accompanied it. It even carried a photograph of the only really serious casualty of the storm.

‘Glory’ had gone down.

‘Glory’ gave up her existence that awful day to the violence of the attack. She lost her battle with the years and with the elements.

‘Glory’ was no more.

* * *

‘Glory’ had been brought into being ninety some years earlier by a man named Harrison Walters.

Harrison Walters was the only son of a rather well to do family who had created their fortune in the business of lumber. Amos Walters, Harrison’s father, had built a small sawmill near the Mississippi riverside city of Muscatine, Iowa and had worked the mill into a rather modest, though profitable, enterprise. After enjoying several years of continued success with the small sawmill, Amos had decided it was time to settle down and find someone with whom to share his good fortune and his life.

Ella Ranier, who happened to be the quite beautiful daughter of the Deacon of the Saint Mathius Church there in town, seemed quite by happenstance to keep drifting in and out of Amos Walter’s life. And so, what started as a sideways glance at Amos as he managed to stumble into her in one of the aisles of the church, culminated fourteen months later with his proposal of marriage to her. Ella felt as if she had been swept away by this most wondrous and charming man and agreed at once to his proposal.

Amos was inspired by the wonder of his good fortune and so, with effort dedicated to the life before him, and with great love for his new wife, carried both her and his small business to heights he had never before dreamt possible. By the time he was forty-two years old he was considered a wealthy man. Wealthy in the heart, and in the wallet.

Amos and Ella enjoyed the bounty of their love and hard work as the years passed. And, at a gentle place along the passage of those years their son, Harrison, was born.

Harrison Elijah Walters (Harrison because Amos liked the strength of the name, and Elijah after Ella’s father) was the apple of his parent’s eyes and led a life of simple grandeur from the time he first entered their world until he left home twenty-four years later.

Harrison was a bright and good son and was raised to be an independent and free thinker. As such, it became his plan to seek his own fortune and to pursue a life of his own making, independent of his father’s wealth or influence. Harrison respected and honored his father, but it was just important that he achieve a life for himself and be his own man.

It was toward that end that he moved with his few possessions and a great deal of desire to succeed to the small community of Farmington, Illinois. Harrison had heard from a friend, who had heard from another friend, that several sensible, nice-sized parcels of land, suitable for farming, had become available near that community.

Farmington sat on the northwestern corner of Fulton County and was roughly ninety miles cross-country from Muscatine. This was perfect, not too close and not too far. This would be the place where he would build his farm and till a life for himself from the rich soil of the grasslands near the small community’s edge.

Using a portion of the money his parents had saved for him over the years and had endowed upon him at adulthood, Harrison purchased a reasonable parcel of ninety-four acres at the northern edge of town. There, he felt as if he were actually a part of the small community, for a large section of the frontage of his land bordered the horse path that ran the line along the community’s northern limits. In future years that path would become Pearl Street.

In a span of five years, Harrison Walters had built a fully operational and fairly profitable farm. He successfully nourished the opportunities the land afforded, and achieved far more than he ever thought possible. He did realize his vision and dream of becoming the master of his own life.

Then came the time, as it had years before with his father, when Harrison felt he needed to move into a life of deeper fulfillment and a life filled with the love of a good woman. It was toward this end that Harrison expended a great amount of energy over the next few years.

Finally at the age of thirty-two, Harrison discovered the woman who he hoped would one day become his wife.

He first saw her during one of his many trips to the modest business district at the center of the small town. He’d gone there to gather some necessities from the farm supply general store, which sat, at that time, right next to the original post office. The young woman had accompanied her family into the store that day and was happily browsing amongst the dry goods. Harrison’s eyes found her instantly and followed her during her journey through the store. He was transfixed by her beauty and knew from that moment on, that it would be her, and no other, with whom he would share his life.

Inquiries around town netted Harrison a formal introduction to the young woman, which created an opportunity that led him on to a vigorous pursuit of the woman’s hand in marriage.

His quest lasted eighteen months, but as in all things of nature, the beauty at last committed her love to him and accepted his proposal. The truth was, the young lady truly loved the man and would have married him sooner but for her mother who reminded her endlessly that a proper lady must be courted and must wait a civilized time before accepting an offer of marriage from a young man.

So, deferring to her mother’s wishes, the woman waited. And as she waited, so did Harrison as he was tortured by the sweet, yet painful anticipation of the young woman agreeing to become his wife. It was a wait in which the tormented Harrison spent amazing amounts of nervous energy making improvements around his place that he felt might attract her into an earlier commitment.

It was during the course of these improvements that the germ of an idea slipped silently into the back of Harrison’s mind. It grew there like a seed nourished by the sun and rain. It lingered there day in and day out and finally surfaced, folding out into existence like a fresh, new flower blossom.

He would build a barn. He would build it in her honor, and indeed would dedicate it to her as a token of his deep affection for her. It would become a visible symbol of his love and would stand forever as a tribute to their life together.

It wouldn’t be just an ordinary barn. It would be the biggest barn in Fulton County. Maybe even the largest in the state.

Harrison Walters became obsessed with the task of creating the showpiece and, suiting his ideas into action, began the project with the kind of enthusiasm that can only be inspired by the fires of true love.

It would be a massive display, that barn. And although carefully planned and designed by Harrison himself, he felt the best craftsmen available must build it. He recognized that his own skills in the craft of carpentry were limited to addressing minor repairs and basic tasks, which seemed to abound around his farm. There was no question in his mind that he would have to enlist qualified help.

Fully understanding the importance of quality and workmanship in the creation of the barn, Harrison sought the help and skill of four local carpenters (the very best Farmington had to offer) to take up the challenge.

During the planning stage and before construction began on the project, Harrison felt compelled to return to Muscatine and announce to his family his plans for marriage. Quite some time had passed since he had been back, and his news was received with a wild handshake from his broadly grinning father and a gentle hug accompanied by quiet tears from his mother. All in all, the reunion was a grand one and one which left Harrison’s parents reeling with pride when he described both his new love and the tribute he proposed erecting in her honor.

Amos Walters was so enchanted with the idea of the huge barn that he would hear of nothing less from his son than being allowed to provide all of the lumber required to build the structure, free of charge. This offer was generous beyond Harrison’s imaginings and he repeatedly assured his father that that was not the reason he had returned home. Amos told his son he understood that perfectly well, and persisted in announcing how delighted he would be to be a part of the project in that small way. Ultimately that day, Harrison and his father came to the understanding that if a son were born along the way it would be named in honor of Harrison’s father. That alone, Amos had said, would be payment enough for the lumber.

Franklin Togles was hired to be lead carpenter over the group of the four craftsmen and it was under his watchful eye and his meticulous attention to detail and demand for perfection that the barn rose slowly into being. The barn would be something that each of the four would describe for years afterward, when the times would allow opportunities for them to boast about their best work.

The men worked through five seasons. Laboring long hours and working with care, they placed the thousands of board feet of lumber required to complete the project into the correct positions. They pounded pegs and nails until backs ached and hands cramped. Calluses deepened.

They hung from harnesses while putting upper struts into position and again later as they hammered shake shingles tightly into place. Two large silos were constructed on huge concrete slabs created specially for the purpose. The limestone blocks of the silo walls came from a distant quarry in central Minnesota and were not only mortared into place but were held there as well by strong steel bands.

At a point early on in the design of the structure, Harrison decided the barn would serve dual purposes. First, it would serve as a storehouse for all of the grains and grasses required to feed and care for his livestock, and second, it would house a milking facility for the dairy cows he planned to purchase.

Harrison loved the land and the way it worked for him. He loved watching the growth and development of his livestock. He was sure he would love adding a dairy facility to his farm and had even been contacted by local merchants who proposed that if he did go into that business they would be very interested in purchasing the product created by his efforts.

All things went well during those seasons of building, and at the end of sixteen months, Harrison Walters barn received its final coat of bright red paint. The project was finished just one month before Harrison’s upcoming marriage.

Although he had been extremely busy with his farm during construction, Harrison still managed to find the time to court his beautiful, Isabel.

Isabel Cone was the youngest of the four daughters of Samuel and Ida Cone. At first, she had been shocked at the aggressiveness of Harrison’s pursuit, but after a while she came to understand the depths of his feelings for her and in fact, returned them. A love between the two grew steadily as time went on and when finally she agreed to become his wife hearts soared mightily with the joy of it.

The wedding came and went and the joy surrounding the occasion would bring bright memories to all concerned for years to come. Their honeymoon and wedding trip to Muscatine was a festive time as well and one in which the two of them participated most avidly. It was a time of making sweet memories.

A few weeks later, Harrison and Isabel returned to the farm to conduct the business of their livelihood. Isabel took to the tasks there with the sweet intensity of one who is in love with life and Harrison, carrying similar emotions, worked the farm most diligently.

On the day they returned, Harrison brought his bride out to see the new barn. Standing there in front of the behemoth, he told her of its existence being in tribute to his love for her, he told her of his plans for their life together, he told her of his deep and undying commitment to her, and he told her of his dreams for the two of them.

Isabel stood staring at the huge building. A gentle smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as she turned to her husband. Looking sweetly up into his eyes she uttered, Glory...be. The emotion of the moment prevented her from saying more as she moved into his arms.

Well then, so it is, responded Harrison as he held her close and laughed gently. And so she shall be named. We will call her ‘Glory’.

And so it came to be that a small plaque would be carved with the single word ‘Glory’ upon it and it would be placed above the double door entrance to the barn for all to see. And the barn would stand through six generations of the Walters family, four wars, a fantastic array of historical events, and the return of Haley’s comet before collapsing under the intensity of the violent storm that swept through the small community that day.

So total was its collapse, that no hope of restoration was possible. ‘Glory’ had gone the way all things must ultimately go.

* * *

Richard Nolan stared at the massive heap of splintered wood. His heart ached as he surveyed the destruction of an old friend. He stood there, silently remembering.

Chapter One

Err-ichee! burst into his dream with a loud, abrasive sound, like fingernails skittering across a chalkboard. The fascinating situation in front of the boy’s dreaming eyes slowly began to dissolve as the sound swirled about busily sweeping the pleasant images away. His subconscious rebelled at the invasion and tried desperately to cling to the illusions it had created, but to no avail. The boy was awakening and now nothing could stop the process. With a disgruntled huff, his subconscious slipped back into hiding until the next time it would be invited to come forth and create exciting dreams for the boy. His mind switched from peaceful to aggravated while he came slowly awake.

Riichiiee! came the sound again, only this time filled with elements that made it recognizable. It’s time to get up.

I don’t have to get up, Meryl, the boy groaned rolling onto his back and stretching his muscles. There ain’t no school today, it’s teacher’s meetings. He paused, waiting to see if his reasoning would hold water with his older sister. His eyes slowly opened and squinted around the room while he waited.

Richie! came the reply. Get up! I know there’s no school. I have these days off, too y’know. But Mom told me to get you up at eight o’clock on the dot so you could go uptown and get a haircut.

Lemee sleep, Sis, he moaned. I don’t need a haircut. All I need is a little more sleep.

Riichiiee! I said get up, she yelled. Get up or I’ll have to get you up. The voice had moved closer.

As if of its own accord, the boy’s bedroom door slowly swung open. His sister’s face appeared. A broad grin touched with mischief was spreading slowly across her pretty features as she added, And you know how much I enjoy getting you up. She placed a special emphasis on the last few words as her eyebrows danced menacingly.

Oh Sis, don’t, groaned the boy, playing her game. Please don’t.

Too late now, Buckaroo, she cried, flinging the door open and darting across the room. Your little pink butt is outa that bed right now. With that, she swooped onto the bed and gathered the bedspread; complete with her brother wrapped inside, into a huge, laughing ball.

Meryyll! screamed the laughing boy twisting and turning and wrestling under the fabric, Don’t.

Gotcha now, turdball, she chided wrestling the bundle off the bed and onto the floor. You’re gonna get a haircut whether you want one or not. And that’s all there is to it.

I can’t breathe! screamed the boy sounding panicked. Lemme up, I can’t breathe.

Righto, said the girl to the squirming package she held. Too bad, but it looks like I’m going to have to hold you here until you suffocate. Then we can give your dead body a haircut without all this argument.

All at once the mass went limp, as if the life had suddenly gone out of it. It lay as motionless as road kill for a few seconds before it finally spoke. Oh, all right. Then came a short pause for effect. I’ll get a stupid haircut. But can I at least have some breakfast first?

That’s the spirit, Meryl Nolan said, brushing her light blond hair back out of her eyes and rising from the twisted pile of fabric containing her brother. Get your P.J.’s off and get dressed. I’ll fix you something to eat while you’re getting ready. See ya in a few minutes. She turned and zipped out of the room. I oughta get you up like that everyday, she called back, disappearing around the corner and down the stairs, her laughing voice dwindling as she went. It’d do you lots of good."

Slowly, looking like a groundhog coming from its den to see if spring had sprung, Richie Nolan crawled from under the bundle of bedclothes, which covered him. Head first he came, then body, as he extricated himself from the tangle of fabric and then stood.

Adding the word shit seemed to make the event more palatable to him.

Wadding the covers up and over his arm, Richie turned and tossed them back onto his bed while he stretched the last kinks of a good night’s sleep from his limbs. He took a deep breath and then turned and headed for the bathroom to eliminate a night’s collection of various fluids and wastes. He could hear his sister busy below knocking around in the kitchen.

Poking his head out the door, he called, How long before we eat?

What? drifted up the reply from downstairs.

He walked across to the landing banister, bent over it at the waist and called again, I said, when do we eat? I could eat the ass out of a skunk, I’m so hungry.

What we havin? called Richie. What’reyamakin?

Skunk ass, was the answer. One of your favorites.

Richie turned with a groan and while tugging at his pajamas, which had somehow managed to creep up into the crack between his buttocks, headed down the hall. You’re a turdball, too, he uttered moving into the bathroom and pushing the door shut behind him.

You are a turdball...too, He reiterated as if to amplify its value as an observation. A soft hiss of relief slipped from his throat just before the noisy trickle sounded from below and in front of him.

* * *

Did Dad or Mom leave me some money? Richie asked blundering into the kitchen about ten minutes later. Hopping on one foot, he was struggling valiantly with one hooked finger to pull the back of his sneaker over his heel. Somehow, with a magnificent display of acrobatic gyrations, he pulled, spun, and twisted his way across the room and ended up seated squarely in his chair at the table with his shoe solidly on his foot.

Meryl stood by and quietly watched as her brother went through the bizarre display. Once he was settled into place, she said, Y’know dummy, if you’d untie your shoelaces once in a while and put your shoes on right, you wouldn’t have to go to all that trouble.

What trouble? he responded with a grin grabbing the top slice off a pile of toast, which sat warmly on a small plate in front of him. He then busily began buttering it.

His sister turned back to the stove with a click of her tongue that had a note of why-bother-it’s-a-lost-cause-anyhow to it. I made scrambled eggs, she said a few seconds later. And they turned out perfect, she added proudly. You better eat them before they get cold.

They don’t look very good, Richie stated. He watched his sister bring the skillet from the stove and divide the eggs between them.

It was an old ritual, Richie forever and always trying to get his older sister’s goat. This would be one of the times the trick wouldn’t work for his sister chose to ignore the comment. Smiling sweetly at her brother, Meryl sat down and began busily eating her breakfast.

Well, did they? he asked again.

Did who? What? the girl asked calmly over a mouthful of toast as if she hadn’t the slightest idea of what her brother was talking about.

Meryl, you know what I mean. Did they leave me any money for my haircut?

Well, Mom did leave some money for you.

How much?

Well, it might have been a dollar and a half or it mighta been two and a half. Something is keeping me from remembering exactly how much.

Whattayamean? Richie asked staring inquisitively across the table at his sister.

I don’t know. It’s kind of weird, she said looking blankly off into space. It is so strange. Somehow, my memory seems to fade when turdballs criticize my cooking. When that happens, I just can’t think straight.

Richie, clearly understanding that a haircut was a dollar and a half, recognized that he had just been had. He knew now that his parents had left him enough for a haircut plus a little extra just for spending. He also knew that his mom and dad wouldn’t mind if his sister chose not to give him the extra money. Those decisions were left entirely up to her, and usually were contingent on her brother’s sensible acquiescence to her wishes. In many ways, Meryl was responsible for him while their parents were working or otherwise unavailable. Meryl, at sixteen, was, since she had four years of age on him, his keeper and sitter. Richie knew what he must do if he were to have any hope of seeing that extra dollar. He would eat some crow for dessert.

Y’know what, Sis, Richie stated looking her squarely in the eyes. I was only kiddin before. These are the best eggs I ever ate. I mean, I have eaten lots of eggs in my time, and no kiddin, these are the very best. The toast is excellent, too.

Two fifty, she said looking at her brother and winking. Mom left you two fifty.

Great! the boy said chugging down the last of his milk. That’s just great!

You can have it as soon as you finish the dishes, Meryl said nodding toward the kitchen sink. And then you gotta dust and vacuum, too.

Meryl, he whined. Don’t make me do all that stuff. C’mon. I really need to go up and get my haircut.

Oh Richie, I’m just kidding, she laughed. She tossed the tiny bundle of cash to him. Here’s your money. Hit the road now and get that haircut out of the way. I don’t care what you do after that, as long as you’re home in time for lunch.

Thanks, Sis. Richie pushed himself away from the table and stood. He spent a moment helping his sister clear the table before he zipped across the kitchen and opened the door to a pantry that stood adjacent to the refrigerator.

Whatcha doing? asked Meryl.

Gettin my sweatshirt outa here. It looks sort of chilly out.

It shouldn’t be, she offered. We’re having an Indian Summer this year.

What’s that? Richie pulled the sweatshirt over his head revealing a six-inch tall, smeared, black letter ‘Z’ over the right side of his chest.

Bemused by the sight of the huge sloppy letter that seemed to ruin his perfectly good sweatshirt she said, Oh, you know. It’s like when it’s warm way late into the fall. It’s like we get an extra long summer to enjoy.

Oh, he said, sounding as if he could care less. I get it.

What did you do to your shirt? Meryl asked touching the letter as if it were a dead animal of some kind. What is that?

It’s my initial, he said proudly. I guess I’m going to go get my haircut now. He opened the kitchen door and started outside. I’ll be back after while.

Following her brother to the door and looking exasperated, Meryl called after him, That’s not your initial, Richie. I know better’n that. What’s it really mean? What does the ‘Z’ stand for?

Zubiac, he called back. Leaving their back door, he headed down the driveway, which led to the street, which led to the business district, which hosted the barbershop. But you can call me ‘The Zube’.

With an irritated click of the tongue, Meryl Nolan turned back to the kitchen. She had a bit of work to do before her day could really begin. Zubiac, my butt, she muttered softly to herself.

Chapter Two

Richie whistled while he hurried along the brick sidewalk that took him toward the business district. Most of Farmington’s sidewalks were made of brick that had been put in place years earlier as a part of a civic project funded by the WPA Program.

Richie remembered his parents talking about all the good things this WPA had done for little towns like Farmington; yet, he never understood why in the hell they had used brick. Brick was crap to roller skate on and if this WPA bunch had considered the kids at all, they would have made the sidewalks out of nice smooth concrete. Too bad they didn’t think of that, thought Richie as he went along. Too bad everyone wasn’t as smart as he was.

Normally, Richie would follow Northwest Street to Fort Street; turn left, and then head east toward the business district just a few blocks away. Today, though, he was going to change his route. Today, he would turn left on Fulton instead so he could swing past the town park. It was a bit out of the way for him but it was worth it, for today was the day that the ‘carnies’ came in and erected the carnival which went along as part of the town’s Fall Festival.

‘Carnies’ sounded bad somehow to Richie but it was the name his mother had given them at the same time she admonished him to stay out of their way. She had told him, You can’t be too careful of those people, Richie. They’re gypsies. And you never can tell what they might try to pull. Richie had considered arguing with her about the subject but had not since she seemed so adamant about it. What the heck, most of the time she was right anyway. Why fight it?

Richie felt pleased with the good luck of the season. Not only did he have a couple of days off from school, but, this year Halloween fell on the same weekend as Farmington’s Fall festival. Jeez, it was great. No school, trick or treats, the costume parade which formally started the festival, and the thrills and excitement of the carnival itself were all his. All of this was accompanied by the beautiful fall weather that his sister had called Indian Summer. It all seemed too good to be true.

Richie was thinking about how great life was as he turned left on Fulton Street and headed toward the park.

The only real glitch in the perfection of the day was that he had to go to town on foot. Walking was in, and riding was out because his Schwinn was out of commission with a broken rear sprocket and would be out of service until his father could find the time to repair it. Richie figured that particular repair would likely occur sometime about midwinter. His dad’s job at the tractor factory in Peoria seemed to occupy most of his time since his promotion, and what little spare time he did have seemed to be spent relaxing around the house or getting tangled up in household fix-it tasks. Richie knew though, that sooner or later his father would fix the bike and that patience would prevail.

Continuing along, Richie had a fleeting thought of his grandmother who lived in a neighboring community. His grandmother Sadie reminded him time and again that walking was good for him. Use them shanks mares, Richie, she would say. They’ll take you anywhere you need to go. And it’ll do you some good.

‘Shanks mares’ was the term she used to refer to Richie’s legs. He never really understood it, but he knew what she meant. He loved his grandmother dearly, but there were times when he thought she might be just a little bit crazy.

Richie’s train of thought changed instantly as he moved onward and noticed an old woman on the porch of the house that sat across the wide, well-groomed yard to his left. Hi, Mrs. Otterman, he called hastening past the huge gingerbread style house. Howerya?

The woman looked up from her front porch busywork over spectacles that threatened to tip off the end of her nose. Hello there, Richard, she said through her smile. She nodded at him. Looks like a right nice day.

Sure does, Mrs. Otterman, answered Richie. He moved past the darkly leafed hedge, which defined the edge of her property and out of her sight. Don’t work too hard, he yelled back at her, uncertain of whether or not she could even still hear him. Before he could give that matter much thought though, his mind was again otherwise occupied.

Should he or shouldn’t he stop at Stinton’s Phillip 66 and get himself a candy bar? He had the money, he had the time, and it would sure taste good, even this soon after breakfast. He pondered the dilemma as he came to the corner of Fulton and Main, which was where the station stood. He chewed his lip with indecision while he crossed the street and walked up to the large window in front of the place. Squinting through the harsh reflection in the glass, he could see Walt Stinton and one of Walt’s grown sons sitting in the station waiting for the next fill-up to come along. They must have been pretty well occupied with their conversation, for when Richie came in neither of them paid any attention to him.

As Richie stood examining the contents of the candy display case, a voice from behind him asked, What is it you need there, boy? Somethin I can do for yeh?

The older man stood up and stretched his back a few seconds before moving over to the counter and slipping in behind it. There must be somethin in there that’s catchin your eye, he said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Richie paused a moment before answering. He knew he had lost the battle with temptation once again. His sweet tooth always won out. I dunno, he said. I guess I’ll have one of those Snicker bars. They’re pretty good.

Good choice, the man said smiling down at the boy. Looks like that oughta be about five cents.

Seemingly of its own accord, Richie’s hand dipped quickly into his pocket to get the money. A second later it emerged wrapped around a fistful. The man behind the counter busily punched the keys of the cash register. A couple of mechanical soundings dings occurred as black numbers on a white tabs popped into view. Richie deliberated as he fished through his money. Should he break one of the dollars, or should he pay it out of the half-dollar? Amused by the boy’s fumbling around the man said, Lord, Richard, looks like you’re just a rolling in dough. Where’d you get all that moulah?

Most of it’s for a haircut, Richie answered finally pushing the large silver coin across the counter. My Mom did give me a little extra though, and a candy bar sounded good to me.

As he had been waiting for the boy to fish through the money, Walt Stinton gathered the boy’s change. Picking up the half-dollar with one hand, he dropped the change into the boy’s outstretched hand with the other. There yeh go, he said while dropping the half-dollar into the cash register drawer. A metallic chink accompanied the action just before Walt pushed the drawer back into place. Then, sliding the display case open, he reached into it and drew out the candy bar. He pushed it across the counter to Richie’s waiting hand. Enjoy.

Thanks, Mr. Stinton. Richie turned and headed for