Losing Joe's Place

  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!”

  * * *

  We ate and celebrated, and tried to let our roommate know how proud we were of him. He seemed surprised that we should think anything unusual had happened.

  “We needed money, so we got some,” he said.

  It was his only comment on his wrestling performance, because he was concentrating fully on the biggest snack I’ve ever seen. I never thought it was possible to inhale hot dogs, but Rootbeer was full of surprises that day.

  We stayed another hour, enjoying the fair, but it was too crowded now that the Arena was empty. So when Rootbeer had had his fill of games and rides, we headed for the parking lot.

  We left through the main gate and stopped short. There they were, waiting for us — Mako Wako the Shark Man, Brother Barnabas the Holy Terror, Captain Concussion the Human Bomb, Billy Baxter the Bull Moose, Megaman the Towering Dynamo, and Plow Horse the Farm Executioner — six angry, humiliated wrestlers. We gathered our three sets of puny muscles around Rootbeer.

  “Go away!” I barked at the line of brawn. “Rootbeer beat you fair and square!”

  Brother Barnabas shook his great big tonsured head. “We weren’t ready.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” said Rootbeer quietly.

  “You deliberately went in there to make us look bad!” snarled Plow Horse.

  “I bet you’re a pro,” added Mako, “making monkeys of the competition!”

  The line advanced menacingly, blocking out the sun.

  In movies sometimes, the hero jumps off the burning boat a split second before the explosion, and gets to float in triumph for a couple of minutes before he sees the first piranha. It’s a lot like life. There we were, down and out, and then we beat the odds — we had the rent money. And suddenly we were all going to die in a North Toronto parking lot. These six monsters were furious with Rootbeer for wrecking their show. We couldn’t let Rootbeer fight alone, even though I was pretty sure we’d be zero help. Ferguson and Don must have been thinking the same thing, because all three of us stepped in front of our friend.

  “Those poor guys,” said Rootbeer, shaking his head sadly. We thought he was talking about us. But he pushed us out of the way, and I mean pushed. The three of us went flying, stumbling into parked cars. I smacked my head against the mirror of a pickup truck, and by the time I regained my senses and looked back to see if Rootbeer was still alive, it was all over. The six pros lay scattered like tenpins, and Rootbeer was scanning the parking lot for the Camaro.

  “What happened?”

  “It was like the end of the world,” said Ferguson with awed reverence, “and you missed it!”

  Rootbeer had a simpler explanation. “Those guys,” he said, “they had bad luck.”

  * * *

  I handed in the rent money right on time first thing Wednesday morning.

  “Ah, Mr. Cardone, you made it,” approved Plotnick. “I was really absorbed in the drama. What did Mr. Racinette have to do — eat a house?”

  I smiled. “That’s kid stuff.”

  TEN

  When I went down to the deli Thursday morning to see If I could borrow an egg for my daily fix of cake mix, I found Plotnick bent over like a boomerang by his griddle.

  “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ Mr. Cardone. Fifty cents.”

  I picked a letter from Joe out of the pile of mail on the counter. “Are you okay, Mr. Plotnick?” The bruise on his head was almost gone, but why was he leaning like
that?

  “I’ll be okay when you give me my fifty cents. Otherwise, no egg.”

  “But what’s with the —?” I assumed his crouched position.

  He scowled from down there. “You want to know what it is? I’ll tell you what it is. Mind your own business, that’s what it is.”

  But I could tell he was in pain, because he was grim and pale, and he was abusing his customers even more than usual. And as the day progressed, every time I passed by the deli our landlord looked a little stiffer and a little more bent over. Finally, at dinnertime, when I brought Don and Ferguson to observe the situation, Plotnick had locked up into a miter joint. His tenants were crowded around him, all sympathy and advice.

  “What is this — a side show? You’re going to order, or what?”

  “Mr. Plotnick,” reasoned Ferguson, “you’re in no condition to be working.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Peach. You graduated medical school since this morning. Shut up.”

  But after a long argument, we managed to hustle our landlord out of the deli and into the Camaro for a ride to the hospital. Getting him into the plush bucket seat was a major operation. Bent up like a coat hanger, he perched there, his head pressing against the glove compartment.

  “I wouldn’t buy a car like this for no money,” he said, obviously overcome with gratitude at our concern.

  Plotnick had refused to go and leave the deli unattended, so this was a compromise. Ferguson and Don would drive him to Emergency, and I would stay and mind the store for an hour or so. I only made one sandwich, but I managed to serve coffee, and soup, hand out bills, and work the cash register. It was definitely easier than trying to keep apartment 2C and its inhabitants in shape. I kind of enjoyed it.

  The Camaro came back at quarter past eight, and by then, the deli was empty. They got out of the car, first Ferguson, and then Don. The picture looked so normal that it took a second for the question to bubble up.

  “Where’s Plotnick?”

  “He’s not coming back,” Ferguson announced emotionally.

  “What?!”

  “Peachfuzz, you jerk!” Don exploded. “What did you tell him like that for? Yes, he’s coming back eventually, but not tonight. And guess whose fault it is? Peachfuzz’s!”

  “But that doctor said he was okay!” I protested.

  “His head is fine,” Ferguson explained, “but he racked up his back. They put him in traction.”

  “But how?” I wailed. “He was perfect just yesterday!”

  “It took a while to stiffen up,” said Don unhappily. “But now that it has, he’s in for a month.”

  “A month?” My heart gave a lurch. “And it’s — it’s our fault!” I slumped against the counter. Talk about revenge going sour! We were supposed to be grown men, out in the world. How could we have let a kiddie prank get so out of hand? Boy, we were big city guys, all right. We were practically a street gang. And now a defenseless old man was in the hospital because of us.

  My mourning was interrupted by the ringing of the deli phone. It was Plotnick.

  “Mr. Cardone, this is your fault! You come and break me out of here! They’ve got me tied up like a common criminal, and the doctors won’t listen to reason. It’s like Russia!”

  I tried to be soothing. “You’ll be all right, Mr. Plotnick. You’re not tied up; you’re in traction. It’s for your back.”

  “What good is health when the world is coming to an end? I’m not a rich man, Mr. Cardone! My tenants pay tiny little rents, and my restaurant barely makes a living as it is!”

  The guilt was eating me up. “Mr. Plotnick —” I said. I never think when I’m emotionally upset. All I knew was that we owed this man a hell of a lot more than a box of candy and a get-well card. “Don’t worry about the deli. I’ll run it.”

  Ferguson and Don stared at me.

  “You? Hah!” came the response over the phone. “You wouldn’t know a cheese blintz from the U.S.S. Constitution!”

  That did it. “I’ll have you know I’ve been doing a lot of cooking lately.”

  “I’ll be out of business in a week!”

  “No, you won’t,” I snapped with grim determination. “When you get back, you won’t know the place, it’ll be running so great.”

  I waited for a thank you. Plotnick just said, “Oy!” and hung up.

  Ferguson whistled. “Boy, Jason, you’re in for it now. This is a fourteen-hour-a-day job, no weekends off.”

  I picked up Plotnick’s meat fork and shook it at him. “Mind your own business, Mr. Peach.”

  We laughed. I was getting the hang of it already.

  * * *

  Because I didn’t have a potbelly like the previous proprietor, Plotnick’s apron billowed around me like a bivouac tent. Fifteen minutes after opening, an end had found its way into the grill, and was on fire. Wayne Gretzky’s Sister helped me put myself out, and I returned to my eggs, waffles, and pancakes.

  It took some doing. Some people had to wait a little longer than usual, but I made it through breakfast just fine. I told everybody that Plotnick was on vacation in the Caribbean, and God’s Grandmother promised to spread the word around the building to back me up. I’m not usually a liar, but my conscience just couldn’t handle the real explanation.

  It would have been better if Plotnick hadn’t called (long distance from the Caribbean) five times to talk me through the morning.

  “So, are you having a good time, Mr. Plotnick? How’s the weather?”

  “You’re maybe crazy, Mr. Cardone? I’m hanging up here like a barbecued chicken, and you’re talking about the weather?”

  “Great. Have you been to the beach?”

  “No, I haven’t been to the beach! Now listen — when that gangster from the meat company delivers, weigh everything on our scale, not his. And when the baker comes, count all the hot dog buns. He’s a criminal.”

  Things quieted down until lunch, when a flurry of takeout orders came for deli sandwiches. I just sliced and slapped and wrapped while talking to Plotnick on the phone, which was wedged up against my ear. If my neck and shoulder stayed like that much longer, the hospital was going to have to save a little traction for me.

  “Don’t overfill, Mr. Cardone! I can hear you’re overfilling!”

  “No kidding! You went snorkeling? What a vacation! Don’t disturb yourself by calling again.”

  The takeout orders tapered off around two, so I had plenty of time to clean up the place and get ready for the dinner hour. The first customers began trickling in around four-thirty, and among them was none other than Rootbeer Racinette.

  He didn’t look up. He just mumbled, “Coffee, Plotnick,” and crammed himself into our booth.

  I served him with a flourish, put on my best Plotnick voice, and said, “So, Mr. Racinette, you’re going to eat or what?”

  “Hi, Jason, what are you doing here?”

  “Covering for Plotnick for a few days,” I said. “Hey, you don’t look so hot. Something wrong?”

  “I think I’m getting executive burnout,” said Rootbeer seriously. “That telescope just isn’t doing it for me. I see just as good without it.”

  I suppressed a smile, thinking of the shattered lenses. Rootbeer was looking through an empty tube.

  “Last night really got me down,” Rootbeer continued sadly. “I discovered this whole new constellation. I mean, it wasn’t on any of my star charts. I phoned the Astronomical Society hot line, and right while I was talking, my constellation lit up.” He looked embarrassed. “It said ‘Goodyear.’ That really stressed me out.”

  So he ordered three giant dinners, and ate them all.

  “Any dessert?” I inquired, clearing the plates away. It was a joke, but Rootbeer nodded vigorously.

  “Better let me have some of that Cardone Surprise.”

  “We don’t serve that here,” I told him.

  The giant’s face fell. “Really? I was kind of psyched for it.”

  I scanned the deli. There was just R
ootbeer, Romeo and Juliet, and a few others who were in the middle of their meals and wouldn’t need attention for a while.

  “Watch the cash register.” I ran upstairs, grabbed our box of D-Lishus chocolate fudge cake mix, and smuggled it into the deli kitchen. I mixed up a quick batch, stealing frequent tastes for myself, and stuck some in one of Plotnick’s tall glass ice cream dishes. We didn’t have any strawberries, so I threw in chopped nuts and candy sprinkles, and topped the whipped cream off with a cherry. I was amazed. It looked like a real dessert.

  Rootbeer went into ecstasy, and the Cardone Surprise was gone in three seconds.

  “Hey,” called Romeo. “Let me have what he’s having.”

  So I made one for him, too, two spoons.

  “It’s fantastic!” Juliet approved. “What is it?”

  “Trade secret,” I said smugly.

  “I’ve definitely had this before,” said Romeo.

  I smiled. Who hadn’t licked the spoon while Mom baked a cake?

  “I know this flavor. I just can’t place it.” He motioned to a man sitting at the counter. “Hey, Ernie, you’ve got to try some of this.”

  I sold three more Cardone Surprises, but then we were all out. And I got a great tip from everybody who tried one. For the first time since my previous life as a feeder at Plastics Unlimited, I had cash that I’d earned with my own two hands. And I hadn’t had to pick up the Employment section, or make a single call. Not bad.

  * * *

  Don got fired from the publishing company; the charge — laziness. But instead of throwing himself into the want ads, he tucked a towel into his waistband and came down to the deli with me.

  “Doesn’t this bring back the good old days of Plastics Unlimited?” he said nostalgically. “You and me, working together, Peachfuzz nowhere in sight —”

  “Ever been a waiter before?” I interrupted.

  Don shrugged airily. “How hard can it be?”

  “This is Plotnick’s business we’re running, and we’re here because we put him in the hospital. We owe him our best.”