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Big Dave(continued) So far so good as we crossed over Market into Upper Darby. Then, out
of nowhere, appeared two boys, one big and one little. I held Joel's
hand as they cut us off. The big guy stood in front of me, the small
guy in front of Joel. He stood real close to me so that all I could
do was look into his nostrils, which I observed were full of hair and
snot. He seemed to have a cold, cause his nose was running real bad.
In fact, the dude seemed to be all nose, like, at any moment, lacking
fists to punch me, he would just suck me up. "Give it up," the little dude said. Joel looked up at the boy and smiled. The nose in front of me snorted. Must be preparing for one big suck. Not willing to give him a chance, I shouted, "Run!" and took
off around him. I got past him a few feet, then turned back and saw
Joel still standing there. Risking a sure sucking death, I went back
and grabbed Joel's hand. After a hesitation, surely stunned by my bravery and pluck, the two
boys ran after us. Nearly sweeping Joel off his feet, I managed to get
us into the store, bursting through the revolving doors. The two boys,
the shrimp and his big-nose friend, stayed outside. We loitered in the store for a few minutes. When I thought it was safe,
we ran back out the store, using the side exit near where they fixed
cars, slipping past a couple of surprised white men in blue overalls
and an even more surprised white lady with a thick ankle-length fur
coat and wide owl-like black glasses. We ran across Market Street, and
then darted back onto Cobbs Creek Parkway. We were headed home, with
no toys, which surely would have slowed our escape, but with life and
limb and still ten dollars each. Big Momma, on the porch reading the Evening Bulletin now instead
of the Reader's Digest, asked us where our toys were. Before
Joel could answer, I told her that we didn't find any and then hustled
my little brother out the room before he could tell her differently.
I sat Joel in front of the TV with The Flintstones while I headed
back to my thinking place to regroup. I thought of Hot Wheels and nose hairs and of women who wore dead animals
on their backs. I thought about how I would get me and Joel into that
store and all of us, my new Hot Wheels set included, out. I thought
and thought, then, like a bolt of lightening, it hit me. Big Dave. Big Dave could get me into that store. I soon found myself in Big Dave's living room. Although he was just
a couple years older than I, fifteen maybe, Big Dave had the body of
a fifty-year-old former wrestler. Big and sloppy, fat hanging everywhere,
leading up to this big old fuzzy head with the kindest, most gentle
pair of eyes you've ever seen. He was almost as wide as he was tall,
and he was pretty tall. He sat there watching TV, one paw dug deep into
a bag of chips. He pulled out what looked like half the bag and shoved
it into his mouth. "Okay for what?" a voice asked. The voice was sweet and
soft, belying the true nature of its owner. Chandrell, Big Dave's older sister, slithered into the room. "Okay for what?" she asked again. Her hair was still in rollers
at nearly three in the afternoon. Big Dave explained my problem and how he was gonna help me, Chandrell
shaking the red rollers in her head all the while. "Dave don't do nothin without me saying so," she hissed. I looked at Big Dave. He looked at me, then at Chandrell, then at the
ground. "Dave don't do nothin without me saying so," she said again,
like I didn't hear her the first time. "What you want?" I asked. She didn't even hesitate, like she had been expecting the phantom robbers
to steal our fictitious gifts, Big Momma to give us the food money,
and the dwarf and the nose to chase us into Sears. "I want Bobby Jackson to call me." I nodded my head. Why not ask me to turn water to wine while you're
at it? Harder still, why not ask me to make you beautiful? What a skinny
little beast she was. "He call me, just once, and Dave can go with you." She said
it with a smile on her face, like she knew that I couldn't make it happen.
But, she didn't know me. Brother Youmans can talk, that's what they
all say. And Brother Youmans can talk just about anybody into just about
anything. My father, in those rare moments when he graced our presence,
said I would make a good preacher one day. He didn't know me either,
but, just that once, he was right. Bobby Jackson, the older, fine-looking brother of my best friend, Charlie,
lived a few houses up from Big Momma's. They were in the basement, Bobby
and Charlie, polishing off two Cokes and a couple hoagies. My stomach
growled as I watched them wolf down their feast. I explained my situation,
Charlie nodding intently, hanging on every word, Bobby barely hearing
me overtop the Sixers and Knicks game. Finally, Clyde drove past Mad Dog Carter, laid the ball off to DeBussere,
who kissed it off the glass into the hoop, past Billy C's outstretched
hands. The game was over, and now I had Bobby's attention. He kept shaking his head, fast at first, then slower. I was wearing
him down. "Just one call," I kept saying. Said it so much,
Charlie started saying it. Soon, it seemed like even Brent Musberger
was saying it on the post game show. Finally, he was all mine. He emptied the rest of his Coke, sat the
bottle down hard, and looked at me. I smiled expectantly. "I'll do it," he said with a grin. I met his grin with one
twice as wide, my mind drifting to that beloved Hot Wheels set. "But," he said, crashing my mood, "I need a favor." I waited. Maybe this was the water to wine part. It was all a misunderstanding, he explained. Old man Kearney thought
that he had taken the two Cokes when actually he had paid for them when
he paid for the sandwiches. Kearney, confused old dude he was, had forbidden
Bobby from ever coming into his store again. Seeing that Kearney's was
the only place within ten blocks that sold hoagies and Blue Sky soda,
that would not do. "Go talk to him, Brother," Bobby said. "Then, I'll give
that nappy-headed girl a call." He laid a hand on the old Princess
that sat by the couch. "They'll listen to you, Brother, they like you," added Charlie. Young, gifted and black. Sure can be a curse sometimes. "All right, I'll be back," I said as I left the room. I knew
Bobby likely copped those Cokes, but Mister Kearney did like me, and
maybe I could get him off the hook. Mister Kearney sat in his dark cave of a store like a big grouchy old
bear, propped up on a too-small stool behind his counter, one hand on
the register, one hand on a 33-inch baseball bat, just in case. Store
so doggone dark, somebody new to the place would have to feel his or
her way around to find anything. Mister Kearney said the light made
him too hot. That it was the middle of winter didn't matter; it was
like he was made of butter and would melt or something.
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