PREAKNESS
The next morning when I walked across the street to the truck to feed and visit Toots, I noticed that Rooster’s Harley was still parked out front. While I was outside, Lemon left the apartment with his carpetbag and let himself into the barbershop. This wasn’t unusual; the same key fit both doors. Since the bathroom in the apartment was small and communal, If someone had to take a really bad shit they would saunter over to the shop to use one of the restrooms available there as long as the shop was closed.
Toots was beginning to get tired of the truck. It had been parked in the same spot for several weeks, and people were commenting on the cat on the dashboard. It wasn’t unsafe—the cab was always well ventilated, and the street was just too busy and strange to let her venture out at her advanced age. I was in the process of negotiating a cash deal with the buyer up North, hoping for Toots and I to move into our own place, and pursue the film project with a little more independence and dignity. I was leaning toward Wilmington. The town had a certain attraction about it, and besides I was afraid of getting that island mentality if I stayed in Carolina Beach. You never leave; your entire outlook becomes absorbed by a little patch of land surrounded by water on all sides, and everything can wait till Manana. Now that’s fine, but not when you’re trying to raise money to produce a feature length documentary with national implications. And that’s what we were trying to do.
I went through the tai-chi form a couple of times in the vacant lot across from the shop, then ventured over to the apartment and brewed a pot of coffee. About forty-five minutes later, Lemon came back in, carrying his carpetbag and wearing a big shit eatin’ grin. I had never seen him smile before. He saw me and immediately turned sour.
“What did Fish put in that mead?” he asked, holding his stomach.
“Brent makes the mead,” I smiled.
“Oh,” he said, and glumly walked into the bedroom.
I had coffee and then walked over to the shop to tend the garden and clean up the back yard to prepare the space for Gastro and the Saturday Feast. It was Preakness Day. Grilled or fried batter-dipped shark, hush-puppies and coleslaw were on the menu. Everyone arrived at noon: Fish, Alva and Gastro. I walked over to the beach and went for a swim. The salt water had been doing wonders for my infected wrist.
On returning to the apartment I noticed that Rooster’s Harley was still parked out front of the shop. It was late afternoon, nearly lunchtime, so I cleared out quickly and went for the shark. No one had seen Rooster since the previous night. It was an especially busy day, shark was always popular. The troops were out in full force, even Maxwell Beauregard Rules had shown up. He was in the chair getting a trim as four o’clock approached. Maxwell knew the Saturday routine, and waited for his food in the prime seat. Right on time, Chips appeared at the window, Fish took off and Brent took over. Lemon watched the drama unfold as he glumly sat in a bent metal chair sipping potato vodka through a straw from a Styrofoam cup. He had gone and bought his own. Fish and Chips always took an entire hour and everyone speculated what exactly they were doing. That young girl would kill that old man after a straight hour, everyone thought.
A few minutes went by and Lemon stood up from his seat and glumly walked over to the counter, pulled open a bottom door and flipped a switch. Rooster walked in the door just in time. The first thing that everyone heard all through the shop and out on the patio was the sound of Fish’s voice.
“Your ass, your ass, give me your ass!”
Lemon had wired the bedroom for sound and placed wireless speakers inside and out. For the next hour no one spoke, no one ate, no food was cooked, no one moved. Everyone sat gaping in amazement at the radio broadcast of the sexual exploits of Fish and Chips at the Beach. The occasional strangers who ventured in simply turned around and walked out since nobody would speak to them.
When they were finished, Lemon walked over and flipped the switch off. When they came back in the shop they got a standing ovation, inside and out. And they were none the wiser. All the older men formed a procession to shake Fish’s hand and thank him for the food. He didn’t understand all the sudden gratitude. It was almost time for the Preakness. Rollo collected five dollars each from willing participants and they drew the number of a horse out of a hat. When he got to Fish, Fish asked him what he had planned for Lemon.
“Let bygones be bygones,” Rollo said. Rollo knew that he was no match for the master trickster Lemonhead.
There was no TV in the shop and Rollo popped out to see who had won the race. When he came back he gave all the money to Lemon. It turned out that Lemon didn’t have the winning horse. He kept the money anyway. Rollo paid the winner too.