‘You be on time tomorrow. Got it?’
Paper Boy’s twelve-year-old legs lost their balance, crunching into the gravel driveway.
‘Get up and give me my paper.’
He handed it over with ink-stained fingers.
‘Stop shaking, boy. Why the hell are you twitching, anyway? Suck it up. I’m not going to tear you limb from limb.’
Paper Boy squeezed the rusty black handle of his red paper wagon, squeaking it away from the smelly, spitty man.
‘Now get off my property, and don’t forget to be on time, Paper Boy.’
Chirps from the trees turned the purple sky to red. Paper Boy checked his watch. The paper wasn’t late at all.
§
Sprung Flowers.
Sitting on the end of one of the two twin beds, Miss Lamp rubs her right hand over polyester gardens. Not Best Western. The card on the side table reads WELCOME TO PEACHLAND HOTEL. Gideon’s Bible rests in the drawer until she places it in her travel bag. She hums a bar of ‘Rocky Raccoon.’ Plastic flowers don’t brighten up a room much either, but they won’t collect dust in her travel bag.
Miss Lamp’s cheeks itch when she craves Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Her afternoon nap will not come easy on a stomach empty of Campbell’s. Soup is good food.
Room Service Boy’s knowledge of grilled-cheese presentation impresses Miss Lamp. Cut to corners, golden brown and not burnt. Grilled cheese is art, but not without the right kind of soup.
She nods slightly, picking at a clear thread from the pattern of hyacinths pink and blue, orange-centred beige daisies and prickly holly bushes. Her right fingertip finds this thread easy to wind. Within seconds, the bedspread lifts a little. An artificial garden freed from its fencing, she thinks.
Her threaded fingertip turns like a tulip. She leans into the bed as if to sniff it, snapping the excess plastic twine with her incisors. Her adeptness at removing clothing tags proves scissors obsolete – strong teeth will do. Her eyes reel in sleep.
§
That’s What Friends Are For.
Young Miss Lamp sat drunk when her seventeen looked fourteen. Paper Boy, whose seventeen looked seventeen, passed out while she squinted. She watched him wedged in the wooden Peachland Hotel chair, in various states of undress, until the sun went down.
‘Can we borrow your lipstick?’ Serge smirked widely.
‘And do you have any rope, you know, to tie with?’ said Rick.
‘Rope?’ Young Miss Lamp searched through her purse, finding some Peach Pastel and a fresh box of minty Butler dental floss. ‘Will this do?’
‘Thanks,’ Serge said as she handed over the floss.
‘We put four Demerols in his drink,’ said Rick.
‘He’s out like a light,’ slurred Serge.
Blobs of pulp glued the lazy corners of Paper Boy’s mouth shut. Serge pulled yards and yards of minty fresh floss from the little white box. Rick snapped it taut on the rounded silver cutter.
Young Miss Lamp had never before seen Paper Boy in a pair of blue underwear, all tied up with dental floss.
Hands and feet.
He didn’t even wake up.
‘Poor fella,’ she whispered to herself.
When the two other boys required a dainty finger to secure the floss in a double knot, she said, ‘I’ll do it.’ With a bit of encouragement, she wrote LOSER across his forehead.
Then she handed over the lipstick.
Rick and Serge took liberty upon his fresh white skin. Young Miss Lamp saw the coarse, dark beginnings of belly hair. FOR A GOOD TIME, it said, ROLL ME OVER. A brittle chest and peach air freshener.
‘Poor fella,’ she whispered to herself again. ‘He doesn’t even know what’s happening, and only in underwear.’ Young Miss Lamp freshened her seventh Captain Morgan and Coke, rubbed her eyes and returned to the foot of the bed.
§
Soup Is Good Food.
Leaving the sanctity of mothballs and tea to wear out his heels on the warm asphalt of the Safeway parking lot, Room Service Boy walks slowly, wondering why he buys Campbell’s Tomato Soup for rich, stuck-up lawyer-types who talk at him through closed doors.
‘It’s my job,’ he reminds himself to random passersby as they scuttle through automatic doors, armed with bags and trolleys. ‘It’s my job,’ he repeats for assurance. ‘Soup. Aisle 7. Next to soups of other brands, flavours and qualities. Pricing is not dependant on size. Adjacent to stews, vegetable and mechanically separated meat products. Microwave in foam for real beef taste. Scotch Broth with Barley, Chicken Vegetable, Cream of Mushroom, Celery, Chicken Noodle and Tomato. A healthy source of vitamin C. Make with one part milk for a creamier taste and do not allow to boil. Must be stirred continuously. Continuously.’
A film of fluorescent lighting bleaches the floor and Room Service Boy bites his lip before he gets too loud. White-knuckling the can all the way to Express Checkout 3, he spies a name tag that reads LUCY. She smiles at Room Service Boy. Her hair is yellow like the banana tray in front of her checkout and she has all the shape of a swizzle stick. He places the can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup heavily on the rubber conveyor belt.
Banana Tray Hair’s lips move along with the soup tin, closer and closer together.
‘How are we today?’
Grumpy, he thinks, Burnt milk is unacceptable.
‘Just the soup then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Working tonight, are we?’
‘Yes.’ Room Service Boy wears his purple suit to prove it.
‘Club Card and Air Miles, please.’
‘I don’t – ’
‘No? Will this be all then?’ Banana Tray Hair expedites her customers speedily.
Room Service Boy nods in agreement.
‘Your total comes to $1.52 with tax. Do you need help out with that?’
Banana Tray Hair smiles at Room Service Boy again. The receipt for the soup belongs in his pocket. Not since his last time chatting with Banana Tray Hair has Room Service Boy heard so many questions in a row. All directed at him.
‘We are closing in ten minutes, shoppers. Please finalize your purchasing choices. Thank you for choosing Safeway, and have a good night, Soup Boy.’
His cheeks match his purple dickie bow tie. He imagines saying, ‘Now you have a good night too, Banana Tray Hair, ma’am,’ but his tongue congeals the words. The best he can do is a squeak of thanks as he shuffles toward the yawn of the automatic door.
Back across the parking lot, he wonders how many ways a person could be helped out with a can of soup. After the 437 steps to the hotel, Room Service Boy spins through its revolving Plexiglas door, bounds into the lobby and shouts, ‘Six!’
‘Get that soup to the kitchen at once – he’s closing soon.’ The Front Desk Man taps the receipts for the day into a tidy ruffle of a square. ‘It’s for the shut-in in Room 32. And don’t spill it either.’ Room Service Boy never spills.
Sliding