South of Luck by Jim Guhl

Author:Jim Guhl [Guhl, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780299332785
Publisher: University of Wisconsin Press

Chapter 22

For the rest of that morning and into the afternoon, my face got even more attention than usual. “What happened to you?” That was the most popular question asked in Milltown, Wisconsin, on July 16, 1945. I got it from Mr. Torkelson. I got it from Mr. Gustafson, and I got it from his secretary. Even the scarecrow at Lindoo Drug couldn’t resist when I stopped in for a milkshake.

“What happened to you?” he asked flat out.

“I got in a minor scuffle with a very well-trained opponent thirty pounds heavier than me. That’s what.”

“Did you ding the bell cord at the Co-op station again?”

“Yep.”

“Buck doesn’t like that, you know.”

“That’s the whole point.”

The scarecrow smiled.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Herman Schrapp.”

“That doesn’t sound Swedish or Danish.”

He laughed. “It’s German.”

I almost thought, another damned Kraut. I didn’t though, because I wasn’t prejudiced, like some people.

“My name’s Milo Egerson,” I said. I shook a couple cigarettes out of a pack of Luckies and placed them on the countertop. “That’s for when you get off work.”

Herman’s eyes got big and he looked to his left and right. “What makes you think I smoke?” he asked.

“I’m a trained observer.”

He looked at me with a sort of confused half smile and scooped up the cigarettes. Then he wandered down to the other end of the ice cream counter to take care of a lady who had just arrived with three little kids.

I put the pack of Lucky Strikes back in my pocket and looked around the room. Two old women nosed around the main part of the store. The druggist, in his white shirt and owl glasses, held up a brown bottle for a bald-headed man who appeared to be skeptical as to its contents. I turned and looked in another direction, and there, in a booth, was that pretty girl, Rosalyn, sitting with her super-duper boyfriend, Mr. Fancyhair Wingtip. A few weeks ago I would have wanted that pretty girl to notice me for any reason at all, including my bashed-in face. Isn’t it weird how quick a guy can change his mind on things like that?

My thoughts were on a different girl lately, and I think you already know which one. Betty Hanson. I already told you about how pretty she was and about her smile and the sparkle in her eyes. On top of all that (and I know this is going to sound like a stretcher coming from a dolt like me), I think she liked me back.

I had one rather large problem with the whole idea of getting out of the starting blocks with Betty Hanson. Her mother—her hands-on-hips, eyeball-glaring, hater-of-my-guts mother.

As I headed for the exit, two little boys stood gazing at the colorful contents of the gumball machine by the door. I slapped two pennies on top of the glass bubble and kept on walking.

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