The Uncollected Stories of Allan Gurganus by Allan Gurganus

Author:Allan Gurganus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Liveright
Published: 2021-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

Just after each Thanksgiving, Vanderlip has signs hung across our mall’s four sides, “Jesus IS the Reason for the Season” and—under that—in small print, “and happy hanuka.” Spelled “Hanukkah” wrong; some say on purpose. His own church-choir has been singing carols here every Tuesday-Thursday since Halloween.

My new favorite, she now fetched up only on the rainy coldest days. Seemed she was saving back our shelter for when she’d need it most. Never really stepped into my shop. But, like everybody, she would gather before our snow-sprayed windows full of wriggling pups all wearing red bows. I’d see her sort of grinning then. I willed her to visit Vernon’s menagerie. I thought, “Out yonder, hungry, stands somebody’s daughter.” I imagined her as being mine, then shuddered. I felt more scared for her after that.

So, was three weeks before last Christmas, I seen something I wasn’t supposed to. That sweet sad mouse-girl steps into the ladies’, leaves her cell phone on one fountain-side bench. Well, I figure here’s Vernon’s chance to be a hero, see? So I rush out to save the cell she’s been chatting into constant for these three weeks, especially when Terminator’s staring.

But hers? it’s just a toy. For kids. From Dollar General. Black block of wood, cheap decal sticky on its front.

So lightweight I all but dropped it. I set it down real quick and run off, huffing. I figure: let her keep her secrets till she can’t.

(Thanks for the fresh eggnog, Kirsten. Each glass a meal in itself, huh? —Look, do I got foam on my chin? Thanks.)

Girl ate alone in our International Food Court. I saw how sly she worked that place. She’d make a off-to-one-side meal out of dispenser ketchup, leftover croutons, hot water. She’d garnish this with lemon wedges then a li’l Parmesan from Mamma Mia’s. Out of a bin, dainty, she’d lift one large soda cup, wash it good at our water fountain then drink Classic Coke all day. One time I saw her stash her cup up high on a ledge so’s Vanderlip’s over-busy cleanup-crew wouldn’t snag it. Girl’s jacket hikes up and underneath, I see: she’s like ten months pregnant. White belly squared-off to where it seems she’s swallowed a twelve-pound dice.

What next? The shopper I really like best now, the one I find I’m waiting to see daily? Pregnant, ’bout fourteen. Just Vernon’s luck.

Me, see, I basically, even romance-wise, I run Animal Rescue. Even while retailing brand-new creatures, I am really running a orphanage. It’s the same, even on blind dates, which my dates mostly are. I guess gals don’t like it when you act real kind to them.

I try holding back and sounding semi-mean. But look at me. I am, on sight, a softie. And they guess. Reckon we’ve all got faults.

I think I do pretty good for a GED-type person. Got me the vintage Camaro, ’67 SS-3838, stroke four-speed, cherry-red. My condo’s half paid-off, real-leather sectionals “Merlot-Maroon.” Plus, before they closed, I had seen everything at Blockbuster twice, and not just Tarantino, neither.

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