Cash-N-Carry by Peter Sarda

Author:Peter Sarda [Sarda, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9783982266510
Google: wki6zgEACAAJ
Published: 2021-11-21T11:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15.

Christmas Bonus

It didn’t feel like Christmas Eve. Frank’s hands were raw, especially his fingertips. After uncoiling and locking his stiff bicycle cable, he went through his pockets again. Damn, no ChapStick. The crack in his right thumb was getting deep enough to bleed.

Stepping between cars to get to the time clock, Frank saw Little Sweeney was wearing blue pants, just like Rossi and the Cash-n-Carry lifers. Ditto for Big Sweeney, who was joking with Tilman and Doug in the bread room. Frank stepped between them and walked up to the rack. There was an envelop in his slot. His Christmas bonus. He folded and stuffed the envelop under his wallet in his hip pocket, pulled his coat back down, and clocked in.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Tilman said, laughing.

“Right,” Doug replied dryly, folding the check into his wallet. “This oughta cover a new woofer.” He probably meant weed.

“It was pretty nice of Mr. Hanson,” Sweeney said, a little defensively. The twenty-five dollars didn’t mean as much as the personally signed card.

“Does he do this every year?” Frank asked. He’d gotten a check the year before, but he felt kind of sorry for Sweeney. It looked like he had a drop of fruit punch or something caught in his left eyebrow.

“Every year,” Sweeney said. “Like clockwork.” He sounded amazed. “They good folks, the Hansons. Miss Hanson hand them out herself.” He meant Mrs. Hanson, not Dolly.

“That’s nice,” Frank said, wishing he hadn’t gotten involved. Some lines were better left uncrossed.

Tilman was walking toward a car. As Doug moved the policeman to the side, an alert driver switched lanes. Frank took the car.

“I just need a half-gallon of Rocky Road,” the lady said apologetically. She had a dark red perm and too much perfume, like Mrs. Morrow across the street. The mink wrapped around her shoulders seemed to be biting its tail.

As Frank turned toward the small coldbox to retrieve the ice cream, he saw Doug bringing the next car a pint of regular. Nobody bought pints. The dry cold inside was somehow warmer than outside. The weatherman on the radio kept telling drivers to be careful. Tooley fog was supposed to blanket the Valley tonight. Once, when Frank was in fifth grade, they shut down school for two weeks. It was that bad. The school part was great, but you couldn’t see the dogs coming at you on your paper route. Frank always bundled a couple of papers extra tight for the mean ones.

On his second try, Frank got the freezer door open. He almost walked into the five-gallon milk canisters. There were four in all. The steel handles were sharp enough to bark your shins through your pants. The lids were stacked face up. Fruit punch. That explained the sticky door. Must be for the reception in the parish hall.

Stepping on the red ice between the slush and the frozen walls of the freezer, Frank punched the clear plastic wrapper with his fingers, ripped sideways until the hole was big enough, and snagged the Rocky Road.

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