A Plague Year (23 page)

I whispered to Arthur, “But we don’t have Frasier firs or Douglas firs.”

“Hey, if anybody calls you on it, say we just sold the last one. And ask them if they’d be interested in a Pennsylvania fir.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“Not really.”

“Got it.”

Just as we finished our work, the man in the SUV got out and
stretched his arms high. He dumped out the remains of a cup of coffee. Then he walked along the side of Maguire Road toward us. He was a heavyset man, dressed in brown shorts. Although it was a hot day and we were all in T-shirts, he had on a long-sleeve shirt decorated with pins and badges, and a sewn-on patch that identified him as a Scout master.

He turned onto our lot and approached Warren, who smiled and called out, “Happy Memorial Day! Or is it the Fourth of July?”

The man did not acknowledge the greeting except to say, in a flat, lawyerly voice, “If you plan on conducting business in Orange County, Florida, you have to provide rest room facilities.”

Warren smiled even wider. “What’s that? You need to use the rest room?”

“No.
You
need to provide rest room facilities.”

“Ah. Now, what are those exactly?”

The man pointed to the back of his lot. “Porta-potties.”

Warren’s smile slowly receded. He replied coolly, “Porta-potties? Just to sell Christmas trees? Is that really necessary?”

“I’m not here to argue about it. I’m here to tell you that you are currently in violation of the law.”

Warren didn’t reply, so the man turned and retraced his steps all the way to his SUV.

Two minutes later, a Sheriff’s Department car pulled into our parking lot and a woman deputy got out. She was heavyset, too, but in a very muscular way. She and Warren had a conversation out near the road while the rest of us hung back. Warren was smiling and charming the whole time he spoke to her, and she was smiling, too, when she drove away.

Warren walked back to us and reported, “Okay. We’ll probably get fined for not having porta-potties, but it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars. We can absorb that. Let’s start selling.”

The Christmas tree sale started off well. Several cars pulled in. Couples and families got out, looked at our selection, and then either bought a tree or moved on. Warren handled all of the cash, making change from a wad of bills he kept in his pocket. Jimmy, Arthur, and I talked up the merchandise and tied the sold trees to the tops of cars and SUVs, or we slid them carefully into the beds of pickup trucks.

It was the first hot Thanksgiving Day I had ever known. I was liking it very much, and I was liking Florida. I was more determined than ever to move there for college.

Things continued this way for most of the afternoon, and we had probably grossed over a thousand dollars, but then our luck started to change.

First, a Ryder rental truck pulled up next to the Boy Scout lot. It made that reverse beeping noise and then backed in. We could see what its cargo was very clearly: Christmas trees—Frasier firs and Douglas firs included. Right after that, a stream of cars pulled into the south parking area, disgorging Boy Scouts and their parents.

Arthur muttered, “Enemy spotted, cuz.” He spit on the ground. “Look at that. It’s a damn jamboree down there.”

The Scouts, all dressed in brown shirts, scrambled to unload their trees and set them up. A small group of Scout mothers took up positions along the chicken wire next to our lot. They started calling loudly to our customers, “Don’t buy from them! They’re outsiders! Support your local Scouts! Help your Scouts raise money,” and so on.

The tactic worked. Some of our customers crossed over to the other lot to buy their trees. (It didn’t help that the Scouts had a better selection.)

The sales battle continued, with us barely hanging in there,
until about 9:00 p.m. That’s when the street traffic stopped abruptly. The Boy Scout lot extinguished its lights first; then we shut ours down.

As we were cleaning up, Arthur got into an argument with a Scout mother. They were both standing where the fences met. I heard the mother say, “Why don’t you go back where you came from and sell your trees?”

Arthur told her, with fake politeness, “We paid for this lot, ma’am, and we have the right to sell here.”

“You come from Pennsylvania,” she pointed out. “It says right there on your sign. You should go back there.”

“Pennsylvania. That’s right. Caldera, Pennsylvania. You ever heard of that?”

“No.”

“It’s kinda like hell. All fire and sulfur. Are you telling me to go to hell? Because that would not be a Christian thing to do, ma’am. That might, ironically, bring the wrath of God down on you.”

I laughed at that, but Warren did not. He interrupted Arthur. “That’s enough! Let’s close up.” He called over to his brother, “Jimmy, take the boys back to the hotel. You all get some sleep. I’ll stay in the truck and watch the merchandise.”

So the three of us trekked across the long asphalt parking lot, exhausted but mostly happy.

Jimmy bought a six-pack of beer and a two-liter bottle of Coke in the hotel store while Arthur called for a pizza delivery. We ate the pizza and watched holiday specials—including the cartoon version of
Frosty the Snowman
. (At the end, Frosty does
not
melt to death. He escapes to the North Pole and lives forever. I wondered what Warren would say about that.)

Jimmy fell asleep right after
Frosty
. As it turned out, that was
exactly what Arthur had been waiting for. He gestured for me to follow him out of the room, so I did. He whispered, “Vengeance time, cuz. The Lord’s vengeance. You down with it?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Do what I do, then. And don’t make a sound.”

“Okay.”

We slipped back through the parking lot like phantoms. Arthur led the way in a straight diagonal line, southeastward, toward Maguire Road. I saw our flatbed truck to the left, but I did not see any sign of Warren inside.

Soon, we were right behind the Boy Scout lot. When we reached the chicken wire, Arthur stretched it back so that there was enough room to squeeze through.

He did, and I followed.

He army-crawled on his elbows, with me copying him, to the back of the men’s porta-potty. My nose twitched at the acrid smell of chemicals from inside it. (I hoped that was all I was smelling.)

Arthur turned and whispered, “Start digging.”

He showed me what he meant. He dug into the sand with a cupped hand and pulled out as much of the sandy dirt as he could. I did the same thing on my side. We worked steadily for about five minutes, carving out a sizable hole beneath the back of the big green coffin-like box.

When Arthur was satisfied that we had dug enough, he slapped at my shoulder. He started back, army-crawling along the same path, so I did, too. We squeezed through the chicken wire and moved, quickly and stealthily, back to our hotel room door. Neither of us made a sound.

The next morning at eight, I stuffed my notebook in my pocket and followed Jimmy and Arthur to the lot. Jimmy rapped on the
window of the truck to wake Warren. He handed Warren a huge cup of coffee.

Arthur and I drifted over to the tree pen. I did a quick count and established that thirty-four trees remained, meaning we had sold sixteen. (It had seemed like more.)

The first sign of life at the Scouts’ lot was the arrival of the Scout master’s SUV. He got out and entered their tree pen. He was holding a huge cup of coffee, too. Arthur and I watched him on and off for about ten minutes. Suddenly Arthur emitted a short, sharp
psst
. He snapped his head in the direction of the Scouts’ lot. I looked and saw that the Scout master was walking rapidly toward the men’s porta-potty.

My eyes focused in on him like binoculars. My heart started to pound. I whispered to myself, “Please. Please do it. Do it.”

And he did.

The big man opened the door of the green box and stepped inside. Just a few seconds later, just long enough for him to pull down his shorts and sit, the green box started to move. It was a slight tipping move at first. We heard a muffled cry, and then the whole thing tilted back crazily.

The cry turned into a yell as the big green box crashed backward down the hill, making a cracking and then a sloshing sound.

Arthur and I both doubled over, laughing hysterically, until we couldn’t breathe. It took a full minute for us to recover enough to look up again. By then the Scout master, his shorts pulled most of the way back up, had pushed up the coffin lid of the porta-potty. He struggled to climb over one side, turning enough to show us a very wet, very suspicious-looking stain on the back of his decorated shirt.

He half crawled up the sandy hill to our side. His face was bright red. He looked right past us and screamed at Warren, “You’ll pay for this!”

Then he turned and stomped away. That stain on his back was suspicious, all right.

Warren watched him go, looking very confused. He motioned for Arthur to come over to the truck, so I followed. “What’s going on? Why’s he yelling?”

Arthur smiled at me. He told Warren, “Uh, I think he had a problem using the rest room facilities.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking it was all those medals on his shirt. You know? Weighing him down?”

“Arthur? What the hell are you talking about?”

Arthur’s smile faded. He tried to explain. “We did the porta-potty.”

Warren’s voice was all business. “What does that mean?”

“We rigged it so the next guy in it would fall over.”

Warren and Jimmy looked over at the toppled green box. Arthur added, “It was payback for last year. For the air horn. We got them back good!”

Arthur tried smiling again, but they were definitely not smiling back.

Warren snapped at him, “Damn it, Arthur! Why did you do that?”

“Like I said—payback, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Warren looked around like he was frightened. He turned toward the hotel room and then toward the truck.

Arthur’s face fell. He whispered in an agonized voice, “Oh no, Warren. You’re holdin’?”

“Shut up.”

Warren turned away. He was soon huddled with Jimmy, whispering.

I asked Arthur, “What? What’s going on?”

“Damn. We should not have done that, cuz. Things are different this year. Warren’s holdin’.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s got drugs on him.”

“What? Where?”

“In the truck. In the room. Both? I don’t know.”

A sheriff’s car arrived before Warren and Jimmy could even formulate a plan. A skinny young guy got out and approached quickly, freezing us all in our places. He stopped when a squawking noise came out of the speaker on his shoulder. He responded to the voice and then just stood still, surveying the scene. The woman deputy from the day before pulled in a minute later.

She walked right up to Warren and informed him, “If what I just heard is right, Mr. Giles, you are looking at a charge of criminal mischief.”

Warren said, “I don’t know what you heard.”

“I thought we had an understanding yesterday. I guess I was wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman deputy scrutinized Warren carefully, especially his eyes. She nodded briefly. Then she pointed back toward the parking area. “Do you mind if I look in your truck?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

Warren replied politely but firmly, “There’s no
why
about it. It’s my truck, and I say you can’t look in it. That’s my right as an American.”

“I got a police dog. He won’t have to go into that truck. He’ll know from out here what’s in it. Do I call for him or not?”

Warren shrugged. “Go ahead and call. I like dogs.”

I could see that the deputy didn’t really want to. She tried again. “I’m just doing my job here, sir. How about some cooperation.”

“I’m doing my job, too, Officer, which is selling Christmas trees, on this lot that I paid good money for. I’ve done nothing wrong, so let me get to work.”

“That’s your final word?”

Warren answered, “That’s my final word.” He walked back and stood with us.

Arthur hung his head and turned away. I think he was crying. The deputy got on her shoulder speaker, and soon a third patrol car pulled in. An officer got out, along with a big German shepherd.

By now about a dozen Scouts and their parents had arrived and were hanging out along the wire fence.

Then something so bizarre, so totally impossible, happened, that I just stood there with my mouth open, failing to comprehend it.

A car pulled into our lot and sat there next to the three police cars.

It was Mom’s Ford Taurus. And Mom got out of it.

She walked, somewhat stiffly, right toward me, her eyes locked onto mine like a laser beam. She got within two feet and stopped. “Get in the car, Tom. Now,” she ordered.

I started to protest. “I … I can’t. I have my stuff in the—”

She cut me off angrily. “Now! I don’t care what you have here. Get in the car.”

I felt scared, like a little kid. I turned to look at the others.
Warren was trying to talk to the policewoman, but she was no longer listening. Jimmy was standing there looking down, just shaking his head. Arthur had fallen to his knees in the dirt; he was definitely crying.