Free Drowning of Stephan Jones by Bette Greene Page A

the crazy impression that he knew exactly what barbecued food was: a glob of sauce from a bottle that made meat taste as though it had been globbed with sauce from a bottle. But now that he was becoming a true-blue Arkansan, he realized at long last how very little he had known. As soon as he entered the small, savory-smelling storefront restaurant, he saw that the take-out line was at least twice as long as usual. Over the take-out window was a sign pencil-written on lined notebook paper: “Sorry we have short hands today ’cause of the ice storm that is a-coming so please be patient.”
    Stephan smiled at the sign and thought how lucky for Jimmy Joe that he was so great at cooking, because the chance that anyone would ever pay him for his writing was at least a zillion times less than zero. But the next thing he thought was that he didn’t have time to waste standing in line, not with all the refinishing, regluing, and restoring waiting for him back at the shop. So, in spite of the fact that the barbecue was a near work of art, he decided to go where the food might not be all that good, but at least he could get it good and quick.
    Inside the Pizza Pad, the aroma of tomato sauce and oreganocaptured the senses. That, along with the unbridled cheers from three high school seniors playing an obviously engrossing electronic fight game.
    “A large mushroom and olive pizza with extra cheese and a couple of bags of chips to go please,” Stephan called out to a guy wearing a uniform with the red lettering, CHRIS over his right pocket.
    As he waited for his order, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left and back again, Stephan chided himself for not thinking to bring along the Little Rock Gazette , which was delivered six mornings a week to the shop. It always gave his spirits a special boost when he read that the Boston Celtics or the New England Patriots had actually won one; but when he was forced to read about one of their losses, well, it just hung a kind of pit-of-the-stomach gloom over his whole day. No, he thought, it was probably just as well he had not brought the paper along. Stephan wandered over to watch the action at one of the video games, where two full-color cartoonish characters in a ring were relentlessly slugging the living computer chips out of each other. “Block him, Spider! Block! Block! To the head!” young male voices called out encouragingly to the lean and lanky kid who groaned and grunted over the simulated excitement of the video.
    “Hey! Hey! Well, well, looky who’s here!” said a voice inches from Stephan’s ear. He turned his head and without meaning to—and certainly without wanting to—he let his jaw drop. Glaring at him was that sneering guy from the hardware store. Andy Harris smiled at Stephan Jones from only one corner of his mouth. “Hey ... how you getting along, ol’ buddy?”
    Stephan nodded his head. “Oh, okay thanks,” he mumbled as he retreated back to the counter just in time to see a golden pizza lavishly sprinkled with black olive slices emerge triumphantly from the oven.
    As Stephan, with boxed pizza in hand, closed the door ofthe store behind him, he wondered how it was possible for the weather to change so dramatically in the fifteen minutes that he had been inside. Now the sky was an icy, glassy blue, and it was almost as though God were playing the role of a great scenic designer in the sky. One glance heavenward and anyone could quickly understand that the entire celestial stage was being readied for some epic event.
    When did the streets become so totally deserted? Had everybody already made it home before the approaching ice storm? The heat of the pizza penetrated the bottom of the paper box and Stephan wondered if he wasn’t carrying the world’s most flavorful hand warmer.
    “Hey, you—hey, wait up a sec!” called out Andy as he, the Ironman, and the Spider lumbered briskly toward him. Stephan gave a half-turn, just enough to catch sight of