Free Almost Everything Very Fast by Almost Everything Very Fast Christopher Kloeble Page B

from farm to farm in order to suck up the fresh milk with a hose like an elephant’s trunk and deliver it to the creameries in the uplands, his feet jammed the pedal all the way to the floor. These impatient feet of his had made him the quickest, most cost-effective driver in eleven towns; their distaste for the brake pedal meant that the milk didn’t slosh around, keeping it from going bad on the way. Today, however, Tobi’s truck was nowhere to be seen.
    His second “Freddie” had the same effect as the first, which is to say, none whatsoever. Tobi circled Fred, ran his hand across his freckled face, scratched his neck. The heat was getting to him. His feet writhed in their loafers as he stepped closer to Fred, clapped one hand to his pursed lips, and let out an ululation— “U-U-U!” —waited a moment, then repeated the whole operation: “U-U-U!”
    Albert knew it was time for him to step in, he ought to go over and send Tobi home, clearly, directly, no two ways about it. “Go sleep it off, fella,” something like that, and then, once Tobi had absented himself, Albert would take Fred by the hand, no, in his arms, and say he was sorry for leaving him alone so long and, most important, offer him some sort of reward for all the strain he’d suffered—for example, pancakes with raspberry jam.
    And just at that moment, Fred raised his hand to his mouth, and went, “U-U-U!” Tobi nodded, his feet formed themselves into an arrow aimed in Fred’s direction, and he replied, “U-U-U!” Now they took turns, and Albert closed his eyes and clutched the makeup compact in his pocket. To Albert, Fred’s voice sounded euphoric, like that of a child who’s unexpectedly come across a playmate.
    But Tobi’s strained laughter made Albert uneasy; he thought better of his impulse to rush over, for the time being. He was no match for Tobi.
    Tobi slapped Fred in the face. Which didn’t immediately stop the U-U-U s. They merely slowed for a moment, then took up their previous tempo again, a few halftones higher, clearly in hopes that this new friend had intended something other than the obvious by the gesture—a nice pat on the cheek, maybe. “U-U-U,” went Fred, and Tobi’s feet pointed at him again, and then came the second slap, right to the middle of Fred’s face, and he fell silent. The Tyrolean hat sailed off his head. Fred’s lips trembled, he mumbled something Albert couldn’t make out, but which he supposed was an apology, because this last one had been, unmistakably, a slap, and anyone who gets hit in the face has clearly done something wrong, has been bad. Fred let his hands, his head, his shoulders sink, his whole body melt, and Tobi, whose feet were now merrily dancing, moving closer to each other with every step, slapped him again, this time with his left hand—pasted him so powerfully that Fred lurched sideways.
    Ludwigstrasse was an unfrequented strip of tar in an isolated backwater. Where were the cars when you needed them? Albert was hoping Fred would resist, but he was also a little frightened of what would happen if he did. More than a little. Again he peeped around the corner of the Dumpster, and this time saw that Tobi, who had just swung for the fourth time, was waving his arm in the air like a schoolboy keen to give an answer. Tobi was looking straight at Albert. Just then Fred took a step toward Tobi, and stopped. The tip of Fred’s nose was nearly grazing the truck driver’s cheek, there was something almost conspiratorial about the way the two were standing. Fred whispered something that caused Tobi to lower his hand again. His feet had stopped moving. Relieved, Albert drew a deep breath, forced himself to let go of the makeup compact, and hoped Tobi would finally retreat.
    “That’s your dad,” said Tobi to Albert, soberly.
    To Albert, that dad sounded like dead.
    “That’s your dad,” Tobi repeated, “isn’t he?” Fred was half-hidden behind Tobi, whose loafers were pointing at