Free Saving Room for Dessert by K. C. Constantine Page A

Mary Rose? Hold the fries!”
    Mary Rose, hold the fries, Jesus Christ. And last month it was let me take this blow-dryer and go sit in my truck and point
     it at Mr. Matthew Hlebec and Mrs. Ann Hlebec when they come home from work, and shout how they’re exceeding the walkin’ speed
     limit when they get out their cars and walk up on their porch. And write everything down, oh yeah, get it all recorded, absolutely,
     in my little notebook here, times, days, dates, speed of feet on the radar blow-dryer and how many times have they changed
     lanes without putting on their turn signals and how many times has she tailgated, walked too close to her husband for conditions
     … aye-yi-mother-fuck-ing-yi, where do these people come from? More important, where they goin go? Lord, please say they ain’t
     goin’ be with me forever. Please say they ain’t my special honky hell. I need to get Mrs. Romanitsky down here, have her pray
     for these motherfuckers, maybe she knows somebody do an exorcism or some shit, ’cause Lord, you got to know ain’t nothin’
     else worked. Worked, workin’, or goin’ work. Lord, when it comes to these two, you got a ton to answer for.
    Ohhhh man, look there, now why didn’t I stay off this street, what’s that motherfucker goin’ do now? What’s he carryin’? Oh
     shit. A shovel? Motherfucker got a shovel? Oh mannnnnn!
    Rayford pushed the button for his PA. “Mr. Scavelli, put that down, sir! Don’t go there, sir.”
    Oh man, here we go again, sure as God made dog shit, that motherfucker got a shovel full, ohhh got-damn.…
    Rayford jammed the foot brake and rammed it into park, hustled out to get in front of Scavelli, who was walking sideways with
     the shovel angled out to his right and behind him, getting ready apparently to hurl its contents onto the front porch of the
     Hlebecs’ house.
    “Stop right there, sir! Don’t do that!”
    “According to the prophecy, to the ass from where it came out, it shall go back.”
    “Sir, put the shovel down, sir. I’m orderin’ you to stop. Sir, if you throw that over my head, and some of that fall on me?
     I’m goin’ be really upset, sir. I’m goin’ be seriously disturbed. I washed this uniform and pressed it myself, I do not want
     even one molecule of that crap on it, you hear? Sir? Stop right there, and put that down!”
    “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will not tell the Italians, the Italians will tell the coloreds, that’s the way it
     was in the beginning, that’s the way it shall always be.”
    Ohhhh God, here we go with the coloreds again.
    “Sir, I have told you before and I’m goin’ tell you again how we are all brothers and sisters, how we all came out the same
     tribe in Africa, some of us headed north, some of us headed south, some east, some west, but we are from the same mother and
     father—”
    “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will wash out their mouth with soap when they tell lies—”
    “Aw enough with this prophecy noise—gimme that shovel! Now, sir! I’m orderin’ you, give me that shovel!”
    Scavelli screwed up his face haughtily and tried to hand it over blade end first.
    “Aw that’s cute,” Rayford said, recoiling from the stench. “Turn it around, sir. Please?”
    Scavelli turned sideways, sidled up to Rayford, and handed it over without further fuss.
    “There. Now that wasn’t so hard, huh? Was that so hard?”
    “According to the prophecy, the coloreds will carry dog shit for the Italians,” Scavelli said, turning and shuffling back
     toward his house.
    Rayford carried the shovel, a third full of fresh dog droppings, to the storm drain on the corner and hurled the contents
     into it. He took the shovel back to Scavelli’s house, pushed it into the strip of grass between the curb and the sidewalk
     a couple of times to clean it as much as possible and then tried to hand it up to Scavelli, who was now on his porch. Scavelli
     closed his eyes, crossed his arms over