Free Just North of Nowhere by Lawrence Santoro Page A

said.
    “And that place is a pretty good place for putting things. You know? Winters.”
    “It creates eddies in the lines of power,” she said. “And I want it down.”
    Well, even if she was an Italian lady and strange, she was okay. She worked side-by-side with him, taking down the shed, got as sweaty and dirty as he did. They squeaked rusty nails out of the wood together, pulled boards down, tore apart the old carnie pictures. Together they banged off the rusty De Kalb Corn sign and pretty soon the damned shed was gone. Shame.
    Krista—whatever her name was, even helped drag all that crap up the hill to burn it. She stood mumbling as it went into smoke. Then she made him good grub for a week of eating for his work! Funny stuff, but it ate good.
    No, she was all right, the Italian lady Crista-whatever. Started off pure terrorist, her sneaking into town at the ass-end of a good lightning storm. Car stalls on the bridge, middle of the night, then – couple days later – there she is: living in the old chippy’s place on Slaughterhouse Way like real people.
    There was the radio, too.
    Less than a week after the bike showed up and long before he and Crista-whatever tore down the shack, Vinnie Erikson had come by asking Bunch if he could tune-up the town prowler. Which he did and for which Vinnie swapped him that pretty good bigass radio some terrorist had left behind and all it needed was some damn batteries and a little fiddling!
    Vinnie gave him the car work just to piss off Einar up at the Former Amoco – Vinnie was like that and Bunch knew it – but what the hell? Bunch had done a good job and got a good radio for it, Einar got a good ass-pain he could growl about for months at the Eats, mornings, at the Wagon Wheel, nights, and Vinnie had a smooth-running prowler and the satisfaction of messing with Einar.
    Everyone won.
    Bunch naturally tied the radio to his bikebars and up and down town he went. Smart move, he figured later. His musical radio reminded folks they wanted stuff done; worked like those ads selling soda pop and cars between TV innings over at the Wagon Wheel. People heard music coming up the street, some thought, “Bunch is here!” Some might say, “Oh, there's that Bunch. Wonder if I can get him to root out my cellar, there?” Bunch had to congratulate himself over that one.
    Then, uh-oh, one night, the damn bike vanished. Right from where he left her: there in front of the Wagon Wheel. First, Bunch thought maybe the owner had snuck back from wherever and re-claimed it.
    “If so, that's okay,” Bunch said to the Rolling River, walking home at three in the damn morning. “Free rides and public relations, damn it, that's what I had, most of a summer!” Bastard could have left the radio, he figured, but what the hell, it was gone and that was it!
    The year was twisting the town under night skies. Each day, morning shadows eased more toward where Papoose Creek joined the Rolling. Trees went puny without leaves. One night, the grass lay down with the dew and stayed down in next morning’s sun. Worms and grubs didn't much come up for the birds anymore, so the birds left. Those that stayed, their songs changed: songs everywhere changed, bird, bug, and wind though the bridge-boards and wires, the river's voice along by where he slept, it was all changing.
    And that house across the creek stood out more and more, now the leaves were gone and the wood creepers gone brown and scrawny. Not in the woods nor quite out, the place looked like a kitten too stupid to all-the-way hide itself, hunting. Pathetic, Bunch reckoned. Day or night, it stood out dark. Except when it showed a little light inside, nights.
    Bunch wished the place would just be gone like it had come: one night there, next day not. Like his bike— instead of his bike!
    Then Vinnie Erikson comes down to the bridge, sunrise, yelling, “Bunch. Bunch...you there, Bunch?” Vinnie's Sam Browne cop belt creaking and all the cop stuff hanging