Free Clair De Lune by Jetta Carleton

stood up. “Want to tackle Nietzsche again?”
    â€œNah, it’s Friday night,” said George.
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with it?”
    â€œWho wants to be deep on Friday night? I’d rather tackle Judy Garland. Let’s go up to the Osage and see her. I’ve got thirty-five cents. How much you got, Tobe?”
    â€œHalf a buck.”
    â€œI’ve got some money,” Allen said. “Let me run in and get it.”
    â€œWe got enough for popcorn?” George said as they went down the steps.
    â€œWe’ll manage.”
    They detoured across a lawn, and took a shortcut through a lot where a house had burned down long ago. Jumping onto the stone foundation, they followed-the-leader all the way around and back to the street, toward town. As they turned onto Center Street, George stopped in his tracks.
    â€œSmell that!” The bakery was only two blocks away. “I’m starved.”
    â€œYou’re always starved,” said Allen. “Didn’t you have any supper?”
    â€œWe didn’t have any dessert. Let’s go get a pie.”
    â€œCan’t,” said Toby. “Not if you want to popcorn with Judy Garland.”
    â€œA pie—a big, sloppy goddam pie. Breathe in!”
    The mingled odors of butter and yeast, cinnamon, warm sugar, lemon and clove. Judy Garland hadn’t a chance.
    At the back door, which always stood open, the warmth from the bakery kitchen drifted into the alley. Inside, pastries fresh from the oven lay in rows on the long tables—cakes and sweet buns, thin brittle cookies, and muffins fat with raisins and nuts, cherries and apples steaming through lattice crusts, and cream pies hidden under gold-tipped meringue. The vote went for banana cream. Holding it carefully in a white paper sack, they carried it out to the curb.
    â€œLet’s take it to the park,” said Allen.
    â€œToo far,” said George. “We could drop it.”
    â€œHey,” said Toby, “how we gonna eat this? We can’t cut a pie with our fingers.”
    â€œUse your pocket knife,” said Allen.
    â€œI lost it.”
    â€œGeorge?”
    â€œI got a pocket comb.”
    â€œWe should have bought cookies. Maybe we can trade it in.”
    â€œOver my dead body.”
    â€œThen we’ll just have to go back to my place.”
    â€œThat’s too easy.”
    Toby was scowling down the street. “Follow me.”
    They followed him back downtown and into a side street. The lights of the bus station glimmered through the plate-glass windows. Leaving George with the pie—“And don’t eat it!”—Toby and Allen crossed the street to the lunchroom. The waiter sat at one end of the counter, reading a newspaper. He rose as they came in. “Hy’re you folks tonight?”
    They said they were fine and slid onto the stools.
    â€œYawl want to see a menu?” he said, filling water glasses.
    Toby said they did. They studied them as they drank the water.
    â€œYawl from around here?”
    â€œJust passin’ through,” said Toby. “How’s the trout tonight?”
    â€œWe don’t have no trout tonight.”
    â€œNo trout?”
    â€œâ€™Fraid not.”
    â€œDoggone. I’d heard you could get real good trout in this town.”
    â€œMaybe you can some places. We don’t ordinarily have it here. Have catfeesh sometimes. Don’t have none tonight.”
    â€œWell, golly. I’d been looking forward to some good trout. Hadn’t you?” He turned to Allen.
    â€œHad my mouth all set.”
    The waiter grinned. “You kids serious about this?”
    â€œNo hay!” said Toby. “We come from over in Kansas where there’s not such good fishin’. Maybe we could get some trout on down at Neosho.”
    â€œEver’thang’ll be closed down there, time you get there.”
    â€œGuess we’ll take our