Free Jack's Black Book by Jack Gantos

monster, I thought, a deviant fish with no shame.
    I arrived in time to hear him say, “Sing out loud and I can aim for your voice.” Then he held the camera up and wiggled it around. One by one they sang like opera stars and, of course, he took a perfect shot. When they saw the result they “ohhed” and “ahhed” over his ability to capture them right in the middle of the picture. He just smiled brightly and said, “It’s a gift.”
    He had a lot of nerve. I thought I would burst their bubble and tell them about Pete’s 20-20 vision. But when I saw them reach for their wallets I changed my mind.
    â€œThat will be two dollars a picture,” he informed them, and stuck out his hand.
    â€œFor his operation,” I pitched in, and winked.
    â€œI take tips,” Pete announced. They shelled out and drifted away. Before I could pry that money out of his hands he said, “Treat you to a Coke and a Slim Jim.”
    Now, that was impressive. “You’ve definitely evolved,” I said.
    â€œMoney makes you smarter,” he replied. “You should get some.”

Three
    The next morning after I got Pete’s camera loaded up with film and packed him off to work, I strolled along the beach to see if my typewriter had washed up. I figured if I got to it fast enough I could hose the salt and sand out of it before rust set in. But after finding a lost swim fin, an ice chest, and cracked sunglasses I gave up.
    On my way back to my postcard-writing spot I passed a gypsy tent. A sign outside read: WHY SUFFER? TAKE A SHORTCUT TO THE FUTURE. LEARN YOUR MISTAKES WITHOUT HAVING TO PAY FOR THEM THE HARD WAY FIVE BUCKS.
    That was for me. If I was going to make the big money, I needed to get a head start on writing about big disasters headed my way. Little money came from little disasters, and I had plenty of those. Last night Betsy madecrepes suzette, which were vile enough, but they were also hazardous. She poured a bottle of vanilla extract on a heap of ice cream and set it on fire. The bowl got so hot it cracked and the flaming ice cream melted over the table and scorched the varnish. It was really cool-looking when it happened, and we were screaming and laughing, but then the table tipped over onto the bassinet and we just managed to get the baby out before the blanket burst into flames.
    This kind of thing happened all the time, it seemed, but I didn’t think anybody was going to pay me to read about it. Whatever I was going to write about, it had to be worse. A lot worse, and so humiliating no one had ever thought of it before in the history of writing.
    I slapped the side of Madame Ginger’s tent. A cloud of patchouli incense wafted out. “Hello,” I shouted, then began to cough and gag.
    â€œEnter,” she called back. “If you dare.”
    I dared. “Hi,” I wheezed. “I want to see the future.” I set my black book down on her round table, next to her crystal ball, and stuck out my palm. Madame Ginger held it between her smooth hands. She wore a gold-lamé turban and had little diamonds embedded in her long red fingernails.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?” she asked fearlessly.
    She wore mirrored contact lenses, which made her eyes look like polished-chrome ball-bearings. As I stared into them I saw a tiny reflection of my face. “I want to knowabout love and money,” I said, and waved the cloud of incense away from my face so I could breathe.
    â€œAhh,” she sighed, and threw her head back. “The two most important subjects in the world. The cause of all joy and misery.”
    This was perfect.
    She hummed some gypsy Muzak as she charted my palm with a red fine-point marker and drew stars and half-moons and question marks. “You are a writer,” she said.
    I placed my free hand over my black book as if I were taking an oath. “How did you know?” I gushed, and leaned forward.
    â€œIt is