Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,1
Happens—And We Report It.”
“Catchy.”
“It’s actually the slogan for a Buddhist newspaper, so it’s much deeper than it seems.” Two bright lights came up quickly in the rearview mirror, white disks, then turned off abruptly, as if disappearing into the woods. He kept watching, expecting a police car to appear, blue lights flashing in hot pursuit. He would turn around and follow, of course, just like in his reporter days in Portland. He saw nothing. “You know when the last murder was in Red Paint?”
Amy took a long drink from her water bottle. “It must have been before we bought the house—at least ten years.”
“Twenty years ago this week, a biker was shot outside the Mechanic Pub. All that time since without a killing.”
“You sound disappointed.”
Maybe he was. A murder focused the mind of a small town as no other event could. A murder could make people feel like victims and ask what the world was coming to. A murder could make them lock their doors at night. And, of course, people bought papers to read every grisly detail. “It’s just surprising,” he said. “You figure somebody would pick up a loose .22 once in a while to settle an argument.”
The giant Burger World sign came into view, and Amy braced one hand against the dashboard. He turned into the takeout lane with exaggerated slowness, inched up to the large plastic ear, and leaned out the window. “One cheeseburger, well done, and regular fries.”
“Would you like to maxi-size your order for another dollar, sir?” The voice was gentle and soft, a young girl’s voice that he hadn’t heard before. She sounded pretty to him, but he couldn’t say why. He considered making up some reason to go inside to see, a test of his intuition.
“Sir?”
“Yes. I mean no.”
“Okay,” the sweet voice said, “that will be $3.74. Please pull up to the next window. And have a nice night.”
As the Toyota crept forward Amy ducked her head into the middle of the car and called out, “Thank you,” which seemed unnecessary to him, since she wasn’t part of the transaction. But harmless. Just Amy.
“You know …,” she said, settling back into her seat.
“What?”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to be more friendly with people.”
“Which people?”
“The girl back there.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You want me to be more friendly ordering a cheeseburger and fries from a giant clown’s ear?”
“You can be terse sometimes.”
“I’m succinct, not terse. The teenager inside that ear or wherever she is could care less as long as I order quickly. They run on volume here, not friendliness.” Simon took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Does this have anything to do with the FRIENDLIEST TOWN sign? Because you realize that was just a marketing ploy. The Downtown Association dreamed it up to lure small businesses.”
“I’ve just noticed you can sound unpleasant with people. They could get the wrong impression.”
“Unpleasant?” He backed the car down the narrow drive-thru lane and stopped alongside the yellow ear. “Excuse me. Hello?”
“Would you like to change your order, sir?”
“No, I just wanted to ask, when I ordered, did I sound terse to you?”
“Terse?”
He wondered about the word—was it above the comprehension level of a teenager working at Burger World? “Terse or rude,” he said, aiming his words into the bright lemon ear canal. “Was I unpleasant?”
“No, you were okay. You should hear some of the guys. They’re pretty gross.”
Simon rested his arm out the window. “I’m sorry you have to listen to that.”
“Yeah, for seven bucks an hour. But I can get back at them, if I want.”
He pictured her red-painted fingernails grinding roaches into a paste to spread over the burger and squeezing out a dirty sponge into a Coke. A horn blew from behind. “Well,” Simon said, “good luck.”
“Thanks. Your order’s ready now.”
At the pickup window a teenaged boy handed out the black-and-white BW bag, with the familiar grinning cow face on the side. Simon looked in. “She gave us extra ketchup. Lots of it.” As he pulled away he twisted back to call out “Thank you” to the bulky kid, who smiled and waved.
The car bumped along Crescent Street, Red Paint’s perpetually torn-up road, as Amy squeezed a perfect line of ketchup onto a French fry. He always marveled at how steady her hand was. He wondered how many fries she would eat. Invariably he underestimated. She said, “Did you hire your replacement for the pressroom yet?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The guy was in the Red Sox farm system for