Billy Straight

19

I had a pretty good time today, getting that corn and being left alone. I'll go back to Five, make some plans.

I head back toward the open fence, see someone waving.

The geeky grandparents. Standing right where the road curves off.

The old guy holds up his camera. They're both waving, and the woman calls out, “Young man? Could you help us for a second?”

I don't want to attract attention by running away or acting weird, so I go over to them.

“Hey, big fella,” says the guy. What a dork. He's wearing a Dodgers T-shirt and shorts and socks and shoes and a light blue hat. His skin's pink and he has a big lumpy nose, like the guys at the Sunnyside.

His camera is huge, in a big black case full of buckles and snaps, and his wife's got one just like it.

“Sorry to bother you, my friend, but you seem like a nice guy,” he says, giving me a smile full of yellow teeth.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Polite,” she says, smiling. “Not everyone we've met is polite. I'm sure he can do it, honey.”

He clears his throat and taps his camera case. “This is a Nikon camera from Japan. My wife and I were wondering if you could do us a favor and take a picture of us, so we could have one together.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks a lot, son.” He reaches into his shorts and takes out a dollar bill.

“You don't have to pay me,” I say.

“No, dear, we insist,” says the wife, and even though her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, something changes on her face- just for a second, her mouth turns down. Like she's sad. Full of pity. Like she knows I need the money.

I'm thinking, maybe if I look poor enough, she'll give me more, and I hunch over a little but all she does is pat my hand.

“Take it. Please.”

I pocket the dollar.

“All righty,” he says. “So now we've got a business deal.” More teeth. “Okay, hon, where's the best spot?”

“Right where we were, the sun's perfect.” She points and walks up the hill a bit, stamps her foot, and touches her own camera. Why they need two cameras is a good question, but I guess some people don't trust machines. Or their memory. They probably want to make sure they capture everything they see, maybe to show the grandkids.

She says, “Okay!” Kind of sings it out. She's short, skinny, wears a man's jacket over her Dodgers T-shirt and green pants.

He takes his camera out of his case and gives it to me and goes up next to her. It looks expensive, and I'm nervous holding it.

“Don't worry,” she says. “It's simple, and you look like a smart young man.”

I look at them through the viewfinder. They're too far away, so I come closer.

“It's preset, son,” he says. “Just push the button.”

I push. Nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing.

“What's the matter?” he says.

I shrug. “I pushed it.”

She says, “Oh no, did it jam again?”

“Let me take a look,” he says, coming down again. I give him the camera and he turns it around. “Uh-oh. Same problem.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” she says, stomping her foot. “I told you it was a good idea to bring mine along. When we get back home, first thing I'm doing is going straight back to that dealer and tell him to fix it right this time!”

He gives me an embarrassed smile, like he doesn't like her bossing him around.

She joins us, smelling of some kind of soap. He smells of onions.

“Sorry, sweetie, this will just take a minute,” she says, opening her camera case and taking out… something big and black but not a camera- it's a gun. I can't believe it, and all of a sudden she's jabbing it really hard into my belly button, and I can't breathe and she's pushing it there, like she's trying to force it right through me, and her other hand's around my neck squeezing hard. She didn't look that strong, but she's really strong, and he's holding me, too, pinning my arms to my sides.

They're on both sides of me, like they're my parents and the three of us are a family, only I can't breathe and they're hurting me and she's saying, “Now, just come with us, street trash, and don't make the wrong move or we'll kill you, we really will.”

Smiling again. Not pity, something else- the same look that was all over Moron's face before he went for the tools.

They lead me toward the open fence. They know about it too- not a secret place! I'm so stupid!

Her face is like a mask, but he's breathing hard, excited, his mouth's open, his skin's pink as a pencil eraser, the onion smell's blowing on my face, and they're dragging me toward Five, and he's saying, “You're gonna get done, kid. Like you never been done.”