I don’t want to open my eyes now. But I do, and I find I’m sitting on the bench alone.

  Look left. Look right. No one. Just the statue of Mary.

  I run around the church. No one. I run home and grab my shovel from the front porch and go to the sewer drain. I try to take the grate off it again, but it’s bolted down.

  This makes no sense.

  So much of my life makes no sense.

  * * *

  I think about going to watch baseball with Mike. We’ve been doing it pretty regularly and I was right about him being my only friend here. I don’t want to see Mike, though. I want to find The Freak.

  I walk my shovel back to the nearby rich area—it’s a little town on the edge of this city with a fountain on its Main Street and a big park. Maybe she’s here. Maybe she’s rich. I walk around for a few hours, and when people look at me sideways because of the shovel, I just start pretending to shovel with it. Why not, right? I have existence. I can do whatever I want.

  Gottfried’s Big Decision

  Gottfried and Marla had three kids and one on the way. It was 1980. Not a great time for Gottfried’s business to fail, but fail it did—after six years of hard work. Businesses fail. That’s what Marla kept telling him. Businesses fail. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s always a risk to be self-employed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

  But Gottfried felt shame all over. They needed a bigger house and a bigger life. Marla was sick a lot with this pregnancy and he had to provide. He didn’t tell her that he’d pissed away most of his savings trying to keep the business going. He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t saved for the tax bill. Bankruptcy was a word he didn’t want to think about, but there was no way he could pay the bills he’d racked up.

  He hovered around the house like a ghost for a whole month before Marla made him tell her everything. It was worse than the robins. Worse than anything Gottfried had ever witnessed—the death of everything they’d worked so hard for.

  “You spent the savings?” Marla said.

  “Yes.”

  “You got a second loan on the house?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Marla picked up the nearest thing to her—a tea towel with exotic birds printed on it—and started to hit Gottfried over the head with it. “You stupid man. You stupid, stupid, stupid man!”

  “I can figure this out,” he said.

  She kept hitting him with the tea towel and she started to cry. This went on for some time. In Gottfried’s mind, Marla hit him with the bird towel for what seemed like twenty years. In reality, it was only until four-year-old Harry arrived in the kitchen.

  “Why’s Mommy crying?”

  “Don’t know, son.”

  “Mommy?”

  Marla kept crying and hitting, though Gottfried had moved out of range and the tea towel was only hitting the table now.

  Finally, Marla said, “Harry, go get your sisters.”

  Harry left the room and Marla turned to her husband and said, “I guess starting tomorrow you’re a potato farmer again. Call your father. Call your brother.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes. You can,” Marla said. The rest of the sentence went unsaid. The rest of the sentence was the same threat Marla’d been rightfully issuing since Gottfried’s business started its downward turn two children ago.

  * * *

  A week later, Gottfried was in a barn full of harvested potatoes. The smell made him gag. Dirt made him gag. Wearing blue jeans and boots made him gag. Knowing his farm-loving brother had more money saved than he did made him gag. Looking at the old farmhouse that could easily fit four children made him gag. He kept telling himself that men did what they had to do to survive. But even that made him gag.

  He couldn’t tell Marla about the deal he’d made with his brother and father. He lied and said he had part ownership of the farm—a rightful share. Really, he was earning a higher-than- usual wage for being general manager. Gottfried wanted a better position. More responsibility. More money.

  “Things have changed,” his brother said to him. “You need to work here at least a month. It’s not like it was when we were kids. Things were different.”

  This was true. His brother, John, had purchased equipment for harvesting and packaging that didn’t exist when Gottfried had last worked the family farm as a teenager. He almost caught his fingers in the new packaging machine the day John showed him how it worked.

  Both brothers knew the whole thing was a bad idea.

  In only two months, Gottfried took over as head bookkeeper.

  In only one year, he’d made so many intentional mistakes that the business was approaching legal trouble. He “forgot” to pay the right amount of tax. He “forgot” to pay into the state’s unemployment. He got letters from the government and threw them away without opening them—gagging the whole time. Never throwing up, but always gagging.

  Gottfried had wanted to be a good businessman. He’d wanted to be a good son. But he tossed both things aside to be a good father and a good husband. He told himself, A man can’t be good at everything.

  * * *

  By the time the government came to the farm, Gottfried’s fourth child was a year old. By the time the government came to the farm, Gottfried’s brother had started an affair with the girl who worked in the shipping department.

  When their father called him on the loud intercom that ran throughout the farm buildings, Gottfried knew what it was about. He arrived to the office where John and their sister, Gretchen, were already sitting. And his mother, too, uncontrollably crying.

  “What the hell are you trying to do?” his father asked.

  Gottfried shrugged and played stupid.

  “A man can’t fuck up the books this bad and not mean to.”

  He shrugged again.

  “John worked his whole life on this farm. You just piss it away like it’s nothing?”

  “John’s fucking the Mexican girl from shipping. What’s her name?” Gottfried said. He sighed. “At least I can keep my marriage in order.”

  John looked at the floor. Gretchen looked at Gottfried. No one said anything.

  A week later they all decided it would be best to sell the farm. They split the land four ways—150 acres apiece—so each could choose to do with their cut what they wanted.

  Gottfried felt successful in business for the first time in his life.

  CanIHelpYou?: the Shoveler

  The alleys are dark and no one is around this time of night pretty much. The pub has closed and the faux-British people will crawl back into their beds and sleep it off and then wake up and post their selfies from the night before on their social media pages and say what a great night they had. They will eventually stop at my Drive-Thru window and use the word gimme. They will eventually yell at Ian for buying them the wrong size container of organic heavy cream.

  We get to the park, and I see the shoveler again.

  “Does he ever stop?” Ian asks.

  “I want to talk to him.”

  Ian laughs. It’s a giggle, really. High-pitched and laced.

  “I’m serious. I want to find out his deal.”

  “Dude. No. Trust me.”

  “I just want to talk.” I don’t know what I’ll say, though.

  Ian keeps walking toward the park. I stop and watch the kid with the shovel.

  When I get about ten feet away, he looks up and says, “You’re not her.”

  I don’t know if he really said that because part of me is still hallucinating quite a bit. I say, “Hi.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Who?”

  “The Freak.”

  “I’m a freak.”

  “You’re not her.”

  I nod as if what he said makes sense even though it doesn’t. “Can I ask what’s with the shovel?”

  He looks down at the shovel as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “I’m tunneling.”

  I stare at him. He stares at me. Locked eyes.

  “Me too,” I say, but I’ve never tried a shovel. Maybe it’s the way out. Maybe I should carry a shovel.

  He says, “If you see her, tell her I’m looking.”

  “Okay,” I say. I back away and over toward Ian.

  “See you around,” he says.

  “I hope you find her,” I say. But really I hope he finds me and I can be his freak. It’s not that he’s super attractive or anything. I mean, he’s okay. It’s not about looks. I’m on acid. Everyone is beautiful. This was deeper. Something deeper than anything.

  He’s tunneling.

  I’m tunneling.

  We’re bound to meet again. Probably underground.

  Loretta Likes Scabs

  Flea bites are a doddle. That’s how Loretta Lynn sees it. A few little scabs are worth the joy she gets from the circus. She lets them feed on her twice a day, every day, arms, legs, torso. She encourages them to mate and lay eggs. More performers. A bigger act. She has enough blood to feed them all if they can get her out of there one day. And when she picks the scabs, she feels a sort of relief she can’t describe.

  Gerald has refused to rehearse since the rebellion. Tomorrow is school, and Loretta doesn’t look forward to that. She can’t touch herself in class, and the bathrooms aren’t really great for that sort of thing. Sometimes she goes to the nurse’s office and lies on the cot to get her fill. It’s not easy having needs like this.

  Fact: If Loretta Lynn doesn’t orgasm at least four times per day, then she will probably die.

  Her flea circus is locked up in its lunch box. The speaker Loretta got for her birthday—the Bluetooth kind—is still turned on and from the bed Loretta can see the blue light. Rather than get up and turn it off, she reaches for her knockoff iPod and finds her favorite song. It’s the closing song for the act, and she hopes that inside the lunch box the performers are rehearsing just by hearing the bass line. Reggae is Loretta’s thing. Her parents—clearly country and western fans—are not fans of reggae, which makes Loretta happier to play it. They don’t know about the circus. They have scabs, too, but Loretta pretends she has nothing to do with it. They never look inside her lunch box. They’ve never asked.

  They blame the RV camp for having bugs. The landlord comes to fumigate once a month. This is why Loretta takes her lunch box to school every day. Just in case.

  CanIHelpYou?: Acid Hangovers Are the Worst

  Ian calls me on Sunday afternoon.

  “Acid hangovers are the worst,” he says.

  “What time is it?” I ask this because my eyes are still closed and I don’t plan on opening them any time soon.

  “Three.”

  I try to remember if I’m on the schedule today. I think I am. Four to eight. “Shit. I have to work.”

  “Call off sick.”

  “Can’t.” I have clients. Clients come to the Drive-Thru on Sundays.

  “I have to write that comparison paper for English,” he says. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Me too. Shit.”

  “You’ll get it done. Anyway—”

  “I didn’t even read the fucking books, dude. How can I compare them if I haven’t read them?” I ask. “Look. I gotta go. I’ll call you later. Fuck.”

  I hang up and go to the bathroom. Pee. Stare at the towels and they don’t breathe. I brush my teeth, but my mouth still feels wrong. I floss the shit out of every single tooth. I now have the cleanest teeth in the universe.

  Did you know plaque is considered a living thing?

  Not kidding. It fits all the criteria to be a living thing. Plaque. It’s millions of tiny bacteria living in your mouth. They shit on your teeth. They shit on your teeth.

  And people think I don’t listen in class.

  * * *

  Mom and Dad are nowhere in the house when I finally get downstairs. I need a ride. It’s raining.

  There’s no note on the kitchen table. There’s no texts on my phone. Mom and Dad may have finally given up on me. I can’t stop thinking about Ian and me kissing last night. Probably good that my parents have given up on me, then.

  I weigh out my Sunday sales and bag them. Mostly eighths, which is the stupidest way to buy weed, but people are people and who am I to judge? They’re helping me save for a car so I can be free of this place. I dig through the hall closet for an umbrella. I find the only coat I own that will repel water—something Mom bought me years ago that’s too girly and too preppy. But it’ll keep the rain off.

  * * *

  “You’re late,” Len says. He looks like he has an acid hangover, too. But it’s probably just a regular hangover. He and Nelle, the co-owner and his wife, drink a lot. If there is a god, I’d like to put in my request now for bald Len at forty to be abandoned completely by Nelle, who is actually pretty fucking cool.

  “Hangover. Be nice,” I say.

  He smiles and shakes his head. I am his Drive-Thru guru. He knows I’m only a few minutes late. He knows I walked because I’m in his office to drop off my soaking umbrella and hang up my stupid, wet preppy coat.

  I have my station ready in under a minute. First customer is a Gimme.

  “Yeah, gimme a turnover and a milkshake.”

  “Apple or cherry?”

  “Apple.”

  “What flavor milkshake?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Your total’s four sixty.” I don’t even add something snappy. It hurts to reach up to the turnover shelf. I nearly drop the turnover on the floor because I don’t have enough strength in my hand to pick it up with the pair of plastic tongs. I’m slow making the shake, too. I need to get my shit together before dinner rush. Sundays can be hell. Sometimes buses stop here on their way back from Philadelphia.

  I finish the order and no one else is waiting. I stand with my back to the Drive-Thru window and look out to the registers. Barbara is working #1 and Young Jack is working #2. We call him Young Jack because he’s our baby here at fifteen. I’m supposed to train him into Drive-Thru in a few weeks and I don’t think he’ll be able to handle it. I look farther into the restaurant—people eating their early dinners or late lunches or just a dessert.

  Something is different today.

  I’m different today.

  Young Jack says something to Barbara about the kid with the shovel. About him walking around town last night. “Kid’s a freak,” he says.

  “He’s not a freak,” I say.

  “You know him?”

  “Kinda.”

  “My dad says he’s crazy. Like for real.”

  “He’s not crazy.”

  Len walks through with his can of hairspray headed for the men’s room. “Why isn’t anyone making coffee?” he asks.

  Young Jack says, “I don’t know how.”

  “I’ll teach him,” I say. Len nods.

  As I show Jack around the coffee machine and explain that he always has to use cold water, he says, “You should stay away from that kid. Seriously. You have to be safe.”

  Our Young Jack is so kind. “I’ll be fine. He’s not dangerous. Your dad is paranoid.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Yeah. Paranoid. Gotcha. Now all you have to do is press that orange button.”

  He presses the orange button. I make a mental note to never offer Young Jack a joint or anything else like that. Cops’ sons are usually badasses, but sometimes it takes a while.

  * * *

  My regular Sunday clients arrive right on time between five and six thirty.

  They always say please and thank you. It’s a rule. Manners in trade for Drive-Thru weed convenience. Always a meal with potato cakes so they take a while because we always run out of hot potato cakes during dinner hour. I slip their orders into their bags. They slip the cash into my hand, and I make it disappear into my bra before I get to the cash register to ring up their food.

  Young Jack nearly catches me one time, my hand still down my shirt. I clear his puzzled face by saying, “Bras, man. Be happy you’re a guy.”

  Jake & Bill score convenient weed

  Bill Marks is skeptical.

  “I’m serious,” Jake says. “The bitch works the Drive-Thru and all you have to do is order potato cakes and say please.”

  “Can’t be true,” Bill says. “She’d have sold to a cop by now.”

  “I told you. You have to arrange it first.”

  “And you arranged it?” Bill asks.

  “Yeah. She said to come today between five and six.” Jake looks at his brother like he’s losing patience. Bill always treats him like some sort of kid, and yet Jake is the one who’s been scoring the weed for two whole years. It took him three weeks to find a new connection and Bill doesn’t seem to appreciate the struggle.

  Bill pulls up to the speaker and it says, “Welcome to Arby’s Drive-Thru, would you like to try our new mango-and-pineapple smoothie today?”

  “Gimme potato cakes,” Bill says. “Large.”

  Jake yells, “Please!” from the passenger’s seat.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, please,” Bill says. He rolls his eyes.

  “That’s two forty. Come to the second window.”

  Bill looks at Jake and then beyond him to search the parking lot for cops.