grass and half-eaten dandelions force their way though dirt and broken pieces of concrete.
We turn the corner. Drew stops, tugs on my hand.
I see the signs. They scream at me from every angle of the warehouse’s garage-like front. Most are weathered. All are bold, either in word or graphic or color.
“Birds poop every fifteen minutes. How long have you been standing here?”
“Children left unattended will be given to the Circus.”
“25 mph. Yes, your car can go that slow.”
And my personal favorite:
“In case of a fire. Please exit before tweeting about it.”
Drew laughs at my wide-eyed expression. “Impressive, huh?”
I nod slowly as my eyes work to take in the rest of the property. Hundreds of oversized rusty gear pieces, random cut-off pipe, metal, and rebar. “What is this place?”
A three-legged pit bull hobbles out of the open retractable door, bark-wheezing at us.
“You chasin’ the devil again, Pete?”
A weathered old man I’m certain could double as a deep sea fishing captain, calls after the mutt. The abrupt halt of the man’s shuffling feet and the gasp that leaks from his permanently puckered lips indicate we’ve been discovered. His wrinkled roadmap of a face transforms in an instant. “Drew Culver.”
Drew rushes to meet the old-timer, wraps a strong arm around his back and gives him a man-slap. “Good to see you again, Harve.”
Compared to Drew, Harve looks pocket-sized, shrunken and frail, yet his gap-toothed grin cannot be contained. It’s the face of joy. The kind carved from a lifetime of experience. The kind that’s chosen.
“You made it.” Harve says, beaming. “And you brought a lady friend with you.”
Harve faces me, and Drew’s cheeks brighten to a new shade of pink.
I take a step toward the men and the less than fortunate dog who sits at Harve’s feet, watching me through folds of skin. “Hi. I’m Joss Sanders.”
I offer my hand. Harve’s thick callouses scratch against the inside of my palm. He’s a hard worker. Even at his age. Which has to be eighty-five? Ninety-six? A hundred and ten? I’ve always been bad at guessing games.
“It’s mighty good to meet you, Joss Sanders. I’ve known Drew here since he was toddling around his old pops.” Harve grows silent, and it’s then I realize the connection between these two unlikely souls. Harve and Grandpa Culver were friends. “I think old Bill started bringing you out here to help with the float, well, what? A decade or so ago?”
Drew’s nod is thoughtful, as if he can see each year laid out before him in a colorful calendar spread, each memory, each moment with Grandpa Culver and Harve. His warm, acorn-colored eyes seem to hold a secret, and I hope he’ll share it with me.
“I’ll show you the supplies I’ve gathered. It’s not much, but I have faith you two can come up with something.” Harve pats the outside of his thigh. “Come on, Pete.” The pit bull limps after him obediently.
It’s hard not to stare at this odd couple of dog and man.
Drew bumps my shoulder and winks. “Probably should have given you a little warning, eh? I forgot how…” His eyes comb over the property again. “Unique this place is.”
Unique is one word for it. “No, it’s fine. This will be fun.” If a lie is small enough, simple enough, does it really count as a lie?
His smile answers my momentary moral dilemma.
He touches my arm, squeezes gently. “I’m glad you’re with me. Today would’ve been boring without you.”
Drew turns and follows Harve into the mysterious warehouse, leaving me with no other choice but to do the same.
Chapter Ten
‡
W e trail after Harve in the dusty sanctuary of old car parts, gears, trinkets, and signs. Lots and lots of signs. He stops in front of a back room where a giant heap of “supplies” scatter the concrete floor.
“Here it is.” Harve nods at the mess as if we’re supposed to understand what it is.
Naturally, Drew understands. He walks
We turn the corner. Drew stops, tugs on my hand.
I see the signs. They scream at me from every angle of the warehouse’s garage-like front. Most are weathered. All are bold, either in word or graphic or color.
“Birds poop every fifteen minutes. How long have you been standing here?”
“Children left unattended will be given to the Circus.”
“25 mph. Yes, your car can go that slow.”
And my personal favorite:
“In case of a fire. Please exit before tweeting about it.”
Drew laughs at my wide-eyed expression. “Impressive, huh?”
I nod slowly as my eyes work to take in the rest of the property. Hundreds of oversized rusty gear pieces, random cut-off pipe, metal, and rebar. “What is this place?”
A three-legged pit bull hobbles out of the open retractable door, bark-wheezing at us.
“You chasin’ the devil again, Pete?”
A weathered old man I’m certain could double as a deep sea fishing captain, calls after the mutt. The abrupt halt of the man’s shuffling feet and the gasp that leaks from his permanently puckered lips indicate we’ve been discovered. His wrinkled roadmap of a face transforms in an instant. “Drew Culver.”
Drew rushes to meet the old-timer, wraps a strong arm around his back and gives him a man-slap. “Good to see you again, Harve.”
Compared to Drew, Harve looks pocket-sized, shrunken and frail, yet his gap-toothed grin cannot be contained. It’s the face of joy. The kind carved from a lifetime of experience. The kind that’s chosen.
“You made it.” Harve says, beaming. “And you brought a lady friend with you.”
Harve faces me, and Drew’s cheeks brighten to a new shade of pink.
I take a step toward the men and the less than fortunate dog who sits at Harve’s feet, watching me through folds of skin. “Hi. I’m Joss Sanders.”
I offer my hand. Harve’s thick callouses scratch against the inside of my palm. He’s a hard worker. Even at his age. Which has to be eighty-five? Ninety-six? A hundred and ten? I’ve always been bad at guessing games.
“It’s mighty good to meet you, Joss Sanders. I’ve known Drew here since he was toddling around his old pops.” Harve grows silent, and it’s then I realize the connection between these two unlikely souls. Harve and Grandpa Culver were friends. “I think old Bill started bringing you out here to help with the float, well, what? A decade or so ago?”
Drew’s nod is thoughtful, as if he can see each year laid out before him in a colorful calendar spread, each memory, each moment with Grandpa Culver and Harve. His warm, acorn-colored eyes seem to hold a secret, and I hope he’ll share it with me.
“I’ll show you the supplies I’ve gathered. It’s not much, but I have faith you two can come up with something.” Harve pats the outside of his thigh. “Come on, Pete.” The pit bull limps after him obediently.
It’s hard not to stare at this odd couple of dog and man.
Drew bumps my shoulder and winks. “Probably should have given you a little warning, eh? I forgot how…” His eyes comb over the property again. “Unique this place is.”
Unique is one word for it. “No, it’s fine. This will be fun.” If a lie is small enough, simple enough, does it really count as a lie?
His smile answers my momentary moral dilemma.
He touches my arm, squeezes gently. “I’m glad you’re with me. Today would’ve been boring without you.”
Drew turns and follows Harve into the mysterious warehouse, leaving me with no other choice but to do the same.
Chapter Ten
‡
W e trail after Harve in the dusty sanctuary of old car parts, gears, trinkets, and signs. Lots and lots of signs. He stops in front of a back room where a giant heap of “supplies” scatter the concrete floor.
“Here it is.” Harve nods at the mess as if we’re supposed to understand what it is.
Naturally, Drew understands. He walks
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