this. Here’s what Blondell wrote:
“Life is phony with baloney
From the start till it’s done;
Gold or tatters, neither matters,
For the strife of Life is fun!”
“Thanks, Juanita,” I said, starting down the metal stairs. “Jeremy might appreciate hearing it.”
“Hey,” she said. “Joan Blondell’s right.”
I could sense her on the sixth-floor landing, leaning over, watching me, listening to my footsteps rattle downward.
“The spit is sharp and purple,” she called and her voice echoed through the six floors to the skylight. “It’s coming soon.”
I headed for the grocery with Mrs. Plaut’s list. Back in October, a woman named Fannie Rager in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, tried to fill out a ration-application blank. She tried, failed, and hanged herself. I knew how she felt, but I protected myself by turning over all my rationing paperwork to Mrs. Plaut. She loved filling out the forms and adding comments to the Ration Board in the margins. Sometimes she wrote in family recipes or advice on nutrition.
I had the ration stamps in my pocket and the list in my hand as I went down the aisles with a bag. I was reaching for a can of peaches when the can spat at me. A hole suddenly appeared in the can and syrup shot out of the hole. I jumped right and just missed getting syruped.
I looked around to see if someone had witnessed this miracle, but I was the only one in the aisle. I found myself looking at a sign for Campbell’s Vegetable Soup. A cartoon balloon was next to the picture of a round rosy-cheeked Campbell Kid wearing ice skates. The balloon announced, “I’m pretty spry as you can see ’cause there’s good soup inside of me!”
There was also peach syrup on the Campbell Kid’s face.
When the spray stopped, I reached for the punctured can and looked at the hole. It looked like a purple tuft of cotton was plugging the hole, trying to keep back the flow of syrup. The can was sticky. The hole was narrow, but something just barely protruded from it. I grasped the tuft of whatever it was with two fingers and tugged at it. It came out easily, attached to a sharp pointed sliver of wood about five inches long.
“What happened here?” a voice said behind me.
I turned to face a skinny teenager with freckles wearing an apron. He was looking at the puddle of syrup on the floor and at the can in my hand.
“I think someone just tried to kill me with a blowgun,” I said, holding up the needle-shaped piece of wood.
“Like so much Wheatena!” the boy said angrily. “You were sucking out the juice, and you were gonna put the can back on the shelf turned around.”
“Does that happen?” I asked.
“Even crazier things, and I have to clean it up. You’re paying for those peaches, mister. I hope you’ve got the cash and the stamps.”
I dropped the little dart in my shopping basket and started toward the front of the store, being careful not to slip in the pool of syrup.
“I plan to tell Mr. Jerinetta about this,” the kid said behind me.
At the front of the store, I looked around hoping to see someone suspicious, particularly a Pathfinder with a blowgun. I moved along looking down each aisle. There were about a dozen customers, none of whom seemed to fit the bill.
“Did a kid just run out of here?” I asked the cashier, a string-bean of a woman with a red ribbon in her dyed blond hair.
“Someone ran out,” she said. “Might have been a kid. I wasn’t really looking. Gladys, you see someone run out of here a few minutes ago?”
Gladys, dark, chubby and a kid herself, was the cashier on the other aisle.
“No,” Gladys said.
I put my groceries on the counter in front of the woman and looked out the store window. I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“This stuff is sticky,” she said, touching the container of Old Dutch Cleanser.
“Peach syrup,” I explained. “Someone tried to kill me with a dart, probably poisoned. Hit the peach can, instead.”
I held up the dart.
She
“Life is phony with baloney
From the start till it’s done;
Gold or tatters, neither matters,
For the strife of Life is fun!”
“Thanks, Juanita,” I said, starting down the metal stairs. “Jeremy might appreciate hearing it.”
“Hey,” she said. “Joan Blondell’s right.”
I could sense her on the sixth-floor landing, leaning over, watching me, listening to my footsteps rattle downward.
“The spit is sharp and purple,” she called and her voice echoed through the six floors to the skylight. “It’s coming soon.”
I headed for the grocery with Mrs. Plaut’s list. Back in October, a woman named Fannie Rager in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, tried to fill out a ration-application blank. She tried, failed, and hanged herself. I knew how she felt, but I protected myself by turning over all my rationing paperwork to Mrs. Plaut. She loved filling out the forms and adding comments to the Ration Board in the margins. Sometimes she wrote in family recipes or advice on nutrition.
I had the ration stamps in my pocket and the list in my hand as I went down the aisles with a bag. I was reaching for a can of peaches when the can spat at me. A hole suddenly appeared in the can and syrup shot out of the hole. I jumped right and just missed getting syruped.
I looked around to see if someone had witnessed this miracle, but I was the only one in the aisle. I found myself looking at a sign for Campbell’s Vegetable Soup. A cartoon balloon was next to the picture of a round rosy-cheeked Campbell Kid wearing ice skates. The balloon announced, “I’m pretty spry as you can see ’cause there’s good soup inside of me!”
There was also peach syrup on the Campbell Kid’s face.
When the spray stopped, I reached for the punctured can and looked at the hole. It looked like a purple tuft of cotton was plugging the hole, trying to keep back the flow of syrup. The can was sticky. The hole was narrow, but something just barely protruded from it. I grasped the tuft of whatever it was with two fingers and tugged at it. It came out easily, attached to a sharp pointed sliver of wood about five inches long.
“What happened here?” a voice said behind me.
I turned to face a skinny teenager with freckles wearing an apron. He was looking at the puddle of syrup on the floor and at the can in my hand.
“I think someone just tried to kill me with a blowgun,” I said, holding up the needle-shaped piece of wood.
“Like so much Wheatena!” the boy said angrily. “You were sucking out the juice, and you were gonna put the can back on the shelf turned around.”
“Does that happen?” I asked.
“Even crazier things, and I have to clean it up. You’re paying for those peaches, mister. I hope you’ve got the cash and the stamps.”
I dropped the little dart in my shopping basket and started toward the front of the store, being careful not to slip in the pool of syrup.
“I plan to tell Mr. Jerinetta about this,” the kid said behind me.
At the front of the store, I looked around hoping to see someone suspicious, particularly a Pathfinder with a blowgun. I moved along looking down each aisle. There were about a dozen customers, none of whom seemed to fit the bill.
“Did a kid just run out of here?” I asked the cashier, a string-bean of a woman with a red ribbon in her dyed blond hair.
“Someone ran out,” she said. “Might have been a kid. I wasn’t really looking. Gladys, you see someone run out of here a few minutes ago?”
Gladys, dark, chubby and a kid herself, was the cashier on the other aisle.
“No,” Gladys said.
I put my groceries on the counter in front of the woman and looked out the store window. I saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“This stuff is sticky,” she said, touching the container of Old Dutch Cleanser.
“Peach syrup,” I explained. “Someone tried to kill me with a dart, probably poisoned. Hit the peach can, instead.”
I held up the dart.
She
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