All winter, Fiedelbaum could not let go of the telephone company idea. He began to collect supplies; scrounging supplies was the more accurate term. Although his father made the best ice-cream products for miles around, Waldheim was a small market, and there wasn't much money to spread around, so his allowance wasn't lucrative. His muscles had the tone of the unexercised and weren't any good at shoveling grain to make a few extra dollars. In fairness, helping his father make ice cream revels wasn't conducive to building muscles.
During the winter, he obtained permission from the lineman, to attach his line to the existing telephone poles. "Make sure your lines are high enough, so horses and machinery don't get tangled in it," was all he said.
When he saw some batteries in the corner of the office, Fiedelbaum asked where he could get batteries. "You have to go to Saskatoon to get them," Mr. Epp said. "The batteries in the corner may have some juice left in them, but they are likely dead. If they are any use, you can have them. It saves me the time of taking them to the dump."
"I'll take them all," Fiedelbaum said. The cylindrical batteries were a foot long and heavy enough to use his toboggan to bring them home. He snuck them into his bedroom and placed them with his messy accumulation of radio and electronic spare parts.
When Poobah came to visit, the clutter in Fiedelbaum's room surprised him. Despite Poobah's bad habits, his bedroom in Saskatoon never reached this level of disorder. When Poobah's Mother had a day off, she would throw out things that disturbed her and rearranged the others. For Poobah, the system worked. There was no effort required of him, and he had become accustomed to his Mother's standards, even though most weeks he ended up looking for stuff his Mom 'misplaced.' "You have a healthy mess going here," he told Fiedelbaum.
"Well, my Mom and sister have been ordered not to touch my stuff. If they need to clean, they must shuffle in the middle of the room," Fiedelbaum replied.
Noticing the batteries, Poobah asked, "What are you doing with the batteries?"
"We need them to set up our telephone line," he said.
"There are quite a few. It must have cost a tidy sum," Poobah said.
"They're dead. The lineman gave them to me," Fiedelbaum said. "I only need to charge them."
"How are you going to do it?"
"I'm glad you asked. I was going to charge a few today. You want to help?"
Poobah was game.
"Here put this on," Fiedelbaum said, handing him an old pair of glasses and an old bedsheet. "You don't want acid in your eyes or on your clothes."
"Whose old glasses are these?" Poobah asked.
"They are my Dad's old reading glasses."
Poobah put them on. "They're as good as telescopes. Your Dad must always read the fine print."
YOU ARE READING
The Morons' Club
Historical FictionSixteen year-old Jefferson is a loner who plays video games all the time. His mother finally persuades him to vacation with her at Iroquois Lake. During that time, he sneaks out to a musty outhouse to play his video games. A tornado comes and Jeffer...
