Guppies

I dropped my shovel and ran up the hill next to Mr. Sanders' Snack Shack. A car hummed down the '17 coming our way. Mr. Sanders yelled, called me lazy.

I could see down 2917 a ways and saw dust trailing the black vehicle. It dodged household junk left in the road and continued into Flats, our little corner of Chocolate Bayou. I waved back to Mr. Sanders, telling to him about the car, but he was still curing. Oldman Herman swatted him with his cane from his chair and shut him up.

I ran back and told him between breaths: "Car. Coming down. 2917."

"A car, eh?" Mr. Sanders said. He eyed me like I was making it up.

"Yes, sir."

He looked to Oldman Herman who nodded to all the trash the hurricane left behind: door-less refrigerators, mud caked water heaters, piles of wood, parts of boats, fields covered in clothes, and La-Z-Boys teetering in trees. We'd been clearing the wash-out in the month since Ike and Gustav came through. Debris from the bottom floors and garages was all got caught up in tree lines, streets, fences, and front yards of Flats. Oldman Herman said it was Wrath incarnate come down upon us and the sodomites in Houston.

All day I'd been digging pits and burning trash and other things.

"Right. You. Get up front and man the pumps, I'll take care of this." Mr. Sanders smacked the back of my head. "Get going!"

I moved for the backdoor when Oldman Herman grabbed my wrist, his yellow eyes holding me. "Best let Stray know," he said. I nodded. He released his scaly grip and I ran into the store.

I went behind the counter and picked up the phone, calling across the street to the Sheriff Station which was little more than a trailer on blocks.

The black car rolled into view, slowing down as it hit Kurtz Road, going around the dead Meyers' cow still in the street. No one wanted to move it. Its carcass made people retch if you got too close. Crows sometimes circled it and something had pecked at it, but there were plenty of dead things to eat and the scavengers were being picky. I'd probably end up cleaning it up.

It took until the sixth ring for Pinky to answer.

"Yeah?" He sounded gruff, probably sleeping off an afternoon session.

"Stray there?" I asked.

"Nope. Who's this?"

"Oldman Herman told me to tell Stray someone's coming," I said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

The car pulled up in front of the shop, tires crushing gravel as it settled up to one of the pumps. I saw the blinds dip over at the Sheriff's station.

"Well, you told me." He hung up.

"Boy!" I heard from out back and jumped around the counter and out the front door.

The engine hummed for another minute as I made my way over to the car. The windows were tinted and I couldn't see much inside. The engine died and the driver's side door opened.

A tall fellow stepped out. Sunglasses, brown hair, broad shoulders.

"Jesus, it's hot," he said, beads rolling off his forehead and down his face. His shirt stuck to his skin. The sun'd been coming down all day without cloud or mercy and the humidity made it feel like someone was running a hot shower. The stranger shielded his sunglassed eyes as he looked me over. He gave an easy smile. "Nothing air-conditioning can do for you when the steering wheel feels like it's melting."

He stepped out from his car and looked around.

"You run this place, little partner?" he asked.

I shook my head, "no."