Chapter 19: Revenge of the Shriners
By Allen Frost
The old men stood outside the drawn down door. They all wore the same peculiar uniform, wine red fezzes, blue suits, festooned with ribbons and ranks and heraldry. The shriners had been there for fifteen minutes in the blue shade of Tiny’s Garage. They knew he was in there, the mad sounds of hammering, the whoosh of an arc welder, Connie Francis’ ululation echoing; Tiny was in there alright, an oyster shut up tight with the industry sounds of creating its pearl.
“What’s he doing to our cars?”
Four or five of the vanguard addressed each other before the shrill cacophony.
The elder with the most lean into his cane picked the weight of his arm from the mottled door. “Rennie!” he bleated.
The less silvered Rennie stepped forward eagerly with sun blasting gold on his black rimmed glasses.
“Rennie, I want you on stake-out in that phone booth over there.”
The whole daffodil contingent turned to stare at the phone booth. It looked like it had tumbled onto the street corner from the top of one of the warehouses. Bent frame, cracked or shattered glass panes, the phone hanging to a twisting cord.
But Rennie saluted smartly.
“You can keep yourself busy with this phone list.” The oldest man took a parchment from his coat pocket. “These are people you can hit up for contributions,” he explained. “You know the routine. And—” he added, digging into another pocket, “Use this quarter for the calls.” He dangled a coin, sewn through with a loop of thread so it could be pulled out of the machine afterwards. They all chuckled, making the dry rasp of forest leaves unfolding in the breeze.
“Let’s get back to the 249.” He referred to the lodge by its familiar name. While Rennie took up residence in the phone booth, the rest of the shriners ambled, hobbled and steered chairs past the garage to the alley in between Tiny’s and Shelton’s Packaging.
Their parked squadron of miniature red motorcycles waited in rows. Some of them had sidecars for the less nimble. It took them a while to prepare helmets, goggles, get seated and start motors. They had done this for hundreds of parades, but time made them slower and slower.
The old men stood outside the drawn down door. They all wore the same peculiar uniform, wine red fezzes, blue suits, festooned with ribbons and ranks and heraldry. The shriners had been there for fifteen minutes in the blue shade of Tiny’s Garage. They knew he was in there, the mad sounds of hammering, the whoosh of an arc welder, Connie Francis’ ululation echoing; Tiny was in there alright, an oyster shut up tight with the industry sounds of creating its pearl.
“What’s he doing to our cars?”
Four or five of the vanguard addressed each other before the shrill cacophony.
The elder with the most lean into his cane picked the weight of his arm from the mottled door. “Rennie!” he bleated.
The less silvered Rennie stepped forward eagerly with sun blasting gold on his black rimmed glasses.
“Rennie, I want you on stake-out in that phone booth over there.”
The whole daffodil contingent turned to stare at the phone booth. It looked like it had tumbled onto the street corner from the top of one of the warehouses. Bent frame, cracked or shattered glass panes, the phone hanging to a twisting cord.
But Rennie saluted smartly.
“You can keep yourself busy with this phone list.” The oldest man took a parchment from his coat pocket. “These are people you can hit up for contributions,” he explained. “You know the routine. And—” he added, digging into another pocket, “Use this quarter for the calls.” He dangled a coin, sewn through with a loop of thread so it could be pulled out of the machine afterwards. They all chuckled, making the dry rasp of forest leaves unfolding in the breeze.
“Let’s get back to the 249.” He referred to the lodge by its familiar name. While Rennie took up residence in the phone booth, the rest of the shriners ambled, hobbled and steered chairs past the garage to the alley in between Tiny’s and Shelton’s Packaging.
Their parked squadron of miniature red motorcycles waited in rows. Some of them had sidecars for the less nimble. It took them a while to prepare helmets, goggles, get seated and start motors. They had done this for hundreds of parades, but time made them slower and slower.
posted by Miguel at 1:30 PM
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