Tommy, bathed in light from the full moon, sped victoriously along Main Street on his bicycle, but the further he got from the gymnasium, the less he felt like celebrating. Instead of thinking about the glorious victory over the Maggots, his thoughts began to center on his big problem. An aching feeling began in his stomach and Tommy once again began to feel trapped. It was his senior year in high school and soon he would be faced with making the big decision of how he would spend the rest of his life. His father had things all planned out for him. He wanted Tommy to go to work at the used car lot which he had started and built up into a fairly successful business. At some point his dad would retire and Tommy would then become the sole owner of the lot, but Tommy had a great distaste for high pressure selling. His mother also had his future all mapped out for him. Her plan was for Tommy to go to a university, get a degree and then land a great job in a big city because she felt there was no real future for him in Tootville. Tommy didn’t mind leaving Tootville because he thought small town life was boring and pointless but he had looked and looked through the degree programs offered at seven universities so far and he could find nothing that really interested him. Sitting at a desk and pecking away at a keyboard while he stared at a computer screen was not how he pictured spending the rest of his life, even if it did mean good money. This problem had been consuming a lot of his free time and he was stumped. He had no idea how to solve his dilemma. Tommy approached the Dinkle residence and steered his bicycle into the driveway and through the open back gate. He parked his bicycle against the back wall of the house and went up the steps that led to the back porch. Inside the house, seated at the kitchen table, Mr. Dinkle was trying to finish up some paperwork after a very long day at the car lot. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loose. His briefcase was open on the table and contracts with very small print were spread out in front of him. Tammy and Timmy, Tommy’s younger sister and brother, were also seated at the table. Tammy was a sophomore at Tootville High while Timmy was still a seventh grader at the junior high school. Tammy was humming off-key as she nonchalantly filed her nails and Timmy was eating celery. The humming and incessant crunching and chewing were distracting Mr. Dinkle.
“Timmy,” said Mr. Dinkle crossly, “do you have to eat that now?”
“But I’m hungry,” responded Timmy, in his best whiny tone of voice.
“Do you have to eat it here?” Mr. Dinkle was very perturbed.
“But this is the kitchen,” Timmy replied, still whining. After years of persistent practice he was delighted with the degree of whininess that he could instantly muster.
Tommy threw open the back door and marched triumphantly into the kitchen. Timmy’s demeanor instantly changed. “Did you win?” he yelled in excitement.
“We whipped their little hineys,” came the reply.
“Yahoo!” Timmy yelled again. “Any fights?”
“Timmy! Enough of that. There will be no talk of fighting or conflict of any kind in this house.” Mrs. Dinkle walked into the kitchen with a scowl on her face and took a seat at the table opposite her husband.
“How many points did you score?” Mr. Dinkle queried, trying to keep the peace by changing the subject. “Twenty?”
“Twenty-two,” came the humble response.
“Twenty-two?” Tammy was instantly angry. “I bet Gretchen Zumwald a dollar you would score at least thirty-five! What kind of a basketball player are you, anyway?” Tammy jumped up from the kitchen table and rushed to the kitchen entrance. She stopped and looked back at Tommy. “How could you do this to me?” she wailed theatrically. Then she rushed from the room.
“You know, Tommy,” Mr. Dinkle said, reflecting, as he studied his papers, “being a celebrity in the community will really be an asset when you graduate from high school and come to work with me at the car lot.”
“Uh oh,” said Timmy in a low voice. Then he announced loudly to anyone who might be interested, “It’s my bedtime.” He dropped his half-eaten celery on the table and streaked out of the kitchen.
“Car lot, my foot,” said Mrs. Dinkle impatiently to her husband. The scowl on her face had gotten bigger. “I’ve told you time and time again that Tommy is going to go on to college and make something of himself.”
Tommy, seated at the table between his parents, once more felt trapped. He shrunk down in his seat and tried to become invisible.
“I don’t have a college education,” shot back Mr. Dinkle. “What does that make me? Pond scum?”
“He’s going to college!”
“He’s working with me!”
“I guess I’ll go up to my room now,” Tommy said quietly, staring down at the table.
Tommy’s parents stopped bickering and stared at their son.
Mr. Dinkle looked stern. “Son, don’t interrupt while your mother and I are discussing your future.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dinkle angrily. “Show a little respect for your parents.”
___
A well maintained 1960 Edsel Ranger cruised slowly down Main Street. It appeared to be driverless as it rounded a corner and came carefully to a stop in front of the sleazy Big House Bar. The door to the Edsel opened and Coach Dribble emerged. He looked around cautiously to see if he was being observed. After reassuring himself that no one of importance was in sight, he stepped quickly through the grimy double door and into the bar. Coach Dribble had good reason to be cautious. Not only would it not look good for the Tootville High School coach to be seen in a bar, but the back room of this particular small-town bar unobtrusively served as the location for one of the largest bookie operations in the western United States.
The back of the Big House Bar was a beehive of activity but the bar itself was devoid of customers with the exception of two grubby looking patrons who were seated together at one booth in a far corner. They paid no attention as Coach Dribble entered but continued staring silently and bleary-eyed into their drinks. The coach walked up to the bar and with some difficulty climbed up onto a stool. A bartender, who looked like an ex-prizefighter, approached.
“What’ll it be?” he asked gruffly.
Coach Dribble came straight to the point. “I need to talk to Big Louie. It’s important.”
The bartender eyed the coach with suspicion. “Are you a cop?” he asked bluntly.
The coach responded caustically, “Do I look like a cop?”
The bartender, with a lopsided scowl, looked the diminutive coach over once again, then pressed a button hidden underneath the counter. After a few moments Big Louie, followed by two muscular henchmen in dark suits, entered from a door at the back. They walked up to the bar and Big Louie sat down next to the coach. He wore a jacket and his tie dangled loosely from his neck. Big Louie brusquely said to the bartender, “Gimme a light.”
“A Bud Light?” asked the bartender, anxious to please his employer.
“No, stupid.” Big Louie pulled a long cigar from inside his jacket. The bartender meekly produced a lighter from somewhere beneath the counter and lit the cigar. Big Louie took a puff and blew smoke directly into Coach Dribble’s face. “You need to see me, Dribble?” he asked. The coach was obviously no stranger to Big Louie.
Coach Dribble stared through the haze at the big shot bookie. “Yeah. I want to know the odds on Thursday night’s game.”
“The Chickens are going to lay an egg,” Big Louie stated matter-of-factly. “The odds are ten to one.”
“I want to make a bet,” said Coach Dribble, his eyes beginning to water from the cigar smoke.
“How much and on who?” Big Louie continued to suck on his cigar and spew smoke into the air.
“One hundred thousand dollars that the Chickens beat the Maggots,” said Coach Dribble evenly.
The bartender whistled softly. Big Louie stared at the cigar in his hand for a few moments and then directed his gaze to Coach Dribble. “You’re on,” he said with a malevolent gleam in his eyes.
The bartender interjected. “But boss,” he said, “that means if the Chickens win you’ll lose one million dollars.”
Big Louie gave a short laugh. “The Chickens will get plucked. It’ll be like taking candy from a…” Big Louie motioned derisively to the coach …“a baby.”
The bartender and the henchmen guffawed. Big Louie glared down at the coach. “The payoff is after the game – in cash. Got it?”
Coach Dribble stared up at Big Louie. “Got it,” he replied. The coach hopped down from the bar stool and started toward the exit.
“Dribble?” Big Louie glowered at the coach and pointed at him with his cigar as the coach stopped and looked back. “No funny stuff.”
___
Mr. Dinkle and his wife were in bed, reading quietly. Mr. Dinkle was absorbed in a book entitled Sex Without Guilt while his wife was equally absorbed in a book entitled Guilt Without Sex. The majestic, full moon shone romantically through the bedroom window. Perhaps with an idea toward reconciliation after the earlier heated dispute downstairs, Mr. Dinkle placed one hand surreptitiously on the covers and began to slide it slowly toward his wife.
“Not tonight, dear. I have a headache,” she said quietly, without taking her eyes from her book.
Mr. Dinkle’s hand stopped moving.
“All that arguing must have done it,” Mrs. Dinkle continued, closing her book and setting it on the night table on her side of the bed. “You know how I hate conflict.”
“But you know the paperwork is killing me,” responded Mr. Dinkle. “It’s just too much for one person to handle.”
“I realize that, dear,” said Mrs. Dinkle, “and my mind is made up. I’m sending a friend of mine to see you tomorrow to give you the help you need. She’s good and she works cheap.”
“Anyone but Amanda Horsehide,” replied Mr. Dinkle. Amanda Horsehide was his wife’s best friend but Mr. Dinkle considered her to be nothing more than a gigantic gossip. He didn’t much like her slob of a husband, either.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” said Mrs. Dinkle reassuringly. “This is going to work out just fine.”
“As long as it’s not Amanda Horsehide,” reiterated Mr. Dinkle firmly.
Mr. Dinkle put his book down and turned out the reading light. The room, however, was still filled with the shimmering light from the full moon. Mrs. Dinkle’s hand slid across the covers to her husband’s.
“John,” she whispered in her most enticing voice. “My headache’s gone.”