Timmy and Tammy sat silently in the living room with their eyes transfixed on the television. Their mother prohibited any kind of violence or conflict in the home so the children couldn’t watch cartoons, but they were occasionally permitted to watch harmless, gentle nature programs on the boob tube. Forest Friends, the hit reality animal series, was on the air. Sammy the squirrel glided gracefully down the trunk of a tree and flitted to and fro on the ground, gathering nuts from the forest floor to the sound of lilting woodland music. Suddenly a wildcat pounced on him and began to eat him for breakfast. The Dinkle children oohed. Ricky the rabbit, with his ears flopping cutely, loped along a forest pathway toward some tasty berries. A snarling wolf pounced on him and tore him to shreds. The Dinkle children aahed. Teddy the trout leaped joyously in a mountain stream. An eagle snatched him out of the air and carried him, flailing and writhing, off toward a nest high in a tree. The children wowed. Mr. Dinkle, briefcase in hand, entered the living room.
“In case anyone is interested, I’ve reached a decision. I’m going to the office to make sure I’m caught up on all my paperwork.”
The children, totally absorbed, completely ignored their father.
“Thanks for your concern,” he said and walked out of the room.
Next door, in the tastefully, albeit rather plushly decorated Goodthigh living room, music softly serenaded from a hidden stereo and quiet light played over the ceiling and walls, establishing a somewhat subdued, romantic tone. The mood was abruptly interrupted by the jangling of the telephone that sat on a table by the sofa. A well-formed, feminine hand lifted the receiver.
“Hello?” said Marsha Goodthighs.
“Marsha?” came the voice of Duke, the leader of the pack.
The biker gang was holed up in the Irontown Seven Eleven, which was surrounded by police cars with lights flashing. The gang members were crouched in various parts of the store, weapons drawn, firing at anything in uniform. The windows were rapidly acquiring the appearance of slices of swiss cheese. The police, using their vehicles for cover, returned the fire. More holes appeared in the glass, bottles shattered and cans were knocked to the floor. Roving reporter Sheila Sniffit was crouched down behind a squad car, rapidly announcing the breaking news. The biker gang was vastly outnumbered. Duke leaned next to the checkout counter with one foot resting on a prone, pimply-faced clerk. The lead biker held a Big Gulp in one hand as he talked on his cell phone to Marsha. A huge pistol rested on the counter next to a half-eaten bag of potato chips.
“This is Duke,” the biker said into his phone. “Me and the boys are working a little late tonight. We’re not going to be able to make it to your party.”
A well-placed shot ripped through Duke’s plastic cup and soda pop spilled out two holes onto the counter. Duke angrily threw down the drink, which landed on the frightened clerk’s head, soaking him. Still holding his cell phone, he picked up his pistol and squeezed off two tremendously loud shots.
Marsha sat in a short skirt with her legs crossed. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said with disappointment in her voice. “I was looking forward to your company. I’ll just have to make other arrangements.” Marsha replaced the receiver, stood up from the sofa where she was sitting and walked over to the living room window. She looked out in time to see Mr. Dinkle drive down the street toward the used car lot.
Tommy Dinkle rode his beat-up bike along Main Street. He was also headed from the high school in the direction of the used car lot as he had to pass it on the way to the Dinkle home. He had decided he really had nothing to celebrate and that he might as well leave the dance. As he pedaled away on his still mangled bike, he saw what appeared to be the Dinkle family car pull into the used car lot. A male figure, carrying a briefcase, got out of the vehicle and went into the office. Tommy knew his father was going to be working late again. As he drew closer, another expensive-looking, new car zoomed down the street and also turned into the car lot.
Inside the car lot office, Mr. Dinkle sat at his desk, lost in thought. The door opened and Marsha Goodthighs entered.
“Oh, hello, Marsha,” said Mr. Dinkle in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I was passing and I saw the light,” she replied.
“I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I know exactly what you’re going to say.”
“You do? How do you know that?”
“I can see it in your eyes.”
Marsha moved toward Mr. Dinkle, seductively toying with the buttons on her blouse.
“John,” she said in a husky voice.
“Marsha?” Mr. Dinkle replied nervously. Something wasn’t quite right.
Marsha shrugged off her blouse and stood exposed before him.
“John,” she said again.
“Marsha!” Mr. Dinkle yelled, shocked.
Tommy opened the door and walked in. He stared first at Marsha and then at his father.
“Dad!” yelled Tommy.
___
Tommy sat alone on the porch steps in the backyard and squinted up at the night sky. A bright, blinking star, low on the horizon, caught his eye. Maybe it was a star, or maybe it was some planet. Mr. Beaker would know for sure. Maybe it was just space junk orbiting the earth–but what Tommy really was hoping to find was a wishing star. He had read about them in books when he was a little kid and at this point in his life he was looking for any kind of help that he could get. He didn’t know how to go about wishing on a star but what could it hurt? His life was a total mess and tonight he didn’t see it getting any better. “Wishing star,“ he said softly, “I need to get my life straightened out. Would you please cut me some slack?” As Tommy stared at the star, he tried to detect some difference in the star’s brightness or how fast it was blinking. Noticing nothing, he sighed and said to himself, “It was worth a try, anyway.”
The back door opened quietly and Mr. Dinkle walked out toward his son. He motioned toward the step next to where Tommy sat.
“Is this seat taken?”
Tommy scooted over slightly and Mr. Dinkle dropped down next to his son. They sat for some time, saying nothing, just looking up into the heavens, listening to the sounds of the night.
“You know,” Mr. Dinkle finally began, “My dad–your grandpa–died when I was about twelve. It was tough going for a while with just your grandma scrubbing floors to support five hungry kids. I was mad at God and the whole human race because my dad was dead. One day the neighborhood bully tried to pick a fight with me. I pulled out my old pocket knife, ready to rip him apart. But I didn’t use it on him. I ended up selling it to him. I sold him a fifty cent knife for a dollar and a quarter and when the deal was done I felt a tremendous rush of power. I still get that same sensation when I sell something and the money pours in. But I’m smart enough to see that not everyone is cut out to be a salesman–including you. So whatever it is that you’re up to, if that’s what you really want to do, I’m behind you one hundred per cent.”
Tommy looked over to his father. “Dad?” he said.
“Yes?” said his father, returning the look from at his oldest son.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, son.”
They hugged each other on the steps. Mr. Dinkle stood up, wiping a small tear from his eye and walked toward the back door. He opened it, then paused.
“By the way,” said Mr. Dinkle, “You wouldn’t happen to know of any good typists, would you? I fired Marsha Goodthighs tonight.”