EMMETSBURG: Eleven

John was in no humor for any of this mess. He brushed past the group. His hand fell on Avery’s bony shoulder and gave it a friendly little pat. Avery nodded with a tip of his cap and winked knowingly at John.

“Come for the show?” Avery said. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of a pair of old brown suit pants with gold stripes. His tee shirt was thread-bare and creased across his slight belly by a crease stain.

“That what it is?” John remarked.

“Cheaper than the picture show,” said Avery.

“Reckon we’ll see,” said John. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, like they weren’t his. He brushed through the crowd and went inside.

It was musty and cool inside the store. It was dark inside, but for light filtering through dusty windows and all sorts of goods and tools situated chaotically in front of them. It took John’s eyes a moment to adjust. There was music playing behind the counter. It was low and tinny and barely discernable as a song, more so as the torn speaker buzzed and distorted badly. Burt Himmel’s eldest boy, Myron was stacking squat red tins of wash soap in a pyramid at one end of the counter.

The boy was lean and tall for his age, and the spitting image of his father. His hair was golden blond, and set to light by shocking blue eyes. John wasn’t quite sure but thought Myron had just turned 15, an enviable and lamentable age at the same time. It was an age where the innocence of childhood was being swept aside by the spectacle of awakening manhood.

He would grow into a stunningly handsome man, something already noticed by local girls. Evenings after school, or in the summer when chores were done, girls seemed to flock around the store just to get a peak or to flirt a bit with Myron. John smiled wistfully, running his fingers over the sharp teeth of a new saw hanging on the wall. He had never been burdened with such an affliction.

John knew the boy as eager and excitable, and not a little bit gullible. Not in a foolish way, but with a trusting and open hearted way. That dopiness helped him concentrate on chores and school rather than getting lost in his admirer’s eager affections. It was a quality fully inherited from loving Christian parents, good neighbors and a hospitable nature.

John liked Myron Himmel, and envied his youthful grace. He was the future and John’s own innocent past all at once. The boy was a specter as well, reminding John of every misstep, every lapse in judgment and mistake.

“Morning, Mister Perkins,” Myron looked back over one shoulder without stopping his work. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Pop around?”

“He’ll be right back. Something I can help you with?”

“Any more rolls of that tar paper around. I could use a length.”

“Storm last night tear you up a little?” the boy remarked.

“A little.”

“Whew, she was a good one.”

“That she was,” said John.

“How’s things up in Emmetsburg?”

“About the same, I reckon.”

“Misses Perkins is well, I pray.”

John gave a nod. “She’d appreciate the prayers.”

“Gave us all quite a scare,” said the boy. “Expect it did you too.”

“Expect it did.”

The moment fell like a weight around their necks. Myron pursed his lips and looked around the store. It was a relief to them both when his father walked in, pressing through the riled bunch at the door. Shaking his head, Bert Himmel wiped a good bit of sweat from his forehead with the old red rag from his back pocket.