5432852385743

tracks, once again hearing the wuff-chuff of a train, only this time it sounded a little more distant,
because this time my encounter with the Yellow Card Man—who was now the Orange Card Man—
had taken a bit longer. The air stank of mill effluent as it had before, and the same inter-city bus
snored past. Because I was a little late this time, I couldn’t read the route sign, but I remembered
what it said: LEWISTON EXPRESS. I wondered idly how many times Al had seen that same bus,
with the same passengers looking out the windows.
I hurried across the street, waving away the blue cloud of bus exhaust as best I could. The
rockabilly rebel was at his post outside the door, and I wondered briefly what he’d say if I stole his
line. But in a way that would be as mean as terrorizing the drying shed wino on purpose; if you stole
the secret language belonging to kids like this, they didn’t have much left. This one couldn’t even go
back and pound on the Xbox. So I just nodded.
He nodded back. “Hi-ho, Daddy-O.”
I went inside. The bell jingled. I went past the discount comic books and straight to the soda
fountain where Frank Anicetti Senior was standing. “What can I do for you today, my friend?”
For a moment I was stumped, because that wasn’t what he’d said before. Then I realized it wouldn’t
be. Last time I’d grabbed a newspaper out of the rack. This time I hadn’t. Maybe each trip back to
1958 reset the odometer back to all zeros (with the exception of the Yellow Card Man), but the first
time you varied something, everything was up for grabs. The idea was both scary and liberating.
“I could use a root beer,” I said.
“And I can use the custom, so we’ve got a meeting of the minds. Five-or ten-cent beer?”
“Ten, I guess.”
“Well, I think you guess right.”
The frost-coated mug came out of the freezer. He used the handle of the wooden spoon to scrape off
the foam. He filled it to the top and set it in front of me. All just like before.
“That’s a dime, plus one for the governor.”
I handed over one of Al’s vintage dollars, and while Frank 1.0 made change, I looked over my
shoulder and saw the former Yellow Card Man standing outside the liquor store—the greenfront—and
swaying from side to side. He made me think of a Hindu fakir I’d seen in some old movie, tooting a
horn to coax a cobra out of a wicker basket. And, coming up the sidewalk, right on schedule, was
Anicetti the Younger.
I turned back, sipped my root beer, and sighed. “This hits the spot.”
“Yep, nothing like a cold beer on a hot day. Not from around here, are you?”
“No, Wisconsin.” I held out my hand. “George Amberson.”
He shook it as the bell over the door jangled. “Frank Anicetti. And there comes my boy. Frank
Junior. Say hello to Mr. Amberson from Wisconsin, Frankie.”
“Hello, sir.” He gave me a smile and a nod, then turned to his dad. “Titus has got the truck up on
the lift. Says it’ll be ready by five.”
“Well, that’s good.” I waited for Anicetti 1.0 to light a cigarette and wasn’t disappointed. He
inhaled, then turned back to me. “Are you traveling on business or for pleasure?”
For a moment I didn’t respond, but not because I was stumped for an answer. What was throwing
me was the way this scene kept diverging from and then returning to the original script. In any case,
Anicetti didn’t seem to notice.
“Either way, you picked the right time to come. Most of the summer people are gone, and when
that happens we all relax. You want a scoop of vanilla ice cream in your beer? Usually it’s five cents
extra, but on Tuesdays I reduce the price to a nickel.”
“You wore that one out ten years ago, Pop,” Frank Junior said amiably.
“Thanks, but this is fine,” I said. “I’m on business, actually. A real estate closing up in . . .