The best thing about the route was not having to get up at 6:00 am on Saturdays. Monday through Friday he arrived at the paperboy shack by 6:30 to get his papers from Mr. Moriarty who never removed the dead slobbery cigar stub clamped between his fat lips. Even that nauseating sight was better than the long uphill on 17th street where he walked his bike stopping to carry papers past high hedges, to the worst of all– ten houseboats where he left his bike in the parking lot, walked past a competing paper’s mailboxes, down and back up 132 wooden steps to lay four newspapers by front doors. Mr. Moriarty had promised moorage customers door side delivery. He told Bobby he could keep half the money for every new houseboat subscriber. Friday of his second week, Bobby’s note stuck in each rolled paper read:

Good morning—I know you love your newspaper

I enjoy bringing you the fresh news everyday
(five days really, someone else does it on the weekend)
Tell your houseboat neighbors how handy it is
To have it delivered right to your door.
You will help them while you are also helping
Me because I have to do this route because my mother has cancer
And we are very poor.

Thank you—Bobby Thorne, your newspaper deliverer

Two days later Bobby and his folks were watching TV when the phone rang.

Peg jumped to her feet, “I’ll get it—it’s probably one of the girls. Tell me what happened when I come back—I’ll start some popcorn and Bobby’ll get it when it pops.”

A few minutes later she stood in the alcove doorway with an angry expression and a piece of paper crumpled in her hand.

“Bill, can we turn off the TV? We need to have a family discussion right now!” She was actually tapping her foot—like Blondie.

“C’mon Peg—this is the funniest part of the show—whatever it is’ll wait five minutes.”

“Please don’t contradict me, Bill. I just had a very disturbing telephone call and we need to talk right away. Ed Wynn will be there next week.” She took three steps across the den and switched off the show, the tube’s brilliant glow receding to a dot.

“Bobby, look at me—did you leave some kind of note with the newspapers Friday morning? Don’t look at your dad! That was Mrs. Douglas on the phone—from the houseboats. She got one of your notes, Bobby! And she— “

“Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about, really.” Bobby had the squeamish feeling that preceded serious trouble.

“Look at me, Bobby, you have no idea what you’ve doing! First of all, you are grounded mister and no TV either– Mrs. Douglas—Janet ’s her name, she’s a nurse— volunteered to come by and see me several times a week without charge. She’s told me she wants to raise money for us at the hospital! Bill, you should have heard this woman. She sounds so nice– she read me your note, Bobby, and I almost died. GOD DAMN YOU BOBBY, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?”

“Peg—calm down– You come in, turn off the show, then go crazy. What the hell’s going on? What’s all this stuff about Bobby and a note?” Bill knew, no way Ed Wynn was coming back on.

“Listen to this—wait a minute– I’ve got to calm down before I read it.” Peg jerked away the paper she was unfolding when Bill tried to snatch it. “No— I copied it down word for word when she dictated it over the phone—I want you to hear it out loud. All I could do was thank her so much and take her number. I said I would be calling her right back in a few minutes. Listen to this, Bill—and you’d better not even think about leaving this room, Bobby! We are going to have this out RIGHT AWAY!”

Bobby wished he had been born in China or maybe several centuries ago as his mother slowly read the note and he watched his father’s expression.

“Did you write that?”

“Dad—”

“DID YOU WRITE WHAT YOUR MOTHER JUST READ, YES OR NO?”

“Yes, dad.” He didn’t want to cry but knew it was too late.

“You said your mother had cancer and we were poor? Look at me when I talk to you!”

The tears started but Bobby knew they would fall on deaf eyes. School was over in a couple weeks and he would never see his friends all summer vacation.

“What were you thinking Bobby? It’s disrespectful to lie to people like that. No– its cruel, a cruel trick you played on strangers.”

“I see ‘em when I collect, dad.”

“BUT YOU’VE ONLY BEEN DELIVERING PAPERS FOR TEN FUCKING DAYS—JESUS CHRIST, BOBBY, YOU DON’T KNOW THESE PEOPLE AND THEY DON’T KNOW YOU.” Bill never sweared in front of his family nor had he ever struck his son; he raised his fist then let it drop to his side.

“Bill—calm down. I’ve got to call Janet back. What are we going to do?”

Bill flopped onto the couch arms hanging between his legs.

“Bobby, go put the popcorn on and come back before it starts popping. Your mother and I have to talk for a minute.”

Getting away even briefly felt like fleeing from a firing squad on the back of a galloping horse. Bobby could keep going right out the backdoor, down the driveway, and disappear for the rest of his life. In a couple years he could maybe lie about his age and join the marines—that’d be cool.

“I don’t hear you moving around in there—we’re done talking in here. Forget about the popcorn if you haven’t started it.”

Bobby was pinned down on the couch, his mom on the other cushion and his dad now in the armchair.

“Your mother and I are not angry, but we are confused. Why did you do that? In a way I can kinda see what you were thinking but, the lyin’—There is no excuse for that ever and especially not to strangers. What do you have to say for yourself.” Bill really wanted a drink but knew to hold off.

“I’m sorry— I don’t know why I left the notes.”

“NOTES? THERE’S MORE THAN ONE? Godammit! —I just—I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing– I am really disappointed and angry with you—Peg get me a drink, please, and definitely have one yourself if you want.” Bill had passed from anger, mystification, curiosity and into apoplexy within three minutes. He lurched to his feet, grabbed his head, and staggered in front of the couch as though a tomahawk was lodged in his head. Peg and Bobby sat, mouths agape, watching the spectacle. After a few minutes Bill seemed to return to an exasperated version of his usually taciturn self.

“Okay, Bobby, I’ll calm down—everyone calm down. Peg, where’s that drink? Tell me exactly what you did then we’ll make a plan—I’m listening and it better be good!”

“I’m sorry, dad—”Bobby knew he was forced to go with the truth. Candor could only have bad consequences but he was trapped. Though they always said it was what they wanted to hear, parents couldn’t handle truth. Playing with truth was playing with fire.

“You better start telling me the whole story– if you ever want to see any of your friends ever again. I’m listening and it better be good.”

“I was marketing—”

“You were what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Bill, here’s your drink, I made it pretty strong. I’m having one too. Let Bobby talk—I’m upset too but I have to call that poor woman back in a few minutes. I’ve got to have something to say to her.” She handed him a double bourbon with a splash of water in an old fashioned glass and sat on the couch with her own.

“It was just doing what Mr. Moriarty suggested.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Moriarty?”

“He runs the delivery place where I get the papers– Mom met him. Anyway, dad, there’s ten houseboats down there and only four customers. Mr. Moriarty told me I could keep half the money if I signed up more people in the houseboats. So I wrote that note— ‘n put one in each mailbox ‘cept the people already subscribe. I’m sorry I said that about mom and about us being poor— ‘N that’s all—I didn’t mean harm, really, dad.”

“Okay—so you lied about your family to total strangers— made up all that about your mother and us– right, Bobby?” Bill took a long pull on his drink and a quick appraisal of its level when he took it from his lips.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for the truth—all right, Bobby, you got us all into this, it’s up to you to get us out.” He shook his glass at Peg for a refill after hearing Bobby out.

“We’re waiting, Bobby—So’s– what’s her name again, Peg?”

“Janet Douglas—she told me she had to go out but would wait for my call. I didn’t say anything about the note. She thinks I’m calling to tell her best times to come.” She was feeling her stiff bourbon and knew she’d better call soon if she was going to make any sense.

“I didn’t know dad—I’m really sorry. You want me to get you and mom another drink?”

The initial panic had waned, Bobby was floundering for a survival strategy– maybe he wouldn’t even get grounded.

“Your father and I are perfectly capable of getting our own drinks, thank you. We’re waiting to hear how you are going to get out of this gracefully.”

“Little late for graceful, I think, Peg.”

After ten minutes of discussion it was agreed that Bobby would visit each of the families at the moorage, tell the truth, and apologize for his note. Peg put Janet off until Bobby visited. He practiced his apology for Bill and Peg who told him, after their second drinks, that they were proud of him and could never really stay angry. Bill told him that heroes become heroes by overcoming obstacles. Peg said the whole thing was a good experience that would help him his entire life. There had to be some penalty to help him remember, however– no TV for two weeks and grounded the first week of summer vacation. All in all, Bobby thought it wasn’t a bad deal even though just thinking about actually apologizing to adults terrified him.

Secretly Bill was proud of Bobby for being so crafty and let him know when Peg wasn’t around that he would go down to the houseboats with him the first time.

Bobby talked to three people on Monday and saw the others over the next two days. It wasn’t so bad once he’d delivered his somewhat feigned apology a couple of times. He even sold two new subscriptions, met a cute girl, and got some cookies.

School ended as it always does eventually. Bobby’s best friend since second grade was leaving the first week of vacation to spend the summer at his cousin Albert’s camp on Lake Prescott. Even though Bill and Peg let Ronnie sleep over before he left, prospects for the summer looked pretty grim to Bobby.

Until the second day after his grounding was lifted Bobby accidentally met Butch in the park. He had not been allowed to play with Butch since the older boy had tied a cat to a telephone phone and set it on fire with lighter fluid two years earlier. Butch went away to a special school for a year but was back at Jefferson High– still a freshman like Bobby even though almost two years older. Butch was throwing dirt clods at the little kids on the slide. Bobby thought he could sneak by until a clod whizzed by his head.

“Hey, homo—you don’t say hello any more? Where ya goin? Want me to come over there and kick your ass?” Butch started laughing so hard he bent over and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Nobody ever told Butch he wasn’t funny to his face, though.

“No, really Bobby, come here—I want to show ya something.”

There was one cool thing about Butch— the neat Nazi stuff his uncle Timmy had brought back from the war. Timmy let Butch show the stuff to his friends so he could tell his implausible war stories. Timmy made it sound like the U.S. would have lost if he hadn’t been over there. One day, before Butch had to go away, he took a box from the top shelf of Timmy’s closet and let Bobby hold the Walther PPK automatic— Bobby’s hand remembered how neat it felt to hold. Stuff like that made it almost cool to hang around with Butch, even though he was scary sometimes.

Bobby walked over to the swing sets—he flinched when Butch throw a fake punch at his head. One of the little girls giggled.

“Look at this, Bobby, I got somethin’ really neat from Timmy—he said I could keep it– Be careful, it’s kinda comin’ apart.” He pulled a lump of paper from his backpocket that looked like it had gone through the washing machine and handed it to Bobby He managed to open it without ripping any pages. It was a black and white, skinny comic book with three frames to a page. He recognized poorly draw Popeye and Olive Oyl but they were doing things and saying stuff they never did on the funny pages. He and Butch looked at it together, carefully peeling the pages apart from beginning to end and then looked one more time. Bobby could feel a warm glow radiating from his crotch.

“Neat, huh? You wanta see it again?”

Bobby shook his head concentrating on not getting a boner in front of the little girls.

“Timmy calls ‘em Tijuana bibles—he’s got a whole bunch of ‘em– Dick Tracy, Archie, Superman, Mandrake– but they usually got different names. He said I could look at ‘em anytime—Whenever you come over we can look at ‘em.”

“Okay— So what are you doin’ this summer—goin’ up to the farm again? Butch usually left a few weeks after school got out to help on his aunt’s farm.

“Nah, I’m gonna be around—she got some local kid. It wasn’t much fun anyway, it’s pretty boring. Got my own .22 up there–. My mom won’t let me bring it back here though, says she doesn’t want it around. She don’t say nothin’ about Timmy’s shit ’cause he’s still her baby like since when they were little. Almost got a coyote though last year—if I do go up for a visit I will definitely bring it back down—Timmy’ll hang onto it. We could shoot some rats in the dump, shit like that.” Butch poked Bobby in the ribs.

“I might visit Ronnie later– my folks said they’d take me up. I might get a job at the dari freeze through this friend of my moms– I still got the route but it’s real shit— takes more than an hour, made me late to home room every day.”

“School sucks anyway. Day I turn sixteen I’m gone. So, what you doin’ right now? Want to come over drink some beer at my place?”

“Nah, I don’t like beer— only drink whiskey.” Bobby had gotten very drunk and threw up all over the bathroom the previous year when Ronnie stayed over and his folks were at a party. He still owed Ronnie for cleaning up before his folks came home. The smell of alcohol still nauseated him. Drinking was something Bobby thought about quite a bit. It was common knowledge that everybody drank at sophomore parties. Bobby would drink if he had to, but hoped he’d never be that sick again. Definitely no beer at Butch’s house.

“Well, come on over we’ll get somethin’ to eat— hey, you kids on the swings—you want to see somethin’ really neat?” Butch started to pull the Popeye comic out of his pocket as three young girls stopped their swings and approached them.

“C’mon, Butch, you can’t do that—they’re too little!”

“You’re such an asshole, Bobby—I was only fuckin’ with ya—Jesus, where’s your sense of humor—Go back on the swings girls— no, you can’t see what I got in my pocket. Goodbye, I think I hear your mother calling.”

Butch’s house was at the end of a dead end. Thick woods began on the other side of the ravine running almost on the property line. Partially dismantled cars on blocks stood in deep weeds. Mounds of tires, batteries, axles, exhaust systems, engine blocks and radiators overflowed into the ravine. A sloping porch resting on tilted piers ran across the front of the house. Two car seats leaking stuffing sat on each side of the front door. Every window had several broken panes, the roof was scabrous where shingles were missing and the whole place several decades overdue for painting.

They followed the path through the front yard jungle with Butch describing the contents of every mound. Bobby noticed something small and furtive scurry under the porch as they approached.

“Don’t step on the lowest step there—Timmy almost busted his ass the other day—said he’d fix it but hasn’t got to it.”

Butch stomped on the porch and called “hello” loudly when he opened the door. “I do that now every time ’cause I caught Timmy and Corinne goin’ at it on the couch—they were naked. I just backed out the door quiet cause I don’t want to get in trouble with Timmy—no way. I was pretty sure he wasn’t here again ’cause his Merc ain’t here. Sometimes he lets Corinne borrow it though ’s I made all the noise.”

“All that stuff in the yard must be worth some money—you ever find out?”

“My dad said he knew a guy ‘d come down from Vancouver and take it all but he never got around to it before he took off— Look, I don’t want to talk about him—okay?” Butch was looking into all the rooms to make sure Timmy was not at home.

“You want a peanut butter sandwich? I’m havin’ one and maybe a beer too—Timmy says he don’t care if I take one now and then but I better never take the last one. Sometimes he don’t even know how many he’s got.”

Bobby didn’t like eating at Butch’s. Food there looked pretty normal but he couldn’t hack the many year accumulation of filth and grease. He spotted a roach scuttling in and out of the dirty dishes on the countertop—still better than watching Butch eat. Butch downed a can of Timmy’s Schlitz in four swallows, burped, and wiped his mouth on a used paper napkin.

“Sure you don’t want a beer? I’m havin’ another one.” He opened the refrigerator which released a puff of controlled stench that almost made Bobby gag. “Uh—better not have another, only three left and Timmy’ll probably be home soon.”

“I’m sorry, Butch but I think there’s somethin’ gone bad in your fridge—I mean really stinks. Wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

“I can’t smell nothin’—check yourself maybe it’s coming from your ass!”

“Butch, stuff isn’t supposed to smell like that when it’s in your refrigerator. I don’t think it’s workin’ right. You know– cold and all slows everything down. I just don’t want you, your mom or Timmy to get sick.”

“Does feel kinda warm— I remember my old man talkin’ about how the compressor wasn’t workin’ right and was probably goin’ to go soon. Shit—maybe Timmy’ll get it fixed. Hey! I forgot! One of Timmy’s buddies from the army was here last week on his way to Germany from Fort Benning. He come down from Olympia just to visit Timmy before shipping out.. Said it was goin’ to be real hard to be nice to the krauts but orders are orders. Timmy had told him about me and he brought a whole box of M-80s with ‘em. He and Timmy threw a couple in the yard—they are really neat! Stan told me they’re really called simulator, grenade, M-80 and they use them like in the obstacle course. Want to set off some?”

Bobby, like virtually every other boy his age loved to blow things up. He suspected that the uncontrollable hormonal surges coursing through his system several times each day meant he was entering a stage where explosions would be replaced by almost constant insatiable lust. He was comfortable with explosions but lust seemed to be really dangerous.

“Neat! Let’s blow up something!”

They threw a few into the yard making loud gratifying explosions. They timed the fuses– three-mississippi before they blew. They blew a coffee can fifteen feet, threw one into a hole, took one apart exploding its mound of black powder under a dead bird Butch found the day before. Several explosions later, Butch remembered from when Stan set one off in the creek that the fuses burned under water.

Soon Bobby was riding Butch’s handlebars home to get his own bike. His parents would be gone for hours—plenty of time. They coasted down the long hill to the main road crossed against traffic and turned onto the Ross island bridge experimental detonation range.

The bridge was heavily used; its one sidewalk mostly by kids on bikes. The police left you alone if you rode right into town or back but didn’t like kids stopping in the middle. Bobby once saw the police U-turn and put two kids in a patrol car throwing their bikes into the trunk. He and Butch were planning to stop at the highest point right in the middle.

Bobby was lookout while Butch prepared the detonator—three M-80s taped to a deflated rubber ball, fuses twisted together and tied to a long string. Butch took a can of lighter fluid from his windbreaker.

“String ’s not gonna burn fast enough to get the fuses—it ‘ll go out when it hits the water—got to juice it up a little.”

They bet a dime—Bobby on it hitting the water before exploding and Butch who wanted to see an air burst blow the ball apart. Neither of them could possibly have bet on what was about to happen, however

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“What—are you chicken? No problem. Keep watching for cops.”

“I don’t know Butch. Don’t get any on the ball, okay?” Bobby saw a stream of fluid hit the ball as Butch soaked the string.

“You want to test a piece of string up here before you light that?”

Bobby held the ball while Butch fished a zippo out of his pocket.

“This is Timmy’s good luck lighter from Normandie—he’d fuckin’ kill me if he knew I had it. Matches wouldn’t stay lit here, feel the wind.”

Bobby turned the ball around. He was definitely not comfortable with the lighter fluid part but it was too late to chicken out.

“Ready? Hold it way out. Soon ’s the string gets going good drop it—okay? Here we go.” Butch cupped his free hand around the lighter that lit on the second try.

“I can’t get the string when it’s hangin’ down like that, swing it this way. Hold the ball up more—here we go.”

A burst of flame raced up the soaked string, Bobby flinched dropping the bomb as Butch screamed and shook his hand back and forth. The experiment plummeted unlit toward the water as though racing the good luck lighter to the bottom.. Butch wiggled his fingers; his hand didn’t seem to be burned much at all– But, the reality of dropping the lighter was beginning to sink in.

“Your hand okay?”

“Yeah, I think so—I got to get another lighter some how! I took it from his dresser, he don’t know I have it. Oh, fuck—what am I goin’ to do? You okay?”

Neither had seen the cruiser pull to the curb behind them and the shotgun cop lean out his window.

“All right– don’t move. How many Goddamn times we have to tell you about stopping on the bridge and hangin’ over the railing? Looks like you were throwing something over there, too. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Couple of years ago somebody dropped a rock off this bridge and killed a guy on a boat. That’s why we don’t like young punks like you stopping—” He turned back to his partner. “Dennis, put their bikes in the trunk while I watch ‘em?”

“Come over here, you two—you with the red hair. I know you! Couple weeks ago– right? Picked you up downtown for violating curfew. You must be a slow learner. Okay boys, get in the back we’re going to take a little ride down to the station”

Bobby thought about the trouble he was going to be in at home as he climbed into the back seat of the cruiser. His dad was still a little pissed about the note. He would definitely by grounded for the rest of the summer. Number one—he wasn’t supposed to hang around with Butch, number two—his mom said he could go to the park but not to anyone’s house while they were gone and, best of all, number three—he was being taken to the police station for the first time in his life. Maybe they would let he and Butch go after lecturing them a little. Bobby caught and stopped himself from asking if they were going to call his parents.

Going to the police station didn’t bother Butch– losing Timmy’s lighter really did. Timmy could get mean when he drank but it usually didn’t last. The one night when he got in a fight in front of the house was something else, though. Butch’s mom finally went out and stopped Timmy from probably kicking the poor bastard to death. Timmy had looked like a crazy man when he finally came inside— a look that terrified Butch when he thought about the lighter.

The police drove them to the downtown end of the bridge, warned them that they would go to juvenile detention if they ever caught them again and let them go. Neither spoke as they rode back to Brooklyn Bobby pretending he didn’t notice Butch’s tears.

Watch closely—it’s quick and a little blurry: Kitty flying through the air and landing, clinging, to the curtain. The montage moves on, but it strikes you: that’s the funniest clip of the whole bit— a different kind of funny.

You’re relaxed. You’ve had your two beers after work. You rewind and watch the thing again. Funny kittens do funny things and then it comes, the flying kitten. You rewind a little, pause at the end of the preceding clip, where a kitty pops the balloon it’s batting and runs like hell…

New frame: There—at the very beginning. You missed it the first time around, the skinny arm that did the tossing, the veiny hand. It’s not a gentle toss. You can tell that even in slow motion as the kitty dumbbell’s across the aperture and lands face down above the couch that’s losing its stuffing. You freeze the frame, see the kitty’s back fur spiked, see the scorch marks on the curtain. You advance frame-by-frame, spot the beer can on the carpet, a jar tipped over next to it, the glint of coins on the shag. One more frame reveals turds, a whole colony of them, cat turds from the cat in hell.

You’re tipsy. You’ve put those beers back faster than normal, but you’ve glimpsed an unhealthy life, even if it’s just a cat’s life… and you laughed. Ashamed, you send the ASPCA an email and include the link to the video.

* * * * * * * *

Thank freakin’ God for “friends” and cameras. They sent in the bit with him tossing his freakin’ cat (It was gnawing on his works. Freakin’ cats love the taste of surgical tubing.) Now he’s on the number one all-time most hits funny cat video on the web. Yeah, it’s just his arm that made it into the shot. And yeah, there were other clips on there. But it’s that freakin’ cat flying like freakin’ crazy that makes people want to see it again and again. HIS freakin’ cat.

If he hadn’t sold the camera already, he could have done one better. He’s not used to seeing himself from outside of himself, but thanks to that video he knows what looks funny. He should have had the camera: the kitten sneakin’ up on him in his mangy bathrobe on his knees, his thick head lost behind the stereo he’s unplugging to sell. You could tell by the grease on the matted rose terry cloth that he’s free-ballin’ underneath… at least he would have thunk that seeing himself. And the cat clinging to his balls? Who wouldn’t laugh?

* * * * * * * *

The Animal Control officer arrives outside the apartment at the address forwarded to him by the tiny voiced woman at the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The stench is overwhelming. He knocks three times, four. The police officer accompanying him knows that smell. He calls for backup and knocks himself, three times. Four.

His big shoulder pops the door open and they enter, gagging. The apartment is all but empty, nothing but a blown out couch, some curtains, some crusted works and a dead man to go with them, his arms and face withered and pocked… He’d been dead a while, and by the looks of it, a small-to-medium size animal had been feeding off of him.

The man from the ASPCA calls out, “Here kitty!” From underneath the couch comes the unworldly sound of a cat fending off demons.

“Come on, kitty-kitty,” says the man, bending, the police officer backing him up. “You’re gonna be famous…”