9. Pete
9
PETE
Friday is in full Friday wear, all the way down to black lips, heavy eyeliner, and fishnet stockings. She works to whip us all in shape, and I’m not going to lie—it’s a tough job. She’s directing traffic like a pro. There are five lanes of cars filled with people waiting to pick up spaghetti plates, and the street has pretty much been closed down since the plates started going out. Mr. Jacobson presold tickets for the spaghetti supper, and now that we know Sam didn’t kill him while cooking the spaghetti plates, we can call it a success.
Mr. Jacobson drives by me on his little buggy, ready to deliver another load of plates to line number four. He has a scowl on his face that would generally make me run and hide, but I have learned that it’s pretty much his general disposition. Sam looks over at me and wipes his forehead. He’s been cooking since five in the morning, and he could have stopped working, but he said that as long as Mr. Jacobson was still working, he would work, too. That man never stops.
He did tell us that, with the presales for the spaghetti supper tickets, a few large donations we may or may not have helped facilitate and help from the community, the fire department now has enough money to buy the new fire engine it desperately needs.
A car pulls up, and Reagan walks around to take the tickets from the driver while I load him up with his spaghetti plates. Each of us has a line. Edward and Avery left to deliver plates to office buildings that made large purchases.
“You need sunscreen,” Reagan says with a frown. “You’re turning pink.”
A cop pulls up next to Mr. Jacobson and gets out of the car. “Mr. Jacobson,” he calls out. The dude is huge.
“Little Robbie,” Mr. Jacobson says. “What the fuck do you want?”
I stop in my tracks as Reagan smothers a laugh. There’s nothing little about this guy. He’s at least six and a half feet tall. He’s a monster. But he cowers a little when Mr. Jacobson glares at him. “We’ve got to clear the road, Mr. Jacobson,” he says. “The police chief just called to complain.”
Mr. Jacobson shoves a box of plates into Little Robbie’s arms. “You want it to go faster?” he asks. “Pass out some plates.”
“I’m on duty, Mr. Jacobson,” he says in protest.
“Duty, shmooty,” Mr. Jacobson says. “You want to clear the road? Pass out some plates.” Mr. Jacobson gazes down the road outside the complex. You can’t see the end of the line. It goes on for miles. Anyone just trying to get home from work will be screwed until we get things moving.
“Yes, sir,” the one he called Little Robbie says with a grunt.
“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Jacobson replies sharply.
Little Robbie hits a button on the mic on his shoulder and says, “Going to be here a while. Mr. Jacobson said the fastest way to clear the road is to help them give out plates, so that’s what I’m doing.”
The mic crackles, and the person on the other end says, “Don’t piss him off. Just do what he says.”
“Roger that,” Little Robbie replies.
Little Robbie takes over for Reagan as she goes to collect more plates. “Do people always do what he says?” I ask absently, just curious—not judging.
“If they want to live,” Robbie says drolly.
It makes me laugh.
“Honestly, Mr. Jacobson is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you genuinely needed it. And he knows how to get shit done.” He holds up a finger. “Don’t ever try to outdrink him. He’ll drink you under the table.” He grins. “A couple of years ago, I got a call that some drunks were jumping off Five Mile Bridge. The police chief told me to go and check it out. It turned out to be Mr. Jacobson and some people from the cabins. He was five sheets to the wind. I looked over, saw his pecker flapping in the wind, and he didn’t give a damn. He jumped bare-ass naked right off the side of that bridge. He did get offended when someone told him he was a respectable person. He said he’d never been respectable a day in his life. And he was genuinely disturbed by the comment.” He laughs. “And he’s right. He’s never cared about getting anybody’s respect, mainly because he’s earned it through the years. He houses the homeless, feeds the hungry, and takes care of people who can’t take care of themselves, all without anybody having to ask.” He looks at me. “I’m really grateful for what you’ve done here this week. You’ve really helped the community, and we really appreciate you guys.”
That’s the sincerest thank you I think we’ve ever gotten.
It takes about six hours to pass out all the plates. By the time we’re done, I’m almost dead on my feet. Sam walks by me, his cheeks pink, his shoulders aching, and he stops next to me. “That old man has worked me under the table today,” he admits. We watch him putter past on the way to take another load of garbage to the dumpster.
“Do you think you could live in a place like this?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I like the city. I do like to visit, though,” he admits at the end. He grins. “I’m about to have my fill of fresh air, sunshine, and happy vibes.”
He’s full of shit, and I know it. “Are you going to the hospital with Matt tomorrow?” I ask.
He lets his head fall back and groans. “Fuck. I thought we were done after this.”
“This is the last big event,” I remind him. “Matt never could pick a fundraiser, so he decided to just swing by the cancer center in town and go meet some of the people. I’m thinking it might be hard for him, so I kind of think we should go too.”
He heaves out a breath. “Fine. I’ll go. Then we’ll have a day off before the wedding, right?” he asks.
He’s not exaggerating. This week has been a lot of work to benefit this community, but it’s what Gabby and Seth wanted. Since Seth is now a Reed, we’d do just about anything for him. Truth be told, we’d have done just about anything for him before he changed his name, but now, we do it a little faster.
“This is the last big event,” he reminds me.
“Do you think we could con Mr. Jacobson into getting the boat out and pulling us on that tube thing on our day off?” I ask. We saw someone else on the lake yesterday pulling a tube, and it looked like a lot of fun.
Gabby walks by. “I’ll pull you guys. You don’t want Pop to do it. He has a habit of slinging people off all over the lake.” She shakes her head. “It’s brutal.”
“Can you drive a boat?” Sam asks.
She laughs. “Can I drive a boat? Of course, I can drive a boat.”
“I taught her everything she knows,” Mr. Jacobson says as he rides by with another load of trash. He doesn’t stop. He’s still working. “Chop chop, boys,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Quit wasting time.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says.
“Why don’t you go to bed? I can finish up here.”
“Not a chance, fucker,” Sam says as he shoves my shoulder.
It makes me laugh. There’s not a chance I’d leave him when I knew there was work to do, either.