Wade & Felix Forever

Chapter 1

AUGUST

It only took all summer, but Felix and I have perfected the art of stealing a lawn gnome.

The perfect theft begins with scoping out the gnome in its natural habitat during daylight hours and investigating potential blind spots from the house windows.

Non-squeaky shoes are essential, so we can skulk over the dewy grass in the night without drawing attention to ourselves.

Gloves, so we don't leave fingerprints anywhere or in case the gnome tries to bite us.

A burlap sack to swiftly throw over the gnome and muffle any screams for help to its owners, who are sleeping soundly in their beds and unaware of the heist taking place on their front lawn.

Wet wipes for when we step on pet shit (ew) while we're fleeing the scene of the crime.

And the best “This is not the lawn gnome you are looking for” memory wipe we can muster if confronted by a cop.

But we've managed to snag nine gnomes across the whole town of Oyster Pit over the summer, and nobody has caught us yet.

To be fair, this is a lot less risky than the time we crashed a wife-carrying contest and the crowd chased us while I filmed upside down, my legs hanging over Felix's shoulders as we raced across the finish line.

The crowd threw every rock they could find at Felix, but they all landed on my face.

I've been eyeing a particular gnome for a while now in the bushes of a ranch-style home, standing between a hose wheel and a cutesy, decorated wooden sign that reads Bless this house down to the last mouse.

He's got his hands on his hips and a face with an attitude. This is one sassy gnome.

It deserves drag.

It's begging for drag.

This gnome is going to drag heaven tonight.

“But we're not gay,” I whisper to Felix, who's hiding behind the neighbor's tree with me.

“Definitely not,” he replies.

“Of course not.”

It's not gay to dress lawn gnomes in drag. We're just two red-blooded seventeen-year-old straight dudes with a peculiar sense of humor.

We move from the tree to the driveway, securing a new hiding spot behind a giant Ford Super Duty with pole-dancing stripper decal stickers slapped across the rear window.

As it happens, there's a band playing—if you could call them that—as loud as they can in the garage.

I would rate their musical talent as up there with seagulls screeching in your ears.

One guy strikes his drum set lifelessly while a tiny man next to him struggles to hold up his bass guitar, never mind play it.

The lead guitarist—a tall, built man with slicked-back hair and a plump handlebar mustache—shouts into the microphone.

He's slurring the lyrics, and I can practically smell the alcohol from the garage.

A Beatles reunion tour with zombies would still sound better than this.

This works for us because we can remove the sassy gnome without worrying about being too noisy.

“Get a load of that mustache,” Felix whispers.

“He looks like the Pringles man,” I whisper back.

The guitarist screams at them to stop and kicks the bass drum. “Where'd y'all learn how to play music? We're not going to get any other gigs if you losers don't shape up!” He takes a swig from a liquor bottle and spits it out on the drum set.

We sneak across the wet lawn toward the gnome, hiding in the shadow of the trees made by the streetlight. Mosquitoes swarm around us but fail to penetrate our layered clothing. I follow Felix with a big, stupid grin. This is me at my happiest. I don't even care that I was fired from my job today.

Once the band starts playing again, we rush over to the bushes. Felix pulls the sack open so I can toss the gnome in. I grunt unexpectedly as I pick him up. He's heavier than I anticipated.

“Clint!” a woman screams from inside the house.

The front door slams wide open. I drop the gnome and fall backward into the bushes.

Felix drops right next to me. The same woman stomps out with a cigarette in her mouth and a folded sheet of paper, then stops at the edge of the driveway.

The guitarist watches her with a boozy smirk and eyes that are struggling to stay straight.

“You used my work bonus to order an eight-thousand-dollar KISS coffin? Are you out of your mind? Is there a terminal diagnosis I'm unaware of?”

“It was a limited-edition gold coffin autographed by the whole band. Had to get it while I could!”

“So the Tahiti trip I've been planning for our anniversary this whole time can wait because you want to go to rock-and-roll heaven?” she says.

Clint holds his liquor bottle up and whirls it playfully in his hand. “Pecos, babe! Don't get all upset now. We're celebrating our first gig tomorrow night, so have a drink!”

“Great! You're drunk. Again.”

“I am not drunk, babes,” he slurs.

“You told me you were focusing on the job search.”

“This is a job!” he says, offended.

“I can't keep waiting for you to become a star. I want you to be a provider and take care of me, not the other way around.”

This is exquisite Oyster Pit redneck drama. I could listen to it all night, but we've got a sassy lawn gnome to steal. I'm already suffocating in these layered clothes.

“First of all, don't emasculate me in front of my pals.

I take good care of my girl. Second, tomorrow's gonna change everything.

I'm getting lowered down on a harness while the pyro goes off when we open.

Just like KISS! We'll be the talk of the town.” He beams, pointing to all the fireworks behind the drums.

She flicks her cigarette on the pavement and puts it out with her sandal. “You've been here your whole life, and now the town is suddenly going to care? Y'all sound like raccoons in a trash can.”

The bandmates' pitiful gazes ping-pong between Clint and his wife.

“Brenda, don't take your insecurities out on me. I live my life chasing dreams, not denying them.”

“You chase whiskey and wishful thinking, just like your dad. Maybe you will need that early coffin. God knows he did,” she says.

Clint stands there, his face flushing. He huffs through his nose and shuts his eyes, then pulls his guitar off and carefully rests it against the bass drum.

His bandmates rush to grab their things and leave. “Good night, y'all,” says the drummer.

As Clint swaggers out of the garage toward his wife, he cracks his knuckles and shakes them.

“Well, well, well! A hit dog will holler. You gonna make me sorry, tough guy?” she yells at him.

He stops a few feet from her, and they eye each other silently for a second until Clint starts chasing after her. She leads him in a circle around the lawn.

Unfortunately, she turns toward us.

“I'm about to hose you down, you worthless drunk!” She's about to grab the hose off the wheel, but almost immediately looks in my direction.

“What the—” she says.

I tap Felix on the shoulder. “Run!”

We leap out of the bushes and dash out of this dysfunctional couple's yard while they stand there, scratching their heads. I sprint down the street with the knapsack while Felix heads in the opposite direction.

“Hey! He took our gnome!” Brenda yells.

I peek behind and Clint and his wife are coming after me. His alcohol breath and body odor are faster than he is. It's actually starting to make me gag, so I cut across a lawn and circle around a tree to lose him, but he follows me all the way around.

“Get him!” Brenda screams.

“Dammit, Brenda, I'm drunk!” he yells back.

“Do you know what deodorant is?” I shout while trying not to retch.

I stupidly turn to see him gaining on me and miss the tree branch that knocks me flat onto the dewy grass. Clint, gasping for breath, totters above me and rips my mask off.

Here's the biggest problem: The first thing anybody will see when they look at my face is the ugly scar running from the top right of my forehead all the way across my nose and to the bottom left of my chin.

There are even more scars across my neck, on both sides.

They're not from all the rocks that people threw at me during the wife-carrying contest. As wild as it sounds, I wish they were from that.

The truth is darker—probably darker than the jail cell I'm about to be thrown into, which is pretty dark.

There're not many guys with a face like mine in this town, so if the police put me in a lineup, I'm screwed.

Add in the razor-thin gap I have between my two front teeth, and you now have the most unique face in Oyster Pit.

“Oh my god, Brenda. It's Frankenstein,” Clint says calmly. He takes one last breath before he shuts his eyes and collapses face-first into the ground.

Brenda dashes to his side and turns him over, but backs off when she hears him snoring.

“You worthless donkey!” After landing a few kicks on Clint, she starts for me.

Her foot is about to hit my face when something lights up and explodes.

An entire show's worth of fireworks shoot out from the garage and go off in the driveway.

Felix runs out from their driveway, back in the direction he was originally going.

“The house is on fire!” Brenda shrieks. As she hurries off back to her home, I pull myself up and take a moment to catch my breath. I notice Clint's wallet in the grass next to him, which I swipe before running the other way.

Saved by Felix. My hero.