By Earl Petty Jr. ..................I woke up at about two in the afternoon. The heat was unbearable, I went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of beer and sat on the front step to enjoy the first of the day. I leisurely sipped while a few college students hurried past trying to make their classes. What a waste. I had just finished my beer and helped myself to a second when my neighbor Mike walked up in a pair of red coveralls. He had huge sweat stains under each arm and was ripe from a long day of dumpster diving. Mike roots through more garbage before 8 am than most people do all day. “Jesus, Mike,” I gagged. “Could you manage to move downwind? Your stink is gonna make me puke.” He took a few steps back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Say, what’s your name?” I shook my head. “Earl. My name is Earl. Every day you ask me the same question and I tell you the same answer. The name is Earl.” “Oh, o.k.” Mike stood with his hands in his pocket and touched the end of his nose with his tongue. “I don’t feel so well,” he said. “Well, maybe if you weren’t up to your neck in other people’s trash everyday you’d feel a little better.” “I was sick once,” Mike continued, “when I was a kid. My dad gave me a heating pad.” “Really?” “You know why?” he asked. I took a long pull of beer. “No,” I said, “Why?” “Because I was cold. And my Mom made me soup. You know why?” I looked down the street for signs of intelligent life. I didn’t find any. “I don’t have the foggiest,” I said. “Because I was sick.” Mike scratched his chin and frowned. “But I don’t feel so good.” Well,” I offered, “Maybe you got a tapeworm.” “A what?” he asked. “A tapeworm,” I repeated. “A long parasite that lives in your intestines and eats all your food. You slowly starve to death all the while the worm gets fatter and fatter.” “Do you think so?” “Absolutely,” the way you live in garbage cans you are lucky you don’t have rabies.” “I don’t think so.” “Yep,” I continued. “The only way to get rid of them is to squat over a piece of raw meat. When the worm sticks its head out to eat you’ve got to grab it by the neck and wrestle the bastard out. Snag the head and start pounding.” “Really?’ he asked. “That’ll work?” “Yes, and you know why? He touched his tongue to the end of his nose again. “Why?” I took another drink. “I’m not gonna tell you.” I finished off my beer and went inside. I grabbed another cold one out of the fridge. I pulled back the shade and Mike started walking across the street where he lived with his brother and sister-in-law. I lit a cigarette and sat on the toilet. I was leafing through a magazine when I heard a knock at the front door. I ignored it. The knocks continued. I stood, leaving my business unfinished, pulled up my shorts and answered the door. It was Harlan. The three-act opera he had written about John Bobbit never took off and now he was back in town. “What the hell do you want? I asked. “Two words, my friend,” he said. “God- damned live bait.” “Not interested,” I replied. Then I spied the brown bag in his left hand. It fit the form of the bottle inside nicely. “But please come on in.” He handed me the bag. It contained a bottle of Jim Beam. I went to the cupboard, grabbed a couple almost clean glasses and poured them half full. I grabbed a tray of ice out of the freezer and popped three cubes in each glass. I handed Harlan the one least full. He took a sip. “Like angels dancing on your tongue,” he said. I took a drink. Tasted like whiskey to me, but I wasn’t about to argue with him. “I’ve got a proposition,” he said. “I’m thinking of going into business and I need a partner.” “I don’t have any money,” I said. “That’s the beauty,” he said. “No money is needed. What I’m planning on doing is opening a bait shop.” “I didn’t know you were such an entrepreneur,” I said. “Anyway,” he continued. “I already have six big beds of night crawlers going in my basement. They sell for two bucks a dozen. I’ve arranged to trap leeches at a couple stock ponds just outside of town. They go for about the same. I can get a hold of a couple high tech minnow traps. Chubs go for $2.50 a dozen.” “Where are you getting these high tech traps?” I asked, not really caring to know. “A specialty shop based in a city near Brookings,” he said. “Flandreau?” I asked. “No.” “Trent?” “No.” “Sinai?” “Shut the hell up,” Harlan yelled. “What difference does it make?” He took a short drink of his Beam. “Anyway, just say I’ve got it covered and I have a place lined up on a busy lake. It’s a sweet deal. We’ll be rich.” I finished my drink. “So what do you want from me?” “I need somebody to help me run the store 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Twelve hours on, 12 off until we get on our feet. Split the profits 60/40. What do you say?” “Sounds like I’d be better off filling creame donuts for minimum wage.” I walked to the kitchen, put out my stub and poured myself another drink. “That’s your problem,” Harlan said. “You have no vision. You never answer the door when opportunity knocks.” I lit another cigarette. “Trouble with opportunity is it always knocks when I’m on the crapper,” I said. I grabbed the bottle and filled his glass. As I screwed the lid on the bottle, I noticed Mike out on his front lawn. “Goddam,” I said. I walked out the front door and stood on the stoop. Mike had his filthy coveralls pulled down around his ankles and was squatting over a chunk of raw hamburger, looking for action between his legs. The flies were already buzzing around the meat. Harlan joined me. “What the hell is this,” Harlan asked. I gave him a short explanation. Harlan spit out a mouthful of whiskey. I took a drag off my cigarette. “Mike,” I called. “How’s it going?” Mike managed to break his concentration to wave. Harlan put down his drink and yelled, “Mike! The tapeworm! He’s going for the meat! Get him!” Mike’s eyes widened and his hands launched toward his groin. He shreiked, fell over and flailed away at the imaginary parasite. He rolled across the yard clawing and punching his genitals. Harlan fell down laughing, holding his gut. I shook my head. “Jesus,” I muttered. I finished my drink, went inside and poured another one. When I returned to the front step, Harlan was still on the ground. Mike was walking around his front yard, naked from the waist down except for his coveralls on his ankles. He scratched his head, went back to the pile of meat and returned to his squatting vigil. I went back inside, locked the door, drew the curtains and sat on the toilet. Shortly thereafter I heard a knock at the door. It was opportunity again. I took a drink, lit another cigarette and decided it was a summons I was going to ignore. ..................................................................................................................