mistake on my part, because Sweetie, as I mentioned, didn't like being crossed or defied. He stared at me with those snake eyes, which seemed to have fumes inside them.
"Higher fees -- that's what young ones bring," he hissed, looking me up and down. "Not quite ripe yet, but next year? And I'll be first, Missy."
I did not cry. What I did was Divert, which is a technique I invented for dealing with woe: you simply forget the woe exists by focusing on Precise Observation. For instance, I noted that Frankie had turned her smoked glasses toward Sweetie, but also past Sweetie, at the sheriff and deputies standing on either side of the door. Johnny leaned back in his chair, enjoying the show. He even got in a wink at Nellie Bly, but she hardly noticed because she had her pad in her lap, hidden under the tabletop, and she rapidly jotted notes, suppressing jubilation over her windfall of excellent grist.
I posed this question to myself, to ponder later: does a journalist's participation in life consist solely in reporting on it?
Placido finally spoke.
"You'll be sorry!" he told Sweetie, returning to his original theme, and he poked Sweetie's skinny chest with his fat finger.
Sweetie looked down at the finger with revulsion. Then he glanced over at Fitzpatrick Duprey, leaning against the wall, and barely nodded.
Without hurrying, the sheriff straightened and walked toward Placido, who had his back turned and did not see him coming. Fitzpatrick Duprey had a wiry black mustache and always wore a black suit, today over a red vest embroidered in gold. He habitually sneered, one side of his mouth drawn up, and right now his sneer looked more awful than usual. But all he did, at first, was rest one long-fingered hand on Placido Hieronymus's shoulder.
Placido turned, and his red face whitened.
"Call him off," he told Sweetie.
But his brother only smiled and said: "You've been naughty again, Placido -- remember how that irritated Mother so profoundly?"
Then he nodded at Sheriff Duprey. I saw Duprey raise his eyebrows, a silent question. Sweetie considered. Then he shook his head.
"Just a little discipline," he told the sheriff. "No more."
Duprey grinned. He stepped back, regarding Placido, deciding what to do to him, and I actually felt almost badly for that sorry sniveler, because I saw his legs shake. He tried to leave, but Fitzpatrick Duprey put his hand back on his shoulder and held him. Now the sheriff began to mumble silently to himself, pointing his free hand's long, bony index finger.
Placido, suddenly, stood in the middle of the saloon wearing only his shoes and argyle socks, held up with garters. Otherwise, he was starkers, looking like a fat groundhog with its pelt shaved off.
Placido bleated, then ran up the stairs with his huge buttocks jiggling. Most everybody in the saloon laughed, except for Sweetie, who already was on his way out, and Nellie Bly -- who jotted notes furiously -- and Fitzpatrick Duprey, who stood staring across the room, looking at the table where Frankie and Johnny sat, as if he were sniffing the air, catching a scent.
Johnny, seeing the sheriff looking at him, straightened up and clasped his hands, like a good little boy in school. Frankie, expressionless, seemed to look everywhere and nowhere from behind her smoked glasses.
Abruptly, frowning, the sheriff strode out of the saloon, jerking his chin at his three deputies to follow. Once they were gone, the saloon hummed again, everybody chortling over how humiliated Placido had looked.
I bolted from the table and ran upstairs to tell my mother: we'll pack and go! Even if we have to walk all the way to Tampa or Jacksonville!
But when I got to the top floor -- where Marigold had her quarters, along with the hotel's other working women -- and I pushed open the door, there sat Placido on a hassock, a bath towel wrapped around his blubbery belly and hippopotamus behind, sniveling. My mother sat beside him in her chair, stroking his hair.
Woe
"Higher fees -- that's what young ones bring," he hissed, looking me up and down. "Not quite ripe yet, but next year? And I'll be first, Missy."
I did not cry. What I did was Divert, which is a technique I invented for dealing with woe: you simply forget the woe exists by focusing on Precise Observation. For instance, I noted that Frankie had turned her smoked glasses toward Sweetie, but also past Sweetie, at the sheriff and deputies standing on either side of the door. Johnny leaned back in his chair, enjoying the show. He even got in a wink at Nellie Bly, but she hardly noticed because she had her pad in her lap, hidden under the tabletop, and she rapidly jotted notes, suppressing jubilation over her windfall of excellent grist.
I posed this question to myself, to ponder later: does a journalist's participation in life consist solely in reporting on it?
Placido finally spoke.
"You'll be sorry!" he told Sweetie, returning to his original theme, and he poked Sweetie's skinny chest with his fat finger.
Sweetie looked down at the finger with revulsion. Then he glanced over at Fitzpatrick Duprey, leaning against the wall, and barely nodded.
Without hurrying, the sheriff straightened and walked toward Placido, who had his back turned and did not see him coming. Fitzpatrick Duprey had a wiry black mustache and always wore a black suit, today over a red vest embroidered in gold. He habitually sneered, one side of his mouth drawn up, and right now his sneer looked more awful than usual. But all he did, at first, was rest one long-fingered hand on Placido Hieronymus's shoulder.
Placido turned, and his red face whitened.
"Call him off," he told Sweetie.
But his brother only smiled and said: "You've been naughty again, Placido -- remember how that irritated Mother so profoundly?"
Then he nodded at Sheriff Duprey. I saw Duprey raise his eyebrows, a silent question. Sweetie considered. Then he shook his head.
"Just a little discipline," he told the sheriff. "No more."
Duprey grinned. He stepped back, regarding Placido, deciding what to do to him, and I actually felt almost badly for that sorry sniveler, because I saw his legs shake. He tried to leave, but Fitzpatrick Duprey put his hand back on his shoulder and held him. Now the sheriff began to mumble silently to himself, pointing his free hand's long, bony index finger.
Placido, suddenly, stood in the middle of the saloon wearing only his shoes and argyle socks, held up with garters. Otherwise, he was starkers, looking like a fat groundhog with its pelt shaved off.
Placido bleated, then ran up the stairs with his huge buttocks jiggling. Most everybody in the saloon laughed, except for Sweetie, who already was on his way out, and Nellie Bly -- who jotted notes furiously -- and Fitzpatrick Duprey, who stood staring across the room, looking at the table where Frankie and Johnny sat, as if he were sniffing the air, catching a scent.
Johnny, seeing the sheriff looking at him, straightened up and clasped his hands, like a good little boy in school. Frankie, expressionless, seemed to look everywhere and nowhere from behind her smoked glasses.
Abruptly, frowning, the sheriff strode out of the saloon, jerking his chin at his three deputies to follow. Once they were gone, the saloon hummed again, everybody chortling over how humiliated Placido had looked.
I bolted from the table and ran upstairs to tell my mother: we'll pack and go! Even if we have to walk all the way to Tampa or Jacksonville!
But when I got to the top floor -- where Marigold had her quarters, along with the hotel's other working women -- and I pushed open the door, there sat Placido on a hassock, a bath towel wrapped around his blubbery belly and hippopotamus behind, sniveling. My mother sat beside him in her chair, stroking his hair.
Woe
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