Inflating a Dog (The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy) by Eric Kraft (e manga reader TXT) 📕

“Luck. Just luck. Dumb luck, in Porky’s case.”

“Oh, Bert — ”

“He just happened to get into the clam-bar business at the right time.”

“I don’t think there has ever been a right time for getting into the clam-bar business.”

“Sure there is. There’s a right time for everything. And Porky just happened to start his clam bar at the right time, just before the clam fad hit.”

“The clam fad?”

“Sure. Clams are the cat’s pajamas now — or whatever it is kids say.” He turned to Patti and with an attempt at an attractive smile asked, “What do you say when something’s the cat’s pajamas — you know, great — terrific?”

“A pump. Or a blow — ” She caught herself about to say “job” and stopped.

“What?”

“ — blow — ” She looked to me for help.

“Torch,” I said, suddenly inspired. “A blowtorch.”

“Blowtorch,” said my father, trying it out. “Clams are a blowtorch — ”

“A real blowtorch,” I said, improvising, showing him how. “Clams are a real blowtorch now.”

“Clams are a real blowtorch now,” he said, doing his best to imitate me.

“You’ve got it, Mr. Leroy,” said Patti.

“A real blowtorch! Look at us. We’re the proof of it. We’re all eating clamburgers. Q. E. D., right Peter?”

“I guess so.”

My father looked at what remained of his second clamburger, sneered at it, and said, as if he were cursing, “Luck. Dumb luck.” He chewed. “It’s just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.” He swallowed. “And for some reason that I will never understand, Chester White, Chester White, who wasn’t even in the right line when they were handing the brains out, has developed a knack for being in the right place at the right time.” He opened another can of beer and took a long swallow. Shaking his head, he said, “The son of a bitch — pardon my French — the son of a gun is a lucky son of a bitch.” He took another swallow. “Some people have luck, and some do not. He’s got it.” Another swallow. “I wish I did.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could find a way to get some of it to rub off on us?” said my mother, dreamily, as if she couldn’t for the life of her think of a way to accomplish such a thing.

My father gave her a dismissive look and sucked at his beer. Through the foam on his lips, he said, “Pffff.”

“I was trying to remember what it is you say about getting a ride on somebody else’s luck. How does it go, Bert?”

“Bet on his horse.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” She sighed, as if she couldn’t quite see how any of us might get a ride on Porky’s luck. She took a bite of her clamburger and shot a look at Patti, who brightened.

“Gee, I might have an idea,” she said. She seemed ready to go on, but then she shrugged, bestowed on my father her famous pout, and said, “But it’s probably stupid.”

My father grinned like a boy and waggled his finger at Patti. “An idea is like a little bird, young lady,” he said. “You’ve got to give it a push out of the nest and see if it can fly.”

He pantomimed this, for Patti’s benefit, and my mother, Patti, and I managed somehow not to laugh.

“Well, okay,” said Patti, as if suddenly shy in the face of such wisdom. Then, with a here-goes-nothing expression, she pantomimed a fluttering little bird and said, “I was just thinking that maybe we could get a ride on Porky’s luck if we — oh, I don’t know — if we asked him for jobs or something like that.”

“That’s very good,” said my father, with an indulgent smile. Pantomiming again he said, “Let’s see it fly.”

Patti obliged him and fluttered her little hands. My father locked his thumbs and made his hands flap as if they were the wings of a bird of prey, and suddenly his hands swooped down on Patti’s and grabbed them.

“Aw, gee, Patti,” he said, almost brutally. “It didn’t get very far. I think a nasty old crow got it.”

Patti almost looked as if she might apologize.

“It was too little and too weak,” my father continued. “Let’s try something bigger and stronger.” He made another fledgling fly and said, “Suppose we invest in Elegant Excursions, too!”

My mother, Patti, and I gasped as if astonished by the temerity of this suggestion.

“Oh, Bert,” said my mother, “that sounds risky.”

“Ella, you don’t know anything about it. I’m going to put in as much as Porky puts in. There’s no reason why he should make all the money.” With a wink at Patti, he said, “I’m going to bet on Porky’s horse.”

Patti smiled winningly, but when my father turned aside to reach for his beer, she rolled her eyes and sneered.

MY MOTHER pulled her old car to a stop at Patti’s house. She said, as mothers will, or did, “Peter, see Patti to the door.”

Patti and I walked to the door.

On the front steps, before Patti went in, she called to my mother, “Good night, Ella!” and then, to me, in a whisper, she said, “Listen, Peter, I think you might be right about the paternity issue. You’re too nice a guy to be the son of a — a nasty old crow. Let’s try the experiment again, okay?”

“Well, okay,” I said, trying to seem blasé. “Sure. If you want.”

Chapter 23

The Fate of Fledglings (Afflatus, Part 3)

ABOUT SIX YEARS AGO, I was invited to speak at the annual meeting of the Philpott Society, a small group of people devoted to improving the literary reputation of John R. Philpott, the author of Oysters and All About Them, a work that I have long regarded as a masterpiece of idiosyncratic organization and one that I eagerly acknowledge as one of the inflationary influences on my memoirs.

The honorarium from the Philpott Society paid our expenses and left us a little surplus, so Albertine and I spent a week in