is on his way to our house. He should be there by the time I get back from the store. I'll tell him I saw you. You will be ready when he comes for you, won't you? You know he doesn't like Mrs. Blair and he would rather avoid seeing her at all."
"Yes, Ma'am. I'll be ready."
"Well, you better get to mov'in. It's getting late. Bye."
"Bye, Aunt Rae. Thank you for the candy bar."
"You're welcome. It's always best to pay for things, you know."
She knows, thought Billy, unhappy with his luck and feeling guilty. Billy shoved the candy bar into his trouser pocket, then stepped over to where Mr. Prezzolinni was arranging fruit. "Mr. Prezzolinni," Billy spoke in a pleading voice intended to gain the sympathy of the listener, "do I have to take the spoiled stuff? It won't fit in my wagon." "You got’ta take it. It no stay here'n git rotten stinkn'." He wiped his hands on the front of his long bibbed apron, casting a disapproving downward glance at Billy, and walked to the rear of the store. Billy followed, biting his lower lip and regretting that he had been less than manly in his approach.
"Bring-a you wagon 'ere. I fix it fer ya." Billy
"Darn," thought Billy "I'll never get this home. It's too heavy." He was consciously aware of time rapidly passing and his joyous eagerness to see his Dad. Mr. Prezzolinni reached down raising the wagon handle and placing it in Billy's hand. "you-a take it easy and you get-a home hokay. Hokay?"
"Yes, Mr. Prezzolinni. Thank you and I'll see ya next week."
"Yah, and you hav-a goud time with yer Pappa."
"I will. Bye." Billy pulled the wagon out of the delivery door and onto the dock. Mr. Prezzolinni slid the heavy delivery door closed. Billy sat down, his feet hanging over the edge of the dock, and ate his candy bar. Finished with the candy he eased the overloaded wagon down the dock ramp and onto the sidewalk. The load was heavy and it wanted to tip over as he turned the corner to retrace his route up High Street to Lyon Avenue.
Billy's Dad was now living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains above Groveland and not far from Yosemite National Park. In fact, the mountain cabin in which his Dad was living was the original entrance to the park by way of the Big Oak Flat Road. Billy had not yet visited his father in the mountains, but had been promised by his Uncle Bud, Aunt Rae's husband, that he would take him soon. Billy looked forward to the visit and was wondering how soon "soon" would be when his daydream was shattered with the tipping over of the wagon.
"Damn it." His temper flared. He kicked the nearest gunnysack. His anger swelled into tears. "Shit." Billy had no shortage for vulgar words in his vocabulary, and when alone he used them all. He righted the wagon while swearing a profuse string of vulgarity and started off again. Once more the wagon flipped over. "Damn it." He shouted the words. He again righted the wagon, trying to adjust the load. He stammered to himself, "I'm going to be late." He began crying. He wiped away the tears, angry with Mr. Prezzolinni that he had overloaded the wagon. He concentrated on the route he was going to take home. If he had more time he would take his alternate route by way of Brookdale to 38th Avenue, then across Neville to the opposite end of Lyon Avenue where the climb was more gradual and a lot easier. But time was running out, and he wanted to be home when his Dad arrived. His only other choice was up the steep hill the way he had come. "I can't pull this up that hill," he thought aloud. His frustration again brought tears of self-pity to his eyes. He thought about the story his Dad told of the little train and the heavy load it pulled over the hill. "I think I can, I think I can; I thought I could." He wished the little train were there now to help him over the hill. Again the wagon tipped over. This time the twine snapped, spilling the sacks into the gutter and the spoiled vegetables onto the sidewalk. "Damn it. Shit."
Tears streamed down his face. His chest swelled with pent-up emotion, and he cried out with hateful anger at his helplessness. Explosively, he grabbed the handle of the now empty wagon and vengefully flipped it onto its wheels. He tried lifting the crate. It was too heavy. He tipped up the crate, which was lying on its side, and allowed some of the spoiled
"Hey, hey. What's going on here?" The booming voice pierced his mood. Billy stopped, turned and saw the long blue coat with a silver tar on it....a policeman. Billy stood still, his head bowed in shame, not knowing what to expect.
"Having yourself a good fit, are ya? Well now, I'm going to stand here while you clean up that mess." The policeman stood tall, holding his nightstick across the front of his legs, rocking to and fro on the heels of his large shoes. Billy was quiet; he said nothing. The sudden appearance of the policeman had broken his spell of anger and self-pity. He dropped to his knees, turning his head to wipe his eyes and runny nose on the shoulder of his shirt, and began picking up the spoiled produce and place it in the crate.
Billy placed the last bit of debris in the crate, stroked his hands back and forth across a gunnysack to remove the sticky juices, and asked, "Will you help me tie the gunnysacks on?"
"I guess I could do that. What is your name, and where do you live?" .
"My name is Billy. Well, really, William Munroe. I live up there." He pointed across the street to the Lyon Avenue hill.
"And where did you get this, and where are you going with it?"
Billy explained how he picked up greens for the chickens from the markets on Mondays and that he was on his way home.
"You don't expect to pull this load up that hill, do you, Billy?"
"I have to. I usually go round the other way to Brookdale, but I don't have the time today. My Dad is coming to see me." The officer listened with interest as Billy explained how he did not live with his father. When Billy finished, the officer made a motion toward a nearby driveway.
"Pull your wagon up to that driveway, and I'll help you get across the street."
Billy complied, being particularly careful not to let the wagon tip over. The policeman stood in the center of the street prepared to stop traffic as he motioned Billy across the street, and then followed him to the opposite curb, where he lifted the rear of the wagon as Billy pulled on the yoke, raising the wagon onto the sidewalk.
"Would you accept some help getting up the hill?" Billy was elated by the offer.
"Yeah, sure.... ah," embarrassingly, he corrected himself, "I mean, yes."
