and Polly were good during your time,” Ellis said, “but maybe it’s time you thought about redirecting your fire, if you know what I mean. It’s like my daddy always says,” Ellis went on, “girls are like trolley cars … you miss one and another one’ll come in due time.”
Joel shook his head and rolled his eyes in response. Most times, his best friend could make him laugh enough to forget whatever his cares might be, but at the same time, Ellis could be completely weird too. As the two of them headed out to the front of the high school where students had begun to swarm as the lunch bell sounded, Joel saw Ian lead Polly to his car, parked ostentatiously in the lot.
“And really, Joel,” Ellis said, “who can compete with that?”
Joel had to admit that Ellis was right. The car was a sweet ride, no doubt about it. It wasn’t as if Joel hadn’t thought about his own ride before Ian came parading through town with his so-called Silver Bullet—the nickname he had given his car. He was just like any other teenaged boy in that sense. Mr. Gregory, one of the older men for whom Joel delivered groceries, had decided that he was too old to drive his car anymore. While it wasn’t a state-of-the-art sports car like Ian’s, it would still, for all intents, serve his purpose. It had been a major battle to get his mother to agree to the purchase but once she had, it was full steam ahead for Joel. It made sense, he thought. He could help out with errands and transport Jasper to his after-school events. It would also be incentive for him to keep up his grades, as good grades meant lower insurance rates. It wouldn’t hurt either that he could score some points with Polly or with any other girl who would take an interest.
He had done his homework, now came the hard part: raising the money. Joel found work delivering groceries for Mr. Greene to the sick, infirm or otherwise shut in, and while it was nice to have a few dimes to scratch together, that’s about what it amounted to when it came to putting together the money for Mr. Gregory’s “barely driven, solid as she comes” Ford pickup. And Joel didn’t want any special favors from Mr. Gregory, either; he wanted to pay what Mr. Gregory was asking.
It was then that he spied the huge, plaid-shirted back of Hezekiah McClafferty tacking up a “Help Wanted” ad on the corkboard Community Affairs Center in the main hallway of the school. The McClafferty family had just bought the old Grisson farm where Joel and lot of other kids used to work for the summer. Hezekiah was about two heads taller than Joel and just as wide. Dark, mean little eyes sparkled out from under a brow that could keep rainwater away from his nose. Thick, dark, cropped hair covered his large head, ending in two large sideburns that poured down the side of his face. Two eyebrows joined over the center of his forehead, making one unibrow. He regarded Joel and Ellis for a moment before lumbering away.
“You know, I still think it’s strange the way Mr. Grisson just up and left Portersville with nary a peep,” Ellis said, recalling the events of earlier this summer. “He had no family … heck, us kids were his family, and he goes and leaves on us.”
“Yeah, maybe it was too hard for him to say goodbye,” Joel said absently, heading over to the Help Wanted flyer. The other kids gathered at the billboard were more taken with the advertisement for the Halloween night haunted cruise put on by the Crescent Coast Community Players. One of the tall ships would be converted for the night into a full-on pirate’s galleon and safely transport teenage trick-or-treaters from Morrelli’s Costume Shop on the coast down to the church’s community center and home to the Harvest Festival, named for those who didn’t really care for the whole Halloween moniker.
“Under new management,” Joel read. “Help Wanted, good pay, reasonable hours, call and schedule an appointment for interview with Beverly McClafferty.”
“You were one of Grisson’s favorites, Joel,” Ellis said, “maybe he put in a good word for you with the new owners.”
“Maybe,” Joel said, pondering over the advertisement. Good pay, he reiterated. Maybe this was just what he needed.
“I’ve got to go,” he said matter of factly to Ellis.
“Go where?” Ellis asked.
“Go get my girl back!” Joel returned.
“What about the rest of the day?” Ellis asked.
“It’s just study hall for me,” Joel said, “and I’ll be back before final bell!”
At Work for the Pumpkin King
It was a sight to behold, forty feet tall with ten-foot arms and twenty-foot legs ending in six-foot-long leather boots. The detail was tremendous. The shirt was puffy, like men used to wear in the olden days. A sword at least eight feet long was tied to its waist and the piece de resistance was the head, a huge, orange-colored, nicely carved fifteen-foot tall pumpkin. Smoke emanated from the stem of the pumpkin as pies cooked in the oven located in the back of the head. Joel remembered how much attention this feature had attracted from the local news media. The bright lights that formed the eyes seemed to look right at any visitors who made their way into or even near the McClafferty farm. It was a great advertising gimmick, one that the farm’s prior owner and Joel’s former boss, Ezra Grisson, would never have cottoned to. Just give the people a good, high quality product and you’ll never have to do anything else, he would say to Joel. Gazing up at the huge statue, this so-called Pumpkin King, would no doubt bring to mind pumpkins and Halloween with just one look.
Joel had seen his fair share of strange sights in his young life. Much of the reason was where he lived, of course. Portersville had a long history of peculiar residents, and of hosting weird events and happenings. Some of the older residents said it was because Portersville sat on the portal between the real world and the not-so-real world and that on occasion, it was not unusual for the two worlds to spill over onto each other, especially during the month of October—and even more especially during the last several days of October. Joel hadn’t been privy to this particular fact of town history until last Halloween, but much had happened since then, including the influx of the McClafferty family.
The McClafferty family was new to Portersville and they sure were making their mark. They had bought up the old Grisson farm lock, stock and barrel, and hadn’t wasted any time in launching their fall advertising campaign. It was strange for Joel. He had been a good worker for Mr. Grisson for three summers, and Mr. Grisson had sold the farm to the McClaffertys and left town without even a goodbye or a thanks for all the help or anything. And now Joel had to apply as a part-time worker for the McClaffertys. Steeling his nerves, Joel headed beneath the huge parted legs of the Pumpkin King and into the farmhouse. The air smelled of pumpkin pie, sweet cinnamon and nutmeg. Joel gazed at the wrinkled flyer he had stowed in his bookbag for a few days now. Thinking of his car and of Polly, he confidently strode up to the door to the McClafferty (used to be Grisson) Farm & Vegetable Garden and Cider Mill Factory. A few minutes later, Mrs. McClafferty was calling his name.
“That’s me,” he replied, rapidly stumbling to his feet and dropping the clipboard and application and pen to the floor.
“No need to be nervous, dearie,” Mrs. McClafferty smiled at him, “and don’t mind him,” she said, looking towards the great Pumpkin King. “We share you all’s traditions with regards to the old codger.”
In Portersville and some of the surrounding boroughs, everyone knew the legend of the Pumpkin King, a huge pumpkin-headed giant who was said to in reality be the ghost of a fisherman who was cursed every Halloween to have his head transformed into a jack-o-lantern and then compelled to wander the streets looking for lost or dallying trick or treaters to kidnap and
