The Last Bell on the Street

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The clock on the dash shows 7:49. The smudge of smoke ahead will be Robinsvale — county seat, 10.6 miles.

The needle on the gas gauge is jammed over against the E, and has been for the last five miles. The car’s a good-looking heap. Originally, it cost plenty. Now there are two overdue installments on it, and the only reason we’re still driving it is that the finance company doesn’t want it either.

We have four bits between us — and Pete’s got that. He also has a million-dollar front and a line of sales talk that would make the Statue of Liberty drop the lamp to grab a fountain pen.

Pete figures our individual financial depression is because Lady Luck has taken a powder. Pete calls her “The Dame.” He says she runs out on a guy once in a while just to see if he can take it. Just keep your chin up and keep punching doorbells until you come to the last bell on the street, and she’ll come back, Pete claims. Me, I’m not bothering about “Why.” My stomach keeps paging my throat to ask, “When do we eat?”

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