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Chapter 18

Jack was up early again. He hadn't really planned it, and at this stage, it was more anxiety than anticipation that drove him from bed. Still, a nice leisurely breakfast at home would be a welcome change from Hardee's, and still give him time to beat the rush hour traffic.

He stepped into the shower and turned the hot water faucet until the pipes started to vibrate, then backed off a quarter turn, counted ten and ran the cold water up half a turn. It was a combination he'd painstakingly worked out. He could run the hot up gradually from there, but any other start and the pipes would start knocking plaster off the walls. He'd have to fix that one day.

He dried quickly afterwards, and pulled on his clothes. He almost tripped as the printout that spread down the hall slid under his feet. It was really time to do something about that. It had to be a fire hazard. He bent over and looked at it. It must have meant something to him once, but now he didn't have a clue.

Better leave it, then.

Pancakes, he thought, surveying the kitchen. There should be a box of Hungry Jack over the stove, and a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. There was, but he wasn't the only one who knew it. The pancake mix was full of weevils. He threw the box towards the trash. Amazingly, it landed right on the corner of the trash can, teetered and stabilized.

Great, he thought. Weevils wobble, but they don't fall down. He walked over and gave the box a shove.

Now what? Bacon, eggs and grits would be great, except he didn't have any bacon or eggs, and the grits had all coagulated into one massive king grit that seemed to dare him to boil it. Jack was starting to remember why he usually ate at Hardee's.

Well, cereal and toast then. Jack opened the refrigerator, hit the side panel twice to unfreeze the light switch and looked for the milk. There it was, near the 1983 fruitcake. He poured a bowl of bite-size shredded wheat, spooned a little sugar onto it and upended the milk carton. He didn't think schloooourp was a good sound for pouring milk to make. He was right.

Jack poured the whole mess down the garbage disposal. He looked outside. The sun was just coming up. If he left now, he could still go by Hardee's.

Jack had gotten used to going out through the back door. He walked to the end of the carport and looked up at the little mirror he'd put in the oak tree. It showed the roof, and even in the early morning gloom, he could see that the coast was clear. So far, his gargoyle hadn't moved from over the front door.

He waved up at her as he walked to the car. Actually, he felt a lot less hostility after the incident with the Jehovah's Witnesses, but still, he was going to have to do something. He'd tried everything he could think of to get rid of her: conspicuous good deeds, pokes with a sharp stick, KC & The Sunshine Band—nothing worked. She would answer his questions sometimes, but nothing else got a rise out of her. Maybe he should try to talk her down somehow. Otherwise . . . well, perhaps it was time to consider de-gargoyling as an engineering problem.

Jack buckled his lap belt and turned the key. Nothing happened. He sighed and popped the trunk. He was going to have to do something about that starter someday too.

 

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Framed