by Doug Ullrich

“Lunch time!” Tom spoke the words with his usual jovial, personalized dialect, an almost childish, Sean-Conneryesque slur of words, born from heavily saliva lubricated tongue and cheek movement. This was one of a few trademark utterings during the course of a normal day, almost always spoken in light of consolation for whatever hardship or hissy fit his tedious demeanor and short term memory created while painstakingly controlling the details of retail business. “Why dont you go ahead and move those new N scales down a couple of shelves and price them at 4.99.” “Ok,” replied an obedient Dale. Tom still had a hint of irritation as he dragged his left leg along the floor and out of the shop into his nearby waiting truck.

Tom’s return was predictably an hour and a half later in a much better mood that would last at least until 4:00 p.m. He had half a sideways smile while looking at the floor and walking down the aisle back to his office. “What did we have for lunch?” Dale followed close behind Tom, making sure he heard him. “Salad,” Tom replied, as the thought of his recent meal widened his smile a bit further………..

Glenn Scott filled the air with his bottom lip as he shook his head from side to side, his usual appearance when standing behind the slot car counter, sadistically delivering bad news to an enthusiast of the dying hobby. One of Glenn Scott’s head shakes went all the way to his right towards Tom’s office when he heard a loud moan. Out wobbled Tom, cradling his old, swollen belly. He started towards the front counter glancing up at Dale, who was sitting on the counter reading a layout book. Dale noticed Tom approaching and jumped up. Tom saw him as they briefly made eye contact, Tom’s head then slumping back towards the floor. “Suddenly, across my heart, I want you to be my baby.” Rare lyrics to an elevator song droned on in the background. “Lets go ahead and move those N scales down a shelf and price,em at 5.99.” With Dale’s laziness taken care of, Tom could better worry about his pelvis again. He sat on the counter still holding his belly hoping there wasn’t anything internally wrong with his recent operation. Anxiety and annoyance delivered another jolt of pain as Ron from the rival Hobbytown entered the store with his son in mid-sentence discussing their recent break-in where they lost one of the most valuable HO–scale New York Central steam engines ever made. Tom felt enraged as they scoured his display cases for evidence of a possible re-sale. He leaned back as the pain became quite acute. Tom grabbed his belly with both hands, softly moaning over the chincy jazz horns…..Eric looked at Larry then back at Tom’s belly from the back corner of the store, also eve’s dropping on the steam engine fuss. “Dont worry,” said Larry. “There is no way they’ll catch on.” Eric continued to glare at Tom’s belly. “We have to get it out of there. There might be a massive infection.” Larry replied, “You think you have enough money to bribe Doctor Rogers into convincing Tom he needs surgery again and letting you back into the operating room?”

“He owes me a favor from medical school. Besides he still feels guilty for ratting on me about being drunk while working in the ER.” The warm saxophone provided them only a short moment of comfort as they gazed on.

Glenn Scott suddenly hurried by, condemning Larry and Eric with the countenance of a Nazi at a disco party. Eric was too late, grabbing for Glenn Scott’s collar as testimonial words befell eager listeners. GAME OVER, or had it just begun………..