Pineapple Turtles

to why he wanted so many shots of feet in them.
“Finished up a great little film about dusting today,” said Tommy to no one in particular. “Lots of close-ups of bare feet walking back and forth. Some really good slow motion work.”
Mac Davies, Gopher treasurer, released a little  burp. “You know that guy’s using your movies on a porn site, right?”
Tommy gave him a side-eyed glance. “No, he’s not.”
“A porn site for foot fetishes.”
Tommy snorted a laugh. “That’s not a thing.”
“Oh, my naïve friend.” Mac patted him on the back. “You’re an idiot.”
Mac winced at his own words and regretted calling his friend an idiot. He was trying to become a better person. There was a time when he was as happy as a physically fit, middle-aged, distinguishably graying man could be. His wife was the perfect homemaker. His dog never wet the rug. His goldfish didn’t die half as often as some people’s. His youngest son was a college baseball star and all-around good kid who’d recently moved in with his girlfriend, Jenny.
It was when he discovered Jenny’s given name was Jake that his world changed. When he realized “Jenny” had once been a tight end for the Crimson Tide (twice All-American), he marched to his car and tried to tear away his only bumper sticker, “Have you hugged your child today?”, only half-accomplishing the job. Now he drove around town sinisterly inquiring if the car behind him had hugged anything in the last twenty-four hours. He put in a request to be made Gopher treasurer instead of secretary, threw away all his pastel shirts, and subscribed to Sports Illustrated, Soldier of Fortune and Penthouse before his wife talked him off the ledge. He had a good cry, a long talk with his son and Jenny, and then vowed to be a better person. A bigger person. After all, he loved his son. What else could he do?
But being a better person was hard.
“You’re not an idiot,” he mumbled to Tommy.
Tommy grunted.
“No, you were right the first time,” piped local Sheriff and Gopher Secretary (previously Treasurer) Frank Marshall.
Frank’s only real cross to bear was a series of recent changes to his koi pond, which featured three statues. A heron, a fishing frog that used to have a cigar in its mouth, and for a brief period of time after angering a local teen by busting him for truancy, a Virgin Mary with a cigar in her mouth.
Bob Garitz, the last of the Gophers, wore too many sweater vests. For reasons neither he or his wife Mariska, nor medical science could divine, he had a cold chest and really warm arms.
On the sleeveless sweater he wore on Gopher nights, Bob had pinned a medal he’d stolen from Major Hepper, commander of the old Air Force base upon which Targetsville now stood. Like the other Gophers, he’d spent much of his childhood watching thousands of yellow-grey dummy bombs fall to Earth with no more force than a bag of potatoes.
For the children of Targetsville, each bomb had developed a distinct personality. The missiles little Tommy watched fall screeched “sweeeee KKKKKKkkkk,” and Bob’s bombs exploded “POW!” (Bob’s bombs were stealth bombs until they actually hit the earth). Walter ‘T.K.’ Weeble’s bombs fell Eeeeeeeeee SPLAT!, something like how a falling tomato might end its life, if it found its plump red bride picked by Momma Ragu and had access to a plane from which to commit suicide. Walter’s father had owned the area’s largest tomato farm, making him heir to a tomato dynasty and earning him the nickname The Tomato King, or ‘T.K.’ for short.
But now, the fifth and missing Gopher, T.K. Weeble, had passed away.
When the five Gophers were children, they knew exactly when those amazing silver planes would drop their payload and when it was safe to collect the ‘bombs.’ Collecting dummy bombs was more interesting than collecting baseball cards, but they didn’t fit in shoe boxes, took up a lot of space, and in the end, were pointless to trade and impossible to get autographed.
The teenage Gophers also killed time by dragging an orange egg crate to Major Hepper’s window and watching him reenact “The Wounded Soldier and The Kind Battle Nurse” with his well-endowed secretary. They witnessed the Battle Nurse nursing him back to health daily, until one hot summer day, Mrs. Hepper walked in on The Kind Battle Nurse valiantly sucking the poison from the Major’s freak snake bite and the life of the professional bomb snatchers became infinitely less interesting.
Eventually, Hepper and his men packed up the Air Force base, the five boys grew into men and the Gophers were born. Led by T.K., they spent their time bowling, talking, and taking the odd night-course in woodcarving or welding.
Mostly, they drank at The Bromeliad, the Targetsville bar which served as their lodge.
Tonight, they drank to T.K., who’d gone to that great tomato patch in the sky.
On this particular evening, none of the remaining Gophers knew they had one great adventure left.

 
 
Chapter Four
Charlotte glanced at her watch again.
Four o’clock in the morning.
Hm.
Well, all’s fair if the light is on.
Leaping out of bed and throwing on flip flops, she slapped across the wet road, the attic shoebox tucked under one arm, a light rain sprinkling her head.
She stood on her toes and peeped into Mariska’s living room through the window. Inside, Mariska sat in her comfy chair, nose in a book. Her unofficially adoptive mother, the Pineapple Port neighbor most hands-on with her upbringing, never slept well. Most of the time Charlotte felt bad for her, but this time Mariska’s sleeping woes were really handy. She’d been in her own drippy home, staring at her watch, unable to get back to sleep in her damp bed, when she spotted the light flick on at her