We need something happy for this blog today.
I don’t like my readers being puddles.
So I’ve taken drastic measures.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mike Anderson has entered the building.
So, guys. Meet Mike. A gangster, ESTP, prickly cactus with candy inside and probably one of my favorite characters in ever.
Gonna steal a few quotes from OYAN to describe him:
“A snarky tough guy with a heart for friends and family. Always strong, always loving, always annoying.” ~theintrepidhedgehog
“A haunted, sassy hood with an addiction to apple pie.” ~Cassie
Mike hails from his ’80s gangster story, Snark with a Switchblade, by the fantastic Cassie. (No end of recommendations will flood this blog when this book gets published, let me tell you.)
Mike Anderson and Wolfgang Dankworth are here, as hobos, to celebrate Thanksgiving in their own haphazard, sarcastic way.
Hopefully this will be a bit more day-brightening.
Picture references, because.
And Mike. (Demanding his dues for the day.)
And the both of them as hoboes in a collage.
Now, the story. From Wolfgang’s point of view, as I’m accustomed to writing at this point. *bows*
We were both nostalgic idiots.
Hoboes . . . unashamed criminals . . . train jumpers and thieves. We shouldn’t care a lick about some dumb old holiday and whether or not we did anything for it.
I shouldn’t have even remembered it.
If I was any sort of respectable criminal, it would’ve been a next-day sort of thing.
Hey, Mike, I just remembered. Thanksgiving was yesterday. Crazy, huh? I’m such a dumbbell with dates.
We just had to come up with a scheme . . . a way to still celebrate the most sappy holiday of all.
“He went this way!” I hear a faint voice echo down the street. I swallow and press myself up against the wall of the alley I’m in.
It’s sure a good thing pies are sold in little boxes. Because they would have been long gone if not. I adjust my grip on the two that I’m holding as the footsteps run closer.
They’re onto me.
I swear and look up and down the alley. A trashcan and a few crates. I quickly flip the crate and shove the pies under, then open up the trashcan. It’s empty, thank God. But, good glory, it smells.
Better to smell like a rotten fish and not be arrested, though. So I take a deep breath, hop inside and pull the lid over my head.
The footsteps scurry around nearby and there’s a bit of yelling. By the time they’ve left, I feel like I’m going to pass out from holding my breath. I pop the lid off and take a few gasping gulps of the relatively clean air.
No one’s in sight. I’m safe.
I get out shakily and recover my treasures. A pecan pie, a blackberry pie and a little jar of cranberries.
Our deal was that we’d have two hours to retrieve the two things that made Thanksgiving feel right for us. I wasn’t sure if just grabbing two pies counted, since they were technically the same dish. So I got some cranberries to go with the turkey just in case.
I heft them up into my arms again and start down the maze of alleys towards our agreed feast hall: The train yard, in an abandoned bay.
Mike ate like a bear, and had also been groaning about how nice some meat would be as an addition to our diet of random scraps. And if anyone would be . . . enterprising enough to steal a fully cooked turkey, it would be Mike.
I’m pretty sure the entrée’s covered.
By the time I get to the train yard, my arms are sore from holding them under the heavy boxes for so long. I step carefully over the tracks and get into the far bay, barely lit by an old lamp and sunset light from the high-up windows.
No Mike yet. There’s still about fifteen minutes left on our time limit. Can’t rush perfection.
Though in the back of my mind, I’m worried that he got arrested.
I set the pies down with the little jar balanced on top and shake out my arms with a groan, rubbing at my muscles.
A little pile in the corner makes up our dinner kit. A stained old piece of cloth and a couple of cracked plates. We’re eating with our pocketknives, like men. As long as we’re careful about it and don’t slit our tongues.
Might as well make use of the time. I spread out the cloth on the ground and set the plates across from each other.
It actually looks pretty nice, for being salvaged from a dumpster.
A bit of clanging comes from near the entrance and I hear someone curse. Mike’s back.
I wave as he comes around the corner. “Hey! What’d you get?” My eyes rest on his familiar looking boxes and my brow furrows.
“Pie, of course. Apple and pumpkin.” Mike holds up the boxes as he comes closer. “What about . . .” his voice fades as he sees my pies. “Oh.”
We’re both quiet for a bit.
Mike sets down his boxes and frowns. “I thought you were getting turkey or stuffing . . . something like that.”
I shake my head. “Pie and cranberry sauce.”
“What’s the cranberry sauce for?”
“The turkey I thought you were getting.”
We both look at each other for a few minutes.
I nod slowly, biting my tongue. “So all we have for dinner is pie.”
Mike’s face breaks into an involuntary grin. “I’m not complaining.”
“Yeah,” I start setting out the boxes on our cloth. “Who needs turkeys? We’re both turkeys anyway.”
And we both had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.
And stomachaches afterwards.
Theeereee now isn’t that a little happier? ❤
Well, hope you guys were cheered a bit.
What’s your favorite kind of pie?