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1
pencer O’Malley figured he was most likely the only thirteen year-old guy in the city of Des Moines, probably in the whole state of Iowa, who had complete responsibility for the upkeep of a Holiday Inn swimming pool. His family had moved to the city the previous summer. Until then, he, his mother and father, and his younger sister had lived in Coreyville, a town anchored by a huge grain elevator which served the three-thousand-odd inhabitants of the area.
Spencer had a job, his first real job, not counting cutting grass or shoveling snow. There was a difference. This was an adult kind of job, he thought, with a paycheck that had his name on it.
On this July Tuesday, Spencer pedaled his red Schwinn east on Fourteenth Street. The seven a.m. corn-yellow sun ladled early heat across his face. He decided to get a donut at Jimmy’s Treats, the bakery at the corner of Fourteenth and Markland. He braked to a stop at the side of the building and dropped the kickstand with the toe of his sneaker.
“Morning, young man. What can I do for you today?” Jimmy was dressed all in white, except where small crimson smears of Bismark jelly streaked his uniform.
The glass cases were crammed with all varieties and sizes of donuts. “Well, I was just on my way to my job, at the Holiday Inn. I’m the pool maintenance man, and I thought I might stop in and get a donut, you know, so I can eat it on the way and get right to work when I get there.”
“I see. Good idea. And what kind of donut, exactly, are you interested in?”
His left forefinger clamped between his teeth, Spencer studied the selection. “How about one of those?” He pointed a wet fingertip at the tray of oversized glazed donuts.
“Good choice. I pulled them out of the fryer only ten minutes ago. You want coffee with that?” Jimmy smiled and started toward the chrome Bunn-O-Matic.
“No, no, I don’t think so. Tough on the old stomach.” Spencer liked the sound of these words; he had heard his father say them. “Better make it a milk this morning.”
“Milk it is then. And you said you wanted it to go, am I right?”
“Please.” Reaching into his back pocket, he slid out his wallet. He looked at Jimmy, who was handing him a white paper bag. “How much?” he asked.
“That’ll be fifty-three cents, with tax.”
Opening the currency compartment of the wallet, Spencer pulled out a five from behind four singles. “Sorry. Smallest I’ve got.”
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