CONT'D: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Here | Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

"Founder, yes, you could say that. I've had the idea for a long time, actually. I finally met a few people who saw the light, you know, were willing to do something. We teamed up and now it's official. Hard work, four people running the whole thing, but we'll expand. Soon. You watch." He snuck a glance at the fat man. "Hey, mister, take a pamphlet." He shoved one under the man's nose.

"I don't want your pamphlets," the man snapped. "Keep your junk to yourself." Lights flashed outside the windows as the train pulled into a station. People began nudging each other for a better path to the doors. Petunia watched as the aisle emptied, the people who had been standing pouncing on seats as soon as they were vacated. The doors let in a blast of dusty air as they closed.

"I sort of see it as my duty," the boy said to her. "To disturb people, I mean. Shake them up. Otherwise, who will? What will? What do you have in that bag?"

His question took her by surprise. "A present. A birthday present." She had spent an hour in Bloomingdale's, drifting from department to department, looking for a present for her friend Leila's birthday. Leila was an artist, and her tiny apartment was already crammed with odds and ends she'd made or found. Leila had a knack for discovering what she called 'treasures': an oval mirror left in an alleyway, a pink and gold teapot in a thrift store, an antique hat rack from a church flea market. What she did not find she created, made out of acrylic paints, plywood, pieces of silverware. A year ago, she had sold a sculpture for two thousand dollars to a man from Connecticut; she and Petunia went to the Rainbow Room and drank champagne to celebrate. Petunia's patience with Bloomingdale's had worn thin and so she had, rather impulsively, settled on a punch bowl shaped like a tulip, with overlapping glass petals. Maybe Leila would find it amusing, or ironic, or kitschy. More likely she'd turn it into something else - a chandelier, or a wall-hanging.

"A birthday present?" The boy eyed the bag. "Oh, from Bloomingdale's. How nice. Isn't that nice? Happy birthday, here, let me buy you something. You've lived another year, so you get a present. That for your husband?"

"It's for my friend."

"Your boyfriend?"

"That's really none of your business." "Your girlfriend?"

"My friend."

"Either way. Presents and cake, let's get a little fatter. Like our friend here." He pointed across Petunia's chest to the man on her right.

"Shut up, kid," the man growled.

"Yes, sir," the boy responded, saluting. "Yes sir, mister. Yessir, Sergeant Slobbo. Yessir, Captain Corpulent."

The man assumed the air of one who has heard nothing.

"Oooh, the silent treatment!" the boy crowed. "My favorite. I know guys like him. There are too many of them, that's for sure."

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