Atomic fireballs

 He was just a kid who lived in the country. Growing up around family and a couple of good friends. He'd sit on the wooden crate in front of the general store, tossing stones at a stray cat, never intending to hit it, just to scare it a bit. He was going to meet up with Billy and John, his only real friends, but neither showed up, thinking they probably got tied up with more chores. He fumbled in his overall pockets, searching for the quarter he'd earned from Mrs. Jefferies, whose husband of sixty years passed on a while back. He'd drop in on her every so often as she always had something needed done. He went straight into the store to the orange-colored cooler, where bottles of five different flavors were kept cold and frosty. He chose a Dr. Pepper today and a bag of peanuts that he'd pour into the bottle, making a Georgia milkshake. It erupted like a volcano, something he learned from his older brother. Thing was, by the time it was done erupting, there wasn't anything left to drink, so he didn't do that much anymore unless he was trying to impress Betty Joe, the girl of his dreams who couldn't care less about his stupid tricks.

He had a seat on the old crate again, this time kicking a can of empty beans until it landed under the sheriff's car, and he was sure enough not going under there to get it. The sheriff came out of the store with a bottle of Coke, chugged it down, and handed the empty bottle to him, saying he could get the two-cent deposit and get himself two cents' worth of candy. That was an easy decision as he set two atomic fireballs on the counter along with the empty bottle. Back outside and sitting on the crate, the challenge to himself began. The object was to suck on the fireball until your mouth couldn't take it anymore. When your lips felt like two red peppers, and your throat began to close up. What seemed like forever but was really only a minute or so until the darn thing quit burning and was reduced to a marble-sized ball that could safely be eaten until it was gone. He put the other fireball in his pocket for another time, knowing he didn't want to go through that again, at least not for a while.
He looked inside the store at the Coca-Cola clock, which showed him it was getting late and that it was time to get home before his dad finished plowing and before Mom rang the supper bell. Just as he began his walk home, he saw Mr. Larry's old pickup truck headed for the store, which meant one thing: he was running late as Mom's dinner bell rang at four thirty sharp. You see, Mr. Larry was what my mom called a creature of habit. Every day except Sunday, he left his job at the mill at exactly four oclock. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the store where he'd buy a loaf of bread and a six-pack of a cheap beer. Then he'd head straight home, arriving at four thirty-five on the dot. As he pulled away from the store, Mr. Larry leaned out the window without slowing down, asking him if he needed a ride. Get in the back, he told him again, never slowing down. It was a bumpy road, especially when Mr. Larry hit every pothole in sight. He yelled out the window and told him to go ahead and jump off, as he wasn't going to stop. So, with no other options, he jumped out, rolling through the dirt and coming to rest at the gate. He jumped to his feet and ran down the road leading to the farm, where he saw his dad putting the tractor in the barn and, seconds later, the supper bell ringing. It was a close call, but he made it in time, and that's what mattered. He asked his mom why Mr. Larry kept such a tight schedule, and she answered that he had never missed an episode of Wheel of Fortune since it began airing. She said he was in love with Vanna White like so many men were. She may be hot, he thought to himself, but as for him, he'd rather get his hot from an atomic fireball at least for the time being.

Mike  2026