Reggie Lauderdale twirls his pen like a baton. He sits, rooted on the rear turf, waiting for more recipes to pedal forward. The Cookbook, Volume Two.
The Cookbook, Volume TwoMore, more.
Someone asks, “You live here, fella?”
He grinds his heels into the grass and spots a girl he thinks is about eight or nine years old. Her wheat-colored skin is sopping and her pigtails are past frayed. She strains with a picnic basket.
“You the owner?” She asks.
“Sure. Why? Who are you?”
“I’m an entrepreneur. Selling cups of punch for a dollar.”
Reggie smirks. “From a basket?”
“Yep. Too young for a license, so it ain’t like I can drive no van around.”
“Then you’re a traveling entrepreneur?”
“Why do you have them pumps on?” she asks. “Ain’t you a man?”
Reggie’s face rumples. He grins. “None of tha
