Full of Beans: Chapters 14–24

The sun was up and I was already dressed and ready to go, but Kermit refused to get out of bed. “Shake a leg,” I told him. “Or we’re gonna be tardy.”

My mother fetched the doctor. “Your boy’s got rheumatic fever,” he told her.

“Your son must stay in bed. There should be no physical exertion at all,” the doctor told my mother.

So when Johnny Cakes asked me to set off the fire alarm bell again, I said yes. I felt a twinge of guilt when I thought of Cem and the other firefighters. But then I pictured my father up north in New Jersey begging for work, and the devastated look on my mother’s face, and I hardened my heart. Someone had to do something..

So when Johnny Cakes asked me to set off the fire alarm bell again, I said yes. I felt a twinge of guilt when I thought of Cem and the other firefighters. But then I pictured my father up north in New Jersey begging for work, and the devastated look on my mother’s face, and I hardened my heart. Someone had to do something.

He gave a heavy sigh and then said, “Do you know what leprosy is?”
“Like the lepers in the Bible?”
“Yes. I have leprosy. That’s why I go to the late show. I can’t come out during the day.”

“Say, have you seen Baby LeRoy?”
“Who hasn’t? Did you know that he got a diaper endorsement?”
“Really?”
He nodded.

My grandmother was sprawled on the floor, her legs crumpled beneath her.
“Nana Philly!” I cried, and dropped the laundry, running into the house.

I went downstairs and stepped onto the porch. The night smelled like gardenia. But beneath the heady perfume, there was another faint scent.

“Where are the firemen?” I asked.
She looked bewildered. “They haven’t come! I don’t know why!”
But I did. Probably because they thought it was some rotten kid pulling a prank on them.

It was chaos when we reached Ashe Street. Residents were screaming and crying and carrying everything they owned to the safest place: the cemetery, which had no houses and almost no trees to catch fire.

My mother turned to me and said, “Beans. You need to go down to Station Number Three.” I closed my eyes. Looked like my execution would be at the firehouse.

There was a small crowd gathered outside Fire Station No. 3 when we arrived, including Mr. and Mrs. Soldano, Pork Chop, Ira, Too Bad, and even Winky. My humiliation was complete.

My head snapped up. What was going on? Why was he thanking me instead of clapping irons on my arms?
“You are a shining example of bravery and integrity.”
My mouth dropped open.

Then he held out a key that hung from a ribbon.
“This,” he said, “is an honorary fire alarm key. May you be ever vigilant!”

Then people were congratulating me and slapping me on the back. The radio was turned up loud. Cuban music started playing, and someone brought out snacks. It was an impromptu celebration, and I was the guest of honor.

I did every dirty job there was: I cleaned outhouses and strained bugs out of cisterns. I filled in potholes and shoveled up trash from vacant lots. I went home filthy and tired every day, but with a lighter heart.

“Baloney! They can’t close down a town,” Pork Chop said with a scowl.
“They can do anything they want,” I replied.

All around, there was a new energy. Folks were pitching in to transform Conch Town into a Hollywood picture. Rustic thatched-roof cabanas were built on Rest Beach. A hospitality league was formed.

It was my enterprising idea to make souvenirs to sell to the tourists. I had kids collect shells, and we glued them on wooden cigar boxes that I got Johnny Cakes to donate. He wasn’t all that bad for a criminal.

They ventured onto the little lanes, eager to see our island. They arrived by boat and train and automobile. We had been invaded again. By tourists.

Mr. Stone thought it was important to have “local color,” so I convinced him to build Mrs. Soldano a lunch counter where she could serve authentic Cuban cuisine to the tourists.

“The hotel’s full up,” the man said. “I’m looking for accommodations.”

“Maybe I’ll get a screen test with Warner Brothers after all,” I mused.
I didn’t know if I would be discovered, but Key West certainly had been.

Mr. Stone and his band of merry New Dealers were planning more improvements. He wanted to put on theater shows and art gallery exhibits. He was bringing in more artists to paint murals around town and was even importing bicycles for the tourists.

The changes were apparent everywhere. More restaurants had opened. Stores, too. The lingering despair had disappeared with the piles of garbage. Everybody was happier these days.

“I’ll give you a dime for twenty cans,” he wheedled.
“Can’t help you, Winky,” I told him.
“You won’t even have to clean the cans!” he cajoled. “I’ll do that part!”
“Sorry,” I replied.

“I’ll give you a dime for twenty cans,” he wheedled.
“Can’t help you, Winky,” I told him.
“You won’t even have to clean the cans!” he cajoled. “I’ll do that part!”
“Sorry,” I replied.

No sooner had Dot disappeared than I heard the rumble of a car. It was an old Ford Model A, nothing like the slick Ford Model 730 Deluxe V-8 sedan. The two people getting out of it didn’t resemble Bonnie and Clyde one bit: they were a middle-aged man with a potbelly and a young girl carrying a mangy cat.

“What’s it do?”
“Makes your hair grow,” he said, pointing to his bald head. “It’s guaranteed to work in one month or your money back.”
Even a baby wouldn’t fall for a scam like that.