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things. Then I shake a tambourine while Mrs. Dugan in blond spit curls and bouffant hoopskirt mans the pump organ. Or, if the clients have brought a camera, I ditch the tambourine and snap a few artsy photos. After the ceremony of union I pass out lemonade and cookies, unless they’ve sprung for the deluxe package, in which case mint juleps and finger sandwiches are served. In no case should Toby help himself to any of the snacks even if so instructed by the guests of honor. Nor should he EVER block the automatic video camera, for which transgression I’ve already received a fierce ass chewing. Sales of the commemorative videos are a big profit center, Mr. Dugan informed me.
    I feel a bit self-conscious walking around town in my new 19 th Century African-American persona. I noticed when I dropped into a convenience store for an emergency soda (that wig is hot), the suspicious clerk gave me the hairy eyeball the entire time. Then outside in the parking lot, an old lady walking a tiny dog stopped me to ask if the circus was in town. I shrugged, put on my best English accent, and replied, “Sorry, madam, I really couldn’t say.”
    Passing Carlyle autographing the side of the post office, I was gratified to see that my gang brother didn’t recognize me. Toby stopped to introduce himself. Carlyle was thrilled by my new identity (except for the clothes), and he quickly decided he wants to be black as well. It’s true that all his favorite rap artists, movie stars, and sports heroes are black. He also thinks our gang would have much more street credibility if we altered our race.
    11:45 p.m. The infantile thumb sucking has got to stop! I have sprayed my garden gloves with bitter apple dog repellent. This vile fluid tastes worse than month-old road kill. Grandma bought a bottle a few years back to discourage our chew-happy beagle puppy, which soon broke my heart by getting eaten by a coyote. Yet another reason to move back to civilization.
    Snug in my bitter gloves, I shall now go to bed thinking strictly adult thoughts that may lead inexorably to carnal self-knowledge. I am willing to take that chance.
     
    THURSDAY, June 30 – Yuck and double yuck. My stunned taste buds are in full retreat. Such a horror, but I only had three incidents of T.S. last night. This may be the route to go if I can stand it. At breakfast this morning Grandma inquired why I’ve taken to wearing gloves to bed.
    “ Uh, I’m trying to toughen up my hands,” I replied, picking through my Wheaties that now tasted like an elderly rhinoceros had pissed on them.
    “ I know just the thing for that, Noelly. It’s called manual labor. You can start by pulling all the weeds out of my flower patch.”
    Damn!
    5:12 p.m. What a shock. A guy in my high school got married today: Artie Prender, a soon-to-be senior (or maybe not), who ran the 440 on the track team. The bride I didn’t recognize, but she was pretty cute if you like them blonde and built. Both sets of parents were there looking major annoyed. When Mr. Dugan asked if he took Tiffany as his lawfully wedded wife, Artie sighed and muttered, “Yeah, I guess so.” That’s when Tiffany’s dad reared back and kicked him in the ass. This caused the bride to burst into tears. Inured to such drama, Mr. and Mrs. Dugan went on as if nothing had happened, but the darky stood there with mouth agape. Nobody stayed for lemonade and cookies, but Artie’s dad, I’m happy to report, slipped me a $10 bill and asked me to keep my mouth shut. I suppose a baby must be on the way, though there was no sign of it to my inexperienced eye. I hope the kid receives a pleasant welcome and doesn’t get shuffled off to some remote backwater like me. Of course, if the happy couple makes their home in Winnemucca, that may be hard to avoid.
    Later Mr. Dugan commented that he had witnessed much worse behavior at funerals–especially if the mourners included multiple ex-wives. Mrs. Dugan agreed, noting that all in all she