Shame on You

“Just because she brings a gun, she gets the first burger? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” someone whispers.

Michelle Anderson, Bob’s wife, comes outside. “It’s okay, everyone. That’s Buddy’s daughter, Kennedy. She’s like that. Did Martin forget to bring a covered dish? I don’t think you need to shoot him for that.”

Can I just catch a break here? Seriously.

“Michelle, this man is a criminal. Can you please get everyone inside and out of danger?” I plead with her.

“This is so exciting. It’s like an episode of Cops. Is someone filming this?” Michelle asks, completely ignoring my request as I move closer to McFadden.

Tinkerdoodle lets out a yippy bark and growls at me.

“It’s okay, princess. She isn’t going to shoot Daddy,” McFadden tells the dog. “She’s one of us. She believes in the ‘others’ and even bought one of Daddy’s special hats.”

While McFadden soothes the dog, I take another slow step in his direction and stop when the dog growls at me again.

“Put the spatula down and walk toward me slowly,” I demand.

“Can’t we just talk about this? I’ll give you a signed copy of my book,” he pleads.

Raising the gun higher, so it’s aimed right at his face, I watch him swallow nervously and turn slowly to set the spatula down on the card table next to the grill, filled with buns and a huge cookie sheet of uncooked hamburger meat.

“Just so you know, I don’t have any hard feelings toward you. We can still be friends after this is over,” he states with his back still to me.

I take a deep breath and another cautious step in his direction, ignoring the growling dog by my feet with her teeth bared—her tiny little two-pound-dog teeth. I sort of want to laugh at the fact that this dog thinks she’s some kind of badass guard dog.

When I’m within arm’s reach, McFadden suddenly lets out a yell.

“TINKERDOODLE—ATTACK!”

The dog launches itself at my leg in a blur of activity and clamps down on my ankle. I let out a yelp as McFadden whirls around with the cookie sheet of meat in his hand and throws it in my direction. Raw meat rains down on my head while I try to keep the gun on McFadden and shake the stupid dog loose from my pant leg.

“Son of a bitch, that ground meat was $3.95 a pound!” Bob Anderson complains from somewhere in the yard.

Tinkerdoodle finally lets go of my ankle and races back to McFadden, who scoops her up in his arms and takes off running. I turn to go after him and my boot slips right through a slippery pile of ground meat. My feet fly out from under me and I land flat on my back, knocking the wind right out of me as I gasp for breath.

“SSSSSSSSSS—ssstoooop,” I say through coughs as I turn my head to the side and see McFadden run right by the crowd of people who stand there. He stops and turns to look at me, holding his pinkie and thumb up to the side of his head and shouts, “Call me!” before taking off again.

“You’ve got meat in your hair,” Bob Anderson tells me as he walks up next to me while I struggle to roll over, get up, and breathe at the same time.

Putting my hand to my chest, I try to take a deep breath and wind up coughing from the exertion. “Criminal. Stop. Can’t. Breathe.”

Bob looks down at me in confusion as I hack and try to breathe while moving as fast as I can to try to get up off the ground and chase after McFadden. Bob is retired from the police force and if anyone can understand what the hell is going on here, it will be Bob.

“McFadden? Nice guy. I just met him this morning. The missus met him at the grocery store and invited him.”

“Bail. Jumper,” I mumble between deep, heaving breaths that my lungs finally let me have and my hand squishes down into a pile of raw meat as I push myself up onto my knees.

“Really? Huh. He didn’t look like a bail jumper,” Bob states.

I am surrounded by idiots.

“What’s with all the commotion? I heard the burgers are ruined,” my dad says as he pushes through the crowd of onlookers and walks next to Bob, who finally gives me a hand and helps me up off the ground. I see McFadden’s Honda go soaring down the street. With a sigh, I turn to my dad in irritation and see him standing there with a Styrofoam plate in his hand filled with my dip and tortilla chips.

“Really, Dad? You were just in the kitchen with me when Paige told us McFadden was here. You thought it was wise to stop for a snack instead of rushing to my aid?”

Dad shrugs as he shovels a chip full of dip into his mouth.

“I figured you had it under control. You know you have meat in your hair?”

“GOD DAMMIT!” I shout, with a stomp of my foot.