All of the gravel lanes of Sawdust Mills were named for fruits, among them Banana Boulevard, Cherry Circle, Pomegranate Parkway and Liberace Lane. Philip and Franklin’s Airstream was on Grape Court, second trailer from the corner of Cumquat and directly across from the double-wide of Chet and Dale, who were known as "the Weebies" because the vanity license plate of their Camaro read: "WE B TOPS."

"That’s just not right," Philip had protested to Father Jack upon first seeing the tag. "How can they both be tops? It defies the laws of nature."

"It’s part of their marketing campaign," Jack had explained. "They’re bottom feeders and they offer pretty boys the opportunity to stay at their place in exchange for a little three-way action."

Each morning, the residents of lower Grape Court would congregate for a "coffee kvetch" on the Weebies’ spacious patio, the only one on the block with two shade-bearing canvas canopies and enough plastic lawn chairs for a dozen guests. An added draw, Chet and Dale were among Sawdust’s youngest perms, and they usually dressed in nothing more than white sneakers and spandex briefs to accentuate their richly tanned and nicely defined, though ultra-thin, bodies. Since they rarely went to bed, except when they had a guest, no one had to worry about waking Chet or Dale too early. Even in the heat of summer, they kept a fire roaring around the clock in their open-air pit, where they burned discarded items collected during their part-time duties as the camp’s trash collectors.

At 7:15 that morning, the last legs of a vinyl loveseat, abandoned by someone moving out, were emitting a noxious stench and sending smoke signals through the live oak trees.

"You know, if the EPA finds out about you, they’re going to shut this place down," Philip said, plopping into the farthest available chair from the fire and strapping his silk robe tightly across his crotch since he had forgotten to throw on a pair of tighty-whiteys.

"It’s good to see you, too, fabulous one," Chet chirped in a voice so full of energy that everyone knew he was still rolling from the previous evening’s ingestion.

"So boys, who took our golf cart out last night?"

"I know," said Dale, who sometimes seemed a little slow but was always ready to field a tough question. "You and Franklin did."

"I mean after we got back — around midnight."

Everyone shrugged. "We have our own carts," mumbled Grape Court handyman Ken, popping the tab on his first can of beer since daybreak. "And they’re all in better condition than yours—even if you do have the most impressive Statue of David hood ornament."

"C’mon, sour ones. If you’re not on your decks or porches, you’re peering out your windows. Someone must have heard or seen something."

"Dale and me, we were out here most of the night changing the twinkle bulbs on our trees," Chet said.

"As usual," interjected Neil Porter, known to the others as Nell Portly, who lived next door to the Weebies and directly across from Father Jack. "They were revising the color scheme yet again."

"From red-white-and-blue to red-and-green," Chet said. "Fourth of July is over, and Christmas in July is this weekend."

Dale was counting on his hands. "We changed 3,152 bulbs last night, more or less."

Nell Porter fanned at his face with a handkerchief. "But did you need to replace all the red ones?"

"We didn’t want them to burn out."

"Talk about burnouts," Nell muttered.

"Excuse me; I asked a serious question," Philip said testily. "Somebody moved our golf cart."

"There wasn’t much of a moon last night, so I couldn’t see the street good, but I saw lots of headlights going by," Chet said. "I guess there was a big crowd for Dusty Rose’s 30th birthday bash. I’m not looking forward to today’s rubbish."

"Didn’t Security Sal call you? Dusty didn’t show up for her midnight show, and she hasn’t been seen since."

"I guess we were still up in the trees," Dale said.

"Or, if I might paraphrase, you were still high as a kite," suggested Hal Holdenberg, who knew of what he spoke.

Hal was a pharmacist, and he and the taller but younger handyman Ken lived in one of Grape Court’s most desirable residences. To the original trailer, which faced the lake, they had added a large stick-built living room with a fireplace and a handsome log-cabin façade. Many Sawdust perms coveted Hal’s home, but it represented a downscaling for its owner, who had taken early retirement as supervisor of pharmaceuticals for a state hospital system so that he might "give something back to the people." That something was delivered by way of deeply discounted medicines from a small apothecary he opened in the nearby town of Quag’s Mire to serve the many low-income agricultural workers who lived in the area.

"Yes, Philip, Sal called me about an hour ago," Hal said, "I was waiting for you to arrive to discuss the situation. I told Sal that that I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Why is it news when somebody at Sawdust stays out all night?"

Hal flipped a bird in the direction of Ken, who at least once a week spent the hours between bar-closing and breakfast-time wandering Frederick Forest. "I like to study owls," Ken said, taking another swig of beer.

"Sal said that if she doesn’t show up by noon, they’re calling the cops. I advised him not to overreact, but I suppose he was just giving us—me—fair warning. We may have the sheriff’s office poking around."

Neither Hal Holdenberg nor Philip Snowden was eager to see that happen. A month earlier, the two neighbors had entered into a business relationship. Hal’s apothecary had been providing medications to many of its needy customers well below cost, and he needed to cut his losses. Philip, who had spent most of his adult life in retail management, was looking for a "cottage business" to earn a little spending money—perhaps an ice cream cart, he suggested during one of the gatherings of the grapes.

Hal pulled Philip aside and suggested that lactose wasn’t the only crystalline concoction camp regulars yearned for. The two procured a beat-up, adult-sized tricycle from a flea market, polished and painted it in rainbow colors, and built a platform over the rear wheels for a cooler. Each evening, just before dark, Philip would ride the trike through the campground, ringing its handlebar bell and calling out: "It’s time to be of good humor, boys and girls!"

In addition to ice-cream sandwiches and similar frozen confections purchased at retail from the Stop-n-Go in Quag’s Mire, Philip’s cart included daily specials culled from the medicine cabinets of Hal’s apothecary. From the very first day, the residents of Sawdust proved to have a hearty appetite for ice cream, but as word spread of the other items on the menu, their cravings proved to be practically insatiable.

"Hal, couldn’t you and Philip go around and collect everyone’s stash and take it all back to your store for a while?"

"You’re assuming that everyone would be willing to part with their precious purchases. Even if they were, all I’d need is for one of my employees to discover dozens of baggies, a little of this and a little of that, with each of your names on them. Believe me, if there’s anything more complicated than getting drugs out of a pharmacy, it’s slipping them back in."

"So, what do you think we should do, Hal?" Jack asked. "As you are aware, I keep a few wafers with my wine for sacramental purposes."

The pharmacist scratched the bald spot at the back of his head. "I suggest that each of you grab a shovel and head for the woods."

Dale looked dejected. "Do I have to bury all my porn, too?"

"Shhh," said Father Jack, planting an artificial smile on his face. "Here comes…well, hail, Mary."

"Good day, gentlemen," responded Mary Angelique, pausing her stroll with the two Pomeranians she shared with her partner, Mary Agnes. "It’s going to be a scorcher again."

"Yes, sometimes it seems we have died and entered the bowels of hell," Jack said.

"Not yet, but that’s why I pray for you fellows."

"Thank you, sister."

"You know, you really shouldn’t call me that. Mary Agnes and I both formally renounced our vows before we moved in together, and the Vatican accepted our resignation with deep regret."

"Quel surprise!" Philip couldn’t resist. "I bet the Pope threw you a farewell gala, too."

"I’m praying especially for you." Mary Angelique stared at Philip with piercing eyes.

"By the way, was that you racing around in your golf cart in the wee hours of this morning? You were going well beyond the posted five-mile-an-hour speed limit."