The man took the piece of meat, bloody and raw, off the gleaming metal hook. He then sent it away to be cut up and sold to unknowing consumers, never to find out the terrible fate that awaited them when they bit into that meat and discovered that it had been contaminated with deadly bacteria.

At least that's what I thought when I looked at it. The first part of my summer started out to be incredibly boring. My father, "Beano" Finkstein (nobody knew his real first name), had gotten me a job at his dignified place of employment, "The Happy Cow Slaughter House". As much as I like to make money, I, Leonard Finkstein, was thinking about throwing in my broom for the measly $1.25 an hour I was making. For that gracious sum given to me by Peter Hong (the mayor's son and part owner of the "Happy Cow Slaughter House"), I was instructed to clean up the coffee break room and wipe the sawdust sweepings up off the floor. It was an inexplicably boring job, and I was getting rather sick of picking up after old men who smelled like raw meat all the time. Like I said, this was only the first part of my summer. The second part was spent at "Scabs the Clown's Wonder Park (and RV Service Station)". Before I go any further, let me explain how all of this started.

I had been cleaning up the coffee room after the morning break as usual, and I was on my way to go try and pigeonhole all of the sticky Styrofoam cups, napkins and creamer packets into the humongous trash heap in the back alley of the slaughter house. The garbage hadn't been picked up for weeks, as I could smell. As I was walking outside, a stiff wind blew down the alley and sent some cups flying out of my black plastic garbage bag and down the alleyway. I bent down to retrieve the sticky mess, but then I felt a big, scratchy hand close tightly around my fourteen-year-old neck.

"Oh my God! What should I do?" I thought to myself. "Should I try to get away? Should I cooperate with this weirdo? Where's my guardian angel during all of this? And, if I have a guardian angel, can he see me when I'm naked?!"

Thoughts raced through my head like mad. I thought I was going to either wet my pants or cry. Whichever one of those I chose to do, I wouldn't look very brave.

"What are you doing out here in my alley, jerk?" the person said. I could tell he was a man, a big man with terrible cigar breath.

"I'm taking out the garbage," I said, trying not to whimper.

"Oh, you're taking out the garbage, huh?" he said, his hand closing around my neck even tighter. "Well, you know what I have to say about that, wimp?"

"Oh God, no! Please don't -" I cried. I was already bawling by that time and was in serious need of a very absorbent tissue.

"NOOGIE TIME! NOOGIE TIME!" the guy said, grabbing my head with his other hand and rubbing it with full force.

"Oh great," I though while my head was being rubbed raw. "I'm going to die of head trauma from this wacko giving me one too many noogies! This guy is really cracked!"

Then, for some reason, he let go of my head.

"Hey, ya sap, don't you remember who I am? Turn around and give me a look," he said, shoving me so that I turned to see his face.

I had no idea who this idiot was. He was big and fat with no hair on his whole head save a few channeling their way out of his nose. He had a large cigar in his mouth with about two inches of ash on the end, and he had a red t-shirt on with blue polyester-blend walking shorts, the kind that come from those Carol Wright coupon envelopes in the mail. This guy also had the whitest legs I had ever seen, with red flip-flops to match his shirt.

"Don't you remember who I am, kid?" he said, opening his arms like I was supposed to hug him or something.

"No I don't, and I'd like to leave, please," I said, wiping my nose.

Just then my dad walked out into the alley.

"Hey, Leonard! Why so glum, son?" my dad said, winking at the fat guy.

"Do you know who he is?" I said.

"Why of course! Don't you remember your Uncle Max?" he said, patting the guy on the back. Uncle Max smiled wide, showing off his gold tooth.

"No, I don't even recall having an Uncle Max," I said. This was the strangest conversation I'd ever had in an alley. Come to think of it, this was the only conversation I'd ever had in an alley.

"Well, here's your chance to get to know old Max better! You'll be going on a road trip with him to Diegmueller Valley to his amusement park!" my dad said, his eyes gleaming.

This was all moving way too fast for me. My head hadn't even recovered from the shock of the noogie yet. For all I knew, this guy wasn't even my uncle!

"Amusement park?" I inquired.

"Don't worry, Leonard, your mother's got everything packed that you'll need. Come on, kids, I'll drive us home so that Leonard can get his suitcase and get going!"

"But Dad, what about your work?" I said, trying to stall.

"Leonard, Leonard, Leonard. So people get meat that's been out on a hook in a hot room for a few hours! Like it'll ever make much of a difference to them where it's been!" Dad said, nudging me out to the car.

"Boy, Beano, I can't wait to see Bindella. I bet she's missed me!" Max said, shutting the door of our Graebner LX.

It (the Graebner LX) kind of looked like an import car on wheels from a golf cart, but dad loved it because it got almost 50 miles per gallon of gas and ran very quietly (except when it got to be over 78 degrees out).

The ride home was pretty boring; Dad and Max discussing life while I sat in the back, dreading the trip I was about to take.

When we arrived at my house, I felt as though I would be seeing it for the last time. All of the houses looked so empty. I started looking down the cracked asphalt street that I lived on. Cramson Circle, what a terrible street name. There was the house at the end of the street that I played at when I was younger. There was a kid who lived there that was my age whose name was Philip. They moved out in 1988 and a new family, the Bernsteins, moved in. Mo Bernstein drank water all the time while he sat in his garage. He drank the water out of a "Minute Maid" orange juice can and would make a throat sound like Donald Duck screaming whenever I would walk past.

My next door neighbor Eddie and his wife, Georgette, had so much junk in their garage that I swear the fire marshal would have declared it a fire hazard had he seen it. On all of the major holidays (including Orthodox Easter and Yom Kippur), Eddie would put candy bars in our mailbox as a kind of present. My mother, Bindella, kindly reminded him that it was a federal offense to touch someone's mailbox. We never got another candy bar again.

I was thinking about my other next door neighbors, Fred and Donna. Fred had been speed-walking since before I was born and he hadn't lost an ounce of the blubber that hung over his pants. He always wore a bright orange jacket to walk in, like that would be the special additive to promote weight loss. My thoughts were interrupted by a loud bray.

"Hey potsy!" Max declared from inside the house. "I got my vehicle parked at the end of the street in the vacant lot. It's so macho that it won't turn into the driveway/"

"Macho?" I asked, not turning away from my position facing the street.

"Well, not so much macho as there is loss of power steering. Buy hey, we're men! Who needs automatic when I got the muscle power of a champion wrestler?! Time to go, let's start burnin' rubber," he said, tripping out the front door and losing one of his flip-flops in the process.

"Let me get my suitcase," I said, walking into the house and kicking Max's lost flip-flop into the bushes.

Walking into my room, I found that my mother had packed all of my clothes into a pea-green, flowered suitcase that I, personally, would never want to carry. I snapped the locks open on the suitcase and found a letter from my mother on top of, from what I could see, the most ugly clothes I had ever seen. These clothes I would never wear!

The letter said my mom was sorry she couldn't say good-bye, but she had to leave for work (she worked at the St. Olaf Hong Valley City Hall) on short notice. She also said that she had packed all of my "play clothes," so I wouldn't need to worry about getting them dirty. Pardon me for asking such an idiotic question, but why does a fourteen-year-old need play clothes? Oh well, that was my mom, still thinking I was four.

Max was yelling for me to get outside so we could get on the road, so I picked up my suitcase and walked out the door. My dad met me there.

"Dad, are you sure this guy's my uncle?"

"Of course he is, Len, now have a good time. I'll see you in one and a half weeks! Oh, here's fifty dollars in case you want anything or get into trouble with Max. Try not to spend it all at once. I've got to get back to work before the side of beef I was cutting apart gets worms........ again!" he said, and proceeded to motor off in the Graebner LX.

"Come on, Lenny! My father always said, 'He who waits gets left in the dust.' Or was that Nietzche? Oh well, " Max said, punching me in the arm like it was some hilarious joke.

We walked down the rest of the street in silence, except for Max, who was trying to tell me a story about how he got hit in the nose with a swing when he was little. We approached the lot, and there it was: Uncle Max's R.V.

"Ain't she a beaut?" Max said, gazing at it peacefully.

"Yeah, I love it" I said.

The thing was a wreck. It had those mud flaps, the kind with the woman in the decidedly provocative position, a sign on the back that said, "If the trailer is a-rockin' don't come a knockin" and only a partial door where I would have to sit.

"Well, let's get going!" Max said.

He climbed in the driver's side and started up the R.V. with a backfire belch of black smoke and a large rumbling sound that came from underneath. It could've been that large piece of metal that was tied onto the underside of the R.V. with a tube sock that was rattling on the ground, but I just couldn't be sure.

"How do I get in?" I asked.

"Well, it's kind of like 'Dukes of Hazzard,' Lenny. You climb in the door through the window. If the door falls off a little, just shove it back in real hard," Max said.

I stepped up on the little wooden platform that Max had apparently built himself, peeled back the plastic wrap that was serving as a window and climbed head-first into the R.V.

"Wow! Daisy Duke would sure be proud of you!" Max said with a leering smile. "Let's boogie!"

I wondered how many different times he could use the word "Let's" with some strange phrase attached to the end of it.

Max pulled out of the vacant lot with a big puff of smoke and we were on our way.

I had a hard time sitting up during the trip, due to the fact that my seat back was held up by a push broom wedged up against the R.V. wall, but other than that, the trip was great. We rounded turnpikes and rods with the comfortable rhythm of R.V. parts falling out on the road while Max regaled me with stories about his father (my step-grandfather... I knew I had no blood relation to this moron!) who thought he was a member of the Holocaust even though he was living with his parents in Brooklyn at the time.

"Almost there! Oh, I'm so happy!" Max shouted. "I just want to jump for joy!"

"Watch where you're going," I said, watching Uncle Max swerve off and on the road.

We rumbled past the sign that said, "Welcome to Diegmueller Valley: Home of Oscar the Giant Bull." A smaller sign dangled by a thread from the bottom of the first sign that said, "Come to Scabs the Clown's Wonder Park (and R.V. Service Station)! Please?"

"The foremost amusement park in the midwest! Except for those five other ones, " Max said, beaming.

Max turned (well, swerved violently) onto a dirt road. At the end of this road was a fenced-in area with a dough-boy pool (empty), a few gas pumps, and what looked like (or used to be) a garage.

"Are we stopping at this dump for gas, or what" I asked. "Looks like no one' s here".

"You are here, pal!" Max said triumphantly.

We got out of the R.V. park to look around.

"You mean this is it?" I said, not quite as triumphantly.

"Yup! Isn't it great? The unfinished brainchild of my father, Barry Masner. You know, he left me money to build this when he died. His dying words were so prophetic. He looked into my eyes and said to me, 'Max, my beautiful baby boy, I know you weren't my favorite child,' which was funny to me because I always thought I was his only child. Anyway, he said, 'I know you weren't my favorite child, but I want to give you everything, my plot of land in Diegmueller, my R.V. which you better not screw up, and my life savings.' Then old Dad coughed, rolled over and took his final breath. Then, he rolled over again towards me and said, 'Oh yeah, and don't do anything stupid with my money, ya louse,' and he died. So, the next day, I came out here and began work on my park with dad's money and land! What a story, huh? You think somebody would ever write a story about that, Lenny?" Max said, turning around and looking at the brainchild.

"No, you'd have to find a complete idiot to write a story about something as hare-brained as that!" I said, trying to aggravate him.

"Oh well, c'est la vie! That's French for 'that's the way the mop flops!' HA!," Max shouted. "Now, Lenny, let's spend some of that money Beano gave you!'

"But why? I'm only supposed to use it in an emergency!" I cried.

"Well, this is an emergency! The city's trying to repossess my land unless I pay all my bills for it! You know, Lenny, I need that money, and more, too. Ever since they closed down the looping studio..."

"I don't even want to know, Uncle Max," I said, knowing this was leading to another story.

"Oh, sure you do! Diegmueller Valley was the premier place for looping a few years back. Looping's needed because the television channels can't have all of the dirty words they say in movies. I got to say, "You dirty shoehead," where Joe Pesci said something else in a movie that Channel 2 was showing," Max gloated. "But since then, they just let 'em say whatever they want, so I've been out of a job, bathing, drinking and er...well, I've been bathing and drinking in my pool water and eating cans of beans! That's why I need your money."

"But fifty dollars? That won't last very long!" I said in my own best interest.

"No, you're right," Max said, evil filling his jaundiced eye. "But, if I wager a mere twenty-five of your fifty dollars, we can make at least five thousand dollars!"

"How?" I asked. "This could mean big money!"

"At the Diegmueller Valley Memorial Chicken Fight Arena! There's big money in them chicken fights!" Max said, going in for the kill. "Please Lenny, I need the money."

"Okay" I said, giving in.

"Great! We'll spend the whole day there tomorrow! Lenny, you're gonna help me win back this park! I'll be able to finish and open it in a few years if we get the money!" Max said, giving me one of his signature noogies. "In the mean time, let's get some rest."

"Where?" I asked warily.

"Right here! Oh, fibinacci!! I knew I forgot something, we haven't had dinner!" Max shouted.

We got back in the R.V. while Max rooted around in the grungy cabinets inside. He produced two cans of beans and two forks.

"Oh, there's a pond about a half-mile up if you want a shower tonight, and this couch will be your bed." Max pointed to an orange bed that folded out of the wall.

After a night of the worst sleep ever, we headed down to the pond for a bath. Max used what was left of the gas to power our way to the Chicken Fight Arena. When we arrived, I used 15 of my remaining 25 dollars to purchase four chili dogs and two jumbo sodas - our breakfast.

In retrospect, I'd have to say that Max bet on the two most pathetic chickens which I had ever seen, but Max said to always bet on the underdog because they'll always surprise you. He thought that Thomas Jefferson said that one.

So, we bet $12.50 each on Bertha the Wonder Chicken from Diegmueller Farms, and Leung Yee, the Vietnamese Sweet and Sour Chicken.

"In this corner," the announcer bellowed from the center of the rug-sized ring, "we have Bertha the Wonder Chicken!"

The crown applauded graciously as Bertha strutted into the ring and flapped off her sparkly jacket.

"In the opposite corner, we have Brutus the Brick Chickenhouse!" said the announcer, backing out of the ring and clanging the tiny bell.

Well, that was an absolute loss of my $12.50. Bertha left in two parts: she went out on a chicken stretcher while her feathers were ushered out behind her in a small bag.

A few hours later (and a few trips to the bathroom because of my chili cheese dog), Leung Yee was up to fight.

Leung Yee had arrived but a week ago on the Red Eye from Ho Chi Minh, and looked a little cagey. Hardly anyone placed a bet on him.

In the corner opposite Leung Yee was Lou "Boss Hogg" the man-eating chicken.

The little chicken-sized bell was rung, signaling Round One.

Boss Hogg started stomping towards Leung Yee. Leung Yee hastily ran towards the corner of the ring, fear in his beady amber eyes.

"Come on, Leung Yee!" Uncle Max yelled. "This is a 500 to one shot that you'll win, but think of the money it could mean!"

Leung Yee tried to jab with his left wing and fake with his right wing, only to be knocked over by Boss Hogg. Still, Leung Yee got up like a fighter.

The Round Two bell was rung, and Leung Yee had just swallowed some roasted sesame seeds for good luck. Boss Hogg came in and punched Leung Yee square in the head with his wing.

Leung Yee was down!

"Get up, Yee! GET UP!" Uncle Max screamed.

Then, for some reason, Leung Yee did get up! He spread his thin wings and lifted up one leg (like that super move in "The Karate Kid"). Then he let out a humongous squawk and kicked Boss Hogg out of the ring and into a vendor's popcorn box!

"YEAH!" Uncle Max yelled.

Even I was cheering now!

Boss Hogg was out! Everyone was cheering! Uncle Max and I were doing the "dance of joy" from the show "Perfect Strangers" in the aisle!

"We're rich, Lenny! Well, I am, anyway!" Max yelled, hugging me. "We made over six thousand dollars! This'll give me enough moola to finish construction! Thanks, Lenny, my boy!"

"Sure, Uncle Max," I said, hugging him back.

Those last eight days with Uncle Max were spent hanging up signs all over Diegmueller Valley saying that a new park was coming soon to town: "Leung Yee the Chicken's Wonder Park (and all-new R.V. Service Station!)."

Like Uncle Max told me later on my trip, "He who tries and fails is better than he who never tried at all". Or, was that Confucius?

©1994 Kami Brin Edwards