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“What is that music?” he demanded, angry and needing to yell at someone or something. Sam stomped to the window and threw it open. Immediately the volume of the music, most of it vibrating bass, increased dramatically.
Down in the square things were dark but for the streetlights and a strobe light blinking through the front window of McDonald’s.
“What in the…”
Astrid came and stood beside him. “What is that? Is Albert throwing a party?”
Sam didn’t answer. He left without a word, annoyed, angry, and secretly glad of any excuse to get out of
answering kids’ stupid questions and handling their stupid problems.
He took the steps two at a time. Down to the ground floor, out through the big front door, ignoring a “Hello” from the kid Edilio had guarding the town hall, and down the big marble steps to the street.
Quinn was passing by, clearly heading toward McDonald’s.
“Hey, brah,” Quinn said.
“What is going on, do you know?” Sam asked.
“It’s a club.” Quinn grinned. “Man, you must be working too hard. Everyone knows about it.”
Sam stared at him. “It’s a what?”
“McClub, brah. All you need is some batteries or some toilet paper.”
This announcement left Sam baffled. He considered asking Quinn for clarification, but then Albert appeared, formally dressed, like he thought it was graduation or something. He actually had on a dark sports coat and slacks in a lighter shade. His shirt was pale blue, collared, and ironed. Spotting Sam, he extended his hand.
Sam ignored the hand. “Albert, what is going on here?”
“Dancing, mostly,” Albert said.
“Excuse me?”
“Kids are dancing.”
Quinn caught up then and stepped in front of Sam to shake Albert’s still-extended hand. “Hey, dude. I have batteries.”
“Good to see you, Quinn. The price is four D cells, or eight double As, or ten triple As, or a dozen Cs. If you have a mix, I can work it out.”
Quinn dug in his pocket and produced four triple A batteries and three D cells. He handed them to Albert, who agreed to the price and dropped the batteries into a plastic bag at his feet.
“Okay, the rules are no food, no alcohol, no attitude, no fights, and when I call ‘time,’ there’s no arguing about it. Do you agree to these rules?”
“Dude, if I had any food, would I be here? I’d be home eating it.” Quinn put his hand over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to the flag and said, “I do.” He jerked a thumb back at Sam. “Don’t bother with him: Sam doesn’t dance.”
“Have a good time, Quinn,” Albert said, and swung open the door to admit him.
Sam stared in absolute amazement. He was torn between outrage and an urge to laugh in admiration.
“Who told you you could do this?” Sam asked.
Albert shrugged. “Same person who told me I could run the McDonald’s until we ran out of food: no one. I just did it.”
“Fine, but you gave away the food. Now you’re charging people. That’s not cool, Albert.”
“You’re trying to profit?” This from Astrid, who had followed Sam, Little Pete in tow.
Inside, the music had shifted from hip-hop to a song Sam happened to love: the ridiculously hooky Tim Armstrong tune “Into Action.” If he ever were to dance, this might be the tune that did it.
