Characters in Chattery Teeth

“Bryan Adams,” the kid said, and shook Hogan’s hand briefly. Hogan dropped the transmission into drive again and began to roll slowly toward Route 46. As he did, his eyes dropped briefly to a cassette box lying on the dashboard. It was Reckless, by Bryan Adams. Sure, he thought.

And white spats! They were the real killer. Jack would love them, his right brain told him. And tell the truth, Bill, old buddy; if it turns out Jack doesn’t want them, you do.

“Jesus! Jesus! Jeeeeeee—” The orange feet were pumping rapidly, as if doing a Highland Fling. The pink jaws of the Jumbo Chattery Teeth nodded rapidly up and down, as if saying yes! yes! yes! and then shook back and forth, just as rapidly, as if saying no! no! no!

Hogan had suffered a broken back. He had spent four months in bed and another ten in a heavy brace his wife Lita called the Iron Maiden. They (whoever they were) said that if you got thrown from a horse, you should get right back on.

“You make my fillins ache.” “I told you to get Wolf—” “Myra, if you want him back there in the storeroom, go get him yourself.” He began to advance on her, and Hogan was surprised—almost wonder-struck, in fact—when she gave ground. “Ain’t nothin but a Minnesota coydog anyway.

“Shut the damn door, Scooter, was you born in a barn?” the woman behind the counter bawled. He glanced at her briefly, eyes red and irritated from the blowing sand. “Gimme a chance, woman! Can’t you see I got my hands full here? Ain’t you got eyes? Christ!”

William I. Hogan said that was bullshit, and with the exception of a white-knuckle, two-Valium flight to attend his father’s funeral in New York, he had never been on a plane since.

“I’m gonna stick him in the lean-to back of the gas-pumps.” “You ain’t not!” the big woman retorted. “Wolf’s our star attraction, in case you forgot. You get him in here. Radio says this is gonna get worse before it gets better. A lot worse.”