I suspected it was a terrible humiliation. The Jolly Jack carts were pedal-powered and usually driven by teenagers who had dropped out of school. Each morning Mr. Bledsoe reported to a warehouse next to a horse pasture and, alongside the kids, packed his cart with dry ice wrapped in newspaper and boxes of Popsicles and fudge bars and Dixie Cups, then pedaled off in ninety-five-degree heat, unshaven and unbathed and smelling of bulk wine and sometimes vomit from the previous night. Who could blame Saber for being in a funk? Of course, the problem was more than a funk. He had given himself over to a couple of bad Mexican huckleberries. I went by his house; his mother told me she had no idea where he was. “He’s still living here, isn’t he, Miz Bledsoe?” I said. “Like you give a damn,” she replied, and closed the door in my face. I knew where to find him, though. At least on a balmy summer evening, I did. Saber had fantasies. One of them involved meeting a beautiful girl at the roller rink on South Main.
