o he entered The Streetside Café, one of several local eateries he frequented.
Ned was a big eater—and had a habit of ordering dessert along with his entrée—so when a middle-aged waitress arrived to take
his order, he pointed first to the dessert menu. “Got any more of that Devil’s Food Cake?” he asked her.
She promptly pulled out a Sharpie pen, leaned down to the plastic menu, and marked out the word
Devil’s.
Then she wrote a new word in its place. “Management just changed the name to David’s Food Cake,” she said. “One slice could
fill Goliath.”
At first Ned could only blink at her.
The waitress smiled politely, pointed to the menu. “Would you like a piece of David’s Food Cake, sir? It’s already quite popular
in Tucson, Dallas, and Chattanooga.”
Blank-faced, DJ Ned stared at the waitress, hoping that she was kidding.
But she just waited patiently with pad in hand, ready to take his order.
Ned had yet to connect his lack of callers with the renaming of Devil’s Food Cake, but it seemed to him that a strange form
of religiosity was sweeping across America from west to east, just like the latest fad from L.A.
3
W HEN LANNY ARRIVED at Southside Elen entary on the south side of Atlanta, he parked his Xterra in ; visitor’s spot and unhitched his seatbelt.
By now he had convince I himself that he was simply the victim of a huge practical joke, anc over the past half hour he had
given little thought to the odd happ snings at McDonald’s and the BP station. The billboard, however still troubled him.
Skies were sunny and winds were mild as he got out and grabbed his toolbox from the rear hatch. Whiffs of honeysuckle drifted
past, and for a moment Lanny stood and sniffed. The sweet scent restored a sense of normalcy to his day, and around h m everything
looked in place: grass freshly mown, windows adornec with Crayola drawings, tricycles in the playground, bicycles lined t
p and parked beyond the sidewalk.
“I remember my little purple bike, back when I was as seven,” he said to himself. He shut the hatch to his truck and toted
his toolbox toward the front entrance.
On his way toward the school, Lanny heard an intercom blaring some kind of announcement from inside the building. He could
not make out the words.
As soon as he pushed open the lobby door, he smelled Pine-Sol. But he found no one at the front desk to greet him, so he continued
down the hall to room 12B, where he had been instructed to knock before entering. He knocked twice, but there was no answer,
no sound at all from inside the room.
The intercom system crackled to life, and from down the hall an emotionless male voice said, “Go to 12D. You’re at 12B.”
Lanny wondered why no one was talking to him in person, andhow they even knew he was in the building. He loped down the hallway, his toolbox heavy in his hand, his mind suspicious once
again.
This is Monday. Surely there are kids here on Monday.
The door to 12D was also closed. Instead of knocking, Lanny almost left to find the school principal. But he went ahead and
tried the door, and it opened to an empty classroom. Desks were pushed to the sides, and masking tape was arranged on the
floor in the form of a big boat. Drawn skillfully on the chalkboard to his right were colorful fish and a huge octopus.
In the rear, just outside the restroom, he saw the shiny porcelain. An uninstalled kiddie commode sat against the back wall,
its lid up, as if inviting him to get to work. Lanny toted his toolbox to the back and read a note taped to the commode handle:
Please try to have this installed by 2:15. The kids
have their juice and cookies at 2:30, and we will
need our restroom to
be functional.
Lanny glanced at his watch and saw that the time was already 1:28. Curious as to where everybody had gone, he went to the
window and peered out at the schoolyard. It too was empty.
Then the intercom voice said, “Better hurry.”
Lanny
Ned was a big eater—and had a habit of ordering dessert along with his entrée—so when a middle-aged waitress arrived to take
his order, he pointed first to the dessert menu. “Got any more of that Devil’s Food Cake?” he asked her.
She promptly pulled out a Sharpie pen, leaned down to the plastic menu, and marked out the word
Devil’s.
Then she wrote a new word in its place. “Management just changed the name to David’s Food Cake,” she said. “One slice could
fill Goliath.”
At first Ned could only blink at her.
The waitress smiled politely, pointed to the menu. “Would you like a piece of David’s Food Cake, sir? It’s already quite popular
in Tucson, Dallas, and Chattanooga.”
Blank-faced, DJ Ned stared at the waitress, hoping that she was kidding.
But she just waited patiently with pad in hand, ready to take his order.
Ned had yet to connect his lack of callers with the renaming of Devil’s Food Cake, but it seemed to him that a strange form
of religiosity was sweeping across America from west to east, just like the latest fad from L.A.
3
W HEN LANNY ARRIVED at Southside Elen entary on the south side of Atlanta, he parked his Xterra in ; visitor’s spot and unhitched his seatbelt.
By now he had convince I himself that he was simply the victim of a huge practical joke, anc over the past half hour he had
given little thought to the odd happ snings at McDonald’s and the BP station. The billboard, however still troubled him.
Skies were sunny and winds were mild as he got out and grabbed his toolbox from the rear hatch. Whiffs of honeysuckle drifted
past, and for a moment Lanny stood and sniffed. The sweet scent restored a sense of normalcy to his day, and around h m everything
looked in place: grass freshly mown, windows adornec with Crayola drawings, tricycles in the playground, bicycles lined t
p and parked beyond the sidewalk.
“I remember my little purple bike, back when I was as seven,” he said to himself. He shut the hatch to his truck and toted
his toolbox toward the front entrance.
On his way toward the school, Lanny heard an intercom blaring some kind of announcement from inside the building. He could
not make out the words.
As soon as he pushed open the lobby door, he smelled Pine-Sol. But he found no one at the front desk to greet him, so he continued
down the hall to room 12B, where he had been instructed to knock before entering. He knocked twice, but there was no answer,
no sound at all from inside the room.
The intercom system crackled to life, and from down the hall an emotionless male voice said, “Go to 12D. You’re at 12B.”
Lanny wondered why no one was talking to him in person, andhow they even knew he was in the building. He loped down the hallway, his toolbox heavy in his hand, his mind suspicious once
again.
This is Monday. Surely there are kids here on Monday.
The door to 12D was also closed. Instead of knocking, Lanny almost left to find the school principal. But he went ahead and
tried the door, and it opened to an empty classroom. Desks were pushed to the sides, and masking tape was arranged on the
floor in the form of a big boat. Drawn skillfully on the chalkboard to his right were colorful fish and a huge octopus.
In the rear, just outside the restroom, he saw the shiny porcelain. An uninstalled kiddie commode sat against the back wall,
its lid up, as if inviting him to get to work. Lanny toted his toolbox to the back and read a note taped to the commode handle:
Please try to have this installed by 2:15. The kids
have their juice and cookies at 2:30, and we will
need our restroom to
be functional.
Lanny glanced at his watch and saw that the time was already 1:28. Curious as to where everybody had gone, he went to the
window and peered out at the schoolyard. It too was empty.
Then the intercom voice said, “Better hurry.”
Lanny
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