“Well, look at you, Little…” Dad pauses then starts again. “Well, look at you. You are a fine young man. I’m glad I kept those dashikis in my closet.” Dad’s voice feels like a hug. His eyes feel like a kiss. It’s funny how small things can sometimes feel really big—so big that they erase almost all of the bad things. A day that starts one way can end completely different.

  Stepping Out Alone on Sunset

  The store is starting to get fixed up. It actually looks like a store now. An empty store, but still a store. The orange carpet has been replaced with a shiny wood-tiled floor. Each square tile is almost the same color as milk chocolate with a swirly wood-grain pattern. It’s like walking on a frozen chocolate lake. Right now, Dad’s taking a break from the cookie dough. He’s looking at a small pile of envelopes stacked on the metal table. He has his checkbook open. I’ve seen this before.

  Back when Mom and Dad were together, they would keep a big stack of envelopes on the kitchen table. They were bills—all of the money they owed other people for rent, electricity, stuff like that. It’s like the bills were a member of the family. They had their own seat at the kitchen table. The bills were always there: for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Mom and Dad talked about the bills at every meal. Then, once a month, Dad would pull out his checkbook at the kitchen table. He would decide which ones to pay. He never paid all of them—like that time he didn’t pay the electric bill. This would start Mom yelling at Dad about his crazy business ideas. “We could pay all these bills if you’d stop wasting our money on your stupid ideas,” she’d say. Dad always responded with the same three questions. “You think my ideas are stupid? One of these ideas is gonna hit. Big. What ideas do you have? How about you go get yourself a job instead of giving me grief?”

  Finally, Dad would bolt up from the kitchen table. “I don’t want to talk about the bills.” That’s Dad. Never wants to talk about it. Not the bills, not Uncle Melvin, not the Rat Trap. No matter how many times or ways I ask. Nothing. Sometimes, when Dad was home, it was like he wasn’t there at all.

  Dad rearranges the bills next to the cookie dough like puzzle pieces. He’s mumbling under his breath about which ones he can pay today and which ones can wait until later. The bills from Hollywood Bakery Supply and DMC Kitchen Repair are placed in the “later” pile. There are a few others I can’t see.

  “This one’s gotta get paid right away so we don’t get the power turned off,” Dad announces, holding a bill from the Department of Water and Power. He grumbles with every number he writes before tearing out the check and stuffing it into the envelope. He licks it shut with one swipe of his tongue. “Ow!” Dad throws the envelope down. “Cut my tongue on the envelope. These damn bills.” Dad hands me the envelope. “I need you to mail this for us. I’m pretty sure there’s a mailbox down the street.” He doesn’t make a move to get up.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to walk down Sunset alone? You’re not gonna watch me this time?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Dad assures me. “No one’s gonna mess with anyone wearing such a fine ’fro and dashiki. You just come right back. No detours. No distractions.”

  I accept my mission. I also grab a bag of cookies from the counter. Maybe I can get a few customers along the way.

  It’s hot outside—like inside-an-oven hot. I look for the mailbox. All I see are palm trees dotting the edge of the sidewalk. They stretch up to the sky. My eyes have a hard time seeing to the end of the block. A mailbox has to be down there somewhere. Dad wouldn’t ask me if he wasn’t sure about it. Here I go. My first walk down Sunset Boulevard on my own. I check my pick and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I look around carefully. Mom always says to check your surroundings. I kneel down to tie my shoe, but a clanking sound sends me back upright. I turn around quickly. There’s a man behind me. He’s pushing a shopping cart. Oh no! Is this the drunk guy who came in the store?

  “Got any change, kid?” he asks. His eyes are worn but friendly. This is definitely not the drunk guy who came into the store. But he is very dirty like the drunk guy. I pause for a second. It looks like everything he owns is stuffed inside of his shopping cart. He’s dressed for a snowstorm, not a summer day—heavy wool coat and a knit hat. His nails are dirty and longer than my mom’s. He holds out a paper cup in his hand. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve never spoken to a homeless person before.

  “No, I don’t,” I reply. “But here you go.” I reach into my brown paper bag and place three cookies into his cup. “They’re really good.”

  The man holds the cup to his nose. “Mmmm, they smell good.” He rattles the cookies in his cup. Then pushes his cart into Sunset Boulevard, crossing traffic to the other side. Once he’s in the shade, I see him take off his wool coat. He reaches his hand inside his cup and takes a bite of a cookie. He yells across the street, “These cookies are good! Crunchy! Thanks, kid!”

  “You’re welcome!” I shout over the cars.

  Now onward to the mailbox—and to find some customers. I take two more steps before an arm blocks me. It’s attached to a skinny hippie sitting on a bus bench next to a surfboard. I can see myself in his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Duuude! Did you just give that homeless guy some cookies?” the surfer asks. I nod. “You got any more? I’ve got a long bus ride to the beach.”

  I open my bag. The hippie surfer takes a few cookies and immediately pops one in his mouth. “Whoa!” he says, grabbing his head. “This cookie is blowing my mind.”

  “It is?” I say. “Is that good?”

  “Totally, dude!” the surfer confirms. “This is a magic cookie! You’re a cookie magician!” I tell him about the store. He leans over the back of the bus bench, puts his nose right against mine, and whispers, “Your dad is a magician, dude. He’s making cookie magic. And you are bringing his cookies to the people. That’s beautiful, dude. Right on.”

  The RTD city bus arrives. The doors open. The hippie steps on with his surfboard. Just before the bus doors close, he shouts out, “Spread the cookie love, dude! I’ll see you at your magic cookie store.” The surfer flashes me a peace sign through the bus window as he vanishes into the traffic. I just got my second customer.

  Now, onward to the mailbox. I walk past a couple FOR RENT signs before I am stopped again. This time, two mothers pushing baby strollers stand in front of me. They’re both chewing gum. Their lips are glossy and pink like cotton candy. One of the mothers blows a big pink bubble. As it pops, she asks, “You got any more of those magic cookies, chico?”

  I open my paper bag one more time. The Bubblegum Moms reach inside. They each take the gum from their mouths and stick it on their baby stroller handles.

  “They’re so small and cute,” says one of the moms holding her cookie. The Bubblegum Moms each pop a cookie in their mouth—careful to avoid their lip gloss. Then they chew like chipmunks. And chew. And chew. They’re chewing way too much. This cookie doesn’t take that long to chew.

  “I don’t know if it’s magic, but that’s a good cookie,” Bubblegum Mom One says. “And you’re so handsome in that colorful shirt.”

  “It’s a dashiki,” I correct her.

  “Well, whatever it is, you look handsome in it,” Bubblegum Mom Two says, smiling. “Where can we get some more of these?”

  I point down the block behind me. “My dad and I are opening a cookie store just down there. It’ll be open in four weeks.”

  “You got yourself two customers,” the Bubblegum Moms promise. They stick their gum back in their mouths and walk away down Sunset Boulevard. “Gracias, chico,” they say.

  Jordan, the hippie surfer, the Bubblegum Moms… I’ve already found four customers, and we haven’t gotten to that part of the checklist yet. I continue my mailbox search with only a few cookies left. My hunt takes me to the edge of Sunset and the doorsteps of KIRA Radio. I bet Wishbone would like some cookies. Dad said no detours or distractions, but this is technically on the way to the mailbox. Plus, I’ve got to get some answers. I need Wishbone to tell me about the Rat Trap since Dad never will. Maybe he knows something about Melvin, too. This is the opposite of a distraction. It’s a search for clues. Before I can talk myself out of it, my feet carry me up the stairs.

  Operation Rat Trap

  Music is blasting inside of KIRA just like before. The woman at the front desk wearing braids answers the phones.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m here to see…”

  The woman in braids cuts me off with a big smile. “Hey, honey. You’re Wishbone’s friend. I remember you from when the lights went out. And look at you in your dashiki. You’re looking fine. Ready for business.” She leans over the desk. “Come here, sweetie. You got something caught in your Afro there.” I can smell her perfume as she pulls a yellow thread from my hair. My heart beats in my throat a little bit. She hands me the thread. “It must’ve come loose from your dashiki. You want that hair looking sharp.”

  I gulp, pushing my heart back down into my chest. She’s pretty. Her skin is like midnight. I manage to say, “I brought Wishbone some cookies. Would you like one?” I open the bag. She reaches in and holds one cookie lightly between her thumb and index finger. I try to sound like a cookie scholar like Dad. “That’s a perfect one. Just the right amount of chips. And check out that pecan poking through. THIS is a good cookie!”

  The woman in braids giggles. “Well, you sure know your cookies. I’m gonna keep it right here on my desk and eat it after my lunch break. Maybe I can find some milk to go with it. Thank you, honey.”

  “We open in four weeks. Sunset Cookies. Don’t forget.”

  “I’ll be there,” she says. Yes! I just found my fifth customer. She asks if I remember how to find Wishbone. I nod and walk down the hall to his DJ booth. Her perfume stays in my nose.

  I arrive at the mothership. It sounds like a Sunday church choir is singing inside. I pull open the heavy door. Wishbone is drowning in the funk. He’s waving his hands over his head. A shiny record spins on his turntable. Hand clapping and voices fill the mothership. The Sunday church choir sings through the speakers:

  We’ve got to come together

  Come together as one family

  We’ve got to come together

  Raise our voices in true harmony

  Wishbone catches me out of the corner of his eye. He turns around with his hands still up in the air. Then he leans backward. His body arches like a giant, stretched-out letter C.

  “Woooo!” Wishbone howls. “Look at Big Brother! Soul brother number one!” Wishbone lowers his arms and stands straight. He examines my new look. “The beautiful Afro, like a lion’s mane. The dashiki. Lookin’ like a young Zulu warrior.” Then he howls again, “Woooo! Big Brother has done found the Promised Land!” He straightens the pick in the top of my Afro, polishing the plastic fist with his thumb. I’m glad he likes my new look, but I need to stay focused. I’m here on a mission. This is Operation Rat Trap.

  The last notes of the song fade. The hand clapping and singing are replaced by the thumping of the turntable needle hitting the end of the record. It sounds like a car driving with a flat tire. Wishbone snaps out of his trance and rushes back to his microphone. He lifts the needle off the turntable and flips a switch. He then preaches to his radio audience. His voice sounds like velvet.

  “My apologies, brothers and sisters. The groove swept me away. You just heard a brand-new song from California’s own The Rev & The Brotherhood. It’s called ‘(We’ve Got to) Come Together.’ And that is the truth. This is DJ Wishbone, Keeping. It. Real. Always. KIRA. And now, a word from our sponsors.”

  Wishbone flips the switch again, pushes his microphone away, and spins around. He points at the paper bag in my hand. “Please tell me you got your pops’ cookies in there.”

  I almost forgot about the cookies. I hand him the bag. Wishbone opens it, shoves his nose inside, and sucks all of the air out the bag. Soon, he emerges with his blinding smile. “Sweet chocolate salvation. Your pops did it this time. This is the real deal.”

  “Everyone really likes them,” I agree.

  Wishbone swirls his hand in the bag like he’s stirring soup. He then flings one cookie after another into his mouth, licking his lips after each one. Cookie crumbs fall past his gold chain and disappear into his dashiki. Wishbone holds the last cookie in his hand and spins around to the microphone. With another flip of the switch, he turns on his velvety radio voice. Cookie crumbs fly from his mouth into his microphone.

  “Brothers and sisters! I have the distinct pleasure of welcoming Soul Brother Number One, Ellis Johnson, into the KIRA studio. Big Brother has given me my first taste of a sweet new sensation. THIS is a chocolate chip cookie you wish your mama made. And it’s coming right here to Hollywood, California, in…” Wishbone covers the microphone and whispers to me, “When’s your pops opening?”

  “Four weeks,” I whisper back.

  “Coming to Hollywood in four weeks!” Wishbone tells his radio audience. “And it’s called…” Wishbone covers the microphone again. “What’s the name of this joint?”

  “Sunset Cookies.”

  “Sunset Cookies! Do not miss this, brothers and sisters. Now, can I get an amen for the funk?!” Wishbone flips the switch and drops the needle on another record. He invites me to sit down on the chair next to him. I pull the Department of Water and Power bill from my back pocket and lay it on the desk so I don’t wrinkle it.

  Wishbone sucks the crumbs from his teeth while he speaks. “Your pops really did it this time, Big Brother. Those are chocolate chip cookies for the soul.” He doesn’t seem to be speaking to me. It’s more like he’s speaking to Dad. I look at the posters around the mothership. Now that I have my new look, I feel like I could be in any of these bands. Then something catches my eye. It’s an old photo stuck on the wall right next to the door of the mothership. I didn’t see it last time. It’s half-buried under a bunch of stickers, buttons, and postcards. This section of wall looks a lot like the dashboard of Dad’s Rambler.

  The man in the photo looks kind of like Wishbone, only his hair is shorter. And he’s wearing a dark suit instead of a dashiki. A skinny tie is around his neck instead of a gold chain. He has the same big smile, though.

  “Is that you, Wishbone?”

  Wishbone looks up and flashes his blinding smile. “No, Big Brother, that is me before I found me. You know what I’m saying?”

  Nope. I have no idea what he’s saying. I realize that I basically never know what Wishbone is saying. He cues another album on his turntable. I study the photo. Wishbone is standing in front of a building with a crowd of people. They all look like they’re celebrating. Everyone is dressed fancy. It looks like another lifetime. I can’t stop staring at it.

  “Wishbone, where is this?” I ask.

  “The Rat Trap, Big Brother.”

  No way. The Rat Trap sure was a fancy place. I’ve got so many questions.

  “Wishbone, what was the Rat Trap?”

  “Shhh… no time, Big Brother. I gotta read the news on the air in one minute.”

  Wishbone focuses on his papers as he gets ready to read the news on his microphone. It doesn’t look like he’s going to tell me anything else right now. My eyes drift up to the clock above the photo on the wall. Oh no! I completely lost track of time! Dad told me to come right back. I bet if I showed this photo to Dad, he would actually tell me about the Rat Trap. I could probably take it, show it to Dad, and put it back on the wall without Wishbone even knowing it was gone. It’s not stealing if I bring it back. Right…?

  Sometimes you gotta take a chance. There are so many things I don’t know. I don’t know why my parents divorced. I basically don’t know anything about my dad before he was my dad. Can’t a kid just get a few answers about his own family? This photo feels like a clue. There’s just something about it.

  I’m making a final decision. Operation Rat Trap now moves into top secret mode. As Wishbone adjusts his headphones, I announce, “I gotta get back to the store. Dad’s expecting me.”

  “Catch you on the flip, Big Brother.” Wishbone waves the Department of Water and Power bill in his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll mail your envelope. I got you.”

  Wishbone turns away to read the news. I quickly slip the photo in my back pocket. I’ll return it before he ever knows it was gone. I open the door to the mothership and step out.

  The Last Ingredient

  I run back to the store. Things are changing fast. In the short time I’ve been gone, the front looks even more different. It sure doesn’t feel like the Sunset Strip in here anymore. It looks… cozy. Inside, there are four square tables made of blond wood. Each table has a brass metal design cut into the center that looks like a sun. Four tall wooden chairs with comfy cushions surround each table. The big wooden counter cuts across the back of the room. It looks like one of those big wooden bars you see in old-timey Western movies. In fact, the entire store kind of looks like a Western saloon—a cookie saloon.

  Dad hands out cookies to four moving men who look like bodybuilders. They are packing up their equipment. The movers gobble up the cookies instantly. Their faces light up like Christmas morning.

  “Man, those are good,” says one beefy mover in a gray jumpsuit. “I haven’t had a chocolate chip cookie since I was a kid. I’m definitely coming back for more of these.”

  Dad smiles, wiping his hands on his apron. “We’ll be waiting for you. Four weeks. Tell your friends.”

  The beefy mover is sold. “I’ll definitely see you in four weeks. I’m gonna tell my wife.”

  The moving men file out of the store. Their moving truck rumbles away as Dad admires the wood floor and furniture. Now I see what he means about “a vibe.”

  I’ve gotta admit it. “It looks really great in here, Dad. It almost feels like someone’s home.”

  “It is someone’s home, my man. Ours,” Dad says, smiling. I can tell he’s proud. I am, too. “I’d say this store is just about fixed up.”

 

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