Don't Sweat the Small Stuff Read Online Free

bar with the door wide open, and a handful of local patrons drinking shots and beer at the bar. According to the sign, starting at six a.m. Baby Bonanza was a former clothing store for infants that was now for rent, and Fabulous Fabric appeared to be a store that sold cloth from bolts. I had a good feeling Fabulous Fabric would be the next retailer to go under. I’m not sure people in Carol City can afford a sewing machine.
    James and I walked up the cracked, crumbling concrete sidewalk that fronted the shabby store facades. Flaking stucco in faded pink, blue, yellow, and green smears covered their walls, and as we peered through the dust-streaked windows, the insides appeared almost desolate and empty.
    “The carnival will bring in the people.”
    “But who would shop in these stores, James? What are these people thinking?”
    “I don’t know, amigo. Pretty nasty place, I’ll admit.”
    At the end of the strip was the 8/12, a carryout that supposedly carried their store hours in the name of the operation. It was ten a.m. and the paper sign in the window said “back in twenty minutes.”
    “Can’t even get a Coke at the convenience store. We’re going to be here how long?”
    James took a deep breath. “Friday—today. Saturday—tomorrow. Sunday. We tear down on Monday morning and—”
    “We what?”
    “Tear down.”
    “
We
what?”
    “Tear down.” He looked at me like he thought I’d gone deaf. I hadn’t. I’d heard him perfectly well.
    “Oh, no.
You
tear down.” Giving him a hard look, I said, “As you pointed out earlier, I’m just along for the ride.”
    We walked back to the dusty dirt plot of ground where our trailer stood. Four trucks had arrived, one pulling a brightly painted trailer, complete with a border of golden flames. The name “Freddy’s Fun House” was splashed across the side. The golden painted flames burned through the letters and I couldn’t help but wonder just how much fun you could have in a small trailer like this.
    The second truck was a beat-up flatbed with a saucer-like ride on the back.
    Two semis were parked by the side of the road, each carrying what appeared to be half of a full ride. Six empty round cages with roofs, long sections of a green and gold metal bar, and the huge head of an otherworld dinosaur creature were piled on the trucks.
    “That’s the Dragon Tail.” The voice was deep and smooth.
    I turned around and the big man with swept back gray hair was pointing at the two trailers.
    “It’s the ride that guarantees traffic.”
    “Traffic?”
    “That’s the signature ride of the Moe Show. The Dragon Tail.”
    James stepped up and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Moe, this is my best friend, Skip Moore.”
    The man reached out with a darkly tanned arm and grasped my hand. The grip was strong and firm, a guy who was used to physical work.
    “Glad to meet you, Skip. I’m Moe Bradley. Welcome to the Moe Show.”
    Somehow, coming from him, the name was less embarrassing. After all, he was Moe. The Skip Show or the James Show wouldn’t ever work.
    “My trailer is right over there.”
    I glanced at the edge of a grove of trees. On a concrete slab, the sleek black and silver motor home shone brilliantly in the early morning Carol City sun.
    “Forty-five-foot American Eagle. Almost like living at home, boys. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”
    I looked back at our dinged up thirty-foot Airstream and thought about the different levels of luxury.
    “We’re going to have one of those, Skip. Someday.” James whispered with that faraway look in his eyes.
    We hiked the short distance to the motor home and stepped inside. I will go on record as saying this might have been the most impressive living area I’d ever seen. Remember, I come from humble beginnings, and James and I live in a dump.
But,
I have visited some pretty fancy places in my time, and as far as I was concerned, this was opulence at its finest.
    A fifty-inch flat screen television was