FAIR AND SQUARE [Eben Ormston] Mister Thompson was a big, tall, bald, formidable man who would not be duped, and the proud owner of his town’s main-street general store. He pressed his big hands flat on his counter mat, leaned his big body forward, and through his small, oval, wire-rimmed glasses, scowled down at the young boy. He jutted his jaw, pressed his tongue to his teeth, and said, “No.” Though momentarily checked, the boy would accept no defeat, and his fleeting look of surprise resolved to one of strength, courage, and determination. Bracing himself against Mister Thompson’s display case, his dirty hands smudging the glass, his nose barely clearing the top, the boy gathered himself, looked back at Mister Thompson, and delivered. “Okay, Mister Thompson. Hold on. Wudya say I’ll sweep the floors, stock your shelves, and tidy up, and then,” the boy waved his hand at the target of his delight, arrayed in the case before him, “I get some candy.” He let that sink in. “Pretty good, huh? Customers will like it. And I’ll wear one of your aprons, too. It’ll make me look official . . . for your customers. See? Wudya say? Fair and square, Mister Thompson?” “I hear you trying,” Mister Thompson said at length. “So, first, get your paws off my glass.” He reached across the case with a cloth and wiped away the boy’s prints. “Second, aren’t you supposed to be in school? Finally, you aren’t big enough to hold a broom, and any apron I have is bigger than you—you’ll be tripping everywhere and crashing into everything.” “Will not!” said the boy. “It’s summer, Mister Thompson, and I’m plenty big and strong.” The boy stepped back, stood straight, pulled up his t-shirt sleeve, bent his elbow, and made a muscle. “See? And there ain’t no dust bunny ever did survive me. Hell, Mister Thompson,” the boy swept his hand back, “look, they’re already running. They know what whuppin’ my broom’s gonna give ’em.” Mister Thompson’s eyes looked left, paused, looked right, paused, and returned to the boy. “No dust bunnies in my store,” he said. “Sure there are, Mister Thompson! Sure there are. Your glasses ain’t working right. I see ’em. Your customers see ’em. And your customers are talking, too.” Mister Thompson blinked. How’s this? he thought. Customers talking? The implications could be serious. He weighed the boy’s report carefully and scanned his store again—fresh foods displayed appetizingly, dry goods stacked neatly, magazines arranged categorically, and the candy—yes, the candy. This ship is shipshape, he concluded. The boy had returned to the case, his fists clenched at his chest, his mouth making a small "o", and his eyes wide open, waiting, and expecting. With one finger raised, Mister Thompson held the boy at bay. 17 PLAINS paradox