Big Mouth

by Deborah Halverson

  I was on my way to the stadium to walk around the track a little. It would be empty and peaceful. And I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing me walk. Just like I’d predicted, Gardo had agreed to let me do that instead of jog. He hadn’t even put up a fight. “I guess it would be good for your calf,” he’d said, “both of them. Just make sure you walk fast.”

  When I was almost at the stadium, I heard the fast thup-thup-thup-thup-thup of helicopter blades. I squinted against the sun. A helicopter was coming in low, circling around for a pass not far above my head. I looked around me, trying to see what would interest the pilot, but nothing caught my eye. I did see some movement on the roof, something yellow maybe, but I couldn’t quite tell from this angle. Then my gaze dropped and I discovered that I was standing on yellow paint. Someone had graffitied a message on the sidewalk.

  I moved off the paint, trying to read the words, which were very large and very messy. I bet they could read it just fine from that helicopter, though, which I now saw was a KPUT news chopper.

  It took me a few moments, but I finally worked out what the yellow graffiti said: KETCHUP IS FOR WIENERS!

  Yikes. I scurried away. I didn’t want to be seen anywhere near this. It was in paint. That was a whole level above squeezed mustard and even chalk. Dang. The Del Heiny company wouldn’t be happy to see this on the news. Which meant the school board wouldn’t be happy, which meant Principal Culwicki wouldn’t be…well, suffice it to say, someone was in Big Trouble now.

  * * *

  All is not peachy in the tomato empire….

  Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Dan Druthers reporting from the KPUT News Center.

  Del Heiny Ketchup Company is losing control of its high school empire. That’s what people are saying tonight as janitors sandblast a large anti-ketchup message sprayed in yellow paint on the Del Heiny Junior High School #13 campus.

  According to an anonymous Del Heiny Junior 13 employee, this is not the first anti-ketchup statement on campus. Frequent mustard-yellow taggings have desecrated company logos in the cafeteria, the gym, and the halls of Del Heiny Junior 13. Some believe the Mustard Tagger, as he’s been dubbed, is a disgruntled Del Heiny employee. Others theorize it’s an inside job, committed by someone who has access to the Del Heiny Junior 13 campus after hours. Still others argue that this is a conspiracy masterminded by the National Mustard Vendors Association, intended to discredit the Del Heiny Ketchup Company and prompt school districts to rebid their sponsorship contracts.

  Cyrus C. Culwicki, principal of Del Heiny Junior 13, calls such speculation “a bunch of poppycock. We have no reason to suspect that this is anything more than a student acting out his or her teen angst. We will put a stop to it, and soon, or my name isn’t Cyrus Culpepper Culwicki.”

  Authorities, however, are taking no chances. At this very hour they are setting up after-hours video surveillance of the Del Heiny Junior 13 campus.

  And that’s the local news spotlight for this hour. This has been Dan Druthers from the KPUT News Center with your local news for Friday, November 14. At KPUT, we break breaking news first.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 19

  I was refilling the gummy bear topping bin when Grampy announced he was done for the night. We’d be closing in a few minutes, but he wasn’t going to help me lock up.

  “The arthritis in my back is killing me. I need to go home and lay on your mama’s ironing board.” His face was scrunched up and squinty, making him look all cheeks, so I knew he was feeding me a line of bull.

  I played dumb, though. With Grampy gone, I’d have free rein of Scoops for my post-weigh-in feast. Gardo’s second meet was long over by now and he was probably up to his eyeballs in pepperoni pizza, grated mozzarella, and Pepsi, but I hadn’t been able to feast because this had been one of our busiest Friday nights ever. I didn’t even get a break. I was due a few gummy bears, at the very least.

  “That’s fine, Grampy. We can’t have you dying of arthritis. I’ll close up.”

  “That’s my boy. You’re a real Thuff, Thuff.”

  I was a Thuff, all right. My face was all cheeks, I could feel it.

  At nine o’clock on the dot, I lowered the big metal gate that locked the shop off from the main mall. There were a few diehard shoppers still roaming the promenade, but gates were dropping left and right, so they’d clear out soon enough. The bang, bang, bang of gates echoed for a few minutes, then the Muzak cut off and the place got eerie quiet.

  I blew off Grampy’s huge list of closing duties and headed straight for the waffle cone stacks. Using a stepstool, I grabbed two mondo-sized triple dips right off the top—one for filling up with an ice cream extravaganza, the other for munching on while I built my frozen masterpiece.

  The muncher cone cracked as I snatched it from its perch, but that didn’t matter. In fact, it was better that way, like eating potato chips. I put a towel on the counter, laid my muncher down on it, then rested a second towel on top and bashed my fist on it several times. When I pulled up the top towel, there was a glorious spread of triple dip waffle chips below. How did you get so brilliant, Thuff?

  I set about filling up the intact cone, pausing only to shovel triple dip chips into my mouth. Yummy, yummy, yummy. Rich chocolate fudge and the crisp snap of a vanilla sugar cookie rolled as thin as it can go. Heaven on earth. Whoever dreamed up this blessed confection was my new hero. Dang, it was great to enjoy food again. Post-weigh-in feast was better than a million Thanksgivings combined.

  The appetizer was great, but it was my main course that would set the record for perfection. Moving along the rows of ice cream with a warm, wet metal scoop, I started with a smooth, uncomplicated base, something that would clean the palette when I got to the bottom of my waffle cone: a half miniscoop of True Vanilla. I patted it firmly into the bottom of the cone. There you go! I followed that with a thin scrape of Pralines & Cream for a touch of nuttiness in the final bites. “Into the cone with you.” Top that with miniscoops of Chocolate Raspberry Fudge Swirl, Strawberry Cheesecake, and Banana Royal for a virtual taste explosion. “Into the cone!” Then half a scoop of Peanut Butter Caramel Chunk, and another half of Apple Pie á la Mode. “Into the cone!” And finally, topping off the cornucopia of ice cream, a mondo scoop of Spazzy Monkey—the perfect opening act to a symphony of frozen, creamed delight!

  I paused for a mouthful of triple dip chips and then burst into a humming rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons as I chewed. Mom would’ve been proud to know I didn’t totally tune out during my car rides with her and that annoying classical station.

  Next up, whipped cream piled tall but just shy of leaning. Then a quick back-and-forth drizzle of chocolate sauce, crisscrossed by a drizzle of butterscotch sauce. You’ve got the touch, Sherman Thuff! Top it all off with a light dose of crushed almonds and two—count ’em, two!—maraschino cherries. Oh, the ecstasy! In the Sherman T. Thuff Book of Good and Tasty Things, my sundae would be the cover piece, the crème de la crème. Truly, it was my calling; I was the Master of All Things Ice Cream.

  Still humming, I wiped my fingers on my pink smock, stuffed the last triple dip chips into my mouth, grabbed a pink plastic spoon, and waltzed through the open counter door to a table in the middle of the room. It was almost funny how easily I passed through that opening. Only a few weeks ago, that cut-out panel had squeezed my stomach every time. Down with belts!

  I sat down at the table and swung my feet up on the chair next to me, my eyes looking right at the sun on our wall. I raised my heaping waffle cone toward the smiling logo in a debonair toast. “Cheers, sun. Here’s to enjoying food—and life—again.”

  I love energy building.

  Aiming carefully, I harpooned the whipped cream hill with my spoon, scoring a primo helping of nuts and chocolate sauce with my cream. I left the two cherries untouched. It’d be fun to see how long they could stay afloat without toppling down into the cone. A dessert like this had to be approached strategically, with an app
reciation for the fine balance of tastes and a patience for dragging out the mouthwatering temptations.

  Then I got that first sweet, soft mouthful of whipped cream and threw strategy to the wind. This was just too good to go slow.

  Scooping madly, I plowed through the creamy hill, cherries and all. A few flicks of whipped cream spattered my smock. Good thing I’d left it on. After demolishing the topping, I dug into the Spazzy Monkey. Love, love, love toffee in ice cream! I had that down in five heaping spoonfuls—all placed in my mouth upside-down to avoid an ice cream headache—then hit the half scoops of Apple Pie à la Mode and Peanut Butter Caramel Chunk, side-by-side in the cone. I swear, peanut butter went with apples better than any snooty wine went with cheese, especially in sweetened ice cream. Those were gone in three spoonfuls each. Then it was on to the Chocolate Raspberry Fudge Swirl and the Strawberry Cheesecake and the Banana Royal—which, as I’d predicted, made for one fabulous fruity explosion in my mouth. Six rocketlike spoonfuls later, I was grounding my taste buds with the soft earthy nuttiness of Pralines & Cream. Then, as a cool-down lap, the anchor to my speedboat, the calming music to my beast, I dug into the deep and solid True Vanilla. And, oh, how truly vanilla it was—gently sweet but smooth on the tongue, it slid down, sweeping all the rich fruitiness away. Sherman Thuff knew how to wind up an ice cream experience.

  After the vanilla, I devoured the waffle cone. The divine film of ice cream that coated it was like dressing on a salad, helping the cone slide down better than any water-logged hot dog bun ever had.

  I sat back a moment to ponder the brilliance of my first course. Pulling up my shirt, I patted my belly. Thump, thump, thump. Yep, it was happy and satisfied. And I wanted to keep it that way. After all, the poor thing would be in agony all week with Gardo’s meal planning. So I had to be wise about my second course, choosing just the right thing—maybe a banana split or an ice cream shake?—and the right combination of flavors and textures. But then again, I had just eaten the best dessert anyone had ever created. Why reinvent the wheel?

  Happy with that decision, I marched to the ice cream rows, grabbed another waffle cone, and filled ’er up.

  The second Thuff Enuff Waffle Cone Extravaganza went down as fast as the first. The next one, though, lasted a little longer as I took time to study the angles before each spoonful, balancing the ratio of ice cream to nuts to whipped cream even more carefully this time around. Like fire and earth and air and water, the ingredients in a sundae had a very delicate balance. Also, I was starting to feel a bit full—just a tiny bit, not enough to slow me down yet. I wanted to make the most of this feast, because I wouldn’t get a post weigh-in energy-building session for another week.

  Too bad Gardo was stuck with plain old pizza. And he’d be spending the whole weekend at a tournament, so when he got back, he’d be on the front end of a shortened cutting cycle, trying to get rid of the food he’d be eating this weekend. He wouldn’t set foot in Scoops next week. I definitely had to get him in here after next Friday’s meet. He was missing out, big time, and as a true friend I needed to make sure he got his proper dues. Ice cream was the finest of the finest.

  There was one downside to ice cream, though: It made you thirsty, especially if you were near death from thirst even before you began eating it. So I had to visit the double bubbler after that third cone. I hated to waste the belly space, but it turned out the water just filled up the nooks and crannies, so it wasn’t as big a loss as I’d feared. I still had plenty of room on the top for the dessert portion of my feast: toppings!

  I rushed to the topping bins, marveling at the good luck that gave me a Grampy who owned an ice cream shop. I scanned the rows, trying to decide where to start. There were the Sweet Lover’s rows: crumbled Heath bars and Snickers and Butterfingers and Oreos and M&M’s and nonpareils and brownie chunks and animal crackers and Haribo Gold-Bears and jimmies, rainbow and chocolate. There was the Nut Lover’s row: peanuts and walnuts and pistachios and almonds and cashews, crushed and whole. And then there was the not-so-appealing Health Nut’s row: syrupy strawberries and peaches and banana slices and raisins and granola and even—oh, I hate to even look at it—coconut. That was a lot to choose from, but it wasn’t even a contest for me: The Sweet Lover’s rows were the perfect dessert for my feast.

  Not even bothering with an annoying spoon, I grabbed handfuls of M&M’s, half of them spilling to the floor. I spooned in jimmies, half of those spilling to the floor, too. Then I used my hands and dug into the crumbled candy bars, jamming them into my mouth as fast as I could chew. I swear, these aren’t the Sweet Lover’s rows, they’re the Sweet Lover’s paradise!

  I slapped the sticky candy bar crumbs from my chin and moved on to the nut row, where I tore through the almonds and peanuts but left the rest, with their gross dirtlike aftertastes. My stomach rumbled as I twisted to the sundae counter behind me. A quick flick of the wrist and I’d upended the chocolate sauce bottle, squirting the smooth syrup directly into my mouth. Love, love, love chocolate! Next I squirted the caramel sauce and then the butterscotch. Man! The world should do more with butterscotch. Slamming the empty plastic butterscotch bottle onto the counter, I worked up a long, deep burp. That freed up some space. Since no sundae was complete without a banana, I stepped over to the banana basket and rifled through it, grabbing and peeling the yellowest one. With two sure hands, I broke it in half and rammed both pieces into my mouth at the same time, Tsunami-style. In six bites, it was all in my mouth, and after only a few chews, I’d swallowed it.

  Atta boy, Thuff! I was getting this technique down.

  Jazzed by my improvement, I snatched a second banana, peeled it, broke it, and stuck both halves into my mouth.

  That’s when the world came to a grinding halt.

  At the mere touch of the banana, my throat caught and my stomach raised the white flag of surrender. I was full. And not just a little. I was packed-to-the-top-of-your-throat, explode-out-your-belly-button, sit-on-the-floor-and-cry full. I spit out the banana and leaned forward against the counter taking deep breaths.

  Not a comfortable position.

  I hopped a few times rapidly, trying to pack the food down. All that did was churn up a nasty burp, and another one after that. Neither one gave much relief.

  My heart raced and I leaned back against the ice cream display case. The spit in my mouth was sugar-coated. Maybe if I ate some Health Nut stuff, the healthy part would cancel out the sugar overload and I’d feel better.

  I studied the row of fruits and granola. What was the smallest thing I could eat and still cut the sweet? Deciding a slice of pear might do it, I popped one in my mouth and chewed it slowly. Yep, that helped. I popped a second one. Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea. My stomach pushed hard against my belt buckle, cutting into the skin. Two pears was two too many.

  I undid my belt and ripped it off, throwing it into a corner. Groaning, I stumbled back to my seat at the table. I hadn’t just hit a wall this time, I’d obliterated it. I couldn’t even lick my fingers right now without suffering a reversal.

  The saliva collecting at the back of my throat was now bitter on top of sugary. My tongue was thick as a sneaker tongue. I dropped my head into my hands. A pool of spit caught in my throat, gagging me. I clamped my hand on my mouth—hard—to keep from reversing. Breathe, Shermie, breathe.

  The clock said 9:35. I’d feasted for thirty-five minutes. How long would it take to digest?

  I burped a gross acidy ice cream burp. Someone kill me now…. Then a second acidy ice cream burp rocked me. Asugar rush surged through my brain.

  This is stupid. I can’t sit here like this all night. I have to reverse, there’s no other way.

  Placing one hand on the table and the other on the arm of my chair, I pushed myself to a standing position with a groan. It was slow going, but I managed to shuffle to the tall trash can by the door. The domed pink lid pulled off easily. Not wanting to touch the trash liner, I rested my hands on my thighs and leaned over the can, my f
ace just inches above the day’s garbage. I’d blown off my closing duties, so the trash was still piled high. Pink plastic spoons with clumps of cold fudge and caramel on them, balled-up napkins smeared with colorful ice creams, paper cone wrappers with their pointed bottoms soggy from leaking cones, all laced with the smell of slightly soured milk. If I hadn’t wanted to reverse before, I did after seeing this.

  I closed my eyes, opened my mouth wide, and squeezed my stomach muscles tight.

  Nothing.

  I squeezed and strained again.

  More nothing.

  Maybe I needed some help, like a spoon to tickle the back of my throat. Ugh. I couldn’t stand the thought of trying to hobble back to my table. I looked around but there wasn’t anything useful within arm’s reach. Finally, I just stuck my finger in as far as I could.

  Aaagggh!

  Bulging eyeballs. Tears like water rockets. Puffy, blood-bloated sockets.

  Aaaagggh!

  Three waffle cones plus several quarts of ice cream plus three Sweet Lover’s rows equaled one trash can of butyric acid.

  Aaaa…

  Nothing.

  Wait, Shermie, wait….

  Still nothing. I was done. I was empty.

  I was horrified.

  I backed away from the can like there was a dead body in it. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I’d thrown up, and it wasn’t a reversal of fortune. It was deliberate. I’d made myself puke.

  Totally, completely, absolutely on purpose.

  I hate food. I hate the sight of it, I hate the smell of it, I hate the taste of it. I wish I never had to eat again. Ever. Whoever invented food sucks.

  I was lying on my back on the floor of the walk-in freezer. No sweatshirt, no thermal undershirt, no regular undershirt, no ski cap or long johns. Just my jeans, T-shirt, and smock separated my skin from the frozen cement floor. The cold bit through fabric like a pit bull’s teeth. Good. I deserved it.

  I was afraid to go back into the shop. That was where the ice cream was, and now that I’d reversed—no, that wasn’t a reversal, you loser, that was a deliberate PUKE! Now that I’d puked, I was hungry again. Well, maybe not hungry, maybe more like not full. Not that it mattered, the effect was the same: If I went out there, I’d eat another sundae, I just knew it. Even holed up in this freezer, I wanted one. Those were the best sundaes I’d ever had, and it had been such a release to finally eat.