“You’re shitting me.”
“Sure. Why don’t you let me make some?”
“You’re not stinking up the house with grass brownies.”
“They don’t smell like grass, Sam.”
“What do they smell like?”
“Regular brownies. I split the tray in two, half with grass, half without. I’ll leave the regular brownies out for Judy and Mary.”
“You’re one sneaky son-of-a-bitch.”
He picks up the baggie with the joints Max rolled for me. “This should do it,” he says, breaking them up then tossing the rolling papers in one of the boxes. “I’ll show you how I make them, if you like. I use special ingredients.”
“We’re only making one batch, Muller. Understand?”
“Whatever you say.”
In the kitchen, Muller starts pulling out pans and stuff. He melts unsweetened chocolate, then adds walnuts, spices, sugar and some other things. He pours the mix into two pans, sprinkling the grass into one.
“Why don’t you become a chef?” I say.
“I love cooking,” he says. “Judy thinks I should start a catering business. Maybe focus on pastries.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
A half hour later, the kitchen smells like a bakery. When the timer goes, Muller brings out the brownies. “Take one of these,” he says. “I’ll put the plain ones out on the table and hide the others.”
The brownie burns my hand.
“Careful, Sam, they’re hot.”
“No kidding. Let’s take them outside.”
“Do you want some milk?”
“Milk?”
“They’re good with milk.”
“Bring milk, then.”
Muller comes out with two frosty glasses of milk. He sits down and bites off the end of his brownie. “Go ahead, Sam, they’re great when they’re warm.”
I put a piece of the brownie in my mouth, tasting a hint of cinnamon and what appears to be some kind of pepper. “You should take Judy’s advice, Muller.”
“About what?”
“Making pastries or something. These are great.”
“I thought you’d like them.”
“Seriously, you could sell these things. Forget the grass. All you need is a little marketing, some packaging, a logo design. Maybe you could call them Muller’s Deep Dark Madness.”
“That’s good.”
“You could also sell them online. Maybe do the whole thing as a cross promotion or something.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“What you were just saying.”
“What was I saying?”
“Promotion or something.”
“You sell them with messages on top. You know, company logos, that sort of stuff. Your name is on the packaging itself.”
“That’s clever, Sam.”
“We put messages on cookies once. For one of the big bakeries.”
“What were you selling?”
“What do you mean?”
“On the cookies?”
“The bakery.”
“What was the message?”
“The name of the bakery.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did the bakery have the name of the bakery?”
“To promote themselves, for chrissake.”
“Didn’t they know they were a bakery?”
“Of course they knew they were a bakery. They wanted other people to know they were a bakery.”
“Oh, right.”
“You’re a bit of a dumbass, Muller.”
“What was it you wanted to call them again?”
“Call what?”
“My brownies.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think you’re stoned, Sam.”
“So are you.” We stare across the lawn. Muller sticks his foot through the porch railing. His flip flop goes in the garden. We both look over.
“I think my foot’s stuck,” Muller says.
“Point your toe.”
“That’s as much as it points.”
I start pulling at his leg. The foot’s really wedged in there. Then I go down in the garden and start pushing from the other side. Muller just sits there staring at his foot.
“Pull, for chrissake, Muller. It’s not going to come out by itself.”
I give his foot a big shove and he goes back in his chair. His glass falls and milk flies everywhere. I come back on the porch and he’s lying there with his stomach hanging out.
“You’ve got milk all over you,” I say.
“I know.”
“Here’s your flip flop.”
“Thanks.”
“Give me your hand.”
“I should probably go change.”
“Bring me a cloth while you’re in there.”
He goes inside and disappears down the basement stairs. The milk’s running under the boxes. I have to move everything and then go downstairs for a mop. Muller’s putting on some socks.
“Grab that bucket,” I say. “We’re attracting cats.”
“You have cats?”
“No, the milk, Muller. It’s running under the boxes. What are you putting on socks for?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I could sure use a massage. My back’s killing me. Do you think Ruby would come over?”
“She’s busy.” He keeps sitting there. “Come on, Muller. That milk’s going to stink pretty soon.”
He turns on the oxygen and puts the mask over his face. He grins like a chimp. “Give me some of that,” I say.
He passes it over and I take a hit. Not bad. I wish I had this when I was feeling dizzy. It straightens you right out. Muller has some sort of regulator in the mask. He tried explaining it, but the grass brownie has made me stupid. I thought he wore the mask all night, but he only has it on until he calms down, which varies depending on the weather and his job prospects. He takes another hit of oxygen, going on about its effect on the brain cells. The crazy bastard has degrees in chemistry and science and sounds like that weird scientist in the Thomas Dolby video. Supposedly, the guy was a real scientist and thought Thomas Dolby was a twerp. After ten minutes of passing the oxygen back and forth, Muller and I are two pretty relaxed characters. “What about the cats, Sam?” Muller says, and I remember the milk seeping under the boxes. I grab a mop and go upstairs, the kitchen still smelling like a bakery.
Outside, we clean around the boxes, then we’re back in our chairs, feet up on the railing. Muller’s eyes are starting to close. I stare at the street, seeing an old guy riding past on his bicycle. He wobbles and totters, disappearing around the corner. There’s a clatter of metal and Muller opens his eyes. We get up, leaning over the railing. A few minutes later, the guy comes back, teetering and tottering, waving and taking out one of Mary’s dogwoods.
Chapter 10
Mary and Judy came home yesterday and found Muller and I asleep on the porch. They also found the plate of brownies, ate them all, then watched their shows in the living room. Mary scolded me later for leaving Muller out in the sun all afternoon. “You know how easily he burns,” she said. “Those were delicious brownies, by the way, Muller. Judy says you might go into catering.”
“He’s so good,” Judy said. “I love his date squares.”
This morning, the phone rings. Max is on the other end. He’s just come in from a painting job. Ruby’s taking a shower.
“How goes it, old man?” he says. “Feel retired yet?”
“You ever try grass brownies?”
“Great stone.”
“I know that, Max. Anything I should know about them? Chemical dependency, that sort of thing?”
“What’s with you, old man?” Max laughs. “First, you’re hanging moons. Now you’re eating grass brownies? Who made them?”
“Muller. They’re spectacular.”
“You got any more?”
“I’ll save you one.”
<
br /> “C’mon, Sam. How many did he make? You’re giving me one? What about Ruby and Otis?”
“Ruby does pot?”
“She loves grass brownies. So does Otis.”
“Look, Max, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. Mary watches me like a hawk. She’d kill me if she knew I was doing grass brownies. I can sneak a few over. How’s that?”
“Why don’t you bring Muller over here? Ruby’s got an industrial oven. Then you don’t have to sneak around. Come over now.”
“I’ll see, Max. Are you going to be there all day?”
“Sure. We’re doing up mailers for the painting business. Drop over any time. Ruby’s got all sorts of pans and stuff. Good ones, too.”
“I’ll pass that along,” I say and hang up.
In the kitchen, Judy and Muller are going through cookbooks. Mary’s on the computer. I pour some coffee and sit at the table. “You feel like coming with me this morning, Muller? I’m looking at lawnmowers.”
“What’s wrong with our lawnmower?” Mary asks.
“It’s on the fritz.”
“Why can’t you get it fixed?”
“I think it’s seen its day. You want to go with me or not, Muller? We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”
“If it’s okay with, Jude.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Judy says. “You don’t have to ask. Mom and I are shopping later, anyway.”
Muller takes about an hour getting showered and dressed. Once we’re in the car, I say, “We’re going over to Otis’s. I told Max you’d make some grass brownies. Big oven, double burners.”
“Do you think Ruby’ll give me a massage?”
“Make the brownies first.”
“I don’t have my special ingredients.”
“How many special ingredients are we talking about?”
“Maybe I’d better go back inside and get them.”
“And say what, for chrissake? We’ll stop somewhere on the way.”
“I need special nutmeg.”
“You’re not making soufflé.”
“Soufflé doesn’t have nutmeg.”
“Look, this is simple: bake and eat. Don’t overthink it.”
“I could sure use a massage.”
“Bake the brownies first.”
Inside the J & P, Muller looks at every shelf, going through each spice like a pharmacist. Suddenly, my heart’s going faster and faster. I’m all clammy. “Let’s get this stuff and go,” I say to Muller. We grab nutmeg, cinnamon, and a bag of walnuts. On our way out, Muller starts trying on baseball caps.
“I’ve got baseball caps at home,” I say.
“My head’s pretty big.”
“Just go wait outside and I’ll get this stuff rung through.”
“You’re really sweating, Sam. You okay?”
“I’m not great in crowded places.”
“Let me run this stuff through. You get the car.”
“Fine. Just hurry up.”
Outside, I’m gulping air. People walk by, a few stop. When Muller comes out with the bags, I’m leaning against a wall.
“You okay?” Muller says.
“Just dandy.”
We get to Otis’s around twelve thirty. Max and Ruby are stripping wallpaper. Ruby’s up on a ladder with a cigarette going.
“Morning,” she says and looks at Muller. “Hear you’re quite the baker, big fella. Max’ll show you where everything is. I want to get this paper off the wall before dinner.”
Music blares from the basement. “Damn it, Otis,” Ruby yells. “Turn it down.”
Muller makes enough brownies to feed the neighborhood. Ruby comes in the kitchen with bits of wallpaper stuck in her hair.
“You’ve missed your vocation,” she says to Muller, running her finger along the edge of the mixing bowl. “Hm-m, no wonder you’re beefy. This is sensational.”
We take the brownies into the dining room with a jug of milk. Downstairs, we hear Otis moving around. Then there’s knocking on the cellar door. “What’s going on in my kitchen, Ruby?” he says. “Damn you, woman! All I got is Popsicles down here.”
“Ignore him,” Ruby says. “What spices do you use, Muller? Nutmeg. What else? I taste something I don’t recognize.”
“Cayenne pepper. It really brings out the flavor.”
“Aren’t you the mad scientist.”
“I could really use a massage, Ruby.”
“Sure, get down on the rug. I’ll fix you up. I’m surprised you’ve got any tension at all with these brownies. I’m loose as a goose.”
Max is already on the rug with his hands behind his head. “Shove over, Max,” she says. “Muller takes up a lot of floor space. That’s not a criticism, Muller. You’re just big, that’s all. Good to see a beefy man once in a while.”
Ruby straddles Muller’s back, digging her knuckles into his rolls of fat. He groans and whimpers. “You’re a marvel, Ruby,” he says.
“All it takes is a knuckle here and there.”
Footsteps are coming up the basement stairs again. Otis tries slamming himself against the door, a yelp—“Lord Jesus!”—and he tumbles down the stairs. “Damn you, Ruby!” Seconds later, he comes crashing through the door, one eye squinting around the room. “I won’t be ignored, Ruby,” he yells. Suspenders hang from his waistband, his stomach bulges out. “You hear me! Dang it all, anyway. What the hell are you up to?”
Otis sniffs the air and makes for the oven. Pans clatter, the oven door slams. Max looks around the corner. “He’s scarfing all the brownies, Ruby,” he says.
Otis comes in the dining room with a brownie in each hand.
“Don’t you look at me that way,” he says to Ruby. “Driving a man crazy with fresh baking. What’re you sitting on that man’s back for? Who the hell is he, anyway?”
“This is Muller, Otis,” Ruby says. “He’s Sam’s son-in-law.”
“Who’s Sam?” Otis says, stuffing another brownie in his mouth.
“Go easy, Otis,” Max says. “Those aren’t ordinary brownies.”
“What are they then? Is that nutmeg?”
“A little cayenne pepper, too,” Muller says.
“Not bad.”
“Thank you.”
“Ruby,” Otis says. “You can’t keep me out of my own kitchen. How am I supposed to eat? Living on Popsicles ain’t no way to live.”
“Your song stopped,” Max says.
“Well put something on, Max. I’m trying to talk to your mother. Will you get off that guy, Ruby?”
“Oh, go back downstairs.”
“I won’t be ignored,” Otis yells, then looks at me. “Who are you?”
“Sam.”
“Who’s he?”
“Muller.”
“What the hell’s his problem?”
“You’ve still got dead air, Otis,” Max says.
“I’ll be right back,” Otis says, scarfing another brownie. “Get off that man, Ruby!”
Otis thumps downstairs, suspenders catching on the bannister, a sudden twang, a thump, and Otis tumbles down. “Hell and tarnation,” he screams.
“You all right?” Max yells downstairs.
“No, I ain’t all right. Where’s my Jackie Ross? You seen it, Max?”
“I haven’t been down there, old man.”
“Folks,” Otis says on his show. “You’re gonna have to listen to Junior Walker and The All Stars all the way through. I got things to sort out with Ruby. Just hang tight. This here’s from Junior’s Shake and Fingerpop album, startin’ with ‘Shotgun’. For any of you interested, Junior’s first name was Autry. Changed it when he came up from Arkansas. I’ll bet”—a large belch—“’cuse me, folks, I’ll bet Junior never got locked out of his own kitchen,”—another belch—“and left to fend for hisself with a few Popsicles and Puddin’ Pops. I’ll be back as soon as I straighten Ruby out. And, remember, folks, before you take any marital vows, get the food arrangements sorted out. Otherwise, you’ll be starvin’ after you
r first indiscretion.”
The music starts and Otis comes stomping up the stairs again, eyes wide, suspenders dangling. “Dang it, Ruby, how’s a man supposed to survive on Popsicles? I’m warning you, I’ll kick every door down in this house if you keep—if you keep—Jesus H. Christ, what the hell’s in these things?”
“They’re pot brownies,” Max says. “How many did you eat?”
“I don’t know. Five, ten.”
“Five or ten?”
“I was hungry.”
“You don’t look so good, Otis. You’d better sit down.”
“I know how to handle a goddam pot brownie, Max. Now, Ruby”—holding out his fist—“I’m not kidding here. Are you listening to me? A man’s got a right,”—belch—“as head of this household to whatever you got cookin’, and that’s a fact. You hear me?”
“Oh, stick it in your ear,” she says. “And Max is right. You’d better sit before you fall down.”
“I don’t need to sit down. I know what you’re doin’? You’re tryin’ to starve,”—belch—“starve me out of my own house. I’m warning you, Ruby . . . I’m . . . Jesus H. Christ, maybe I’d better sit down.” Otis leans against the dining room table. “Lord Almighty.”
“He’s going over, Max,” Ruby says.
“I’ve got him,” Max says, catching Otis.
“I don’t feel so good.”
Otis’s eyes roll back. Ruby gets off Muller and comes around the table. She slaps Otis’s cheeks. “Otis? Can you hear me, honey? He really looks awful. Otis? Don’t go swallowing that big tongue of yours. You’d better get the car started, Max.”
“Where . . . where are you taking me?” Otis says.
“You’re going to the hospital,” Ruby says. “Help me get him to the car. Let’s go, Otis. On your feet.”
“What about my show?” Otis says. “I got a regular audience.”
“You got thirty listeners,” Ruby says. “They’ll wait. Now get out to the car.”
“Put on some Purify Brothers after Junior, Max.”
“Either I’m driving you to the hospital or putting on the Purify Brothers. Which do you want? I’m not doing both.”
“What the hell’s in those stupid brownies?”
“Are you allergic to walnuts?” Muller says.
“No, I ain’t allergic to dang walnuts.”
“Might be his sugar levels.”
“Are you tryin’ to kill me, Ruby?”
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive) Page 4
