A Fistful of Fig Newtons (31 page)

We sat for a while in the blackness.

“Randy, go out and wee-wee now beside the car.”

My mother unerringly knew how to shatter a magic moment.

“I don’t have to wee-wee,” he whined.

Of course, I thought, one day the old man’s gonna kill that kid. And he deserves it.

“I thought you had to go.”

My mother hung in there.

“…  Nahhh.”

The old man’s head swiveled in the darkness, and he turned the Ray on the kid.

“Look, you, if you don’t go now and I hear one more word about wee-wee tonight, you’re gonna feel it, y’hear?”

Randy mumbled something from deep in his seat.

“Whaat was that? Are you giving me back talk?”

Silence. As Hemingway would have put it, the wee-wee question was well and truly settled. For tonight.

We sat for a few moments more, enjoying the fireworks, when the old man laid a true goodie on us, one that led, in the end, to our part in one of the great dramas of our time.

“Gang”—he paused dramatically—“what would you say if I drove you down and treated everybody to triple-dip ice cream cones at the Igloo?”

“H’ray, ’Ray!”

“Whoopee!”

“H’ray!”

He started the engine, backed the Pontiac out of its slot, and we
happily headed south toward the Igloo and destiny. The troops were assembling for the Great Ice Cream War.

Behind us, the sky glowed red over the immense steel mills. Not until I had left the Region as a semi-adult did I realize that not everywhere was the northern sky a flickering line of orange and crimson, a perpetual man-made sunset.

The old man flipped the switch on the Motorola, with its dial that matched the speedometer and the gas gauge of the Pontiac.

My mother began to hum along with the syrupy saxophones.

“What a stupid song. Jesus, I hate that song.”

“I kind of like it. I think it’s nice.”

She was a known Bing Crosby disciple, while the old man shared with Ring Lardner a total scorn of any form of popular music.

“What the hell’s a deep purple dream, for Chrissake?” he snorted, blowing smoke at the Motorola.

She sang on, the incorrigible sentimentalist who all her days believed completely in the verses on greeting cards.

“Anybody who has deep purple dreams oughta get his head examined.”

The old man was forever recommending that people “have their heads examined.” Perversely, he scorned all forms of psychoanalysis.

The song ended. On came the commercial.

Randy loudly joined in the chorus:

He was one of the first kids to know the lyrics of all commercials ever aired, the forerunner of today’s tot who loves Ronald McDonald far more than his own uncle.

“I wonder why all this traffic is out.” The old man squinted through the windshield. Ahead, a line of cars that were heading in the same direction as we were.

“I wonder if there’s a game or something at the high school. Hey, paper clip,” he hollered back at me, “is there a game or something?”

“Nah. School’s out. They don’t have games in the summer.”

“I wonder what the hell it is.”

“Maybe they’re going to the Dart Ball tournament at the Presbyterian church.”

My mother played something called “dart ball” with Mrs. Kissel and her gaggle of buddies.

“Five hundred cars heading for dart ball? No way.”

The old man stepped on the gas to keep up with the horde of Fords and Chevys and Hudsons hurrying through the night.

It was right about then that we all became aware of a kind of tension in the air: excitement, an electric tautness. We raced through the night, as other dark sedans joined the stream from side streets and driveways. I caught glimpses of staring eyes in their black interiors.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” The old man hunched over his wheel. Randy whimpered softly, sliding down deeper in his seat.

The temperature throughout the evening had been creeping up degree by degree, and now must have been well over a hundred, with humidity to match. There was no wind, just a thick, redolent blanket of spongy, overheated air. The fireflies had long
since turned off their lanterns, while only the mosquito horde stayed on duty.

A battered Buick thundered past. It appeared to be packed with silent people. We rocked in their wake.

“Look at that nut. Goin’ like stink! What the hell’s goin’ on?”

Ahead, the distant glow of the “business” section of town dimly lit up the sky.

“Hey, would you look at that? Look at all those people!”

I waved toward a clot of running figures thundering over the dark sidewalk to our left. They were heading in the same direction as the cars. They ran with a maniacal intensity; men, women, kids, old ladies. Occasionally one would stumble and fall, only to rise immediately and struggle forward.

“Does this look like a dart ball crowd to you?” the old man cracked, spinning the butt of his Lucky out into the night.

A white ambulance screamed by, its red crosses catching the light from the passing neon signs.

“Holy smokes!” The old man fed the gas to the Silver Streak. He was a dedicated Disaster fan, and the sight of a hurrying ambulance drew him like honey draws a grizzly bear.

“Be careful!” My mother clutched the dashboard. “I don’t like this!” Her aluminum hair curlers rattled nervously.

Silently, the old man whipped the Pontiac faster and faster. He was in his element. Ahead and behind us, a long line of vehicles roared in an unbroken, maniacal stream: pickup trucks, cars, a couple of old, broken-down school buses, anything that could move.

“Boy, must be somethin’ big!” the old man hissed over the roar of the Straight 8 engine. At the time, he did not realize just how big the “somethin’ ” was.

The lights of town were drawing nearer. We passed some cars that had broken down in the race. They were empty; their occupants had charged ahead on foot. Even my mother was now caught up in the excitement.

“I wonder what it could be?” She leaned forward over the
dashboard, her aluminum rheostats clicking against the glass as she stared ahead toward the action.

The heat, which seemed to have grown even more intense, rolled in through the Pontiac’s windows.

“Jesus, it’s hot. That old tutti-frutti is going to hit the spot.” The old man spun the wheel neatly, avoiding a stalled Nash, its hood open, great plumes of steam rising from its tortured, overheated engine.

About four blocks from the Igloo, it became obvious that whatever was going on up ahead, the traffic was snarled, blocking the streets. If we were going to get any ice cream, we’d have to park and hoof it.

“Watch out the back,” the old man barked as he backed briskly into a parking spot so tiny that only a truly expert wheel man could manage it.

“One pass. How d’ya like that? Let’s hear those cheers.” The old man loved showing off.

“ ’Ray, ’Ray!” Randy thumped the back of the seat happily with his Keds. “’Ray, ’Ray!”

We piled out of the car.

“Must be a hundred and ten,” the old man muttered as he locked the Pontiac. Now that we had stopped driving, the night closed in with its mosquitoes and heat.

“My, there certainly are a lot of people out tonight.”

My mother fanned her face listlessly with her sweaty hand. We trudged toward the Igloo, joining the surging throng, still unaware of the history that was in the making.

It was then that a tiny ray of light, a hint of what was up, occurred. A heavy-set lout in his late teens thundered by, his T-shirt drenched in sweat.

“Hey, what the hell’s going on?” the old man shouted.

Without turning his head, his eyes staring wildly, the lout yelled, “Ice cream war, ice cream war, ice cream war!”

He disappeared down the street.

“…  ice cream war!”

“What the hell?” The old man’s Lucky sent off angry sparks. “Ice cream war? What the hell?”

His jaw dropped at the sight of an elderly lady hurrying toward us against the flow of the surging crowd. She carried in her arms at least a dozen juicily dripping triple-dip ice cream cones.

“How much?” A thick man wearing a railroad engineer’s cap and blue suspenders shouted at her as she struggled bravely with her ice cream cones. One shot out of the pack and landed squashily at her feet.

“Oh my, oh my …” Her voice cracked.

“How MUCH?”

She didn’t answer, since she seemed to be crying. From somewhere behind us, a voice squawked:

“They’re running out, they’re running out!”

There are always the Rumor Mongers.

Two kids came toward us carrying between them what looked like a washtub full of ice cream cones.

“HOW MUCH?” Engineer Cap yelled.

“Twelve cents,” the lead kid sang out happily. “Twelve cents apiece. Triple dip!”

“Oh, my God,” the old man hissed, “it’s an ice cream war. Triple-dip cones twelve cents apiece. Let’s go!” He broke into a full run. My mother gamely struggled to keep up, clattering along on her high heels.

The crowd grew thicker as we neared the Igloo. At last we rounded the corner, and there before our eyes was the whole spectacular history-making panorama.

The main drag, brightly lit by high, overhead street lights, had the sharp unreality of a movie set. A long, unruly line snaked down one side of the street for a couple of blocks and ended at the Igloo. Several police cars, their red lights flashing, roamed up and down the street, their bullhorns blaring, vainly trying to keep the mob from going berserk.

“Wouldja look at that!” The old man gazed out over Armageddon.
Up ahead, the Igloo, all lights blazing, was a frenzy of activity. On its glass front, a great sign painted in whitewash read: 12¢ TRIPLE-DIP!

“There’s Mr. Leggett,” I said.

“Who?” My mother stood on her tiptoes.

“Mr. Leggett. He owns the Igloo.”

“I’ll be damned” was all the old man said.

The crowd roared as a line of ice cream cone bearers poured out of the Igloo, carrying their loot, the ice cream dripping down their elbows.

“It’s the Happy Cow! That’s what’s doin’ it!” The old man pointed ahead excitedly. Sure enough, there it was, every bit as brightly lit as the Igloo, and right across the street.

A couple of weeks back, a new ice cream joint had opened up, operated by a vast conglomerate, a corporate giant known as Gordon’s Milk, a company which owned everything from airlines to sardine packers.

The Happy Cow, known in the ads as “Tessie,” was a smiling bovine who wore flowered aprons and had a husband, a henpecked bull known as “Toby.” Cast in concrete, she beamed malevolently across the street toward the Igloo. Tessie and Toby were sent out by the corporate tarantula to put the poor little Igloo, and Mr. Leggett, out of business. Newspaper ads appeared, proclaiming that Tessie was now open for business, featuring a huge picture of her, one cloven hoof clutching an ice cream dipper, the other holding aloft a sign which read: TOBY SAYS OUR PRICE CAN’T BE BEAT.

The radio was inundated with commercials which began:

At first no one paid much attention, but then the word got out that triple-dip ice cream cones were going for twenty cents at the Happy Cow, while right across the street the Igloo was charging a quarter. Naturally, ice cream maniacs poured in to Tessie’s. For a couple of weeks the Igloo languished, empty and forlorn, while business roared just across the street.

“Holy Christ, Mr. Leggett is taking on Tessie, the Happy Cow!”

My old man was delighted, since another of his constant gripes was those nameless entities that he called “The Big Boys,” who he believed were behind every conceivable event from the electing of presidents to the humiliation of the White Sox. He was always saying things like: “You don’t think The Big Boys are gonna stand for the White Sox winning the pennant! Are you kiddin’?”

And now he was delighted to see that Mr. Leggett was challenging his hated enemies.

Mr. Leggett’s brave 12¢ gleamed out in the night, his defiant warning to the encroaching world of conglomerates. The word spread like Bangkok flu. People surged out of the darkness, from across state lines, to take advantage of this incredible bonanza.

Far ahead I could see Leggett’s toiling team of countermen dispensing triple-dippers as fast as they could. In front of the store, Mr. Leggett himself, his dignity unruffled, stared out across the teaming street at his hated rival.

For the first time since its doors had opened, the Happy Cow was totally devoid of a single customer. The Manager, a gray-faced, nameless minion of “The Big Boys,” known only as “The Manager,” paced nervously inside the brightly lit store. His corps of soda jerks, each wearing a set of plastic cow horns on his head, stood idle, their dippers dry and motionless.

The long line that snaked its way to the door of the Igloo was swelling moment by moment as ice cream bargain-hunters arrived by the thousands. Out there in the stifling heat, neighbor was phoning neighbor; striplings on Elgin bicycles were racing about the streets, crying the news. The Paul Revere tradition is not dead in America. The combination of boredom, heat, mosquitoes,
“the slump,” and now this incredible bonanza had ignited the populace. They were going crazy.

“Hey, what’s he doing?” I called out.

“Who? What? Who?” My old man was in the grip of the frenzy. His eyeballs rolled wildly.

“The Manager. The Manager of the Happy Cow. What’s he doing?”