Read Online A Fistful of Fig Newtons by Jean Shepherd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean Shepherd
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move many times before. My cousin Buddy was famous for his spectacularly creative tantrums. One of his specialties was the very same catatonic beauty that the fat Chipmunk was now performing surpassingly well. If anything, he was even better than Buddy at his peak. The bus slowed to a crawl as Captain Crabtree lurched down the aisle.
“GET UP!” he barked, his voice crisp and cutting. The fat Chipmunk just lay there, quivering. One of his feet flicked upward, neatly disengaging his shoe, which bounced off the captain’s chest. It was a nice touch. The entire busload of kids, all of whom from time to time had themselves practiced tantrum throwing, recognized a tour-de-force performance.
“I SAID GET UP!” The fat Chipmunk quivered again, this time producing a venomous hissing sound–an interesting detail.
“What was that?” The captain’s voice was menacing. “What did you say?”
The hissing continued, now accompanied by a curious sideways writhing of the body that produced a rhythmic thumping as his plump buttocks drubbed on the bus floor.
“O.K.,” Captain Crabtree barked. Reaching down with a quick, swooping motion, he hauled the fat Chipmunk to his feet. Instantly, Fatso’s legs turned to rubber in counterattack.
“I’ve had about enough out of you,” the captain muttered, his glasses sliding down his nose from the exertion of holding the fat Chipmunk erect.
“This guy’s great!” Flick whispered, more to himself than to any of us. It was obvious we were witnessing a confrontation that could go either way.
“I’ll give you one more chance to sit down and behave.”
Captain Crabtree steered the blubbery, quivering mass toward his seat. The fat Chipmunk seemed to swell up like a toad, his face turning beet-red. Just as the captain was about to lower him to his seat, he let fly his ultimate crusher, a master stroke of the tantrum thrower’s art.
“BRRRAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHH, BRAAAAAHHHHKKKKK!”
For a moment, none of us could comprehend what was happening. It was done so quickly, so cleanly, so deliberately. The captain staggered back, bellowing incoherently. A pungent aroma filled the rear of the bus. The captain reeled, dripping from his necktie down to his brass belt buckle. The fat Chipmunk seemed to have shrunk two sizes as he squatted on his seat, exuding malevolent satisfaction at a job well done.
“STOP THE BUS!” the captain hollered brokenly. “NOW!”
His crisp suntans were completely soaked by a deluge of vomit. The bus careened to a halt. The captain rushed up the aisle and out the front door. He disappeared into the weeds at the side of the road.
Immediately, the crowd broke into an uproar, with a few scattered bursts of applause coming from the Beavers up front. Thefat Chipmunk had won instant respect. Schwartz, his voice rising in excitement, asked, “Hey, kid, how’d ya do that?” There was no reply.
Flick, who was the naturalist among us, since he raised rabbits and hamsters, put the event in perspective. “He’s like a human skunk. When he’s trapped, he just lets ’em have it.”
The fat Chipmunk had opened his right eye and fixed Flick with a piercing glare. From that instant, he was known as Skunk. It was not in any sense a term of derision. He had clearly demonstrated that he could handle himself exceedingly well and was, in fact, lethal.
The captain, drenched to the skin from the driving rain, with bits of residual vomit staining his tie, but once again in charge, reentered the bus.
“All right. Let’s move out,” he ordered in a voice still shaking with rage. “One more incident and the colonel will get a full report.”
Comparative peace settled over the mob, which was now somehow changed as we rolled on through the rain. There was a brief stop at a gas station with an adjoining diner. We lined up outside the john.
“Hey, take a look at Skunk,” Flick said to me. Skunk was on a stool in the diner, taking on more ammunition in case there was
“GET UP!” he barked, his voice crisp and cutting. The fat Chipmunk just lay there, quivering. One of his feet flicked upward, neatly disengaging his shoe, which bounced off the captain’s chest. It was a nice touch. The entire busload of kids, all of whom from time to time had themselves practiced tantrum throwing, recognized a tour-de-force performance.
“I SAID GET UP!” The fat Chipmunk quivered again, this time producing a venomous hissing sound–an interesting detail.
“What was that?” The captain’s voice was menacing. “What did you say?”
The hissing continued, now accompanied by a curious sideways writhing of the body that produced a rhythmic thumping as his plump buttocks drubbed on the bus floor.
“O.K.,” Captain Crabtree barked. Reaching down with a quick, swooping motion, he hauled the fat Chipmunk to his feet. Instantly, Fatso’s legs turned to rubber in counterattack.
“I’ve had about enough out of you,” the captain muttered, his glasses sliding down his nose from the exertion of holding the fat Chipmunk erect.
“This guy’s great!” Flick whispered, more to himself than to any of us. It was obvious we were witnessing a confrontation that could go either way.
“I’ll give you one more chance to sit down and behave.”
Captain Crabtree steered the blubbery, quivering mass toward his seat. The fat Chipmunk seemed to swell up like a toad, his face turning beet-red. Just as the captain was about to lower him to his seat, he let fly his ultimate crusher, a master stroke of the tantrum thrower’s art.
“BRRRAAAUUUUGGGGGHHHHH, BRAAAAAHHHHKKKKK!”
For a moment, none of us could comprehend what was happening. It was done so quickly, so cleanly, so deliberately. The captain staggered back, bellowing incoherently. A pungent aroma filled the rear of the bus. The captain reeled, dripping from his necktie down to his brass belt buckle. The fat Chipmunk seemed to have shrunk two sizes as he squatted on his seat, exuding malevolent satisfaction at a job well done.
“STOP THE BUS!” the captain hollered brokenly. “NOW!”
His crisp suntans were completely soaked by a deluge of vomit. The bus careened to a halt. The captain rushed up the aisle and out the front door. He disappeared into the weeds at the side of the road.
Immediately, the crowd broke into an uproar, with a few scattered bursts of applause coming from the Beavers up front. Thefat Chipmunk had won instant respect. Schwartz, his voice rising in excitement, asked, “Hey, kid, how’d ya do that?” There was no reply.
Flick, who was the naturalist among us, since he raised rabbits and hamsters, put the event in perspective. “He’s like a human skunk. When he’s trapped, he just lets ’em have it.”
The fat Chipmunk had opened his right eye and fixed Flick with a piercing glare. From that instant, he was known as Skunk. It was not in any sense a term of derision. He had clearly demonstrated that he could handle himself exceedingly well and was, in fact, lethal.
The captain, drenched to the skin from the driving rain, with bits of residual vomit staining his tie, but once again in charge, reentered the bus.
“All right. Let’s move out,” he ordered in a voice still shaking with rage. “One more incident and the colonel will get a full report.”
Comparative peace settled over the mob, which was now somehow changed as we rolled on through the rain. There was a brief stop at a gas station with an adjoining diner. We lined up outside the john.
“Hey, take a look at Skunk,” Flick said to me. Skunk was on a stool in the diner, taking on more ammunition in case there was
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