Read Online Country of Cold by Kevin Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kevin Patterson
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me—me who had been subsisting on half rations for a week—a barrel of Kentucky Fried Chicken, two whole chickens, a tray of those rolls that turn into paste on the roof of your mouth, a carton of the grey gravy, a mound of the sweet-as-molasses coleslaw. I remember all that.
Waking up on the front lawn. Sun. Hot. Thin film of perspiration stinging everywhere. Musty mouth. Throbbing red-hued world.
Mid-afternoon. Oh. My. God. The contest started. Ten minutes ago. The lawn lurching as I find my feet, my shoes, what are these
eggshells
doing here? Jesus God. Keys in truck. That was a mistake, starts. My God, fifteen minutes late already.
Pulling to a stop in front of the Dairy Queen. Big crowd all watching Floyd, the Dunsmuir Florists entry. Floyd, who was three hundred pounds easy and from way north of town but who had quit school in grade ten and so had almost been forgotten about, so rarely did we see him in town anymore, Floyd was starting to—rumble. The crowd grimaced and groaned and stood back a little. He had eaten seven banana splits. The eighth was in front of him, melting into a row of concentric circles of ice cream and syrup and sprinkly bits. And bananas and maraschino cherries.
Terry leaning into my face and barking, “You turkey!” Me blinking. Propelled through the crowd. Out of which appears a picnic table with a placard with my name on it. Melting banana splits lined up in rows. And then I’m sitting at the picnic table and everybody is still watching Floyd and nobody even realizes I’m a contestant, just Terry staring at me, looking betrayed, and then I start eating. I remember looking around as my head bent and my arm began scooping—push off the cherry, scoop, scoop, push off the cherry, scoop, scoop—and the crowd chatting and watching Floyd out of the corner of their eyes, warily, and I finishedone and started on another without even a breath. This was just muscle memory now. So many darkened nights inside, Terry smoking his cigar, me slurping—push off the cherry, slurp, slurp, push off the cherry, slurp, slurp—there wasn’t even any consideration involved in it anymore, just my mouth opening and closing, swallowing. And then I was on my third and the crowd began turning to watch me and I was just a blur now, one windmilling arm and a stream of ice cream arching into my mouth and two halves of a banana besides. And by the fourth they were starting to clap with each spoonful—push off the cherry, scoop, clap, scoop, clap, push off the cherry—I’d never eaten like this in training and I was only accelerating. And by the fifth they were chanting
Bob, Bob
, with each scoop. And when I reached for the sixth the dads were holding their children above the heads of the crowd to see, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Daphne Hainscotter, standing in the front row, wearing her pink sundress, and oh my goodness, she was smiling wide right at me and my arm just whirled faster and my mouth sputtered and engulfed all the faster and I saw her and she was looking right at me. Daphne Hainscotter, shy and dignified, with
such
posture. Daphne, who in twelve years of attending school with me might have said ten words to me, news it was to me she even recognized my existence, and there she was, smiling right at me. Daphne.
And now the crowd was going crazy and Floyd knew he had to do something and kept picking up his spoon and sort of waving it but he wasn’t going nowhere. And I whirled through the seventh and there it was, the eighth, all I had was one more, and Terry was bellowing, “Right on, Bob!” and all the DQ staff were there and now they were waving picket signs Terry had made them make up, saying EAT BOB, EAT and BITE THAT BANANA , and I held it up before the crowd triumphantly and set it down—the crowd loved that little bit of theatrics—and I picked up my spoon and looked right at Daphne, who yelled out,
“Go Bob!”
at the top of her shy and dignified lungs, and I looked right at
Waking up on the front lawn. Sun. Hot. Thin film of perspiration stinging everywhere. Musty mouth. Throbbing red-hued world.
Mid-afternoon. Oh. My. God. The contest started. Ten minutes ago. The lawn lurching as I find my feet, my shoes, what are these
eggshells
doing here? Jesus God. Keys in truck. That was a mistake, starts. My God, fifteen minutes late already.
Pulling to a stop in front of the Dairy Queen. Big crowd all watching Floyd, the Dunsmuir Florists entry. Floyd, who was three hundred pounds easy and from way north of town but who had quit school in grade ten and so had almost been forgotten about, so rarely did we see him in town anymore, Floyd was starting to—rumble. The crowd grimaced and groaned and stood back a little. He had eaten seven banana splits. The eighth was in front of him, melting into a row of concentric circles of ice cream and syrup and sprinkly bits. And bananas and maraschino cherries.
Terry leaning into my face and barking, “You turkey!” Me blinking. Propelled through the crowd. Out of which appears a picnic table with a placard with my name on it. Melting banana splits lined up in rows. And then I’m sitting at the picnic table and everybody is still watching Floyd and nobody even realizes I’m a contestant, just Terry staring at me, looking betrayed, and then I start eating. I remember looking around as my head bent and my arm began scooping—push off the cherry, scoop, scoop, push off the cherry, scoop, scoop—and the crowd chatting and watching Floyd out of the corner of their eyes, warily, and I finishedone and started on another without even a breath. This was just muscle memory now. So many darkened nights inside, Terry smoking his cigar, me slurping—push off the cherry, slurp, slurp, push off the cherry, slurp, slurp—there wasn’t even any consideration involved in it anymore, just my mouth opening and closing, swallowing. And then I was on my third and the crowd began turning to watch me and I was just a blur now, one windmilling arm and a stream of ice cream arching into my mouth and two halves of a banana besides. And by the fourth they were starting to clap with each spoonful—push off the cherry, scoop, clap, scoop, clap, push off the cherry—I’d never eaten like this in training and I was only accelerating. And by the fifth they were chanting
Bob, Bob
, with each scoop. And when I reached for the sixth the dads were holding their children above the heads of the crowd to see, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Daphne Hainscotter, standing in the front row, wearing her pink sundress, and oh my goodness, she was smiling wide right at me and my arm just whirled faster and my mouth sputtered and engulfed all the faster and I saw her and she was looking right at me. Daphne Hainscotter, shy and dignified, with
such
posture. Daphne, who in twelve years of attending school with me might have said ten words to me, news it was to me she even recognized my existence, and there she was, smiling right at me. Daphne.
And now the crowd was going crazy and Floyd knew he had to do something and kept picking up his spoon and sort of waving it but he wasn’t going nowhere. And I whirled through the seventh and there it was, the eighth, all I had was one more, and Terry was bellowing, “Right on, Bob!” and all the DQ staff were there and now they were waving picket signs Terry had made them make up, saying EAT BOB, EAT and BITE THAT BANANA , and I held it up before the crowd triumphantly and set it down—the crowd loved that little bit of theatrics—and I picked up my spoon and looked right at Daphne, who yelled out,
“Go Bob!”
at the top of her shy and dignified lungs, and I looked right at
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