A Fistful of Fig Newtons (32 page)

Inside the brightly lit, gaily colored store, The Manager was on the telephone, which was behind the counter. We could see that he was talking fast and waving his free arm frantically. He hung up the phone, leaped to his feet, and rushed through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door of the store. Seconds later, he popped out, carrying a bucket and a large paint brush. Even in this heat, he was wearing his corporate gray flannel suit. He rushed out of the store, and with bold, slashing strokes of his paint brush, he took up Mr. Leggett’s gauntlet:

This drama was played out under the brilliant lights of the street, before a vast audience. The throng, like a single living animal, let out a great sigh. For a millisecond or two nothing happened; then, with a powerful, thundering rush, the blocks-long human centipede roared across the street in a giant, crashing wave, to line up before the Happy Cow. The looming concrete Tessie atop the store beamed evilly across the street at poor Mr. Leggett, who was suddenly left alone in his deserted shop.

We were borne across the street in the mob like corks on a tidal wave.

“My shoe, my shoe!” My mother clung weakly to the old man’s shoulder. “My shoe!”

“Ten cents. My God, ten cents for a triple-dip!” The old man was quick to shift allegiance to the side of the best deal. I guess it was at that moment that I learned one of the great lessons of my life: that everyone has his price. If the Mr. Leggetts of the world can’t meet it, too bad.

“My shoe! I lost my shoe.” She listed heavily to port, since she was now wearing only one high-heeled pump.

Ahead, we could see the troops in the Happy Cow scooping frantically, their yellow horns bobbing in excitement as the mob surged in for their ten-cent triple-dips. The Manager, smiling thinly, stood in front of the store, urging them on with short, barking commands.

The police had been reinforced. Motorcycle cops on their Harleys, lights winking, droned up and down the street, trying to keep order.

We had moved steadily closer to the doors of the Happy Cow. Satisfied customers were surging past us, bearing the greatest ice cream buy ever seen in Hohman. You could hear them licking and slurping; smell the butterscotch walnut, the chocolate ripple as they went by. You could almost taste it.

Elbows jammed into my ribs from behind. The crush was immense. My old man’s face was covered with sweat, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Smell that marshmallow chocolate chip!”

Across the street at the lonely Igloo, Mr. Leggett silently observed the sickening scene of his ex-customers and friends, who had deserted him like rats leaving the
Titanic
. From somewhere near the distant end of the line, the crowd began to sing “MOOOOOO, MOOOOOO …” in homage to Tessie’s radio commercials. There was a roar of applause.

I guess it was that, those damnable Moos, that got Mr. Leggett. Moving like a shot, he disappeared into the Igloo and reappeared almost in the same movement. He quickly scrubbed off his enormous 12 and with a dramatic flourish of his dripping whitewash brush, scrawled “7,” a vast, defiant 7 gleaming out into the night.

For a moment or two, the crowd was caught off guard, but not for long. Again, the great tidal wave of humanity crashed and thundered across the street. Screams and goatlike grunts of pleasure echoed from building to building. A policeman swinging
a rubber truncheon was swept under by the wave and disappeared beneath the avalanche. Someone kicked me heavily in the kidney, but I hardly felt a thing. My kid brother bobbed somewhere below me. I could hear him squeaking in terror, but it was every man for himself.

“Shut up and hang on!” I yelled. He clung to my belt.

Once again, the brave band of Igloo troops, their plastic helmets glowing, dished out a stream of magnificent triple-dip cones. Mr. Leggett operated the cash register as the slurping, licking, sucking, crazed ice cream eaters lurched past him.

From outside, we could see that Mr. Leggett’s dramatic move had ignited even those who already carried cones. They were forming up in the distant darkness for seconds, maybe thirds.

“By Christ, I never seen anything like it. Good old Leggett!” The old man, true to the tradition of his sort, had instantly forgotten his defection and was now back in the fold, cheering loudly.

The Happy Cow was a somber sight: empty, inert, showing a few signs of the battle. Broken cones littered the sidewalks, and ice cream dripped from its walls, but nary a customer. Again, The Manager spoke frantically into his phone. Later, there were those who said he was crying.

Someone in the mob yelled, “IG-loo, IG-loo, ’Ray, ’Ray, ’Ray!” The crowd raggedly took up the chant, amid applause and whistles. The lines were definitely being drawn.

Seven cents, triple-dip ice cream cones, I thought, seven CENTS! Who could believe it?

“Hey, Flick,” I yelled. I had spotted Flick going by, eating two cones at once; one a brilliant cascade of banana, raspberry royale, and maple walnut, the other a splendid mountain of rocky road, pistachio, and vanilla–a sight to bring tears to the eyes of any ice cream nut.

“Hey, Flick, how ’bout a little river water to wash it down?” I yelled.

He laughed, sending a spray of pistachio juice into the mob.

“River water? What do you mean, river water?” my mother asked. She was now carrying her remaining shoe.

“Nothin’,” I grunted, “I was just kiddin’.”

“My God!” The guy in the engineer’s cap and suspenders, who was still just ahead of us in the line, lurched sideways as he struggled to cross the street again. I looked over at the Happy Cow, and couldn’t believe my eyes.

3¢
3-DIP!

The Manager flicked his whitewash brush insolently toward the Igloo. Mr. Leggett, his mouth hanging open in astonishment, his eyes staring at the incredible “3¢,” seemed to shrink as the ungrateful herd charged out of his store. The immense, writhing human bullwhip thundered over Hohman Avenue, leaving in its wake shoes, a few broken crutches, smashed eyeglasses, the impedimentia of total war.

The mood had changed dramatically from a sort of carnival gaiety to a grim, lurching, slit-eyed rapacity. Even my mother had a hawklike look on her face that I had never seen before. My kid brother snarled angrily. The old man hitched up his pants and stood in a slight crouch, his eyes slatey gray.

Three-cent triple-dip ice cream cones, went through my mind, THREE CENTS! Where will it ever end?

None of us in that vast throng were aware that the final act of war was fast approaching.

Ice cream cones of all shapes, sizes, and colors were emerging from the Happy Cow, in an unbroken stream. The Manager coolly lounged under his death-defying “3.” He knew that there was no way that Mr. Leggett could top that one.

In the silent Igloo, Mr. Leggett appeared to be huddling with his troops. Several helmets were cracked. One soda jerk wore a rough bandage on his shoulder. I recognized Al Symenski, a senior from my home room.

We were now not more than ten or fifteen feet from our ice cream cones. We were so close to the battlefield that we could
hear the clatter and bang, the squish squish of the corporation ice cream scoops doing their deadly work.

“Mooooo, Mooooo, Moooo,” echoed up and down the main street as the crowd applauded wildly the concept of a three-cent triple-dip cone.

We all knew, instinctively, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

“He’s finished,” the old man laughed as he watched Mr. Leggett addressing his troops. We, all of us, were about to witness the single greatest act of human courage that most of us would ever see.

High above us, the towering concrete Tessie had taken on an air of triumph. Her eyes, lit by blue winking light bulbs, gloated over the fallen Igloo. Mr. Leggett, his shoulders square, his face without expression, strode through his glass doors. He was carrying his paint brush. Quickly swabbing away the “7,” he fired his last shot.

F-R-

“Oh no!” the old man staggered against the bird in the engineer’s cap. They clung together. The crowd had fallen totally, eerily silent. It was like watching an execution by hanging.

F-R-E-

Somewhere a siren wailed as one of the wounded was carried off the battlefield. Before he could finish the last letter “E,” the multitude had grasped Mr. Leggett’s atom bomb. Mindless as an express train, dangerous as a maddened bull, the colossal, primitive animals who had once been human beings, with families, mortgages, used cars, and bad eyes, bellowed and stampeded in for the kill.

Free! Triple-dip ice cream cones! All you want! The floodgates were opened. I saw my friend Al slam backward against the door of a freezer, his dipper loaded with rum raisin. Mr. Leggett stood quietly, his cash register now useless. After all, how can you ring up a free triple-dip cone?

We were inside the Igloo now, amid the piglike grunts of the
wallowing mob, the floors slippery with a rich patina of Dutch chocolate, cherry ripple, and strawberry sherbet. Mr. Leggett’s troops bravely dipped like automatons. No longer did flavors matter, or even cones. Balls of ice cream were dipped into clutching hands. It was a sickening scene of total debauch.

Across the street, The Manager hung up the phone, his face grim; ashen. He appeared to have aged a decade or more. He took a long, defeated stare at the roistering Igloo.

“FREE! FREE! FREE!” the mob screamed in the stifling heat.

It was all over in moments. The lights went out in the Happy Cow; the doors were silently shuttered. The blue bulbs in Tessie’s eyes flickered weakly to darkness.

For the rest of the night, Mr. Leggett and his brave band ladled out triple-dip cones until there was no more. The great primitive beast, now once again uncles and cousins, kids and old aunties, faded into the darkness. The Great Ice Cream War was over, but it would be remembered forever in the town, a story passed from generation to generation.

The Happy Cow closed its doors two days later, never to reappear in the neighborhood. Mr. Leggett, a valiant warrior, never mentioned his stirring victory. In the tradition of all true heroes, he was a modest, silent man.

Al loomed over me, an immense triple-dip masterpiece dripping in his paw.

“That was some night. My shoulder still aches,” Al chuckled as I took my first delicious lick of Igloo ice cream. It was as good as ever.

“Yep,” Al went on, “I used one of the old scoops from them days on that cone. Look at the size of that ball! The scoops we use today are like Ping-Pong balls, but for an old veteran of the Great War, who was really there, nothin’s too good.”

Like two ancient survivors of Bull Run, we were both lost for a moment in silent reverie.

“Yep, Mr. Leggett’s been gone for years,” Al said, “retired to St. Pete, plays shuffleboard every day. They tell me he ain’t been beaten in sixteen years.”

“That sounds like him.” I took a lick of the rich Dutch chocolate. “Al, did he ever have a first name? He was always ‘Mr. Leggett’.”

“Yep.” Al swabbed at the counter with his rag. “Ellsworth. Ellsworth Leggett. Worked for him till the day he retired, and fifteen minutes before he left the place for the last time he said, ‘Al, you can call me Ellsworth.’ ”

“Ellsworth Leggett. Ellsworth.” I rolled the name over my tongue. “Got a good classical ring to it. A name that means business.”

Al laughed and raised aloft his gleaming dipper. “Here’s to Ellsworth Leggett, the man who beat Tessie, the Happy Cow, at her own game.”

“I’ll buy that.” I licked a bit of pineapple off my Omega.

Some customers came in, laughing and hooting. Al moved to serve them. I rose to leave. It was getting late.

“How much for the triple-dipper, Al?” I called out. Al, smiling under his gleaming Igloo helmet, said: “Are you kiddin’? The same price you paid for the last one I made for you.”

I went through the doors and back to my rented tin can. It was growing dark. The first mosquitoes had shown up, but the ice cream tasted fine.

The tunnel made its final jog. I knew that only a few hundred yards of struggling machinery stood between me and the open air, the sky, the sun
.