In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [61]
“That reminds me, Ralph, of the time my mother made a cake for the PTA, and she squeezed the icing out of one a them squeezers, making roses and all that stuff on the PTA cake. And my Old Man snuck in and squeezed something else on it, only she didn’t know it until Miss Shields opened it up at school and they put it out in front of all the ladies at the Penny Supper.”
“I presume it was a well-known four-letter word.” Flick chuckled at the memory of what his father had written on the cake.
“Flick, speaking of food, do you remember the time you rushed into the kitchen in your house when you were hot as hell, when we were playing ball, and grabbed that bottle out of the refrigerator? And you thought it was cider and drank down a quart of vinegar before you knew what hit you?”
“Oh God! I heaved for about an hour!”
“As I recall, all over my new tennis shoes.”
Flick laughed. “And Schwartz’s knickers.”
“Did you ever find out why your mother put the vinegar bottle in the icebox?”
“I was too busy heaving to worry about that!”
All this talk of food had made me acutely aware that I had not had anything to eat all day, since that dinky little toy Airline breakfast of plastic eggs that they had served me on the plane.
“Hey, Flick, you got anything to eat around here? I am willing to pay.”
He turned away from the bar and with a casual wave of his hand indicated a couple of cardboard posters carrying cellophane bags of dried peanuts, pork rinds; the usual bar junk.
“That’s about it,” he said. “We have those electric sandwiches, though. You stick ’em in the infra-red machine and it cooks ’em.”
“No, old buddy. I think I’ll pass.”
I was looking forward to a plate of good old Indiana frogs’ legs which I intended to devour later on in the evening.
Two kids trooped in through the front door at this point, letting in a big blast of frigid air and a strong whiff of Refinery gas, an aroma so much part of the everyday life in Hohman that it is called “fresh air.” They were wearing heavy skeepskin coats and giant stocking caps. Their noses ran copiously. The larger of the two got right to the point.
“Can we have a glass of water, please?”
Impassively Flick stared down at the scruffy pair.
“I can’t serve kids here.”
I could see he was putting them on. The smaller of the two started to whimper weakly. Flick drew a large glass of water, handing it over to me. I passed it on to the elder of the pair.
“You kids can split it. And don’t tell your mother that you’ve been hanging around Flick’s Tavern, you hear me?”
They silently drank the water, doggedly, finally handing the glass back to me. Without a word they turned and headed for the door. Flick stopped them in their tracks:
“All right, you guys. Whatta you say?”
The smaller one squeaked:
“… thank you.…”
They were gone. Flick rinsed out the glass.
“Boy, all day long they’re in and out of here. I’m surprised they don’t ask me for a beer.”
Outside, in the unfriendly air, the two struggled out of sight, clinging to one another.
“Flick, that little one with the runny nose looked suspiciously like he belonged to your lodge.”
Flick snorted:
“That kid ain’t no Elk.”
“No, that isn’t what I mean. I know a Root Beer Barrel Man when I see one. Did you notice that suspicious bulge in his right cheek? I suspect that he was loaded.”
Flick sat down heavily on his high stool behind the bar. He rubbed his hands over his white shirt front. I swear his eyes clouded noticeably, although it could very well have been all the beer, as well as the vodka I had put down, not to mention the other stuff.
“You know, Ralph.…” he said at long last, “… I haven’t had a really good root beer barrel in a hell of a long time.”
“To be honest with you, Flick, I never fully understood just what you saw in root beer barrels.”
Flick did not answer, being off in a world by himself. I pushed on:
“As you recall, I, personally, was a Jawbreaker man. And I am proud to say that I have the silver