The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid_ A Memoir - Bill Bryson [93]
The victims would stop in dumbfounded puzzlement on the spot where they had been drenched and look suspiciously in our direction—but we had the windows up and seemed completely oblivious of them. So they would turn to study the building behind them, and Willoughby would drill them in the back with another soaking blast. It was wonderful, the most fun I had ever had. I would be there still if it were up to me. Who would ever think to investigate a car windshield washer for purposes of amusement?
LIKE ME, WILLOUGHBY WAS a devotee of Bishop’s, but he was a more daring and imaginative diner than I could ever be. He liked to turn on the table light and send the waitresses off on strange quests.
“Could I have some Angostura bitters, please?” he would say with a look of choirboy sweetness. Or: “Please could I have some fresh ice cubes; these are rather misshapen.” Or: “Would you by any chance have a spare ladle and some tongs?” And the waitresses would go clumping off to see what they could find for him. There was something about his cheery face that inspired an eagerness to please.
On another occasion he pulled from his pocket, with a certain theatrical flourish, a neatly folded white handkerchief from which he produced a perfectly preserved large, black, flat, ugly, pincered stag beetle—what was known in Iowa as a June bug—and set it adrift on his tomato soup. It floated beautifully. One might almost have supposed it had been designed for the purpose.
Then he put the table light on. An approaching waitress, spying the beetle, shrieked and dropped an empty tray, and got the manager, who came hastening over. The manager was one of those people who are so permanently and comprehensively stressed that even their hair and clothes appear to be at their wit’s end. He looked as if he had just stepped from a wind tunnel. Seeing the floating insect, he immediately embarked on a nervous breakdown.
“Oh my goodness,” he said. “Oh my goodness, my goodness. I don’t know how this has happened. This has never happened before. Oh my goodness, I am so sorry.” He whisked the offending bowl off the table, holding it at arm’s length, as if it were actively infectious. To the waitress he said, “Mildred, get these young men whatever they want—whatever they want.” To us he said: “How about a couple of hot fudge sundaes? Would that help to fix matters for you?”
“Yes, please!” we replied.
He snapped his fingers and sent Mildred off to get us sundaes. “With plenty of nuts and extra cherries,” he called. “And don’t forget the whipped cream.” He turned to us more confidentially. “Now you won’t tell anyone about this, will you, boys?” he said.
We promised not to.
“What do your parents do?”
“My father’s a health inspector,” Willoughby said brightly.
“Oh my God,” said the manager, draining of blood, and rushed off to make sure our sundaes were the largest and most elaborate ever served at Bishop’s.
The following Saturday, Willoughby led me into Bishop’s again. This time he drank half his water, then pulled from his jacket a jar filled with pond water, which he used to top up his glass. When he held the glass up to the light there were about sixteen tadpoles swimming in it.
“Excuse me, should my water be like this?” he called to a passing waitress, who stared at the water with a transfixed look, then went off to get backup. Within half a minute we had half a dozen waitresses examining the water with consternation, but no shrieking. A moment later our friend the manager turned up.
He held the glass up. “Oh my goodness,” he said and went pale. “I am so sorry. I don’t know how this could have happened. Nothing like this has