Burger Wuss (8 page)

I felt bad for tricking him. That’s the way it had to be. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Jitters.”

“Don’t freak.”

“I’m not freaking. We’re going to kick butt.”

“Yeah,” he said.

The Burger Queen was on a road with lots of gas stations. There were other chains, like Bruegger’s and Dunkin’ Donuts. All of them had bright lights against the night. There were figures walking through their
parking lots. There were streaks of light on dark cars. Auto dealerships were empty.

We pulled into the Burger Queen parking lot. I parked the car near the entrance to the restaurant. I turned off the lights.

“Okay,” I said. “You ready?”

“Ready,” he said. He put up his sweatshirt hood. “Leave the keys for a quick getaway?”

I looked around. There were cars in the parking lot. No people. We’d be back in a minute. “Okay,” I said. I moved my hand away from the ignition. The keys dangled.

I got out of the car. I stood for a minute, facing the restaurant. Shunt sat without moving. He wasn’t looking at me. A blank stare was the only thing inside the hood.

I crossed the tarmac. I walked three steps along the sidewalk. I opened the door. I was faced by the promotional condiment troll. I walked right past it. I was in.

Earlier I had checked the big erasable calendar in the Burger Queen. They kept it on the wall near the registers. I’d written down when there were birthday parties. Today, I’d called to make sure the party was still on.

Sure enough, they were playing in a separate, glassed-in space. About fifteen little six-year-olds. They were covered in grease and ketchup. There was wrapping paper all over the floor. There were little tennis shoe prints stamped everywhere on the paper. We wanted lots of kids there. Lots of kids would be the perfect diversion.

It was now or never. Do or die. And so the operation began.

I jumped into the glassed-in booth. I squeaked, “Greetings and salu-walu-tations, kiddikins! I’m Hippy-skippy, the wackster clown! The clown around town!”

They all stopped and stared at me.

A mother said, “We didn’t order a clown.”

I gave her a withering glance. “Well, you got one,” I said.

There was a difficult moment.

Then I said, “Want to see me bend my bendable body into zaniful, insaniful shapes?”

The kids stared at me. They had round eyes, round mouths. I picked up my foot. I wobbled it back and forth. I grinned. I squirted some water from my flower. I put my leg behind my head. They put down their burgers and crayons. They came forward. They surrounded me.

I hopped on one leg. It was like they were hypnotized. I turned in circles. My big shoe was flopping next to my ear.

I sang in a high-pitched voice, “Do your ears hang low? Do they wiggle to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow?”

I drew my sword. It wasn’t a real sword. I laced it through my arm and leg, behind my neck. I sat down. I reached down and grabbed my other foot. I brought it backward. Sometimes this trick caused pain. I kicked myself in the forehead with my heel. I crossed my eyes, stuck out my tongue, and blinked like dazed. They didn’t laugh. They watched me carefully. They didn’t trust me.

“Don’t try this at home!” I squeaked.

I brought the second leg over the top of my head. It knocked the wig. I stopped quickly. My leg was hurting. I fixed the wig. I brought the leg the rest of the way back. I hooked it next to the other one, behind my neck. I was a strange little package now.

“Wow,” said a little girl.

“Cool,” said a little boy.

“That’s completely repulsive,” said a woman.

A little boy came up to me. He had his finger pointing out. He took his finger, and he stuck it into my side.

“Ow!” I said.

They all watched me for a second. The little boy spoke in a voice as deep as a hoarse man’s. He growled, “Poke the clown.”

I guess this seemed reasonable to them. They all clustered around me. They started to poke me.

“Ow! Ow! Hey! Stop! No, this is —!”

“Poke the clown! Poke the goddamn clown!” the little boy croaked.

“Ow! Would you stop! Hippy-trippy doesn’t like pokey-wokey!”

“I’m the birthday boy! I say poke the clown!”

“Poke it!” they laughed. “Poke the clown!”

They were all over me. They were jabbing me with their fists. The little girls were cackling. The boys were kicking.

“Okay! Okay! Stop! Hey! Ow!” I grabbed at my foot. I unlocked it from behind my neck. I tried to get up, but my other leg was still behind my head. The kids were pulverizing me. One kicked me in the face. My nose
stung. One sat on my neck and leg. “You’re going to bruise Hippy-hoppy! You’re — would you lay off? You are insane! You are demon possessed! Is there a priest? I need a priest!”

The mothers stood to the side and discussed their children’s Montessori schools.

I was completely paralyzed. My nose was starting to bleed. One of my breasts was on my shoulder; the other was on my hip.

A manager was heading my way. Half a minute and it would be too late.

I yanked at the leg behind my head. My fingers scraped over the big shoe. They locked around the tip of it. I could feel the grit on the sole. I pulled. The leg came free.

I rolled into a crouch. I stood, and moved backward. The brats were mobbing me. I could see Shunt in position, just outside the door,
hanging back in the shadows.

The manager reached my side. I nodded once to Shunt and turned away from him.

“What’s going on here?” said the manager.

“Okay, kids!” I screamed over the noise. “Time for a tour of the kitchen! Big prizes! Prizes! You get stuff! First one back to the flame broiler gets a free Billy Goats Gruff playset! Run!”

They were off. It was chaos. Little ugly sticky bodies were everywhere. People were yelling about danger and forbidden and grease fires. I was clapping and waving my arms. Shunt was in through the door, grabbing the promotional condiment troll, lifting it, shoving it toward the door.

The manager was running after the kids, grabbing their collars. The mothers were looking up.

I scampered to the door. Held it open for Shunt and troll. Took half of the troll. We were out of there. By the car. Back door open. Troll shoved in. People coming out of the restaurant. I pulled the handle for the front door.

“I locked it!” I said. “Damn, I locked it!”

Opened the back door. Unlocked the front door. Shunt sliding into his seat. An employee and a mother screaming threats. The mother running toward us.

I slammed on the gas. We lurched forward. The troll hit the seats. We screeched backward. Roared out of the parking lot. A truck honked, slammed on its brakes. We were off.

Cruising down the road. I pulled off the wig. With one hand, popped the snaps on the shirt. Pulled off the suspenders. Shunt handed me some paper towels. I handed him my breasts. I wiped at my face. I could feel the makeup smearing. He leaned over the back seat and covered the troll with a gray blanket. I gouged at my cheeks. My nose was still bleeding. The paint came off in cakes.

I raised my butt off the seat. I slid the big pants down. I had normal clothes underneath. I turned off the main road. We’d lose any pursuit.

We were safe. Shunt gave me the high-five. He peeled one of my breasts and gave me a few slices. They were tangy. We were laughing through the pulp.

We drove into the night.

Mission accomplished.

The condiment troll was four and a half feet in height. The surface was high-gloss. The skin was a watery green. The troll had knobs on his flesh, like acne or cysts. They were closer to brown. The troll’s maw was gaping. Inside were straws. Most of the straws had fallen out of the maw in the getaway.

The troll had pointed ears. Pointed teeth, too. A pointed leather cap. In one arm, the condiment troll held a barrel of mustard packets. In the other arm, he held ketchup. The condiment troll was frozen that way. He had been made to offer spreads.

The expression on his face was hard to read. His smile was wide. Maybe it was supposed to make little kids feel better. Maybe it was wider than was natural. Maybe it was even a little hysterical. It was difficult to tell; he was a troll. His eyes were googly. Maybe that meant he was fun-loving. Maybe that meant madness. Maybe that meant he was hungry.

The condiment troll had been made to promote the new movie adaptation of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” The story was basically the same as the fairy tale, with the three goats and the troll, except they added a goat-herd girl with a pencil waist and a big chest. In the mall, they were always playing the soundtrack. You could pass girls who had the album singing along near the potted trees. “I May Be Gruff, but It’s Tough Love.” “Can I Find Hope (Under a Bridge)?” When they sang along, they sounded both very old and very young at once. For the low notes, they dipped their heads and closed their eyes.

The troll was not singing. The paint on his knee had
been scraped. He was bowlegged. On the back of his left leg, in small raised letters, it said he was made in the Philippines.

His feet were bare. The condiment troll stood in an empty room. The floor was covered in linoleum. The linoleum was starting to peel and roll. The wood showing underneath was caked with dirt. Glass was on the floor in shards. Bees came in and went out. The day outside was bright.

The room that held the condiment troll was at the end of a long hallway. The hallway was dark. The floor was wood. It was uneven. Everything smelled like vinegar. Several places, the walls had been kicked in, and the plaster was crumbling. Maybe some kids had done it shouting, feeling drunk and mean. Maybe the last owner of the house had done it, as his wife ran screaming for the car.

Down the steps, there were rooms with no doors. One had some beer cans on the floor. The aluminum was fading. When it rained, the rain came in and tapped the cans.

Pine needles stuck to the floor of another room. Just against one wall. The glass was gone from the windows. Two of the rooms were black from flames. Fire had come up from the basement and covered the walls. People said something was buried in the basement. The floor was burned through. In the wind, these rooms creaked. They sounded like a ship at sea.

The front door was open. The woods were bright with sun. Squirrels ran by the stoop. Orange needles covered the path.

Three dark tracks led into the woods. Someone had kicked up the needles. There was dark loam underneath. These were the tracks where Shunt and I had dragged the troll. We had dragged him from the car at midnight.

The condiment troll stood in a room miles from anywhere. He stood upstairs, alone. Here he would wait until he was needed. He was a long way from anything. Sometimes he stood alone in light. Sometimes he stood alone in shadows.

By day, the bees sniffed his ketchup.

By night, the wind prowled through the empty house and rustled the straws in his smile.

“
Y
ou don’t like it?” I asked.

“Wish it could be more political.”

“You know it can’t be political.”

“Don’t tell me what I know, Comrade Wiener. I’m just saying.”

Shunt was in his street clothes. I was in my uniform. He leaned against the other side of the counter, reading my letter.

“It’s very threatening,” I said.

“I’m not complaining. Just, it’s too bad we can’t mention the proletariat.”

“We stole a troll. Where does the proletariat come in?”

“It’s all about the proletariat.”

“It’s about a condiment dispenser. Let me look at the letter again.”

I read it through. For our purposes, it was perfect. It didn’t reveal our identities. It said nothing about our motives. But it was threatening. It said: