by Marie Davis & Margaret J. Hults.
Nothing made appetites thunder like the Frisch’s Big Boy. His soft coo of laughter and effeminate mannerisms veiled the fact that he was fifteen feet tall and made of plastic. Tattoo flushed cheeks and neon pink lips gave him a contagious, puckish glow. Big Boy was the perfect pop icon—a garish restaurant mascot representing a juicy, double-decker hamburger.
Obsessively punctual, Big Boy waited at the neighborhood coffee shop for practically an hour, killing time, watching coffee addicts hustling in for their morning fix. Big Boy was a people-watching genius. It was easy to assume he was perfectly suited to a profession of standing for endless hours, through endless weather conditions for endless decades, and endlessly, inanimately, holding up a six-foot wide plastic hamburger outside the Frisch’s Restaurant. Yes, when he was on the job the mere sight of this mascot spurred appetites to scramble for parking places.
Ting a ling a ling . . . the soprano doorbell announced Lola’s arrival. Slurries of sunbeams escorted her into the coffee shop. Wearing a scarlet coat, a red carpet of leaves swooped in from behind and dropped at her feet. Paparazzi bags of coffee beans and hipster coffee mugs strained to get a glimpse. Bragging, breezes swirled, flaunting the lavender scent they had so cleverly stolen from her neck. Heads turned, newspapers bent, cell phones went speechless, and the whole case of baked goods crumbled at her sight. Tender Lola was oblivious. With sublime loveliness, she navigated between the retro furnishings and kitschy knick-knacks.
“Jeenkies, Lola, where ya been?” Big Boy squinted flirtatiously. Standing up to greet his friend, he nearly knocked over the vintage Formica table and matching Naugahyde chair. Flustered, he managed to catch the table and chair, but in the scuffle dropped his coffee mug. The mug shattered across the terrazzo floor. Impishly he guffawed, “Fiddlesticks! From blunder to blunder my life continues.”
“Oh Biggie!” Lola grabbed his pinky and plopped a kiss on it. “So sorry I’m late, I had to pick up Harold from the groomers. Can you believe it? I forgot all about him yesterday. So my darling had to spend a scary night away from home.”
“You brought Harold.” Big Boy’s voice dropped in resignation.
“Oh my ‘lil jealous one, of course I brought him.” Lola adored Harold. She wore him as a wandering body piercing, a typical body adornment, replete with six prickly legs and blood-sucking fangs. Most days Harold dined at his favorite luncheonette, just below his mistress’ jaw line, right above the carotid artery. At night, Lola took Harold off and put him in a miniature bed. No need to set an alarm clock, Lola would wake him in the morning just in time for a bite. Breakfast was always on her, it was a tick’s life.
Watching Lola let Harold mosey onto her neck made Big squeamish, “N-A-S-T-Y! That thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Oh buck up—the ‘itty, bitty t’ing hasn’t had any supper or breakfast.”
Lub-dub Lub-dub
Heartbeats are tick welcome mats.
Lub-dub Lub-dub
Harold laid his little hand on her pulsating artery.
Lub-dub Lub-dub
Sadistically smiling, the tick plunged minuscule fangs into exquisite Lola. She quivered.
Lub-dub, Lub-dub
Hot blood filled his mouth. Its earthy, iron smell mixed with Lola’s light lavender fragrance. Harold sunk his fangs in extra deep because he was pissed—having spent the night at the groomers with all those darn namby-pamby, whimpering dogs.
Big Boy harbored disdain for Harold. Harold outwardly hated Big Boy. Nemeses, tick and mascot, frequently battled for their beautiful goddess’ attention. Lola flashed a divine smile, “Don’t get gruff with me Biggie, Harold needs me too.”
“How do you manage it?”
“Manage what?”
“How do you manage . . . that . . . that . . . thing?”
Lola laughed, “Harold? Lovie, he’s no bother. But, I suppose it’s all the same, manage what you can and pretend the rest isn’t a problem!”
The stewing tick looked up, a slight trickle of blood dripped from his mouth. Big Boy shivered. Harold grinned.
Gasping, Big Boy clutched his chest, “Speaking of problems! Lola this may be it for me. Really, I may get the axe. Company bigwigs are ‘cutting the fat’ . . . that’s what they said. I suppose they don’t want a portly gentleman like me anymore.”
“Big, ‘cutting the fat’ usually means that they are going to cut the budget—I sincerely doubt they mean . . .”
“Horsefeathers! I’m just sure they mean me! This may be the end of my career!”
“Ohhh . . . come on, the end of your career? How many years have you been mascoting now?”
Big Boy dropped his wrist. Using a swooshie voice he replied, “Well, officially, I’ve been in hamburger public relations for nearly sixty years. Although, you are well aware that I rose to the top of my profession nearly overnight. The only ground beef mascot to set such a significant record.”
“I know pumpkin, you’re the tops. Now don’t get so worried, I’m positive they’re not going to fire you.”
Ticks have big ears, and are expert eavesdroppers. Overhearing the conversation, Harold had a belly laugh, Could it be? The axe for the ass! The end of ‘Big Baloney’ requires a nibble on a better spot. He wobbled a few inches up Lola’s neck, exposing a small reddening welt from his breakfast bite.
“Shucks Lola, I’m really scared. I mean, what’s a Boy to do when all he’s ever known are adoring fans, hot toasted buns, and sizzling meat patties smothered in special sauce. Dag-blam-it! People count on me. When I tell them a burger is first-rate, they believe it.” Big Boy waved his giant hands creating small tornadic winds.
Jubilant, the wind gusts ran their fingers through Lola’s lustrous hair, “Big, really, I believe everything will be fine.”
Harold continued nibbling the length of his enchantress’ neck, leaving a trail of tiny love bites.
Melancholy crept across the mascot’s face, something that even tattooed delight couldn’t conceal. “I dunno? These days, my life and I seldom agree on a thing.”
“I thought . . . I mean . . . are you still passionate about hamburgers?”
“Dog-gone-it, I’m so beat down I don’t know what I’m passionate about anymore. What happens if a person has a job for a thousand, bazillion years and then finally realizes that they hate it? What happens then?”
“Hmm? What do former mascots do?”
“Word’s out Frisch’s has a whole pen of us somewheres in upstate New York . . . in the back of a place that sells concrete statuary. You’re whistling Dixie if you think they broke the mold when they made me.” The most cheerful sort of gloom settled inside the mascot’s eyes, embarrassed he hung his head.
Harold’s legs bowed while he waddled through the delicate cleft in Lola’s chin. His blood-filled abdomen dragged along her skin. Nearly sated, he thought, Holding pen my brown butt! Melt ‘em all down into a sea of plastic! Make them into something useful like a trashcan or even better a vomit bucket.
Unable to look Lola in the eye, Big Boy whispered, “Are we still best friends? I hardly ever see ya anymore.”
“Of course! Don’t get upset. It’s just that I have a new romance. You know how I get with a new romance.”
“Romance?” Big Boy slowly raised his head.
Lola tried to cheer her friend, “She’s a pirate—a real pirate—with a hook, peg leg, and eye patch! So you see? I’ve been hoodwinked by a pirate!”
Harold muttered as he made his way over Lola’s full, ruby lips, “If I was a termite you can bet I’d make short work of that peg leg.”
“Romance, where do folks find the time?” Big Boy sniffled.
Lola’s heavenly eyes winced in sympathy, as she spoke. Harold clutched her top lip, bouncing along in rhythm with her words. “We’ve sure had some good times together huh?”
Big Boy looked down at the floor, unable to watch the gymnastic tricks Harold performed on Lola’s lips. “Different days Lola . . . different days . . . This rotten ol’ mascot is becoming irrelevant—even to you.”
“Sugar plum, don’t talk like that.”
“Lately, I’m so mixed-up. I have something I really don’t think I want anymore, and at the same time, I may lose something I really don’t want to lose. Does that make a lick of sense?
Harold took a nip of lip blood and then headed on the arduous journey up the perky nose.
With a tiny welt rising on her lip, Lola said, “Oh sweetheart, what can I do? It breaks my heart to see you so upset like this.”
The tick thought, For crying out loud, that damn plastic man reeks. All he does is out-gas. Sixty years old, and he still stinks like the day he was . . . molded. Nearly across the bridge of her nose, Harold detoured left. The tick made a beeline for her lightly powdered eyelid.
Big Boy locked eyes with Harold. The mascot thought, Scram you squirmy bloodsucker. I can’t stand the thought of your creepy head, and those four little, prickly legs…
It’s six legs you stupid bloodless idiot. Count them, six.
Oh, you . . . you . . . motorized freckle . . . somebody ought to bump you off.
“Biggie? Hey, Biggie . . . Big Boy! Hello? Where are you?” Lola snapped her fingers a few times.
The mascot recovered, trying not to stare at the row of swelling red dots lining Lola’s otherwise luminous neck and face. He stammered, “Umm . . . ehh . . . Lola, you said a pirate? You are dating a pirate with a REAL ship!”
“Yes, up on highway 22. It sits dry-docked on that gravel lot, next-door to Wal-Mart.”
Crossing the left eyelid, Lola’s eye shadow tickled Harold’s nose, “Achoo!” A spray of blood dotted her lid.
Biggie swallowed his rising bile.
Gorged with blood, Harold had doubled in size, the excess weight limited Lola’s eyelid to half-mast.
Trying desperately to avoid looking at Harold, Big Boy devilishly closed one eye pretending to have a patch, “Does she have a bad attitude and a snarl? Yarrrr Yarrrr Yarrr”
“HA! Does my girlfriend have a bad attitude? Sometimes, I suppose. But pirating, it’s an interesting career don’t you think?”
Envious, Big Boy snorted, “Well, my career tastes better!”
Syrupy, Lola replied, “Biggie? This isn’t another competition.”
“I know . . . nobody’s life depends on a double-decker hamburger—except mine that is.”
“Big. If you . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t you understand Lola? Not everyone can just put on an eye patch, a snarl, and set sail for Wal-Mart. Not everybody has a pirate in ‘em.”
Ruminating, the tick hunkered down just above Lola’s lovely turquoise pupil, “Boo hoo hoo! Why don’t you just throw yourself into the river? Hell, you’d probably float down into the Gulf. Bon voyage, to you . . . you heap of recycled milk jugs.
Lola patted her friend’s back, “Big Boy, honey, sometimes you have to see a better life, before it sees you.”
Harold went to stand up on his back legs, but got tangled in Lola’s eyelashes. Dangling by one foot in front of her eyeball, the tick drew his fists and screamed in a teensy voice, “See a better life? Quick, Lola. Get him over here and I’ll poke his eyes out!”
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