care to do so once I figured how grumpy Uncle Frank would be when he found out
about Frankie. I didn't want to give him additional cause to chew this cowgirl's be-hind.
"Frankie?" I called out, moving to pull the door open. "Uncle Frank?"
The moment I stepped over the threshold, I caught a sour smell ten times worse than the chronic projectile spit-up of the
Parker twins I used to babysit in my teens. The unmistakable done-gone-bad odor nearly knocked me over. I put a hand over
my nose. Whatever it was, something had exceeded its expiration date—by a good month, easy. I took a step inside. Make that
two months.
I took another step, felt my sandaled foot slide out from under me and grabbed wildly to gain my balance, putting a hand on
the freezer to right myself. I checked out the floor to see what I'd slipped on, and a nervous little pulse started to throb
in my neck. My gaze followed a gooey, sticky pattern of light browns, off-whites, and pinks that turned the floor into a modern
art project. You know—where the artist tells you what he painted and you have to take his word for it? I reached out and patted
the front of the freezer with the palm of one hand, then slid both hands along the sides of the upright. The pulsing in my
neck had turned to a full-fledged tom-tom beat. I took another look at the floor.
"Holy shite, what now?" I said, grabbing hold of the freezer door handle and opening it just a tig-tag and with the same level
of enthusiasm with which I opened my mouth at the dentist. Or my legs for a Pap smear.
The smell had told the true story. I took a deep breath (through the mouth—not the nose) and threw open the freezer door.
When I saw all the sad little sunken tubs of ice cream, all the depressed little plastic novelty bags and lonely little Popsicle
sticks, I wanted to cry. All of Uncle Frank's Dairee delights were downright deflated!
I examined the temperature gauge inside the freezer. It was set on the right temperature. I shook my head. Talk about your
bad luck: to have a freezer just stop running like this. I prepared to close the door again to save my nostrils from further
abuse when I noticed the thick, gray cord that ran from the freezer to the plug-in, a cord that normally was never in sight.
I slid over the sticky surface to the electric outlet at eye level and gasped. The freezer wasn't even plugged in! I stood
there for a moment, trying to figure out how the cord could have become unplugged and knowing for certain it had not been
that way when I left the previous night. I did an Ice Ca-pades move over to the soft-serve dispenser, my eyes narrowing when
I saw that it, too, had been tampered with. I pulled on the twist ice cream lever and rancid, baby-pookie-brown ice cream
soup dribbled out. I quickly turned the lever to the off position and stared at the melting mess around me, one thought first
and foremost in my head:
At least I won't be blamed for this one.
I quickly sobered when I realized who would be taking the heat.
Can you say "weenie roast"?
* * *
"So the door was open and everything unplugged when you got here?"
"Huh?" I seemed to be having difficulty following the conversation. Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with the totally
hunky state trooper who'd arrived to take the incident report on the latest mischief directed at Uncle Frank's concession
stands.
The trooper looked up from his notepad. "The door. Open? Right?"
I nodded, wishing he would take his sunglasses off so I could get a peek at his peepers. You can tell so much about a person
from their eyes, you know. Like, if they are looking at you or not. "Yeah," I replied, "it was standing ajar."
"And you're sure you locked it up last night?"
My eyes narrowed. My reputation couldn't have preceded me this quickly. Could it?
"It was locked tighter than Uncle Frank's grip on his wallet," I said. I elaborated for the trooper's benefit, "We're talking
lug-nut
about Frankie. I didn't want to give him additional cause to chew this cowgirl's be-hind.
"Frankie?" I called out, moving to pull the door open. "Uncle Frank?"
The moment I stepped over the threshold, I caught a sour smell ten times worse than the chronic projectile spit-up of the
Parker twins I used to babysit in my teens. The unmistakable done-gone-bad odor nearly knocked me over. I put a hand over
my nose. Whatever it was, something had exceeded its expiration date—by a good month, easy. I took a step inside. Make that
two months.
I took another step, felt my sandaled foot slide out from under me and grabbed wildly to gain my balance, putting a hand on
the freezer to right myself. I checked out the floor to see what I'd slipped on, and a nervous little pulse started to throb
in my neck. My gaze followed a gooey, sticky pattern of light browns, off-whites, and pinks that turned the floor into a modern
art project. You know—where the artist tells you what he painted and you have to take his word for it? I reached out and patted
the front of the freezer with the palm of one hand, then slid both hands along the sides of the upright. The pulsing in my
neck had turned to a full-fledged tom-tom beat. I took another look at the floor.
"Holy shite, what now?" I said, grabbing hold of the freezer door handle and opening it just a tig-tag and with the same level
of enthusiasm with which I opened my mouth at the dentist. Or my legs for a Pap smear.
The smell had told the true story. I took a deep breath (through the mouth—not the nose) and threw open the freezer door.
When I saw all the sad little sunken tubs of ice cream, all the depressed little plastic novelty bags and lonely little Popsicle
sticks, I wanted to cry. All of Uncle Frank's Dairee delights were downright deflated!
I examined the temperature gauge inside the freezer. It was set on the right temperature. I shook my head. Talk about your
bad luck: to have a freezer just stop running like this. I prepared to close the door again to save my nostrils from further
abuse when I noticed the thick, gray cord that ran from the freezer to the plug-in, a cord that normally was never in sight.
I slid over the sticky surface to the electric outlet at eye level and gasped. The freezer wasn't even plugged in! I stood
there for a moment, trying to figure out how the cord could have become unplugged and knowing for certain it had not been
that way when I left the previous night. I did an Ice Ca-pades move over to the soft-serve dispenser, my eyes narrowing when
I saw that it, too, had been tampered with. I pulled on the twist ice cream lever and rancid, baby-pookie-brown ice cream
soup dribbled out. I quickly turned the lever to the off position and stared at the melting mess around me, one thought first
and foremost in my head:
At least I won't be blamed for this one.
I quickly sobered when I realized who would be taking the heat.
Can you say "weenie roast"?
* * *
"So the door was open and everything unplugged when you got here?"
"Huh?" I seemed to be having difficulty following the conversation. Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with the totally
hunky state trooper who'd arrived to take the incident report on the latest mischief directed at Uncle Frank's concession
stands.
The trooper looked up from his notepad. "The door. Open? Right?"
I nodded, wishing he would take his sunglasses off so I could get a peek at his peepers. You can tell so much about a person
from their eyes, you know. Like, if they are looking at you or not. "Yeah," I replied, "it was standing ajar."
"And you're sure you locked it up last night?"
My eyes narrowed. My reputation couldn't have preceded me this quickly. Could it?
"It was locked tighter than Uncle Frank's grip on his wallet," I said. I elaborated for the trooper's benefit, "We're talking
lug-nut
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