STORIES FOR FRIDAY

    As a young boy, I loved marshmallows like a missionary loves a sinner. I thought those little white lumps of confection absolutely represented the highest order of human achievement. Because of them, I

-       Despised kids who could afford a ten cent bag while I was stuck with nickel one,

-       Ate more than my share at any opportunity,

-       Boasted that I could eat more of them than any kid at Lakeside Elementary,

-       Dreamed of resting in a soft, yielding, embracing pile of them,

-       Stole them at ever opportunity, and

-       Once shoved my little brother because he wouldn’t give me one of his.

This gave rise to the great plot and subsequent adventure. It was 1951 and I was eight years old, in school all day without the attendant good sense to control my impulses. These were more innocent and peaceful times, so when a kid reached the third grade and was sentenced to schooling for an entire day, the taking of lunch presented a veritable range of choices

One could bring lunch in a brown paper bag and enjoy it in a designated lunchroom, a choice generally reserved for the poor and the untrustworthy. One could take a quarter and walk four blocks north to the Pine Bluff High School cafeteria. One could walk the same distance due west on 15^th Street until one reached a diner called “The Little Chef” and have a hamburger or chili dog with drink. One could walk one block farther and dine at a corner drug store lunch bar, expensive but classy. The rich kids, most of whom lived within walking distance dined at home.

            When not on probation and sentenced to the lunchroom, I opted for the western sites. This way, if I skipped a drink with a meal, I could purchase a five-cent bag of marshmallows at the corner drug store.

            Neither drugs for the dope fiend nor solitude for the poet had a greater pull than the thought of a bag of marshmallows on me.

            Therein sprang the plot.

            You see, they didn’t just sell nickel bags at the drug store. They sold ten-cent bags as well. Theses were tempting, but the piece de resistance, the Holy of Holies, was a 25-cent bag of marshmallows the size of a small pillow. They hung from clips on tall display stand like talismans. As I concocted my plan, the image of those bags grew until I thought of little else except the day I would buy one and devour its entire contents—at one sitting.

            But how? I only received a quarter a day for lunch, knotted in a lady’s handkerchief and placed in my left pocket each morning by my mother, who knew too well that to advance a boy of my age funds for more than a day’s food  was to telegraph an open invitation to Satan to make room for another soul.

            No, I would have to operate within the perimeters set for me. I had to skip the normal meal. It was that simple. Besides, a meal of marshmallows had to be at least as healthy, probably more so, than a chili dog. Tastier too.

            So one late autumn day found me walking west along 15^th Street with a jaunty air, clutching a a quarter. Passing the diner, I concentrated on a repair shop across the street to avoid prying eyes from lunchtime clients of The Little Chef. I turned casually south on Cherry and slid into the drug store. Phase One was successful.

Once inside, I assumed a practiced nonchalance. I eased to the candy area and took what seemed like an hour, but could only have been a few seconds, to peruse the candy offerings as if I had the prerogatives of a Rockefeller.

Without warning, synapses tuned by billions of years of evolution registered danger. An adult stared down at me. “May I help you?” it said.

“Just want some marshmallows,” I said. “I have money.” I showed it, then retrieved the largest prize on the rack. I stood without moving, feeling its weight against my chest, and waiting for the intruder to disappear.

“Having a party at school?” it said.

Now I was in a jam. Lying, my mother had warned me, was a terrible sin, one of the worst. She petrified me telling about its deadly consequences and those of similar vile habits. A liar who allowed the allurements of sin to rule his actions was destined for a cruel fate, even blindness, or a partial state thereof. I felt sweat forming on my brow. The potential consequences of my actions swirled about me like debris around a funnel cloud. My heart pumped harder at the thought of continuing this sinful escapade: regrets, nightmares, pimples, full or partial blindness…

The spectacles upon the bridge of my nose bear mute testimony to my next act.

“Yessir,” I said. “I’m supposed to bring the marshmallows.”

Surprised that I could still see, I stood patiently while it patted my head before moving to help another customer. I paid my quarter like a gambler paying his debt, executed an “about face” and left the drug store, Phase Two completed.

            A young dandy walking down Cherry Street snacking on a knee-high bag of marshmallows must have been a remarkable sight, even in a city as large as Pine Bluff. I swaggered as I tasted the first fat victim from the bag, allowing the flavor to roam my mouth like a pony circling a corral. The entire process lasted a block.

            On the next block, I crammed pair after pair into my mouth at once, just for the fun of it. As I chewed, I turned back to the east, deciding to flaunt my wealth by returning through one of the richest neighborhoods in town.

            Four more victims went down. Like the Cyclops tasting the crew of Ulysses, I let out a soft roar and devoured another pair. I continued east, passing the homes of any number of pretty girls who must have been watching from their kitchens with amazement. I ate a few in rhythm, grinning all the while.

            Then I released my inner gymnast and began pitching the soft white balls into the air and catching them in my mouth. Another block passed in this manner. I missed the fifth and it rolled into the gutter by the sidewalk. I didn’t pick it up, for I had plenty.

Besides, I was beginning to feel a little odd.

            Lest what follows strike the reader only as burlesque, allow me to produce empirical statistics that should be recorded to serve as an object lesson to the logic-challenged of future generations.

            Statistic One: The difference between wanting another marshmallow and beginning to think you have had all you want is approximately five marshmallows.

            Statistic Two: The difference between thinking you have had all the marshmallows you want and not really wishing to eat anymore is approximately four marshmallows.

            Statistic Three: The difference between not really wishing to eat any more marshmallows and vomiting a white stream of projectile foam onto a fence in an alley behind a house is three marshmallows.

            Statistic Four: The length of time an eight-year old boy must sit with his head in his hand lurching with drive heaves from too many marshmallows is somewhere between ten and 15 minutes.

            No cars passed through the alley as I suffered, only my life, and my regrets. I hadn’t apologized to my sister for stealing her scrapbook. I hadn’t looked after my little brother properly. I hadn’t asked Nell Phillips to be my girlfriend. Heck, I hadn’t even made out a will.

            When I quit retching, I folded top of the bag of marshmallows—it still appeared to be full—and gained my feet. I used alleys to escape attention from the fancy homes and found my way back to 15^th street where I placed the remainder of the bag of marshmallows in the hollow of a tree, although I knew I wouldn’t return for them. Back at school, I avoided classmates as I eased into the classroom and began the worst afternoon of my life.

            This was 60 years ago and I have never willingly eaten a marshmallow since. In fact, I become nauseated at the very thought of one, and I think of this incident often. Recently, I happened to be in my hometown to participate in more adult matters. With my business in the city completed, I drove the route of the described affair. Lakeside School stood closed and boarded. It had yielded to a mega-campus wherein they incarcerate students all day to prevent episodes such as mine.

            The neighborhood is no longer affluent. Some homes have disappeared, all that remains are slabs that look too small to have belonged to real homes. I slowed when I came to the corner where the tree stood in which I had stored the remnants of my unholy plot. All that remained was a withered stump, the rest having fallen, as have so many of my dreams, to age and reality.