The Last Annual Slugfest (4 page)

The other judges seated themselves. Bert Lucci stood behind them demanding the audience’s attention.

“Why doesn’t he use the podium?” I asked Leila, who had come in and squatted beside me.

“Edwina told him to stay off. For herself only.”

“How come?”

“Who knows with Edwina? Bert said he wasn’t about to ask.”

“… Bobbs of our own Henderson PG and E office,” Bert announced. Mr. Bobbs looked every bit as green as Edwina. He tried to force a smile. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile, and this evening he didn’t break that record. The crowd applauded first his introduction, and, more heartily, his vain attempt to look cheerful.

Curry Cunningham was next. At his name, he stood and bowed, holding his stomach. It was clearly a crowd pleaser.

Angelina Rudd did smile. “If my fish can eat worms, I can eat slugs … I hope.” She was greeted by laughter. It seemed to surprise and please her. She hardly looked like the same moody woman who had snapped at Curry Cunningham.

The fourth judge was Father Calloway, the white-haired priest from St. Agnes’s. His was the parish of the fishing families. Many of his flock were in the audience, and they applauded him with enthusiasm. Father Calloway shook his head. “I’ve taken vows of chastity and obedience, not tastelessness. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Reward in heaven,” someone called from the back.

“And, taking the last seat, the traditional Slugfest host’s seat,” Bert Lucci said from behind Edwina Henderson, “is the lady who brought this auspicious affair to Henderson. And after the judging, if she can still speak, she tells me she’ll have an announcement of importance to make.”

I poked Leila. “Aha!”

The crowd applauded, but Edwina barely looked up.

I hadn’t paid attention to the light, but now I noticed the hot bright lights necessary for filming. Glancing back into the room, I spotted a hand-held television camera, but I couldn’t see the logo on it. Still, getting attention from any television station, no matter how small, was quite an accomplishment, one Edwina didn’t seem to be taking advantage of.

But Bert Lucci certainly was. Thrust into the limelight, he blossomed as an emcee. “Let’s hear it for the Grand Promenade,” he called out.

Curry Cunningham got up and stood back. “Ladies first.” He motioned Angelina and Edwina forward. Taking Father Calloway by the arm, he said, “Clergy second.”

“Fools rush in, eh?” the priest retorted as he headed toward the display table.

Mr. Bobbs was still in his chair. Mimicking a head waiter, Curry pulled the chair back, assisted him up, and gave the chair a shove back in place.

On the food table, each dish sat on its tray by the front edge, ready for its creator to pick up the tray and carry it the few steps to the left and offer it to the seated judges.

“Take a good look, judges,” Bert said. “Breathe in the aroma of garlic, and tomato sauce, and sautéed mollusk. Look for the best, the most slug-filled portions.” He clapped his hands slowly, starting the audience off on the rhythmic accompaniment to the halting pace of the judges as he led them around the front of the table, stopping them in front of each dish, so that each judge stood before a dish, then moved a step and paused by the next dish. The funereal pace of this enforced march was popular with the audience, which added foot stomping to the clapping. Clearly, it was not with Mr. Bobbs. Bert had to grab his arm to keep him from sailing past the last two dishes and back to his seat. And even when he did make it there, he nearly knocked over his chair in his haste to get in it.

When the rest of the judges were back in their seats, and the audience quiet, Bert picked up the first tray, of what appeared to be shrimp cocktails in long-stemmed crystal, and held it out for the audience to see. “Looks pretty tasty, doesn’t it? And that’s just from a distance. If you were up here where these judges just were, or where I am now, you’d be able to see those scrumptious little feelers on each head. Leila Katz”—he beckoned her onto the stage—“tells me she boiled the slugs, cleaned them, and put them in her special spicy slug sauce. Leila, here, you can serve the judges, so you can enjoy every one of their eager expressions. They’ve had time to look forward to this dish now.”

To the background of laughter, Leila Katz took the tray and held it before each of the five, as they took a cocktail.

“One bite,” Bert Lucci directed. “Just enough to pass judgment. All together now. Get those tasty little fellows on your spoons, judges. Wait. No cutting! You can handle a whole one, right, folks?”

The audience applauded.

The three middle judges held their filled spoons up. Curry Cunningham glanced at his and rolled his eyes. Father Calloway took a deep breath. But Angelina Rudd now looked no more apprehensive than if it was indeed a shrimp awaiting her. I recalled she was a fisherman’s daughter. She had probably eaten plenty more questionable things than this when playing around the docks. Edwina Henderson raised her spoon and held it steady, eyeing it with the expression from
American Gothic.
But it was Mr. Bobbs who garnered everyone’s attention. His hand shook as he lifted the laden spoon. Swallowing hard, he stared at it as if face-to-face with an infinity of Missed Meters.

“All right, judges,” Bert Lucci announced. “Down the hatch!”

Four spoons entered four mouths set in four faces filled with stoicism or disgust. The fifth spoon—Mr. Bobbs’s—remained unmoved.

“Pretty tasty, eh, folks?”

Mr. Bobbs lifted the spoon up in front of his mouth.

“Oh, look here, one of our judges is savoring the moment. Well, we’ve got time, Mr. Bobbs. You probably just wanted everyone’s attention, right?”

Mr. Bobbs stared at the spoon. His nostrils drew back from the smell.

“Ah, yes, the aroma of fine food, right, Mr. Bobbs?” Bert Lucci sounded more like an emcee and less like a handyman with each comment. Mr. Bobbs didn’t move.

“Let’s give him some encouragement, folks.”

The audience began to clap rhythmically.

“Down the hatch!” someone called out in time with the clapping. The rest of the audience picked up the chant. I could make out the voices of two meter readers, loud and gleeful. “Down the hatch! Down the hatch!”

Mr. Bobbs opened his mouth.

“Down the hatch!”

He swallowed hard, shut his eyes, and shoved the spoon in his mouth.

The room shook with applause and stamping of feet.

Mr. Bobbs’s eyes opened wide. Then he gagged. He clutched his throat, stumbled off the platform, and staggered into the bathroom.

T
HERE WAS A MOMENT’S
silence after Mr. Bobbs’s dash for the bathroom, then a few unsure ripples of laughter came from the audience.

“Well, there’s one opinion of Slug Cocktail,” Bert Lucci announced. He paused for the audience’s response as if he’d been honing his timing for years. When it was quiet again, he said to Curry Cunningham, “Top that judgment!” Handing him the microphone, he muttered, “I’ll be back,” and headed for the bathroom.

It was the custom for each judge to comment on each dish. This was what the audience really came to hear.

Curry Cunningham looked down at the remains of his Slug Cocktail. His brow wrinkled, and I could almost see him trying to assess what the proper tone should be. “I’d have to say,” he said slowly, “that Slug Cocktail is a very moving dish.”

His choice was correct. Bursts of laughter greeted him, and it was as if he had assured everyone that Mr. Bobbs need not be taken seriously. He passed the microphone to Angelina Rudd.

“Now I know how the salmon feel when they take the bait,” she said.

“Have seconds,” someone called.

Father Calloway took the microphone. He held it before him a moment, then said in a low, almost intimate voice, “You know those restaurants that offer free hors d’oeuvres …” The audience howled.

Edwina Henderson accepted the microphone. I realized I had almost forgotten she was there. “It’s not likely to be in the
Henderson City Cookbook,”
she said. Her words were so clipped, her delivery so schoolmarmish, that it was several moments before the audience reacted.

Chris had taken Leila’s place. He nudged me. “Vejay, Bert’s over there by the bathroom. He’s motioning to you.”

I looked up. Bert nodded at me. I raised an eyebrow. He beckoned me with a finger.

“What does he want with me, Chris?”

“Maybe you’re Mr. Bobbs’s nearest and dearest.”

Chris was joking, but the thought struck me that perhaps Mr. Bobbs was sicker than we’d imagined. Still, I was hardly a friend of his. I was merely one of his employees, an unfavored one at that. But I couldn’t refuse Bert’s summons. I got up and made my way around the back of the stage to the bathroom door.

Bert was standing outside it. “He’s in there.”

I nodded.

“Look, I see men throw up every single weekend. That bathroom don’t look right if there’s no one hung over the sink. I haul them up, clean them up, steer them out, and drop them in bed. It’s like those spoon cookies my mother used to make.”

And that, I thought, was a comment worthy of the Slugfest microphone.

“But this guy … I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to leave him. But I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back there.”

Curry Cunningham called, “Come on, Bert. You can take Bobbs’s place.”

Bert nodded in his direction. To me he said, “You work for PG and E,” as if that explained everything. And before I could object, he headed back to the stage.

I stood outside the door, absently listening to the rhythm of Bert’s comments as he introduced Frittata with Slime Sauce. I knew this bathroom—it was the men’s room with the electricity meter. Whenever I had come here, I’d tapped on the door, waited, tapped again, and waited again. And even with that, I had surprised one or two surly Steelhead guests.

But there was no getting around the fact that I had to go in now. I tapped. “Mr. Bobbs.”

No answer.

From the main room came a wave of laughter.

“Mr. Bobbs, it’s Vejay Haskell. What can I do to help?”

Still no answer.

“Mr. Bobbs, I’m going to come in now.”

I strained, hoping to hear even the faintest protest. But there was silence in there. I hoped he wasn’t too far gone to speak. I put my hand against the door and pushed it in an inch and waited. Still no objection.

Taking a breath, I opened the bathroom door and walked in. I had expected to see and smell vomit. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Mr. Bobbs sprawled on the floor or collapsed against the wall. But the only smell was of ammonia, and Mr. Bobbs was standing upright in front of the mirror, his tan suit unmarred. He hadn’t been sick. He didn’t look any worse than he had before his bite of slug.

From outside came another wave of laughter.

Mr. Bobbs turned toward me. “Miss Haskell?” he said, as if I had just entered his cubicle in the PG&E office rather than the Steelhead Lodge bathroom. He wore the same expression he had this afternoon when he suggested I should have marched through the mudslide.

“Are you all right?” Even as I asked it, it sounded like a dumb question.

“I am.”

“You don’t have to go back out there. The judging is going on without you.”

He nodded, as if I’d just handed him another Missed Meter page.

I waited.

He said nothing.

Enthusiastic applause came from outside.

“There’s a back door,” I said. “If you make a quick left outside, no one will see you leave.”

He nodded again, but otherwise didn’t move.

I swallowed, then, against my better judgment, asked, “Do you want me to drive you home?”

Now he stared directly at me. “I do not, Miss Haskell.” He straightened his jacket and walked out.

I leaned back against the sink in relief. For once Mr. Bobbs and I had had a meeting of the minds. The idea of driving for twenty minutes or more with a humiliated Mr. Bobbs, a Mr. Bobbs who might even throw up in my truck, was appalling. And he, of course, would have been more horrified than I.

“Thanks a lot, Bert,” I muttered under my breath. Irritably, I stalked out and made my way through the back of the crowd, where people had created a bleacher section from a picnic bench and table. Those on the table leaned back against the outside wall. I elbowed in front of the bench, just avoiding a slap as one enthusiast burst into applause. I stepped around a baby stroller and its sleeping occupant, and over a pile of jackets. When I got to my seat, it was taken. A pregnant woman I recognized from my H-l route sat clutching two coats and a paper beer cup. She looked up at me guiltily.

I smiled and shook my head, indicating a forgiveness I certainly didn’t feel. I had assumed that Chris’s involvement in my departure obligated him to at least save my seat. Where had he been when I could have used him?

Chris, I quickly realized, was on the stage, holding out a tray of individual Slug Pizzas. Bert Lucci had taken Mr. Bobbs’s seat. He, Curry Cunningham, and Angelina Rudd held their filled pastry shells in front of them. Father Calloway reached for the closer of the remaining two, and without looking up at Chris, Edwina Henderson took the last.

“And here we are, folks, our last entry,” Bert said, from his seat. “A good way to end, with a Fortimiglio dish. You can bet this’ll be more than you could have hoped for, right, Chris?”

“Umm.” Chris looked embarrassed.

“Chris is following the family tradition, right?” Bert insisted.

“Umm.” Chris reminded me of that nephew illicitly smoking Edwina’s tobacco. Even though he was well into his twenties, Chris wasn’t skilled at deception.

“Fellow judges,” Bert said, “one big bite now. These pizzas are small. You can stuff them all in in one bite.”

Curry Cunningham rolled his eyes. I wondered how many times those eyes had rolled in my absence. Apparently I had missed the two middle entrees. Tomorrow the Slugfest would be the main topic of conversation in town, and there would be a lot of “Did you see that?”s I’d have no response for. Damn Mr. Bobbs.

“Okay, judges, all together now.”

They raised their pizzas and stuffed them in. The audience held its breath, but it didn’t take long to realize that what we had here was an anticlimax. Rosa’s cooking had overcome the event. Even Curry Cunningham couldn’t disguise his enjoyment.