Cookies & Milk, page 9
I wonder if this is the right time to pull the Rat Trap photo from my pocket and show it to Dad. He’s in such a good mood. I don’t know if the photo will mess that up. But… it is better to start a conversation while he’s in a good mood. That’s it. I’m doing it. Slowly, I reach my hand into my back pocket. In my head, I practice what I’m going to say to Dad. I’ve gotta make sure I don’t mumble. Just chill, Ellis. I take a step toward Dad when he spins around and motions me to the kitchen.
“Come on. I need you back here with me,” he says.
Ugh. This is gonna have to wait.
Another giant mound of chocolate chip cookie dough sits on the metal table. Some batter is still stuck inside the giant mixing bowl. Dad tosses me an apron across the table. A large silver baking sheet sits between us.
Dad explains, “This is our last batch of dough with the chocolate chips we bought, so let’s hope it’s a winner. I don’t know what’s taking the Rock and Roll Ralphs so long to get more chips. Anyway, I already put one tray in the oven. Let’s get some more in there. I want to hand them out to folks. The more people taste our cookies, the more people will show up on opening day.”
We each put some flour on our hands. Dad flicks some at me.
“Hey, careful of my hair,” I scold him kiddingly before splashing him with some flour of my own. We give each other a smirk from across the table. Now the cookie-dropping race begins. I pinch off some dough from the mound and move into overdrive. Before I know it, I’ve dropped five rows of cookie dough. I look across the tray. Dad’s only dropped three rows. Yes! I dunk my leftover dough on the table, spin around, and hold up my hands. No dough on them. They’re totally clean.
“I did it! I finally beat you.” I shake an invisible Hula-Hoop around my waist and sing that Funkadelic song “Can You Get to That.”
“Well, look at you,” Dad says, admiring my rows of cookie dough. “Your dropping game is getting strong. It must be that dashiki.” Then he opens the oven door and pulls out a tray of freshly baked cookies. Man, they smell good. Dad lays the tray on the metal table. We both lean over and take a deep whiff.
“Ahhh…” We both exhale at the same time. Dad carefully lifts a hot cookie from the tray and hands it to me. We blow on them together. And just as we take a bite…
THWACK!
Grandma and her cane. I will never get used to it. She grabs a cookie from the hot baking sheet.
“Careful, Mama,” Dad says.
Grandma brushes him aside. “Boy, I can handle a hot cookie. I’ve been handling hot cookies since you were a hot potato in the oven.” She quickly pops it in her mouth. “Oooo! Now this is a good batch. Junior, I think you got it now.” Grandma licks the melted chocolate from her fingers. She reaches for another one but stops when we hear a car honk in the back of the store. I poke my head through the door. Alex and his dad are getting out of their car. Mr. Reedy has a rolled-up piece of paper under his arm.
“Ooh, this must be the mysterious housewarming gift,” Dad says. “I can’t wait to see this, Ken.”
“Well, I didn’t account for your mother’s greenhouse when I made my sketch.” Mr. Reedy nods toward the little glass building Dad set up to keep all of her plants and gardening stuff.
A sketch? A sketch is kind of a strange gift for a cookie store.
Mr. Reedy continues. “It looks beautiful tucked in the corner of the parking lot. I didn’t think you could fit so many plants inside of a tiny greenhouse.” He wipes some flour off the table, then slowly unfurls the paper like it’s a treasure map. Dad places a bag of hot cookies on one corner of the paper, and I lay my harmonica on the opposite corner. Alex pulls a couple of cookies from the bag and lays them on the last two corners. The paper actually does look like a treasure map. It’s a bird’s-eye view of the cookie store parking lot. But this parking lot is filled with crazy patterns and colors flowing into one another. They all meet together at the bottom corner of the page near my harmonica—right where the kitchen back door is located. Mr. Reedy has sketched a colorful cookie at the entrance of the door.
“Ken, this is marvelous!” Dad exclaims.
Dad opens the paper bag and pulls out two fresh-baked cookies. Mr. Reedy takes one. They hold them together like they’re making a toast.
Mr. Reedy speaks as he chews.
“Don’t talk with cookies in your mouth, Mr. Reedy,” I tell him. “It’s rude.”
Mr. Reedy swallows then smiles. “Thanks for the reminder, Ellis.” Then he turns to Dad and says, “I’m glad you like it.” Mr. Reedy puts his trembling hand on my shoulder. “It looks a bit like your dashiki.”
I stretch my dashiki and look down at the V-neck collar. He’s right. The pattern around the collar is close to Mr. Reedy’s drawing. It’s the same vibe.
Grandma stares at Mr. Reedy’s sketch. The colors grab her attention. “This here reminds me of Aaron Douglas. He made some big ol’ murals in Harlem where Della lived.”
“We’re going to paint the parking lot like this?” I ask.
Dad looks at Mr. Reedy for an answer.
“We sure are,” Mr. Reedy confirms. “As soon as your customers park and open their car doors, they’ll step into something magical.”
“That’s kinda what the surfer said,” I remember.
“Surfer?” Dad asks.
“The surfer on the bus bench,” I explain. “I gave him some cookies on the way to the mailbox. He said they were magic. I was getting us customers. Checking off the last thing on our list.”
I can tell Dad is a little worried about me talking to strangers. He raises one eyebrow and crosses his arms. I let him know that I was really careful about checking my surroundings. His face begins to soften. He asks Mr. Reedy a question.
“What do you think about these fellas going to the Rock and Roll Ralphs to see if they finally have our chocolate chips?”
Mr. Reedy looks at Alex and me warily before nodding his approval. “I think they’re big enough to handle Sunset Boulevard on their own. You just remember to keep your eyes out for characters.”
Dad pulls a wad of money from his pocket and counts it carefully. “Okay, boys. Bring back as many as you can carry. Alex, make sure he keeps the chocolate chips in the bags this time. It’s the last of the ingredients we need.” He hands me the bag of cookies. “And since you’re so good at sharing them, give these to our cashier friend.”
I take the bag of cookies and the money. Mission accepted. This is a big deal. We will NOT mess this up. Alex and I walk out the front door onto Sunset. This must be what adulthood feels like. I can hear Dad’s voice above the car traffic through the glass door.
“You come right back. No detours. No distractions.”
The Chocolate Chip Hat Trick
The traffic light at the corner of Sunset and Formosa turns green. Alex and I start our walk toward the Rock and Roll Ralphs. We need to get there FAST. It’s so hot out here. I don’t want to sweat through my dashiki.
We quickly approach the second crosswalk. The Rock and Roll Ralphs is on the opposite corner. Above the store, a giant crane is lifting the last section of a new billboard into place.
The billboard is painted like a giant American flag—except this flag only has thirteen stars. They’re all in a circle. I see flags EVERYWHERE lately. This has been the longest birthday ever. Why do people keep talking about something that happened so long ago? Three old-timey white men are painted in the center of the billboard. They look like soldiers but instead of holding guns, they are holding instruments. Two have a big drum hanging from each of their necks. The one on the end is playing a flute. I hold my harmonica to my mouth and move one leg forward like I’m ready for war. After blowing a battle charge with my harmonica, I check my pick. I want to make sure the plastic fist is sticking straight up. Then I point up at the billboard and ask, “Do I look like one of those guys?”
Alex looks at the billboard above. He looks at my old-timey soldier pose. “Not at all,” he says.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him. “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth the funk.”
“I don’t think that’s what Abraham Lincoln said.”
The doors slide open, and a wave of cold air greets us at the Rock and Roll Ralphs. The air-conditioning feels SO good. We grab the last shopping cart. A loose wheel in the front makes the whole thing move with a stutter. It’s rattling and shaking across the store. Alex and I stop the cart at aisle ten. The aisle of shame. Our chocolate chips have come in. The entire shelf is full this time. I look at the wall of yellow bags stacked on top of one another. There’s no way I’m making the same mistake again. I ask Alex to reach up and grab the chips at the top of the stack. He easily grabs one. No need for him to climb up the shelf. It helps to have a best friend who’s tall. Alex tosses the first bag at the shopping cart.
“Reedy shoots for two points,” he says. I quickly pull the shopping cart back. The bag misses and lands on the floor. Alex’s blank look makes me crack up. I can’t stop laughing. “Um, Ellis,” he says, pointing at the floor.
“Uh-oh,” I gasp. The bag broke. Chocolate chips are scattered across the floor like marbles. I push the shopping cart closer to the shelf. Then I tell Alex, “Gimme your hat.”
“No way!” He refuses. “You’re not gonna put chocolate chips in my favorite hat.”
“C’mon, Alex,” I beg. I can’t let anyone see this. Not after what happened last time. “Just give me your hat.”
Alex reluctantly gives me his Dodgers baseball cap. I quickly collect all of the chocolate chips inside of it. Then I hand it back to him.
“Put it on.”
“What? No way.”
“C’mon, Alex,” I beg once more. “We’ll pay for the bag, but we can’t let anyone know we broke it. You can dump them as soon as we’re outside.”
I have to admit, I wouldn’t want to do it, either. But sometimes you have to take one for the team.
“Why can’t you wear it?” Alex asks.
“Because it’ll mess up my ’fro, obviously. And it won’t fit over my pick.”
Alex understands. He reluctantly takes his Dodgers cap, leans over, and sticks his head inside. Then he slowly stands up. Perfect! No chips fell out. Now we just have to pay for everything and get out of here.
In the checkout line, Alex looks nervous. Too nervous. I can tell because he’s sweating on his upper lip. I lean over and whisper, “Chill out.” We push our stuttering shopping cart next to the cashier. She eyes the cart overflowing with chocolate chips.
“Hey! You’re that cookie boy,” she remembers. “How’s that store coming along?” she asks. I hand her the bag of cookies Dad gave me.
“Great. We open in four weeks. These are from my dad. Freshly baked.”
The cashier takes the bag and sets it down next to her cash register. She’s too distracted by Alex to try a cookie.
“Well, that’s unusual,” the cashier says. “It’s not every day you see someone with chocolate running down their face.”
Oh, great. He’s sweating chocolate.
“Nope, you don’t see that every day,” I say. “This is highly unusual.” I hand her the empty bag of chocolate chips. “You probably won’t believe this, but we found this empty bag of chocolate chips on aisle ten.” I hand her the money Dad gave me. “We’d like to pay for it along with the other bags. Not because we did anything wrong. Just because this is our supermarket. Us neighborhood businesses need to support each other. You know?”
The cashier nods. “Oh, yeah. I know.”
“Speaking of which, I hope you’ll come to our store when we open in…”
The cashier cuts me off. “Four weeks. I heard you.”
She hands me my change then watches us push our stuttering shopping cart away. “You got a bad cart. Those are supposed be sent to the scrapyard. Go ahead and take it with you. It’s hot outside. Pushing a bad cart is still easier than carrying those chips in your arms… or your hat.” She winks.
Shopping Cart Drag Race
It’s hot enough outside the Rock and Roll Ralphs to fry an egg—or melt a shopping cart full of chocolate chips. The cookie store is only two blocks away, but we need to move quickly or else we’ll have a bunch of chocolate soup. In fact, Alex now has chocolate soup pouring down his head as he takes off his Dodgers cap.
“Ellis, you ruined my cap,” Alex says.
I change the subject. “You’re the one who started sweating. Let’s just hurry. We’ll clean your hat when we get to the store.” I move to the front of the cart and tell Alex, “Okay, you push.”
“Why do I have to push?” Alex objects.
“Because you’re a faster runner,” I say. “You have longer legs. Besides, I have to keep the chocolate chips from falling out. We’ve got this thing packed.”
Once again, Alex understands. That’s why we’re best friends. I step up backward onto the bottom tray of the shopping cart. Facing forward, I grab the basket behind me. Alex pushes off. Our stuttering shopping cart rattles across the Rock and Roll Ralphs parking lot in between the parked cars. I can barely hang on to the front. This is going to be a rough ride. It feels like my teeth might fall out of my mouth. I need to get my balance. I turn around to face Alex—and catch a bag before it falls overboard.
“See? The chips need protection.”
We wobble off the parking lot and stop at the end of the block. The traffic light reads DON’T WALK. Alex looks past me to the other side of the crosswalk. “Hey, Ellis. Remember when my dad said we should keep our eyes out for characters?”
I nod while keeping the slippery bags from sliding off the pile.
“Maybe we should go to the other side of the street.”
I step down from the cart, turn around, and look to the other side of the crosswalk. A shopping cart is parked next to a large metal-wire trash basket with a sign that says KEEP HOLLYWOOD CLEAN. The man I met earlier is digging in the trash basket as if he lost something.
“Oh, he’s okay,” I tell Alex.
“He is?”
“Yeah, I’m positive.”
The traffic light changes to WALK. Alex is still unsure if he wants to cross. He watches the man as he comes up from the trash basket. He locks eyes with me, raises his hand, and smiles.
“Hey! Cookie kid!” he shouts.
I wave back. “How you doing?” I shout.
Alex looks at me in disbelief. “You’re friends with that guy?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” I clarify. “I gave him some cookies earlier. He’s nice.”
Now Alex feels safe. He pushes through the crosswalk and brings us to a stop next to the man’s shopping cart. Our pile of chocolate chips sits beside his pile of… stuff. It looks like the start of a drag race.
“Nice shopping cart!” he compliments us.
“Thanks,” I say. “The cashier at the Rock and Roll Ralphs let us take it. It’s got a bad wheel, though.”
“Bad wheel? Oh, I can fix that, no problem,” the man offers. “These carts are always getting bum wheels.”
He gets on his hands and knees, examining the wheel. He fishes for something in his pocket. After a moment, he removes a handful of tiny silver pellets.
“These shopping cart wheels are almost exactly like skateboard wheels,” he explains like an auto mechanic. “If they lose their ball bearings, they get all wobbly.”
The man inserts two of his BBs near the center of the wheel. He stands up and takes the shopping cart from Alex, moving it back and forth. It’s not stuttering anymore.
“I got these from a broken skateboard someone threw away,” he says. “You never know when things will come in handy.” The man hands the shopping cart back to Alex. “This is a good cart. Hold on to this one,” he says. He pushes his own cart into the crosswalk toward the Rock and Roll Ralphs just as the traffic light flashes DON’T WALK.
“See ya, cookie kid!”
Alex wipes some melted chocolate from his face. “That’s the coolest homeless guy I have ever met,” he says, amazed.
I am positive that is the only homeless guy Alex has ever met. Now we need to get back to the store. The chocolate chips are melting fast. We have one long city block left. The sidewalk is clear as far as we can see. Our shopping cart is good as new. I take my position at the front, looking straight ahead. It’s showtime.
Alex grips the handle. He stretches his right leg back like a runner starting a hundred-yard dash. We’re ready. We’re going to save these chips. I point forward like a ship captain at sea spotting land.
“Full steam ahead!” I roar. Alex plows our shopping cart forward, keeping his head low. We barrel down Sunset. The ride is smooth. The hot Hollywood air whips our faces. Alex reaches one hand forward. He does his best to hold down the bags of chocolate chips. The corner of Sunset and Formosa is fast approaching. And so is another DON’T WALK sign. A steady stream of cars rounds the corner in front of us.
I yell behind me, “Stop the cart! The light is red!”
Alex tries pulling the cart to a stop, but we’re moving too fast. He’s not strong enough. We’re going to fly into the crosswalk and get hit by these cars. I see my eleven years flash before my eyes. Is this how it ends? Not crushed under a mountain of chocolate chips. Not buried in an avalanche of sugar. But smashed in a shopping cart on Sunset Boulevard?
“NOT TODAY, SATAN!”
I step my feet off the bottom of the shopping cart. I push my legs forward and dig my heels into the cement sidewalk. The rubber soles of my shoes start wearing down like an eraser. My hands cling behind me to the cart.
“Pull, Alex!” I holler.
The corner is almost here. I see the cookie store on the other side of the crosswalk. The red traffic light and DON’T WALK sign stare us in the face. A motorcycle speeds past the crosswalk right in front of us. It’s no use. I pull my feet back up onto the cart just as the front wheels fly over the curb. Alex jumps onto the back. Our cart sails across the intersection of Sunset and Formosa… just as the DON’T WALK sign changes to WALK.
