I was stunned. This crazy dancing guitar player wasn’t the Uncle Clarence I knew.
“There’s mean drunks and there’s sad drunks,” Aunt Al said. “When my Clarence drinks, the spirit moves him. He’s a dancing drunk.”
The rest of the Wyatts started clapping and shouting and jigging, and I joined in. We all circled around Uncle Clarence, who was playing so fast that his hands were a blur. Then he threw his head back and began to howl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Doris’s pregnancy was getting along, and one day in late August, Mr. Maddox told me she had a doctor’s appointment. He wanted Liz to stay at the house to answer the phone, but I needed to come with them to take care of Randy, the baby, while the doctor saw Doris.
Mr. Maddox had given Doris her clothes back a few days after he had me put them in his car, and she was wearing one of her flowered housedresses. He told her to get in back of the Le Mans with the baby, and he had me sit up front next to him. He gunned the car and it shot out of the driveway, the tires squealing. We were just going to a routine checkup, and we weren’t even late, but Mr. Maddox drove like a demon, swerving through turns so hard it threw you against the door, tailgating the car in front, passing in no-passing zones, and keeping up a running commentary about all the incompetent fools and idiots in his way.
About halfway to the hospital, Mr. Maddox pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. “I’m getting chips and sodas for everyone,” he announced. “What do you want?”
“You decide, honey,” Doris said.
“I want an orange soda,” I said. “Nehi, Orange Crush, or Fanta, it doesn’t matter. And Cheetos. Not the puffy baked ones but the crunchy fried ones.”
“Sit tight,” Mr. Maddox said, and climbed out of the car.
A couple of minutes later, he returned carrying a brown paper bag. He got into the car, reached into the bag, and handed me an RC Cola and a little cardboard cylinder.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Chips and soda.” He passed Doris the same.
“This isn’t what I asked for,” I said. “I asked for orange soda and Cheetos.”
“That’s RC, which is the best cola on the market, and those are Pringles. They’re just out, and they’re better than Cheetos.”
“But that’s not what I wanted.”
“I asked what you wanted, but I didn’t tell you that I was going to get you what you wanted,” he said. “You have to pay attention to exactly what I’m saying. That’s important if you’re working for me.”
I examined the container of Pringles, which had a little tab on the tin lid. I pulled back the tab, and it let out a whoosh. Inside was a perfect stack of saddle-shaped chips. I ate one. “This tastes funny,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Maddox asked. “Pringles taste better than Cheetos. But it’s not just the taste. They’re far superior in every way.” He started lecturing me about the technological advances that Pringles represented. They were uniform in shape, he said, and they didn’t break and crumble, because they were stacked neatly inside the cylinder instead of rattling around in a bag that was filled mostly with air. You didn’t have to deal with the sharp edges or burned spots that you sometimes found on regular potato chips. With Pringles, you knew precisely what you were getting. Consistency of product. Pringles were the wave of the future. “What’s more, you don’t get that orange crap on your fingers.”
“I like that orange crap,” I said. “It goes with the orange soda that I also asked for but didn’t get.” And, I continued, Cheetos were in fact better than Pringles—in my opinion, anyway. They came in a variety of sizes, so you could choose big or little, depending on your mood at the moment. And they came in all sorts of different shapes, so you could have fun trying to figure out what each one looked like.
Mr. Maddox was gripping the steering wheel, and I could see a vein on his temple pulsing, like his head was going to explode.
“That’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pointed a thick finger at my face. “I’m telling you, Pringles are better than Cheetos.”
“He’s right, you know,” Doris piped in. “Jerry knows what he’s talking about. You’d be best off listening to him rather than trying to argue. And just be grateful he bought you anything at all.”
Mr. Maddox nodded. “You made a bad choice about the Cheetos, so I had to overrule it. That’s what I have to do when the people around me make bad choices.” He paused. “So shut up and eat your damned Pringles.”