Bob Goes Bananas

Bob Goes Bananas

The Bunker’s Ice Cream Shoppe squatted inappropriately in the center of The Square. The Square reigned as the pinnacle of all things intellectual in America, containing more gray matter per square centimeter than anywhere except the space between Einstein’s ears. Now that Einstein had changed quantum states, The Square stood unrivaled.

Bunker’s inappropriateness rested on its chain-store character in a land of boutiques. The beer in every bar was hand-crafted on site, as was the ice cream in the surrounding shoppe’s. Bookstores filled almost every other storefront, but they contained no pulp fiction or best sellers. Occasionally, a Japanese graphic novel might slip through.

Big Bob Nicholls ran the night shift at Bunker’s. He could move from one side of the store to the other simply by shifting his weight. He took no interest in the flighty doings of the nearby universities but focused his attention on earning his paycheck with a minimum of fuss. He enjoyed his clientele, university undergrads and high school kids eager for ice cream but lacking the wherewithal to buy the premium creams his competitors offered. Every now and then, a football or basketball player would challenge him to an arm-wrestling match, but Bob’s bulk was too much for them. All his customers said, “If Bob’s brain was as strong as his arm, he’d rule the world.”

Tonight was Saturday night, so Bob was on his toes. On Saturday night, the mobile brain supports would pour out of their dormitories and assault their primary assets. The undergraduates tested their power to remain upright while flooding their unique organs with cheapest alcohol available. No hand-crafted brew on Saturday night, but supermarket beer or the Scorpion Bowl at the Chinese restaurant. The brilliant amateurs routinely exceeded their limit, staggering blindly about The Square giggling at its pretensions when they could drink no more. It was time to spend their remaining change at Bunker’s.

It was time, and past time, but Bunker’s remained empty. “Lenny,” Bob called to the soda jerk idling behind the counter, “let’s call it a night. Start mopping up.”

Lenny was a high school kid who dreamed of attending the university across The Square. Bob thought he might be bright enough—you never had to tell Lenny to do anything twice, and Lenny had revamped the cash registers so that weekly accounts hardly took a minute now. Bob wasn’t always sure who was managing who but figured seniority must count for something.

Lenny was halfway through the floor when a small cluster of undergrads stumbled through the door. “Hi, Bob,” they said.

“If it isn’t Moe, Larry, Curly, and Shemp,” Bob said. He recognized these kids, the sort who could calculate cube roots in their heads but walked around with their shoes untied. One or another of them sat on a stool drowning his sorrows in malted milk almost any day of the week. They didn’t seem to have any other friends, only rearrangements of this group of four.

“It’s been a long night, Bob—time to celebrate.”

“On top of the celebrating you’ve done already. Have a seat.” Bob passed out menus.

The kids labored over the menus a long time. Bob watched the clock tick to and beyond closing time. Lenny threw him a grin.

Finally, one member of the group said, “Banana Split.” This seemed to break the blockade and the other three said the same.

“Four banana splits, Lenny. Start dipping.”

“Uh, Bob, can a I see you for a minute?”

What the hell, Bob thought. Lenny’s made hundreds of banana splits, hasn’t needed my help since the first one. He left the undergrads to themselves.

As soon as Bob left, the boys resumed arguing, their favorite activity. One favored a certain musician, the others bombed him as “too commercial.” One favored Danish Socialism, two said it wasn’t far enough to the left, one said it wasn’t sustainable. The others asked him sustainable compared to what—capitalism would eat itself. They argued about the latest in literature, politics in South Africa, and whether they should start learning Chinese. They did this at the top of their lungs.

After some conversation in the kitchen, Bob and Lenny brought out the four banana splits and the customers fell to. The ice cream muffled their opinions and even changed the topics of conversation. Now there was more talk of great ice cream they had known and when they had eaten it. They argued a bit about whether it was better to eat ice cream in the summer or the winter.

Closing time was long past when they started counting out their change. They argued about who owed what and how much based on earlier events in the evening, the week, and the month. Bob shifted toward the door in case they got any ideas about chewing and screwing, but at least they were making a show of putting money on the table.

“Bob, we’re thirty-seven cents short.” The kid sounded more embarrassed than apologetic.

“Isn’t that nice. You can calculate the next eclipse but can’t check to make sure you can cover your order.”

“Uh, want us to wash dishes? Or I could leave my driver’s license and pay you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. But you know what? Just forget it. I’ll cover your 37 cents. I won a bet today, and I’m feeling large.”

The boys giggled at the word “large” but only for a second. “Thanks, Bob.” “You’re the best.” “No one makes a Split like you, Bob.”

“Go home. Hydrate. And don’t eat at my competitors.”

The boys filed out and Bob locked up. Lenny pulled a five out of his pocket. “I can’t believe it. I should’ve known.”

“If I tell you something, kid, you can believe it. Keep the five—just gimme thirty-seven cents.”

“When I saw we didn’t have any bananas, I figured we were toast. I was sure one of them would notice.”

“When you’ve got three scoops of ice cream, whipped cream, a maraschino cherry, and too much brain power, you assume the banana.”