My son still has nightmares about it. Even though it happened years ago, the details of that day remain vivid in his memory. They lurk just below the surface of consciousness, waiting to be released by sleep or a well-turned phrase.
We were at a Bakers Square restaurant in Minneapolis, having a nice, normal meal during a weekend getaway to the Twin Cities. We had been to a Minnesota Twins baseball game, and had spent a day at the Minnesota Science Museum and the Omni Theater. I don't recall what was showing at the Omni, whether the Twins won or not or what hotel we stayed at. We had made this pilgrimage several times before, all good family outings, just like this one. We were at Bakers Square, filling the voids in our stomachs in anticipation of the trip home when it happened.
“The boy” (our affectionate term for him to this day) had been going through a growth spurt, meaning always hungry and always thirsty. The Bakers Square – “come for the food, stay for the pie” - offered free, bottomless refills on soft drinks.
It’s important to understand that restaurants did not always offer free soft drink refills. I think this was the first time we had encountered this marketing strategy.
“The boy” had his usual half-pound hamburger and a large Mountain Dew, his poison of choice because it’s chock full of caffeine chased with plenty of sugar. It’ll get you wired pretty quickly. He drank the first Dew before the food came and his second one during the ritual inhalation of his meal. He drank his third glass while we were finishing our meals. His eyes had begun to take on the golden hue of Mountain Dew when the waitress came back with yet another refill. We were having after-dinner conversation and coffee by then. This fourth large glass went down more slowly than the first several. He had just finished the last, slow drink of the sweet, stimulant-laden beverage when the waitress appeared again and asked if he'd like another.
His eyes began to dart back and forth, like the eyes of a chipmunk cornered by a cat. There was no exit. He was sitting in the inside part of the booth, nothing but wall and window to his right, his "stupid sister" to the left and a crazy woman standing there asking him if he wanted a fifth Mountain Dew. His parents were just sitting there, looking at him with no measure of reproach, no looks filled with subtle messages, no glares, no hidden clues, just sitting there, waiting for his answer. It wasn't costing us anything extra. It was his decision, an opportunity to drink as much as he wanted.
By now, though, the half-pound burger and the four previous glasses of Mountain Dew were getting friendly in his stomach, and the message had finally begun to get through to his brain that he had, in fact, just ingested a large meal. Fluorescent yellow-green letters the color of Mountain Dew began igniting in his brain. Messages were coming in fast and furious from various portions of his anatomy. A signpost up ahead told him he had just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.
He mumbled something about being full, and the waitress hesitated, and then asked if he was sure. It was free, she said. Bottomless. We told her to go ahead, bring him one more, and with a perky "OK" and a quick about-face, she was gone, returning in record-time with another large Mountain Dew. Total liquid volume if he drank all five: about a hundred ounces, nearly a gallon. He looked at the Dew for a moment, and then excused himself to go to the bathroom. He was gone for a long time. When he came back, he said he was ready to leave. The Dew went untouched. To this day, when we go to The Cities and ask where the kids want to eat, Bakers Square is, sadly, not on the list.
Jump ahead several years. Back in our hometown, “the boy” is now fifteen. It’s a Saturday night at a local pizza establishment. Partway through our meal, our waitress stops to check on things. Seeing his empty glass, she asks if he wants more Mountain Dew. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead, his breathing quickens, and his eyes start zipping from side to side, searching for exits. Struggling to regain control, he looks to me for a sign. I smile slowly, seeing the terror behind his eyes as the scene from several years earlier at Bakers Square replays itself on the movie screen in his brain. Finally I say, “I think he's probably had enough. We’re about ready to go.” Yes, I let him off the hook. Flashbacks can be a terrible thing to behold.
1 comment:
HA! Michael, this is why I enjoy your writing!
Gary
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