Well, actually it didn’t taste exactly like shit, whatever shit tastes like. It tasted more like a combination of turpentine an bacon grease, with a little sugar an fizzy-water thowed in. I am thinkin somebody done played a trick on Mrs. Hopewell.
Just about this time, Mrs. Hopewell come through the door. “Ah, Forrest, I see you have found the CokeCola. I didn’t know you were that thirsty, you poor boy. Here, let me put that in a glass for you.” She had put on a little pink nighty that showed everthin she had, which was considerable, an was wearin little fluffy pink slippers, an I am thinkin that she must be gettin ready for bed.
But now I was really on the spot. She got a fresh glass that sparkled like a rainbow an poured the CokeCola over some ice. I could hear it cracklin in the glass an was wonderin how I was gonna drink it when Mrs. Hopewell says she will be right back, that she is goin to “freshen up.” I was about to thow the CokeCola out again, when a idea come to me. Maybe I could make it better. I was rememberin the time back at the University when I wanted a limeade so bad I could just taste it, but there wadn’t no limes, an my mama had sent me some peaches an I made a peach-ade by squeezin the peaches through a sock. Bad as it was, I am thinkin that I can salvage somethin out of this CokeCola, account of my tongue is dry as my toe an I might even be dyin of thirst. I could of just got me some water, but by now, I have definitely got CokeCola on my mind.
They was a big ole pantry, an inside it was hundrits of little jars an bottles of all sorts of sizes an shapes. One says cumin, an another says Tabasco, an another says tarragon vinegar. They was jars an bottles an little boxes of other stuff, too. I found some olive oil I figgered might cut the bacon grease taste some, an then a jar of chocolate sauce that might take off some of the turpentine flavor. I mixed up about twenty or thirty different things in a bowl that was settin out on the counter, an when I was finished, I mushed them all together with my fingers an then dipped out a couple of spoonfuls an thowed it into the CokeCola glass. For a moment, the stuff begun to boil an hiss like it was gonna blow up, but the more I stirred it in with the ice, the better it looked, an after a few minutes, it begun to look like CokeCola again.
At this point I was startin to feel like one of them desert gold prospectors that was bakin to death under the sun, an so I lifted the glass an drunk it down. This time, it gone on down pretty good, an while it wadn’t exactly CokeCola, it didn’t taste like shit, neither. It was so good, in fact, that I poured mysef another glass.
Just then, Mrs. Hopewell returned to the kitchen.
“Ah, Forrest,” she says, “how is that CokeCola?”
“It is pretty good,” I tole her. “Matter of fact, I’m gonna have some more. You want some?”
“Ah, thank you, but thank you, no, Forrest.”
“Why not?” I ast. “Ain’t you thirsty?”
“Why, as a matter of fact I am,” she says. “But I’d prefer, well, a little libation of a different sort.” She went over an poured hersef a glass about half full of gin an then put some orange juice in it.
“You see,” she says, “I am always amazed that anybody can drink that crap. My husband, in fact, is the feller that invented it. Somethin they want to call ‘New Coke.’ ”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, it don’t exactly taste like the ole one.”
“You’re tellin me, buster! I never had anything so wretched in my life. Kinda tastes like—hell, I dunno—turpentine or something.”
“Yeah,” I says. “I know.”
“Some stupid deal his bosses up at the Coke company in Atlanta have dreamed up. ‘New Coke’ my ass,” she says. “They always screwing with something just so’s they can figger a new angle to sell it with. Ask me, it’s gonna be a bunch of bullshit.”
“That so?” I ast.
“Damn right. Matter of fact, you’re the first person ever got a whole glass of it down without gagging. You know, my husband’s the vice president of CokeCola—in charge of research and development. Some research—some development, if you ask me!”
“Well, it ain’t half bad if you put some other stuff in it,” I says. “Just fix it up a little.”
“No? Well, that’s not my problem. Look,” she says, “I didn’t get you in here to talk about my husband’s harebrained schemes. I bought your goddamn encyclopedias, or whatever they are, now I want a favor. I had a masseuse coming over this afternoon and he didn’t show. You know how to give a back rub?”
“Huh?”
“A back rub—you know, I lie down and you give me a rub. You’re so big on books about world knowledge, you gotta know how to rub somebody’s back, right? I mean, even an idiot can figure out how to do that.”
“Yeah, well...”
“Listen, buster,” she says, “bring the goddamn CokeCola and come with me.”
She took me around to a room that had mirrors on all the walls an a big old raised bed in the middle of it. Music was playin through speakers in the ceilin, an they was a big ole Chinese gong settin there by the bed.
Mrs. Hopewell got up on the bed an thowed off her little slippers an nighty an put a big towel over her bottom half, an she was laid down on her stomach. I tried not to look at her while this was goin on, but account of the whole room was mirrors, this was not very easy to do.
“Okay,” she says, “start rubbing.”
I got sort of aside of her an begun to rub her shoulders. She begun to make little oh-ah sounds. The more I rubbed, the louder they got. “Lower. Lower!” Mrs. Hopewell says. I gone on an rubbed lower, an the more I did, the lower I got! It was beginnin to get awkward for sure. In fact, I was now at the top of the towel. Finally she begun to pant an then she reaches over an hits the Chinese gong! It made the room shake an the mirrors seem like they gonna fall off the walls.
“Take me, Forrest,” she moans.
“Where you want to go?” I ast.
“Just take me!” she screams. “Now!”
At this point I suddenly begun to think about Jenny an about a bunch of other things, an Mrs. Hopewell was grappin at me an writhin an pantin on the bed, an this shit seemed about to get out of hand when, without no warnin, the door to the mirror room bust open an they is a little man standin there wearin a suit an tie an steel-rimmed glasses, kinda look like a Nazi German.
“Alice,” he shouts, “I think I have got it figured out! If we put some steel-wool shavings into the formula, it will make it quit tasting like turpentine!”
“Jesus God, Alfred!” Mrs. Hopewell hollers. “What are you doing home this time of day!” She done bolted upright an was tryin to pull the towel up around hersef to look decent.
“My researchers,” the feller says, “have found the solution!”
“Solution! Solution to what?” Mrs. Hopewell asts.
“The ‘New Coke,’ ” he says. The feller strides into the room, actin like I’m not even there. “I think we got a way to get people to drink it.”
“Oh, for godssake, Alfred. Who would want to drink that crap anyhow?” Mrs. Hopewell looks like she’s about to burst into tears. She ain’t got but that one towel, an she is tryin to cover hersef up, bottom an top, with it. Ain’t workin too good, an so she is grappin for her nighty, which is on the floor, but ever time she graps for it, the towel falls off. I am tryin to look away again, but the mirrors won’t give me no other view.
About this time, Alfred, I guess was his name, noticed me.
“Are you the masseuse?” he ast.
“Sort of,” I says.
“That your CokeCola?”
“Yup.”
“You’re drinking it?”
“Uh huh.”
“No shit?”
I nodded. I didn’t exactly know what to say, account of it is his new invention.
“And it don’t taste awful?” His eyes got big as biscuits.
“Not now,” I says. “I fixed it.”
“Fixed it? How?”
“I put some stuff in it from the kitchen.”
“Let me see that,” h
e says. He took the glass an helt it up to the light an examined it, sort of like a person will examine somethin nasty in a laboratory jar. Then he drunk a little sip of it an got a kind of squinty look in his eyes. He look at me, then at Mrs. Hopewell, then he slugged down a big ole swallow.
“My God!” he says. “This shit ain’t half bad!”
He drunk some more an get a real amazed look on his face, like he was seein a vision or somethin.
“You fixed this!” he shouts. “How in hell did you fix it?”
“I done put a few things from that pantry in it,” I says.
“You! The masseuse?”
“He’s not exactly a masseuse,” Mrs. Hopewell says.
“He’s not? Then what is he?”
“I’m a encyclopedia salesman,” I says.
“Encyclopedias—Huh?” Alfred says. “Then what are you doing here? With my wife?”
“It is kind of a long story,” I tole him.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’ll get to that later. What I want to know now is what in hell did you do to this CokeCola? Tell me! My God, tell me!”
“I dunno, exactly,” I says. “It was like, well, it didn’t taste so good at first, an I thought it could have stood some doctorin up, you know?”
“Didn’t taste good! Why, you moron, it tasted like shit! Don’t you think I know that? And you have made it at least drinkable! Do you have any idea what something like this is worth? Millions! Billions! C’mon now, try to remember. What was it, er—What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Gump,” I says. “Forrest Gump.”
“Yes, Gump—well, c’mon now, Gump—let’s go real slow through exactly what you did to this stuff. Show me what you put in it.”
So that’s what I did, except I couldn’t remember everthin. I got out some of the little bottles an jars an stuff an tried to do it again, but I never could seem to get it quite right again. We tried an tried again, maybe fifty times, until it was way past midnight, but each time ole Alfred spit the stuff out in the sink an says it ain’t like the first batch. Meantime, Mrs. Hopewell is about on her twentieth gin an orange juice.
“You fools,” she says once. “There ain’t no way to make that crap any good. Why don’t we all go lay down in the bed an see what happens?”
“Shut up, Alice,” Alfred says. “Don’t you see this is the opportunity of a lifetime!”
“Opportunity of a lifetime is what I just suggested,” says Mrs. Hopewell, an she goes back out in the mirror room an starts beatin on the gong. Finally, Alfred leans up against the icebox an puts his head in his hands.
“Gump,” he says, “this is incredible. You have snatched me from the jaws of defeat, only to throw me back again. But I’m not finished yet. I am gonna call the police to seal this kitchen off. And tomorrow, we are gonna get an entire staff down here to pack up every conceivable thing you might have put in this stuff and ship it all back to Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” I ast.
“You bet your sweet ass, Gump. And the most prized item of all is going to be yourself!”
“Me?” I ast.
“Goddamn right, Gump. Your big ass is coming along to our lab in Atlanta to put this thing together right. Just think of it, Gump. Today Atlanta! Tomorrow the world!”
Mrs. Hopewell’s face is smilin from the winder as I leave, an upon considerin all this, I have a feelin that trouble lies ahead.
Chapter Three
Anyhow, I gone on back to Mrs. Curran’s that night an phoned up Slim at his motel to say I ain’t gonna be placin no more encyclopedias in people’s homes.
“Well, Gump, so this is how you repay me for all my kindness!” he says. “Stabbed in the back! I should of known better.” An he concludes with a bunch of other shit that ain’t any nicer, after which, he hung up in my face. At least I got that over with.
Little Forrest is of course long asleep in the bedroom time I get through with all that, an Mrs. Curran ast me what is goin on? I tole her I am quittin the encyclopedia bidness to go up to Atlanta an help Alfred make his new CokeCola, an that I figger I got to do this, account of it is a lot of money involved an we need to fix up little Forrest with some backup income. She agrees with me, cept she say she thinks I oughta have a conversation with little Forrest fore I go, an explain to him about exactly who I am, since his mama an daddy are dead now. I ast her don’t she think she’d be better off explainin all that, but she say no.
“There comes a time, Forrest, when I believe a person has got to take the responsibility on himself, and that time is now. Might not be easy, but you gotta do it. And you gotta do it right, because it is gonna make a lastin impression on him.”
In this, I know Mrs. Curran is correct, but it is not somethin I look forward to.
Next mornin I get up bright an early, an Mrs. Curran made me some cereal an helped me get my bag packed. Alfred says he is gonna pick me up at nine A.M. sharp, an so I have got to deal with little Forrest right about now. When he gets finished eatin his breakfast, I call him out on the porch.
“I have got to be gone for a while,” I says, “an there is some things you better know before I go.”
“What is that?” he ast.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t know how long I’m gonna be gone, an I want you to be real nice to Mrs. Curran while I’m away.”
“She’s my grandma; I’m always nice to her,” little Forrest says.
“An I want you to do real good in school, an don’t get into no kind trouble, okay?”
A kind of frown come over his face, an he look at me sort of funny.
“Say, you ain’t my daddy. Why you tellin me all this?”
“I guess that’s what I want to talk to you about,” I says. “You see, I am your daddy.”
“No you’re not!” he hollers. “My daddy’s sick back home. He’s comin to get me just as soon as he gets well.”
“That’s somethin else I got to tell you,” I says. “Your daddy ain’t gonna get well, Forrest. He’s with your mama now, you see?”
“He is not!” Forrest says. “Grandma says he’s comin to get me pretty soon! Any day now.”
“Well, your grandma’s wrong,” I says. “You see, he done took sick like your mama, an he didn’t get well, an so I am gonna have to take care of you now.”
“You!—That’s not so! My daddy is comin!”
“Forrest,” I says. “You got to listen to me, now. I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I got to. You see, I’m your real daddy. Your mama tole me that a long time ago. But you was livin with them, an I was just—well, like a bum or somethin, an it was better that you stayed with them. But see, they gone now, an ain’t nobody but me to take care of you.”
“You’re a liar!” he says, an begun to beat on me with his little fists, an then he begun to cry. I knew he was gonna, an it was the first time I seen him do it, but I figger it is good for him now—although I still don’t think he understands. I would rather be doin anythin but this.
“Forrest is tellin you the truth, son.” Mrs. Curran had been standin in the doorway durin all this. She come out on the porch an pick the little boy up an set him in her lap.
“I didn’t want to have to tell you this myself,” she says, “so I got Forrest to do it for me. I should have tole you, but I just couldn’t.”
“It’s not so. It’s not so!” he shouts, an begun to kick an cry. “You’re liars. You’re both liars!”
About this time a big ole black limousine pull up in front of the house an Alfred get out an motion for me to come on an get inside. I can see Mrs. Hopewell’s face grinnin out the backseat winder.
An so I took my bag an went on down the sidewalk to the car, an behind me, all I could hear was little Forrest screamin, “Liar, liar, liar!” If this is what Mrs. Curran meant when she says tellin little Forrest the truth will make a “lastin impression,” I sure do hope she is wrong.
Anyhow, we went on up to Atlanta, an the whole time Mrs. Hopewell is puttin her
hands on my leg an stuff like that, an ole Alfred, he is pourin over papers an books an talkin to hissef a lot. When we arrive at the CokeCola headquarters buildin, they is a big ole mob of people there to welcome us, an when I come in everbody be pumpin my hand an clappin me on the back.
They led me down a long hall to a door marked Experimental Research Lab, Top Secret, Keep Out! When we gone inside, I like to fainted! They has set up a whole kitchen exactly like Mrs. Hopewell’s, right down to the half-empty glasses where I had drunk the CokeCola.
“Everthing is right here, Gump, just like you left it back at Mobile,” Alfred says. “Now, what we want you to do is just what you did when you fixed that CokeCola. Trace every step you took, and think real hard, because the fate of this whole company might be riding on it!”
To me, it seems a sort of unfair burden to shoulder. After all, I ain’t done anythin but try to fix me somethin to drink. Anyhow, they put me in a big ole white smock, like Dr. Kildare or somethin, an I begun the experiment. First I take a can of the “new CokeCola” an put it in a glass with some ice cubes. I tasted it, just like I done at Mrs. Hopewell’s, an it still taste like shit or whatever.
So I gone into the pantry, where all the stuff is on the shelves. Truth is, I can’t remember exactly what I put in the CokeCola that might of improved it. But I went on anyhow an started mixin the shit up. All the time, four or five fellers be follerin me around, takin notes whenever I do somethin.
First I took a pinch of cloves an a dab of cream of tartar. Next I put in some root beer extract an meat tenderizer an popcorn cheese seasoning an added some blackstrap molasses an crab boil. After that I done opened a can of chili con carne an skimmed the little orange fat that floats around the top an put that in, too. An then I added a little bakin soda, for good measure.
Finally, I stirred the whole thing up with my finger, just like I done at Mrs. Hopewell’s, an I took a big ole swig of it. Everbody be holdin their breaths an watchin me with they eyes all bugged out. I swished the stuff around in my mouth for a second, then said the only thing that come to mind, which was “Ugggh!”
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