Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  Leon did his best to hold on, but the tug-of-war was brief and ended with Lumpkin heaving the pack over his head, like a prize-fighter displaying a championship belt. “Show-and-tell time, Zit-sel,” he said, lowering the pack to the floor. “Let’s see this animile that has the Hag so excited.”

  Lumpkin fumbled with the zipper. It jammed. He jiggered the metal tab, but it wouldn’t budge. “Shoot!”

  Leon could see that the zipper teeth had caught a piece of orange yarn. “Give me back my pack before the Hag catches us. You heard what she said about military school.”

  Lumpkin ignored the warning.

  “Come on!” begged Leon, pulling on a shoulder strap. “Drop it.”

  Lumpkin stopped fiddling. “You sure you want me to drop it?”

  “Yeah,” said Leon. “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, then,” said Lumpkin. “I’ll drop it.” He dangled the pack over the handrail, directly above a conveyor belt.

  “Don’t!” Leon yelled.

  “But you said you wanted me to drop it. Sure wish you’d make up your mind.”

  “Please!”

  “This little piggy went to market….”

  “No!”

  “This little piggy stayed home….”

  “Stop!”

  “This little piggy had potato chips, and this little piggy had—”

  Lumpkin released his grip before completing the rhyme. The pack landed with a thud on a moving belt of peeled potatoes.

  “Oops.”

  Leon scrambled down a spiral staircase and ran after his pack. He raced alongside the path of the conveyor until the pack dropped into a bucket elevator linked to a conveyor aimed at the mouth of a tunnel. The pack disappeared inside. On the other end of the tunnel, yet another conveyor carried its cargo toward a device that resembled a very large car tire—except that the “hole” of the tire was crisscrossed with razor-sharp blades.

  Leon froze. Not the potato chipper! He watched for his pack to exit the far side of the tunnel. A minute passed, and the pack had yet to reemerge.

  “Mr. Zeisel!” Miss Hagmeyer scolded. “Stop dawdling!” With a swift swipe of her needle, the fourth-grade teacher beckoned Leon back to the group. He made a beeline for his two buddies and told them about the ambush.

  “We should let Sparks know,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “No way,” said Leon.

  “You’re sure you didn’t see the pack leave the tunnel?” P.W. asked.

  “Positive,” said Leon.

  “Then it must be stuck in a catch bin that separates out all the non-potato stuff. False teeth, eyeglasses, that kind of thing.”

  “Swell!” Leon said miserably. “Fathead is stuck in a tunnel thirty feet off the ground. You’d have to be Spider-Man to reach him.”

  “Or a gymnast,” said Lily-Matisse.

  It took a second for her comment to sink in.

  “You’re not serious,” said Leon.

  Lily-Matisse eyed the pipes, ladders, and walkways that crisscrossed the factory. “I can do it,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” said Leon.

  “Positive.”

  “Excellent,” said P.W.

  “If she’s going up there,” said Leon, “We’ll need a diversion—something to keep Sparks and the Hag distracted.”

  “Leave that to me,” said P.W.

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “I don’t know yet,” said P.W. “I’ll have to improvise, so I want you guys to be ready to roll.”

  Lily-Matisse, Leon, and P.W. rejoined their classmates not far from a giant copper kettle filled with boiling peanut oil. They stayed close together as Mr. Sparks advanced the group from the cooking area to an inspection platform, where four men in hairnets plucked potato chips off a conveyor. Their speed was impressive. Using long-handled rubber-tipped grabbers, they picked up and set aside individual chips as they rolled along the conveyor.

  “What are you fellows doing?” Mr. Sparks asked one of the men.

  “I an’ I,” said the picker.

  “Identification and Isolation,” another picker explained. “We’re the guys who catch most of the specials that end up in the museum. Tommy over there found a Madonna just last week.”

  “That’s nothing,” said Tommy. “A few months back, Timmy found two Italys on the same day.”

  “Impressive,” said Mr. Sparks. He guided the class to the haywire salt tumbler that had called away Idaho Furtles.

  Mr. Sparks looked around. “Mr. Furtles?”

  “In here.”

  “Where?” said Mr. Sparks, unable to isolate the echoey response.

  “Franklin,” said Miss Hagmeyer.

  “Yes?”

  The fourth-grade teacher pointed her instructional needle at a pair of salted shoes sticking out from an open drum that resembled an oversized clothes dryer.

  Mr. Sparks peered inside. “Mr. Furtles? Are you okay?”

  “Better than this machine, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Should we wait for you?”

  “No,” said Idaho Furtles. “I still have to adjust the regulator and regulate the adjuster.” He wiggled out of the tumbler with a monkey wrench in his hand. He was covered, head to toe, in salt. “See that exit beyond the bagging machine?” he said, pointing the wrench at a pair of swinging doors.

  “I do,” said Mr. Sparks.

  “Well, meet me on the other side—at the entrance to the museum. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Idaho Furtles crawled back into the tumbler.

  As the fifth graders passed the bagging station, Leon sidled up to P.W. “Where’s that commotion you promised?” he asked anxiously.

  “It’s coming,” said P.W. “Be patient. I’ve figured out what to do.”

  “The Hag’s watching us like a hawk,” Lily-Matisse warned.

  “Don’t worry about the Hag,” P.W. reassured her. “She’ll be busy soon enough.”

  * * *

  Idaho Furtles (now salt-free) rejoined the group at the entrance of the museum. “I don’t know why Russet insists I show all visitors our special holdings,” he complained. He unlocked the curved doors to a vast circular room shaped like an old-fashioned potato chip tin.

  Leon glanced about, but with none of his usual intensity. The upcoming disruption made it impossible to give the museum the attention it deserved. Still, he did manage to take in a few of the highlights. A time line marking milestones in the history of potato chips, from ancient potato harvests in Peru to the most recent advances in chipometrics. A collection of vintage potato chip tins. Photographs of smiling movie stars clutching bags of Furtles. A pair of mint-in-box 1932 shock absorbers, designed to minimize chip breakage during transport. And everywhere else—cabinets.

  Two dozen wooden display cases housed a world-class collection of potato chip wonders painstakingly mounted like the insects exhibited at the Museum of Natural History. One cabinet contained chips in the shape of household objects (cup, stapler, telephone receiver). Another cabinet displayed chips shaped like animals (angelfish, cat, giraffe). Still another cabinet gathered together potato chip vehicles (rocket ship, car, snowmobile).

  But it was the cabinet at the very center of the room—the one with the special lighting and the independent humidity gauge—that earned pride of place.

  “The Furtles Presidential Potato Chip Collection,” Idaho Furtles declared proudly. “The only complete set in the world—not even the Smithsonian matches us when it comes to breadth and quality.”

  Leon resisted the impulse to look at the unique collection and instead stayed near the exit doors, ready to duck out quickly once P.W.’s diversion began. The tactic paid off. Ten minutes after Idaho Furtles opened the museum, Miss Hagmeyer unleashed a bloodcurdling caw.

  “You mischievous, ill-mannered hooligan!” she shouted. “Get away from there!”

  Leon would have given anything to see what P.W. had cooked up, but he knew the rescue operation was more important.

&
nbsp; “Come on,” he said, grabbing Lily-Matisse by the arm. “It’s now or never.”

  The two of them dashed out of the museum and through the swinging doors onto the factory floor. They retraced their steps, zipping past the bagging machines, the salt tumbler, the kettle cooker, and the chipper. In no time flat, they were standing below the tunnel where the pack had disappeared.

  Lily-Matisse surveyed the network of belts, ladders, and catwalks that crisscrossed the factory. Her nose wrinkled and her eyes narrowed as she considered how to proceed.

  “You’re sure you want to go through with this?” Leon asked nervously.

  Lily-Matisse answered the question by taking a running jump over a waist-high chain and landing on the conveyor belt leading directly into the tunnel.

  Leon’s jaw dropped as he watched her ride the belt, hopping over two bars and ducking under a third before disappearing inside the tunnel opening.

  After a minute Leon began to worry. What was taking so long?

  Another minute passed. Still no Lily-Matisse!

  Leon climbed over a chain to put himself closer to the action. He squinched and clucked. Come on, Lily-Matisse! Get out of there!

  He opened his eyes and felt a surge of relief when he saw that Lily-Matisse’s head had emerged on the far side of the tunnel. Slowly, methodically, she inched forward, hands and feet keeping to the edges of the machinery as an endless parade of potatoes rumbled beneath her.

  From where Leon stood, Lily-Matisse appeared strange—deformed, almost.

  She looks like a hunchback, Leon said to himself. Either that or—

  “Way to go!” he exclaimed, once he realized that the hunchback was actually a hunchpack.

  Lily-Matisse cleared the tunnel exit and pulled herself up, still balancing on either side of the belt that was rolling toward the razor-sharp blades of the chipping machine.

  All of a sudden she hopped onto the conveyor.

  “Lily-Matisse!” Leon cried in a panic.

  Forty feet separated her from the chipper. Then thirty feet. Then twenty. Fifteen feet from the blades, Lily-Matisse crouched like a swimmer preparing to take a dive. Seven feet from the chipper, she sprang into action once more, jumping up and grabbing hold of a sprinkler pipe that crossed above the belt just a few feet away from the honeycomb of razor-sharp steel. Hand over hand, she carried herself along the pipe. She dangled for a moment high above the factory floor.

  Leon cupped his hands. “Careful!” he shouted.

  Lily-Matisse was much too focused on her next move to respond to the useless warning. She swung back and forth like a clock pendulum until her feet rose above her head. And then she let go….

  Lily-Matisse sailed through the air and landed on a catwalk with an ooooof! She scampered across the metal walkway, hopped over a chain, and reached out to a vertical length of pipe. Effortlessly she wrapped her legs around the pipe and rode it, like a firehouse pole, down to a platform some eight feet off the factory floor. She finished off the improvised routine with an aerial somersault that set her down a few feet away from Leon. She hit the ground slightly off balance but corrected herself quickly.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she cried, out of breath but beaming.

  The two hightailed it back to the museum, hoping their absence would go unnoticed.

  They got lucky. Things were still in chaos when they rejoined their classmates.

  Leon located P.W. near the wall of antique chip cans. “Lily-Matisse was amazing!” he gushed. “She could have taught Spider-Man a thing or two.” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “She came this close to being chippified.”

  “Gimme a break,” said Lily-Matisse, blushing. “My dismount was totally sloppy.”

  “The important thing is you got Fathead,” said P.W.

  Leon nodded. “Safe and sound. The zipper on the pack is still jammed, but I can tell nothing got broken inside. What about Lumpkin?”

  “Not safe and not sound,” said P.W. with a smile. “The Hag dragged him back to the bus.”

  “Excellent,” said Leon. “How’d you do it?”

  “It was a snap,” said P.W. “I started complaining to him about how it was so unfair that we didn’t get any samples.”

  “I bet he agreed,” said Lily-Matisse.

  P.W. chuckled. “That’s an understatement. Anyway, then I kind of dared him to take matters into his own hands.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Leon. “Here? In the museum?”

  P.W. nodded.

  “But there’s nothing to sample,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Oh, really?” said P.W. “Come with me.” He walked Leon and Lily-Matisse to the spotlighted display cabinet. The glass top was now open.

  Lily-Matisse cupped her mouth. “Oh. My. God!”

  “He jimmied the lock with a pocketknife,” P.W. said matter-of-factly. “You should’ve seen Furtles when he got a look at the damage!”

  “Who can blame him!” said Leon. “Lumpkin ate his way through all the Founding Fathers.”

  “Not all,” Lily-Matisse nitpicked. “He skipped the Adamses.”

  “Look!” said Leon. “He ate Lincoln!”

  “And Kennedy,” said P.W.

  “I would never have eaten Kennedy,” said Leon.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Lumpkin at recess,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Yeah,” said Leon. “I’m guessing he’ll be Birdcaged all the way through seventh grade.”

  “That’s assuming he isn’t shipped off before then,” said P.W.

  “Now if we can just raise enough money to buy that army jacket, we’ll be all set for the swap,” said Leon.

  “I think I’ve got that covered, too,” said P.W. “Check this out. I found it posted on a bulletin board near the water fountain.” He unfolded a bright yellow flyer that said:

  THE ALL-STATE POTATO CHIP ASSOCIATION™ SIXTEENTH ANNUAL CHIPAPALOOZA! CHIP-OFF TEST YOUR TASTE BUDS AND YOUR BRAIN! WHERE: THE CONVENTION CENTER WHEN: MARCH 12 GRAND PRIZE: $1000

  “Leon!” Lily-Matisse blurted out. “The convention center is right across the street from your hotel!”

  “Yeah, so?” said Leon, though he knew perfectly well where all this was heading.

  “So,” said P.W. “You are going to enter the Chip-Off and, what’s more, you are going to win. And with that prize money, you are going to buy a certain vintage army jacket that’s going to get us a certain missing ingredient needed to activate a certain Fathead that will control a certain bully.”

  “You’re off your rocker,” said Leon. “How do you expect me to win against someone like Furtles?”

  “By practicing,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Exactly,” said P.W.

  “But—”

  “No ifs, ands, or buts,” P.W. said, doing a pretty good impression of Miss Hagmeyer. “Training starts as soon as school lets out.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Zero. Zip. Zilch.

  Miss Hagmeyer was so outraged by Lumpkin’s unpatriotic cannibalism in the Furtles Potato Chip Museum that she forgot to seat the students alphabetically as they filed onto the bus. That slip gave Leon, Lily-Matisse, and P.W. a chance to hash out their next move during the ride back to school.

  “We’ll go to the convention center straight after the bell,” said P.W.

  Leon renewed his earlier concern: “What if I don’t win the potato chip contest? I mean, think about it, the Chip-Off is going to be packed with potato chip professionals.”

  “You’ll win,” P.W. said confidently.

  “Okay, supposing I do win,” Leon allowed. “We still don’t know for sure that Lumpkin will want to swap.”

  “For a vintage army jacket that fits him?” said P.W. “Are you kidding me? He’ll swap all right.”

  “Fine. Say I do win and say he does swap, what happens if the fixed-up, restuffed Fathead still misfires?”

  P.W. finally lost it. “You’re worse than she is,” he said, nodding at Lily-Matisse. />
  “Hey, don’t get on my case!” Lily-Matisse shot back. “I think Leon’s a shoo-in, too.”

  “See,” P.W. told Leon. “Even Miss Skeptical says you should enter.”

  “But—”

  “Stop!” P.W. commanded. “Get it into your head. You’re competing. We’ve got nothing to lose! Zero. Zip. Zilch.”

  P.W. stood firm. When the bell rang, he made sure to approach Napoleon before Leon had a chance to argue or escape.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Pay Dooble-vay,” said the taxi driver.

  “Bonjour to you, too, Napoleon,” said P.W. “Listen, can you take us over to the convention center? Leon here needs to enter a potato chip contest.”

  “Bien sûr!” said Napoleon, not batting an eye. “You have received the necessary permissions, I assume?”

  “No,” said Leon, thinking that might get him off the hook.

  P.W. gave Lily-Matisse a meaningful nod.

  “Hold on,” she said. “Be back in a sec.” She disappeared into the school and returned moments later. “All set,” she announced. “Mom’s making the calls.”

  “In that case,” said Napoleon, hopping out of his cab to open the door. “My potato cheep chariot is at your service.”

  “You heard him,” said P.W.

  At the convention center, Leon trudged in and trudged out while Lily-Matisse and P.W. waited in the cab.

  “Mission accomplished?” P.W. asked the reluctant competitor.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?” Lily-Matisse demanded.

  “There’s a ten-dollar entry fee,” said Leon. “I tried to argue, but it’s no use, so I guess that’s that.”

  “Whaddaya mean ‘that’s that’?” said P.W.

  “I thought the whole point of entering the Chip-Off was to make money—not spend it.”

  “Let’s pay the ten dollars, Leon,” said Lily-Matisse. “We can afford it.”

  “Besides,” added P.W. “Competing in a potato chip contest? How cool is that?”

  “Your friends are correct,” said Napoleon. “You must enter.”