Leon and the Champion Chip

by Allen Kurzweil

  Leon sighed. “Wonderful,” he said, unable to hide his despair.

  The television reporter, having completed his intro, turned and stuck a microphone in Leon’s face.

  “Yell-ow there, Leon Zeisel. Thomas ‘Spud’ McSorley of the Chipping News. How’s it feel to have placed second in your very first Chip-Off?”

  Leon just shrugged.

  “He’s not feeling all that great,” said P.W.

  “Well, he should!” said Spud McSorely. “After all, nabbing the silver isn’t exactly shabby. Tell me, what’s your secret?”

  “He’s got a special method,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “A special method, eh? Mind telling me about it? No, wait, don’t bother. I think the Chippo’s ready for my exclusive. Good luck to you, Leon Zeisel!” And as quickly as he had intruded, Spud McSorley pulled away.

  Lily-Matisse leaned over and whispered to P.W., “Don’t look now, but the guy with the potato chip bow tie is listening in.”

  “I’m on it,” said P.W.

  But the eavesdropper beat him to the punch by presenting P.W. with a potato chip-shaped business card.

  “Russet Furtles?” exclaimed P.W. “Idaho’s brother?”

  “Guilty as charged. Sorry your friend didn’t win.”

  “Yeah, well, your brother wasn’t all that lucky either.”

  “If you ask me,” said Russet Furtles, “that know-it-all with the Nose-It-All got what he deserved. Anyway, I just wanted Leon to know I was mighty impressed by his achievement.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?” said Lily-Matisse. “He could use cheering up.”

  “Hey, Leon,” said P.W. “Guess who this is! Russet Furtles—Idaho’s brother.”

  “And in my spare time, I also run a potato chip company,” said Russet Furtles.

  “Hello,” Leon managed unenergetically.

  “I was just telling your friend here I was amazed by your skill. You beat the pants off my brother. I hear you have your own chip identification system. I’m always in the market for better ways of judging chips.”

  “It’s all in his notebook,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Is that a fact?” said Russet Furtles. “Well, I’d love to see what’s in it.”

  P.W. had a sudden thought. “That could be arranged,” he said.

  Leon shot him a look.

  P.W. ignored it. In fact, he grabbed the notebook and said, “Everything you want to know is right in here, Mr. Furtles. The whole entire patented Zeisel Method for potato chip identification.”

  Russet Furtles reached over to take a look.

  “Wait a sec,” said P.W., slipping the notebook under his arm. “I was just thinking, Mr. Furtles. Did you just say you were ‘in the market’?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, usually you have to pay for stuff in markets, don’t you?”

  It didn’t take Russet Furtles long to figure out where P.W. was taking the discussion. “How much?” he said abruptly.

  “We’ll let you have a look for fifty-seven dollars and forty-nine cents,” said P.W.

  The sum took Russet Furtles by surprise. “Fifty-seven dollars?” he said.

  “And forty-nine cents,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “How about this?” Russet Furtles countered. “You kids let me flip through the chip notes. If I learn something new, I’ll pay you the fifty-seven dollars.”

  “And forty-nine cents,” said Leon, warming to the plan.

  “And forty-nine cents,” Russet Furtles confirmed.

  The three fifth graders closed ranks and weighed the proposal. After considerable discussion, they came to a decision.

  “Well,” said Russet Furtles, “do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” said P.W.

  Russet Furtles propped himself on the table and leafed through the notebook. “The paint chip-potato chip comparison chart—did you come up with this yourself, Leon?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “My mom helped,” Lily-Matisse interjected.

  “That’s true,” said Leon. “Ms. Jasprow was the one who told me to check out the paint chips at the hardware store.”

  “And the chew factors?” said Russet Furtles. “Who devised those?”

  “I did,” said Leon. “And no offense, Mr. Furtles, but I think your brother is wrong if he thinks you can judge a chip without tasting it.”

  “Don’t get me started,” said Russet Furtles. “What about the three-coin test?”

  “That came from our science teacher,” said Leon.

  “Oh, yes, that would be Mr. Sparks. He’s the one I spoke to on the phone. I’m sorry the flu kept me out the day your class came to the factory. If my brother has his way, yours will be the very last tour we give. I trust none of you ate our potato chip presidents.”

  “No way,” Lily-Matisse assured him.

  “Glad to hear it,” said Russet Furtles as he shut the notebook.

  “So?” said P.W. “Is Leon’s book worth fifty-seven dollars and forty-seven cents?”

  “No,” said Russet Furtles.

  “No?” said Lily-Matisse.

  “No,” Russet Furtles repeated. “A look at this notebook is worth a whole lot more than fifty-seven dollars and forty-seven cents.” He reached into his wallet and handed Leon a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Hold on,” said Lily-Matisse. “I think I have change.” P.W. gave her a kick.

  “That’s okay,” said Russet Furtles. “You keep it. Buy yourselves some Double Crunchers.”

  “All right!” said P.W.

  “Thank you, Mr. Furtles,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Yeah, thanks!” said Leon.

  “I’m the one who should do the thanking,” said Russet Furtles. “Best hundred dollars I’ve spent since … well, since I bought a mint-condition Clinton at last year’s Chipapalooza!”

  As soon as Russet Furtles was out of earshot, P.W. let out a victory roar that almost rivaled the Chippo’s. “See, guys? Leon’s mom was right. It is in the bag.”

  “Not yet it isn’t,” Lily-Matisse cautioned. “We still need the vintage jacket.”

  “Which we are about to get,” said P.W. “Activate turbochargers. Next stop, Captain Frank’s Army and Navy Surplus!”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Captain Frank

  As soon as the Chip-Off came to an end, the three fifth graders beat a path to the pay phones outside the convention center and placed a call to Napoleon.

  “He’ll be here in five minutes,” Leon announced after he cradled the receiver.

  The yellow cab pulled up to the curb right on time. “How was the Cheep-Off, Monsieur Leon?”

  “You better point the dial on the moodometer to nine.”

  Napoleon flashed a silver-toothed smile. “You won?”

  “Nope,” said Leon.

  “He came in second,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “And earned a hundred bucks!” P.W. added. “Show him.”

  Leon produced the crisp new bill.

  “We must celebrate,” said Napoleon.

  “Absolutely,” said P.W. “And I know just the place.” He gave Napoleon Captain Frank’s address.

  “Monsieur Pay Dooble-vay, that is not in a great part of town.”

  “We won’t be there long,” said P.W.

  “How long is that?” Napoleon asked.

  “Just long enough to pick up something special for Leon,” Lily-Matisse answered sweetly.

  A half hour later, P.W. led Leon and Lily-Matisse into the courtyard of an old brick warehouse. “Must be over there,” he said, pointing to a field cannon that flanked a distant doorway.

  “You don’t say,” said Lily-Matisse. “How could you tell?”

  A painted sign in the shape of a dog tag confirmed P.W.’s hypothesis.

  They entered a cramped shop. It was filled, floor to ceiling, with military gear. There were khakis and canteens, face paint and battle flags, tents, hats, caps, and helmets, plus enough army boots to outfit a barefoot battal
ion.

  “The place looks deserted,” said Lily-Matisse.

  Leon picked up a pair of handcuffs. “These could come in handy when Lumpkin returns to the playground.”

  “We won’t need ’em once we get Fathead working,” said P.W.

  They walked past a pile of parachutes.

  “Mmaaaaay shhuuu hannnnn mmme ghkajgdg!”

  Lily-Matisse let out a yelp.

  “It’s only P.W.,” said Leon. “Hey, P.W? We can’t understand a word you’re saying with that gas mask covering your face.”

  P.W. peeled off the mask. “I just said they should hand these out in the lunchroom when they’re serving beans.”

  “Will you guys knock it off!” said Lily-Matisse.

  “You heard her!” someone barked. “Knock it off!”

  All of a sudden, a man who could only be Captain Frank jumped out from behind a waist-high wall of sandbags. His face, hidden under brown and green camouflage paint, blended in with the surrounding surplus gear. “What do you grunts want?” he snarled between chews on a cigar stub.

  “I called a while back about a vintage army jacket,” said P.W.

  “The M42HBT in a large?”

  “Yes,” said P.W.

  “Yes what?” growled Captain Frank.

  “Yes, sir,” said P.W.

  “You positive about the size? All three of you pipsqueaks could fit into a large with room to spare.”

  “Can we see the jacket or not?” Lily-Matisse asked boldly.

  “Lock the safety on that yap of yours, missy,” Captain Frank commanded.

  Lily-Matisse refused to back down. “Do you have the jacket or don’t you?”

  “I’ve got it,” said Captain Frank defensively. He ducked under some mosquito netting, disappeared through a tent flap, and returned a minute later. “Here you go,” he said. “One vintage M42HBT, in the large.”

  “This is the jacket with the special pockets and the anti-gas flap, right?” said Leon.

  “Check for yourself,” Captain Frank said gruffly.

  Leon and P.W. inspected the jacket.

  “Looks okay to me,” said P.W.

  “Better try it on, Leon,” Lily-Matisse advised.

  Captain Frank let out a chortle when he saw Leon in the jacket. “Those sleeves go straight down to your knees!”

  “That’s good,” said Lily-Matisse. “It’ll fit our friend like a glove.”

  “Fine,” said Captain Frank. “One fifty-nine ninety-nine plus tax. No refunds, no returns.” He spat a fleck of cigar stub into an upturned helmet that doubled as a spittoon. “Cash only.”

  Lily-Matisse pulled out a fat roll of singles and fives. Leon added his crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. P.W. counted and re-counted the money and, after getting the okay from his friends, handed over the wad of cash.

  “Do you want the jacket gift wrapped?” Captain Frank asked sarcastically.

  “That’s okay,” said Leon, rolling up the sleeves. “I’ll wear it home.”

  As they headed for the exit, something caught P.W.’s eye. “Hold on,” he said, surveying the contents of a display cabinet. “Hey, Captain Frank. How much for the sergeant stripes?”

  “Why? Looking to give your friend a promotion?”

  “Maybe,” said P.W

  “In that case,” said Captain Frank, “why settle for stripes? Ten bucks makes your buddy a general.”

  “Excellent!” said P.W.

  “General Lumpkin?” said Lily-Matisse. “Now that’s a scary thought.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Swap

  “General Zeisel reporting for duty!” Leon said, saluting his friends at the top of the school steps.

  “That jacket looks ridiculous on you, Leon,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Hey, show some respect to a superior officer,” P.W. said. He pretended to polish a silver star pinned on Leon’s shoulder.

  “Tell you what,” said Lily-Matisse. “I’ll show respect after we’ve completed the swap.”

  Lumpkin first spotted the star-spangled jacket during homeroom. He tried to approach, but the bell rang before he could close in. During the classes that followed, Lumpkin’s interest only intensified.

  “He’s watching,” said Lily-Matisse at lunch.

  “Like a shark circling his next meal,” said P.W.

  The circles got smaller and smaller as the day progressed. But it was only after school that Lumpkin took the bait.

  “Hey, Leon! Wait up. Where’d you get the jacket?”

  Leon was standing at the curb, with Lily-Matisse and P.W. observing from a safe distance. “A guest left it in his room,” he said.

  “It’s way too big on you,” said Lumpkin.

  “I guess,” Leon responded, trying to sound casual.

  “Kind of makes you look dorky.”

  “What does?”

  “The jacket.”

  “I don’t know,” said Leon. “This anti-gas flap is kind of cool. And check out the stars.” Keep calm, he told himself.

  “Too bad for you your guest wasn’t smaller,” said Lumpkin.

  “Yeah, well, what can you do?”

  Lumpkin stared at the silver stars.

  Come on, Leon said to himself. Say it. Say the magic word….

  “Wanna swap?” Lumpkin blurted out.

  Bingo!

  “Swap?” said Leon, as if the idea took him totally by surprise.

  “Yeah,” said Lumpkin. “See, this way, you get an army jacket that fits you, and I get an army jacket that fits me.”

  “I don’t know,” said Leon, pretending to hesitate. “My jacket has stars, plus—” He stopped himself in mid-sentence when he noticed Lumpkin’s fingers starting to curl into fists. “Well, okay. I guess we can swap.”

  Lumpkin shucked off his jacket. “At the count of three?”

  “Sure,” said Leon, removing the M42HBT.

  Lumpkin counted. “One, two, three!” He clamped onto the M42HBT and tossed his own jacket over Leon’s head.

  The stench knocked Leon for a loop. By the time he freed himself from the stink bomb, Lumpkin was long gone.

  P.W. and Lily-Matisse approached.

  “Don’t get too close,” Leon cautioned. “This jacket reeks worse than clam chips.”

  P.W. treated the warning as a challenge and leaned over to take a whiff.

  “P.U.!” he exclaimed “That’s worse than week-old gym sock soaked in month-old fish guts!”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Transfusion

  An hour after the swap, Leon, P.W., and Lily-Matisse (plus one very smelly army jacket) were back at Trimore Towers. Leon chained the door to his apartment and prepared for yet another operation.

  “Lily-Matisse, set out the towel. P.W., go fetch the bed lamp. I’ll check over the repair tools.”

  “Want me to prep Fathead?” P.W. asked after he’d plugged in the lamp.

  “Not yet,” said Leon. “First we’ve got to turn Lumpkin’s jacket into stuffing. Here, take a sleeve.”

  P.W. grabbed onto one cuff; Leon held the other.

  “Ready?” said Leon.

  P.W. nodded, and the two boys tugged in opposite directions.

  “Man oh man, this cotton is tough,” P.W. declared.

  “You won’t get anywhere doing that,” said Lily-Matisse. “Why not use the knife ring?”

  “Good idea,” said Leon.

  Lily-Matisse and P.W. held up the jacket, and Leon attacked it like a half-crazed ninja. In a few minutes, he had reduced the sleeves to shreds.

  “That must have been satisfying,” said P.W.

  “It was,” Leon confirmed. “I just hope the material wads up okay.”

  “Why shouldn’t it?” Lily-Matisse asked nervously.

  “Because it’s a lot thicker than panty hose,” said Leon.

  “It’ll work fine,” P.W. said. “Now let’s get the operation over with.”

  “Hold on,” said Leon. “There’s one more thing to do before I start.” He r
eached under his bed and pulled out a bag of Furtles Double Crunchers.

  “What are those for?” asked Lily-Matisse.

  “Don’t you remember what Sparks said during the flameout experiment and the potato clock lab?”

  “Remind us,” said P.W.

  Leon opened the bag and said, “Sparks told us potato chips are a first-rate energy source.” He took a chip and ate it.

  “Hey, give me some of that energy source!” P.W. demanded.

  “And me,” said Lily-Matisse.

  The contents of the bag quickly vanished.

  “Now can you operate?” P.W. asked.

  “Yup,” said Leon.

  He reopened the seam running just above Fathead’s scalp line. Panty hose popped out the moment he released the pressure.

  Leon placed the gray matter to one side.

  “He looks like a beady-eyed sock,” said Lily-Matisse after the de-hosing.

  “Fathead ain’t Fathead no more,” said P.W.

  Leon adjusted the wire-hanger armature inside the emptied figure, then began the refilling process. He poked small wads of jacket cotton into the extremities with the eraser end of a pencil. The results proved disappointing. “The material keeps bunching up funny,” he said as he removed the stuffing.

  “Why don’t you do what my mom does when she has her class make pincushions?” Lily-Matisse said.

  “What’s that?” said Leon.

  Lily-Matisse picked up a strip of cotton and pulled at the individual threads until the fabric turned into fluff.

  Leon rubbed the fluff between his fingers. “Not bad,” he said. “It might work.”

  After an hour spent teasing apart the cotton, Leon said, “That ought to do it.” He refilled the body with the fluff and closed the hairline seam. “He’s still a bit lumpy, but the shape is a whole lot better than before.”

  “We should double-check for biometric inconsistencies,” P.W. said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Lily-Matisse.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” P.W.’s expression made clear he was not. So Lily-Matisse and Leon waited while P.W. took measurements of the limbs, head, and body of the refilled spitting image and then compared them with the numbers on his graph paper chart.