The Last Annual Slugfest Read Online Free PDF Page B

time, Mr. Bobbs. You probably just wanted everyone’s attention, right?”
    Mr. Bobbs stared at the spoon. His nostrils drew back from the smell.
    “Ah, yes, the aroma of fine food, right, Mr. Bobbs?” Bert Lucci sounded more like an emcee and less like a handyman with each comment. Mr. Bobbs didn’t move.
    “Let’s give him some encouragement, folks.”
    The audience began to clap rhythmically.
    “Down the hatch!” someone called out in time with the clapping. The rest of the audience picked up the chant. I could make out the voices of two meter readers, loud and gleeful. “Down the hatch! Down the hatch!”
    Mr. Bobbs opened his mouth.
    “Down the hatch!”
    He swallowed hard, shut his eyes, and shoved the spoon in his mouth.
    The room shook with applause and stamping of feet.
    Mr. Bobbs’s eyes opened wide. Then he gagged. He clutched his throat, stumbled off the platform, and staggered into the bathroom.

CHAPTER 4
    T HERE WAS A MOMENT’S silence after Mr. Bobbs’s dash for the bathroom, then a few unsure ripples of laughter came from the audience.
    “Well, there’s one opinion of Slug Cocktail,” Bert Lucci announced. He paused for the audience’s response as if he’d been honing his timing for years. When it was quiet again, he said to Curry Cunningham, “Top that judgment!” Handing him the microphone, he muttered, “I’ll be back,” and headed for the bathroom.
    It was the custom for each judge to comment on each dish. This was what the audience really came to hear.
    Curry Cunningham looked down at the remains of his Slug Cocktail. His brow wrinkled, and I could almost see him trying to assess what the proper tone should be. “I’d have to say,” he said slowly, “that Slug Cocktail is a very moving dish.”
    His choice was correct. Bursts of laughter greeted him, and it was as if he had assured everyone that Mr. Bobbs need not be taken seriously. He passed the microphone to Angelina Rudd.
    “Now I know how the salmon feel when they take the bait,” she said.
    “Have seconds,” someone called.
    Father Calloway took the microphone. He held it before him a moment, then said in a low, almost intimate voice, “You know those restaurants that offer free hors d’oeuvres …” The audience howled.
    Edwina Henderson accepted the microphone. I realized I had almost forgotten she was there. “It’s not likely to be in the Henderson City Cookbook,” she said. Her words were so clipped, her delivery so schoolmarmish, that it was several moments before the audience reacted.
    Chris had taken Leila’s place. He nudged me. “Vejay, Bert’s over there by the bathroom. He’s motioning to you.”
    I looked up. Bert nodded at me. I raised an eyebrow. He beckoned me with a finger.
    “What does he want with me, Chris?”
    “Maybe you’re Mr. Bobbs’s nearest and dearest.”
    Chris was joking, but the thought struck me that perhaps Mr. Bobbs was sicker than we’d imagined. Still, I was hardly a friend of his. I was merely one of his employees, an unfavored one at that. But I couldn’t refuse Bert’s summons. I got up and made my way around the back of the stage to the bathroom door.
    Bert was standing outside it. “He’s in there.”
    I nodded.
    “Look, I see men throw up every single weekend. That bathroom don’t look right if there’s no one hung over the sink. I haul them up, clean them up, steer them out, and drop them in bed. It’s like those spoon cookies my mother used to make.”
    And that, I thought, was a comment worthy of the Slugfest microphone.
    “But this guy … I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to leave him. But I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back there.”
    Curry Cunningham called, “Come on, Bert. You can take Bobbs’s place.”
    Bert nodded in his direction. To me he said, “You work for PG and E,” as if that explained everything. And before I could object, he headed back to the stage.
    I stood outside the door, absently listening to the rhythm of