Free Boy O'Boy by Brian Doyle

chocolate, pineapple or strawberry, hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream. They have butterscotch, Crispy Crunch, mini marshmallows, melon, blueberry, orange, peach, mango, coffee…
    Some of the sundaes in the pictures are in long curved dishes that are flat. Some are in tall vases narrow at the bottom and wide at the top. You get a spoon with a long handle if you pick a tall one.
    “I think I want the double banana split with chocolate and pineapple,” says Mr. George.
    I can’t make up my mind. Mr. George is sitting on the same side of the booth as I am. I’m pushed up close to the wall so it’s hard to look up to see all the pictures up there. He’s pressed against me.
    There’s one I see that is different than all the others. It’s called a David Harum. I don’t know what that is, a David Harum. But the picture looks good. The ice cream is not dribbling over the side and the dish is a different kind, not tall, not long and flat.
    “Why don’t you try the David Harum?” Mr. George says.
    “David Harum,” I say.
    “Good choice,” says Mr. George.
    Now right away I want to change my mind but it’s too late. The lady is writing down what we want on her little pad.
    She sticks her pencil behind her ear in her hair.
    “Another young choir singer, Mr. George?” she says.
    “Yes, he’s a beautiful singer,” Mr. George tells her.
    “Aren’t they all,” she says. “Aren’t they all!”
    Then she says, “Interesting shoes you’ve got, son. Waiting to grow into them, are ya?” Then she laughs.
    Mr. George says he’s been meaning to ask me about the shoes, about how long they are.
    I tell him about the shoes and the drunk man at Lefebvre’s Shoe Market. Mr. George looks really interested in my story about the shoes. He shakes his head and smiles. He likes me very much. His face shows it.
    The lady with the pencil in her hair is back. She puts the sundaes down. Mr. George’s banana split is half the size of the table. It has four scoops of ice cream drowned in chocolate and pineapple and sprinkled with nuts and a red cherry on each scoop and two bananas, split long ways, surrounding the ice cream.
    Mr. George digs in.
    My granny always said that when she slammed down the porridge bowl in front of me: “Dig in!”
    My sundae is different than Mr. George’s. It’s a lot smaller — about the size of a saucer. It’s only one scoop. And no dribbling over the side. And there’s not much sauce in it. And there’s no cherry. And there’s one nut cut in half sitting on the top.
    And there’s greenish brown liquid under the scoop of ice cream.
    “You got the most expensive one,” says Mr. George. “It must be really good!”
    I take my first taste with the short small spoon. I’ve never tasted anything like this. It’s a bit like peppermint but not really. And there’s a bit of a burning feeling but the ice cream makes it go away. And there’s a sniff or a taste, a little bit sour, like I sniff sometimes from my father in the bathroom — the Aqua Velva.
    I bite the nut in half and mix it with the ice cream and the greenish brown sauce. The taste goes up my nose and makes my eyes water.
    Mr. George is digging in. He looks like some of the men in Bowie’s Lunch shoveling in a whole pile of meat and potatoes. I’m eating bites so small I must look like a chipmunk nibbling away on sunflower seeds.
    We’re done. Mr. George gives money at the pay counter to the lady with the pencil stuck through her head.
    “How’re ya feelin, sonny? Hope you don’t have too big of a hangover tomorrow.” Then she laughs. “There’s crème de menthe and brandy in that little David Harum. Just a couple tablespoons each. Never hurtcha! HA! HA!”
    Her mouth is opening huge and I can see right down her throat because she’s leaning over the counter and down to me.
    The pencil looks as big as a log.
    “Straight home!” she roars and Mr. George takes me by the hand.

17
Heney Park
    I T’S NOT far