Free The Mortal Nuts by Pete Hautman Page A

Snelling Avenue exit ramp and turned toward the fairgrounds.
    â€œHow come we got to go out here, anyway?”
    â€œI have to meet the Coke guy. Also, I want to check out the restaurant and make sure we’re ready. Why? You have something else you wanted to do?”
    â€œI thought Sophie was supposed to get everything ready.”
    â€œShe did. I just want to take another look.”
    He pulled into the fairgrounds through the six-lane blue- and-green entrance gate. The quiet, peaceful fairgrounds he had visited the night before had transformed into a human anthill of activity, cars and trucks everywhere, the grounds crawling with exhibitors, concessionaires, deliverymen, and state fair employees. It was setup day, the last day before the first day of the fair. Axel nursed his truck along Dan Patch Avenue. Groundskeepers were mowing and trimming the grassy boulevards and lawns and sweeping the wide streets. As always, he was struck by the beauty of the freshly groomed fairgrounds. The grassy aprons were a deep rich green, perfectly manicured, looking almost artificial in the bright morning sunlight. Sculpted rock and flower gardens decorated the grassy medians, brilliantly colored, every plant at its florid peak. Even the streets and curbs were spotless. The benches sported fresh coats of green and blue paint, as did the trash receptacles and recycling bins and information kiosks and lampposts. Many of the concession stands were new or had been refurbished, each one striving to be unique and more visible than its neighbor.
    â€œThat’s new,” said Axel, pointing at a fresh-fried-potato- chip stand. “So’s that.” He nodded toward a small, brightly colored stand that advertised Tropical Shaved Ice. “That’ll give the sno-cone guys fits.”
    They turned on Underwood Avenue. Painters from Midway Sign Company were adding a fresh coat of paint to the Beer Garden signs. “I’d love a piece of that action,” said Axel. The Beer Garden was the ultimate fairgrounds concession. For twelve days, twelve hours a day, dozens of strong young bartenders poured 3.2 beer as fast as it would come out of the kegs. Ten thousand gallons a day, he’d heard. “I bet they clear a million bucks.”
    â€œYou should sell beer,” Carmen said.
    Axel shook his head. “Wish I could, but the beer concessions are all tied up.” He pulled the truck to the curb opposite a wide, sloping, tree-lined grassy mall. The mall ran the length of the block and was a good two hundred feet wide. The central area was dotted with small picnic tables, benches, and trash containers. To the left side, the squat, ugly shape of the Food Building ran the entire length of the mall, an assortment of concessions—Orange Treet, Pineapple-on-a-Stick, Black Walnut Taffy—lined up against its white cinder-block wall. On the other side of the grassy expanse, blazing red and white and green in the morning sunshine, sat Axel’s Taco Shop. “Here we are.”
    Carmen said, “Hey … cool. You got new signs.”
    Axel climbed out of the truck and strode proudly toward his concession. It was beautiful, AXEL’S TACO SHOP , the overhead sign proclaimed in big red and green outlined letters. A red-and-black zigzag border made the letters pop out. That had been the sign painter’s idea. To the left of the lettering a smiling Mexican wearing a sombrero was saying, Muy bueno! It’s good! The Mexican’s plywood sombrero extended out past the edge of the sign, giving him a larger- than-life look. That had been Axel’s idea. The opposite end featured a picture of a taco overflowing with meat, cheese, and lettuce. The taco, too, extended out past the border, balancing nicely with the sombrero. It looked delicious.
    The rest of the twenty-five-foot-long concession sported a fresh coat of bright white paint, with the corner posts painted red to match the new countertop. Axel