The cows clomped up to a building the color of spicy brown mustard. The big front window was framed in ketchup red, while some sort of green splashed around the drive-through window. Pickle, I think. Dill. A big, swirly plastic plop of strawberry ice cream loomed atop the roof, sprouting up behind a sign lettered in chocolate brown: “Clarey’s Burgers and Cones.”
The jostling of the cow had already set my stomach at odds with the rest of me. The sight of the place nearly finished me off. Did I mention the Swiss cheese-colored curtains? With actual holes.
The ice cream lady didn’t take kindly to cows lumbering up to the drive-through window. “If she spills it, you’re cleaning it, kid!”
Cowback King Bash bowed from his black-and-white, uh, steed. “We’ll have two hot fudge sundaes to go from this colorful castle.”
“Look, smart guy . . .” Right about then, Lulabelle poked her pink nose through the dill pickle service window, knocking over two Cokes set out for another order. She pushed further through the window, tilted her head sideways for a better reach and slurped Cokes in big pink swipes of that long, curling cow tongue. She scooped up a couple dozen packs of salt while she was at it.
The lady slapped Lulabelle’s snout, trying not to touch cow snot mixed with Coke. “Shoo! Shoo!”
“Mmmooooaaaaawwww,” Lulabelle bellowed.
The clerk jumped back, crunching into a stack of cones poking out of a dispenser. Lulabelle casually withdrew her head, munching on a bag of fries she’d snagged.
“I didn’t know cows liked french fries.”
Bash looked at me like I was a first-grader. “Duh, they’re vegetarians.”
“Then it’s a good thing she didn’t chomp that hamburger too.”
“Duh, again. Hamburgers aren’t made from ham, you know.”
“So why call them hamburgers? Why not cowburgers?”
Bash threw up his hands. “That wouldn’t make any sense. Tomorrow we can ride a couple of the pigs here, and then we can order hamburgers. Just don’t get hot dogs. They’re not . . .”
“Yeah, I know, not made from dogs. What do they use for fish sandwiches? Owls?”
“Fish, chipmunk brain. Why would they call it a fish sandwich if it wasn’t fish?”
“No reason.”
Bash shook his head. “Owls. What a nitwit.”
While we discussed the menu, the nervous clerk splotched ice cream into two cups, splashed hot fudge on top and shoved the sundaes at us.
“Take them and get out of here or I’ll call Clarence.”
The Basher tipped his ball cap in a Cowback King salute. “We’ll ride our hogs in tomorrow. I’ve trained my pig Gulliver J. McFrederick the Third and he’s real good. Wait till you see!”
“We’re closed tomorrow.” She slammed the window.
Bash steered the cows toward the picnic tables. “See, I told you they’d be so excited that they’d give us our ice cream for free.”
“She was excited, all right.”
“But I really thought she’d shoot our picture for the newspaper.”
“She wanted to shoot, all right.”
---------
Our hot fudge sundaes finished, Bash grabbed Lulabelle’s horns like a videogame controller and aimed her toward the road. “Giddyup.” The cows didn’t move.
“Bash, I don’t think they understand ‘horse’ talk.”
Bash scratched his head and tried again. “Milkshakes.”
The store lady threw open a side door and zinged peanuts and M&Ms at us. “No milkshakes. Get lost. Now.” She slammed the door.
The cows wandered out of the parking lot, rejoining the stream of honking, angry drivers. At least sticky ice cream hands gave a better grip. At the speed of snails, we swayed, bounced and bumped our way toward home. If I wasn’t so busy holding Daisy’s neck, I’d hold my stomach. I was going to be sick if we didn’t stop soon.
The cows stopped.
A Mustang blared past. A Jeep Cherokee hurtling the other direction slowed to a crawl as a gob of kids leaned out the windows and laughed. A big-haired woman squawked from a tiny Beetle stuck in front of our stuck cows. A red-faced guy in a semi looked ready to push us off the road.
Bash clicked his heels against Lulabelle’s sides. “Milkshakes. Giddyup milkshakes!”
I groaned at the thought of moving but feared standing still. “Why did we stop?”
“Clover blossom.”
“Who’s Clover Blossom?”
“Not who—what. See those purple clover blossoms alongside the road? Lulabelle loves ’em. She stopped for a snack.”
Daisy dipped her head for a few mouthfuls. I nearly slid nose-first down her neck. The fact that ramming into her horns would have stopped me from kissing pavement was little comfort. “Well, get them moving.”
“Have you ever tried to interrupt a cow eating clover? Too bad you didn’t bring one of your comic books. You’d have lots of time to read it.”
The Beetle lady inched around us, her big hair bobbing like an angry poodle. I don’t know the meaning of half the words she barked when she slipped past us but I got the idea.
Cowback King Bash stiffened. “Uh-oh,” he whispered.
“I know, but she’s gone now.”
“Not her. Way up the road—see that car weaving through traffic?”
“What? What?” It was the rare thing that could make Bash nervous. This must be bad.
“That looks like Ma’s car. I forgot to ask her if we could take the cows out for a walk.”
“I thought you said they let you ride the cows.”
“They do, on the farm. It’s my first time on the road.” Bash glanced at the wildly approaching car. “She’s probably upset that we didn’t invite her along for such a great idea. She could have ridden a cow too.”
I gaped at Bash. “You said riding a cow on the road was just like riding a bicycle.” How could so much stupid be rolled into one skinny boy? I doubted that being left out of the cow caravan bugged Aunt Tillie one bit.
Bash slid off Lulabelle’s back. “We better hurry.”
He planted himself behind Lulabelle and pushed. She didn’t appear to notice. He backed up a few steps and ran, slamming into her rear quarter while shouting, “Milkshake!” The startled Lulabelle bolted across the road, an orange pickup careening around her. Daisy darted after her, almost slamming into the truck.
Lulabelle hurdled the ditch. Daisy . . . oh, no. Don’t jump!
Lulabelle landed as gracefully as a blocky, fifteen-hundred-pound steak on legs can, and scampered through the corn, crushing young plants in her wake. Daisy soared after her with me flapping above her like a cape on Supercow.
I thudded back onto my cowhide perch just as I heard a car door slam and Aunt Tillie shriek. “Raymond William, come back here with those cows right now!”
Whether the cows came or went wasn’t up to me. Daisy tore after Lulabelle, with me thumping up and down on her back like a kid on a candy rush whomping a drum. I bounced backward until I slid right down her tail. Then a hoof caught me in the stomach. Worse, I lost my hot fudge sundae too.
As I lay there gasping and heaving in the dirt and corn stalks, I heard the Basher explaining his grand plan to Aunt Tillie.
“. . . and I had my allowance to pay for the ice cream but the lady gave it to us for free ’cause of how great our idea was. I shoulda remembered to invite you, Ma. You woulda loved it!”
Aunt Tillie didn’t. “Hang onto that allowance because it’s the last you’ll see until you’re seventeen. Make that a hundred and seventeen! Now go get those cows. And pull your cousin’s face out of the dirt.”
That night, after Daisy, Lulabelle and the rest of the herd that had wandered through the open gate were rounded up—nope, it hadn’t latched—after apologies were made for half an acre of ruined corn, and after my breath almost returned, Bash and I sprawled across the beds in his room.
Bash snickered. “That was a bad idea.”
“No kidding. Your mom yelled like I meant for the cows to crush the neighbor’s corn. It wasn’t me who thought up riding cows to a drive-through window.”
“Not that. That was a great idea.”
“Does the elevator reach your top floor?”
“I meant our rodeo act. The dismount where the cow kicks you on the way down didn’t come off as funny as I thought. Your idea of smooshing your nose in her side works much better. Do that one again next time.”
I heaved my pillow at the cackling gooney bird, then rolled over against the far wall, as far away from Bash as I could get.
“Ya gotta admit, Ray-Ray, we had fun.”
No, we didn’t. I’d get him for this. Oh, I’d get him back.
I hated this place.