There's a Fungus Among Us

We now take a brief respite from the book-signing shenanigans in order to illustrate the burden that The Pony must bear in being the beloved son of Val Thevictorian.

On the way home to Backroads, Hick's thoughts turned to feeding stations along the route. He was pushing Red Robin with all the gusto of a tow-headed two-year-old pushing one of those dadburned popcorn-popper contraptions. The Pony agreed that he would consume something from that establishment. Hick declared that he knew just where one was located, having seen it on his trip to the eye specialist for some minor surgery a couple months ago.

Hick sweaved and he swove, maneuvering my Tahoe through surging Saturday-evening traffic like George Costanza saving a record-high Frogger machine from a power outage. Shooting out onto a four-lane one-way thoroughfare, Hick commanded us to look for the Red Robin sign. Darkness was falling. Neon lights glowed. I spied a Surf and Turf where Hick imagined a Red Robin. Then we both saw it. Red Robin on the left. Three lanes over. Receding in our rear-view mirrors.

"Hey, there's an ophthalmologist surgery center."

"I know. That's where I went for my eye surgery."

"It's right across from the Red Robin."

"Yeah. I knew it was here somewhere."

"Huh. I guess you couldn't see it clearly. BECAUSE YOU'D JUST HAD EYE SURGERY!"

There was no going back. Hick rejected Plan B proposed by Val, which was the Festus Imo's. He instead offered Plan C. "...some Chinese place where CiCi's used to be." The Pony and I were on board. We filed in and grabbed plates. The Pony opted for his standby, Sweet and Sour Chicken. He placed his napkin across his khaki-shorted lap like a well-bred little country beast, so as not to drip sticky sauce onto his clothing. He is the antithesis of the bespotted Genius, he whom the Tide Pen inventor envisioned as his target market.

Somewhere in the feeding frenzy, I opted to try a fried frog's leg. I had not grabbed it the first go round. The more I thought of that pan of frogs' legs, the more I knew I must take the bait. When else am I going to come across frogs' legs that are so easy for the taking? Of course, nobody can put a single frog's leg on a plate at a Chinese buffet. So I slapped on a few slices of peppered beef. Some more tasty mushrooms in garlicky spicy brown sauce that I'd sampled on the first plate.

By the time I sat back down, The Pony beside me had finished his meal of S & S Chicken and two sugary biscuits. He fiddled and faddled. He'd forgotten to bring in a phone for gaming, or a book to pass the time. He stirred his Sprite in excess. Hick told him to cool it. The Pony heaved a sigh. He looked at my plate.

"Hey, try a bite of this frog's leg. C'mon. You can tell everybody that not only did you go to a haunted bookstore, you ate a frog's leg."

"No. I'm not eating that."

"C'mon. You'll be sorry."

"No I won't. I'm not eating it."

"Huh. Neither am I right now. That is HOT!" I had taken a bite, and hot grease shot out. Luckily it only burned my side-lip, rather than dripping to stain my shirt.

"See? Aren't you glad I didn't try it and make a mess?" The Pony took the napkin off his lap and put it on the table.

I forked a bit of peppered beef into my mouth, and went to stab a mushroom. It refused to be stabbed, and skittered out from under my tines like a tiddly-wink leaping out from under the edge of the shooter, LANDING ON THE PONY'S LEFT THIGH ON THE POCKET OF HIS KHAKI CARGO SHORTS.

"Really, Mom? Really?"

I cleaned him up the best I could before he had to walk out. Did you know that a bit of Diet Coke dripped from a straw and scratched in with a fingernail can lift a greasy stain as good as a Tide Pen? It's true.

And frogs' legs taste like chicken.