BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER 84

DAVID AND GILBERT

David is early to town, Furchner won't be in until eleven, so he drives across town to see how Gilbert's truck setup is doing.

His food truck is parked in the check and loan's lot. It's early but Gilbert is there, hard at work, David can tell. "THE CHOLESTEROL KINGDOM," the trailer's sign reads, the letters against a blue background of sky with puffy white clouds. To each side of the ordering window, a rendition of Mormon underwear, men's to the left, women's to the right. Blasphemy and heresy, David understands, but so blatant an expression of it widens his eyes.

"Quite an impression," David says, walking up to the window.

Gilbert is puttering in the kitchen. He turns. "Hey!"

"Looks good. You really sell jell-o?" He is reading the menu.

Gilbert laughs. "Some, but mostly it's just a garnish, a slice on every plate. It usually doesn't get eaten. Except by the kids. But sometimes I make a gourmet version that people like. Frogs eye, with cottage cheese, cream cheese."

"Mormons do like their whipped cream."

Funeral Potatoes.

"The Golden Plates are a nice touch." Gilbert grins, proud of that detail.

"Look at this." Gilbert hands him a screen, turns it on.

It reads "Mo/No-Mo," across the top in big letters, the instructions underneath reading: guess which engaged couple is Mormon, which is not.

"Treading on thin ice there, aren't you?"

"Try it."

David swipes the photos, chooses which seem the most clean cut.

"You'd be surprised," Gilbert says, "How accurate people are."

"I don't see anyone with tattoos. Or piercings. Or facial hair."

"That would be too easy."
 "It skews the score."

"Yeah, but it makes it harder."

"Speaking of tattoos," David says, nodding at Gilbert's forearm. "I see I lost that argument."

Gilbert holds up his arm and looks at the small tattoo, a rendition of a broken chain. "Nah," he says. "You win the argument, I just bypassed it."

They had had a running discussion for much of the summer, David trying to dissuade Gilbert from memorializing his trauma, Gilbert utilizing the "you did it, too," argument, suggesting David's ultra-long hair when he was Gilbert's age to be the equivalent of a tattoo.

Different, David had said. You choose once to have a tattoo, you wake up every morning deciding whether or not to keep your hair long. One decision is rash and you have to live with it, true, but the other is a commitment.

He didn't admit to Gilbert that he might have been susceptible to getting a tattoo had that been common at the time. That, and his father had 'Helen' scrolled on his arm—that couldn't have helped his relationship with David's mother.

He swipes for awhile, gets a perfect score. And ten percent off! He goes back to reading the menu.

"Koka Kolob—I like that." He reads further. "And the Mormon currency, that's an obscure touch."

Senine, Seon, Shum, Limnah, Shiblon, Shiblum, Leah.

"Only the Nephites seem to know it."

David chuckles. "Does the value fluctuate? Like dollars for euros?"

Gilbert laughs.

"And spam, where does that fit in?"

"That's an islander thing. You know, they're one of the twelve lost tribes of Israel. Hawaii, Tonga, Samoa—they all eat spam by the planeloads. Anywhere there was cannibalism, I guess, spam is the thing. Word is it tastes like human. 'Long pork', I'm told."

"I hope no one has done an actual scientific study on that."

Gilbert turns solemn. "I have to thank you, Mr. Burgess."

"David, goddammit. And you've thanked me."

"And I'll keep thanking you."

"Don't worry, if you don't make payments, I'll start my own food truck."

"Don't quit your day job. I've tasted your coffee."

David reads further on the menu. "Mormon tapas?" he asks.

Gilbert reaches under the counter and brings out a tray, sits it at the ordering window to show him.

"Sacrament tray, nice," David says. "Hard to find?"

"I know a guy," Gilbert says with a sinister mockery.

Scones. Fry sauce. "Eggs Melchizedek?" David asks.

"Velveeta instead of hollandaise. Spam to replace ham."

David makes a foul face.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Gilbert says. "I add a special spice."

David looks at his watch as customers drive up. "I have an appointment, Gil. Congratulations, looks great." He waves as he leaves, but Gilbert doesn't see him, is already serving early clients.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston