The Milkshake Variations V. I

In our continued effort here at Lorenzo Kincade to preserve the Milkshake we offer another in our series of Milkshake Stories.

Man swaddles up into my soda fountain and wanders to the side wall. Jacks his right boot up against the wall and runs his hand through his greasy, stylish hair. Pulls out a plug of tobacco and snaps it off with his teeth.

Starts casing the place. Checks the customers, possible exits. The damn menu. I don't know what he's looking at, truth be told. Guy's wearing a black leather jacket and I don't trust a man with slicked back hair and a leather coat. So I keep an eye on him.

Line of customers and he waits til they're all clear. Comes up to the counter, stares right at me, I got my hand on the sawed-off pump-action Remington 870 under the counter.

Guy asks for a chocolate peanut butter cup swirl milkshake. Like that's a real thing. And then he slams a five on the counter, says, don't forget the cherry on top.

I try to be nice, not causing any trouble or nothing and tell him there ain't no such thing as a chocolate peanut butter cup swirl milkshake.

He says, you got chocolate, I says sure do. He says, got peanut butter cups, I nod my head and say indeed. Got milkshakes here, he asks, and I say that's the fact, Jack. Asks me if I got a spoon. Sure do got a spoon is what I tell him. So he says why don't you make me a milkshake, put some damn chocolate in it, then add some peanut butter cup, stick a spoon down the thing and swirl it around. And don't forget the cherry, he adds.

My grip on the sawed-off tightens and I force myself to take a few deep breaths. Look, I tell the man, this is a family place. We don't do stuff like that and we only make milkshakes they way they always ever been made: vanilla, chocolate or vanilla. Take it or leave it, bub, them's your options, is what I tell him.

Guy starts rubbing his hands together, then bangs the counter. Don't make sense, he says, just don't make any damn sense.

I tell him, I just make the milkshakes, not the rules. Tell him I don't want any trouble. Just pick one of the three acceptable forms of milkshake, vanilla, chocolate or strawberry and I'll go and make one for him. Even put a cherry on top, but that's as far as it goes when you make a milkshake. I suppose you could add a little whipped cream too and that'd be okay, but any more than the whipped cream and the cherry and you ain't got yourself a milkshake anymore. I try my best to make him listen, but you can't always make a man listen.

I'm afraid this man ain't the listening type. I slowly start to pull the Remington out from under the counter. I don't know a whole lot about guns. I do know some basics about the shotgun though. On average, when shooting 'shot,' as opposed to a slug, the shot from a shotgun will travel at the rate of 1200 feet per second. I can't really imagine that distance. 1200 feet. It's kind of a lot, so think about the shot moving at 120 feet per 1/10th of a second. I can gauge that distance much easier, but I can't so much gauge the time. All I can say is that it's fast. The problem is that shot fired from a shotgun tends to disperse about 8 inches every 25 feet; meaning that if you're standing 1200 feet away from someone firing a shotgun at you, chances are you'll be just fine. If you're standing about 20 feet away, there's a chance that the shot could miss you. Then again, there's the chance that it won't miss you at all; that you'll find yourself catapulted backward with shot dispersing into your chest, neck and abdomen while you are being blown at least a half dozen feet backward. This guy's a mere foot from where the shotgun would fire. It'd send him splat through the wall and a few days into last week. I really don't want to do this, but the virtue of the milkshake is at risk here and I'm its guardian, Lord help me.

What if you call it something else, he asks. Could you still make it, but just call it something else.

I move the Remington back under the counter, loosen my grip and set it down slowly and quietly, hoping he hasn't heard anything.

Suppose I could do that, I say. Suppose I could. Just ain't sure what to charge. How's about your standard milkshake rate plus a buck for the peanut butter cups and the swirling action I'll have to perform with the spoon. Seems fair, he says, that seems mighty fair.

Well, I'm glad we could come to an agreement about this, I say. My only problem is that I'm not sure what to call it, I tell him. He suggests, why not call it chocolate ice cream with peanut butter cup, swirled together for a delicious treat. Heck, I say, that'll do for now, but I suppose I'll be needing to come up with something that's a bit easier to fit on the menu if this turns into a regular thing.

Why not name it after yourself, he says. What's your name, he asks. Jake, I tell him. Call it Jake's Special he suggests. That'll be easy enough for anybody to order and if they ask what it is, just say chocolate ice cream with peanut butter cups all swirled together, kind of like a milkshake, but not really a milkshake. Well, I don't want anybody getting any ideas that this is anything like a milkshake, I tell him, so I might just cut out that last part and out it on the menu as "Jake's Special (not a milkshake, but pretty darn good)."

I think that'll do just fine, the man says. You know what, I say back, I betcha it will be just fine.