Deborah Halverson - Big Mouth

Lucy set her banana in the ice cream cup, then leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms. “And just what are we forgetting?”

“An image.”

“An image?” I said, a fleck of pizza flying out of my mouth. Lucy frowned as I wiped it up with a napkin. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, an image.” Gardo continued. “All famous competitors have images. Just watch ESPN and you’ll see.” Gardo knew about ESPN. He watched it every night, studying the sportscasters for the day when he anchors the highlight reels. He’s going to be rich and famous, too. “Fame is all about sponsors and advertising, and to them image is everything. We have to make Shermie bigger than life. We have to sell him to the fans.”

“We can make signs.” I swallowed before talking that time, so no pizza spray. “There’s some green paint in our garage from when Grampy moved in and made my dad paint his room. We can hang the signs around campus. We can even put my picture on them. People will notice that.” I smiled my cheesiest all-cheek Thuff smile.

“That’s not what he’s talking about,” Lucy said. “He wants you to dress up in some stupid costume, like that Gaseous Maximus guy. He’ll probably have you in a giant hot dog suit, dancing around like that old drive-in snack bar cartoon.”

“A dancing hot dog?” Over my dead body. “No way!”

“It’s not stupid,” Gardo protested. “And you won’t have to wear a giant hot dog suit. Quick, Shermie, who’s the most famous wrestler ever?”

“Easy. Hulk Hogan.” Of course I knew that. Gardo made me watch his WWE videos whenever we were at his house. I hated wrestling, but I didn’t complain because that’s what friends do for each other, they like the other’s stuff. At my house, he had to watch Galactic Warriors. The only ones running around in spandex shorts clotheslining each other on that show were the female aliens. “Hulk is the most famous ever.”

“You got it, Shermie. The Hulkster.” Gardo sat back and crossed his arms, a mirror image of Lucy. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Ahhh.” I nodded slowly, like I knew what the heck his point was.

Lucy didn’t nod. “ What’s what you’re talking about?”

Gardo leaned forward and talked slowly. “Hulk Hogan has been retired for years, but even people who don’t like wrestling know him.” He shot me a quick look when he said that last part.

Yikes. I didn’t know he could tell I hated wrestling. “Gardo’s got a point, Lucy.” I nodded real hard. “Hogan didn’t wear weird stuff, and he is famous.”

“Well, he did wear feather boas sometimes,” Gardo admitted. “But what I’m saying is, it’s not about the costume. All the wrestlers have costumes of some kind but not all the wrestlers are famous like Hogan. It’s about having an extra-large personality. That’s what makes a guy famous. Hulk Hogan had it. Shermie has it.”

“People do like me,” I said.

“Sometimes,” Lucy muttered.

Gardo put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a manly shake. “Most of the time. And that’s his ticket. People remember him. We just have to figure out how to bottle that. Turn his personality into an official image and build his rep. You know, market him.”

I nodded vigorously. “Building is good. I like to build.”

“You like your ego stroked,” Lucy mumbled.

“Among other things.” I threw my crumpled napkin at her, but she batted it away easily.

“Don’t be crude.”

“This isn’t about Shermie’s ego,” Gardo said. “It’s about his image. Trust me on this one, Shermie, I’m a guy, I know these things.”

“And I’m his coach. ” Lucy tapped her colorful binder. “You can’t build a house without a foundation. To be a champion, the first things Shermie has to work on are his eating skills. He has to develop a bite technique, learn to control his throat muscles, build his jaw strength…” She opened the binder and pointed to one of her graphs: The Carr t Ch mp — Jaw Strengthening Exercises “ This is his ticket.”

Gardo glanced at the graph with all its girly hearts and curlicues, then reached out and flipped back a page, where he read the label on the graph Lucy just spent so much time computing.

“Graph one, hot dogs?” He closed the binder with a flip of his wrist. “We need to think bigger than that. We need something that screams Sherman T. Thuff. You want people screaming your name, don’t you, Shermie?”

I imagined crowds of people chanting my name. Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! My heart started racing. Thuff! Thuff! Thuff! Yeah, I could handle that; I was ready to be famous. Del Heiny Junior 13 was peanuts. I wanted the whole world to know who Sherman T. Thuff was. Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!

“Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!” I shouted.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” Gardo punched me in the shoulder again, even harder this time. “I’m sorry, Lucy, but ‘graph one, hot dogs’ is just not Thuff enough. Hey!” He pounded the table solidly with his palm, making me and Lucy both jump. “That’s it! That’s our hook. ‘Are You Thuff Enuff?’ E-N-U-F-F. It’s perfect!”

I imagined people shouting at me, “Are YOU Thuff Enuff?” and me shouting back, “I AM!”

“Perfect!” I pounded the table, too. “I can already see it, I’ll jog up to the hot dog table with ten thousand fans chanting ‘Thuff! Thuff! Thuff!’ all of them wearing T-shirts with my name on them. Me, Sherman ‘Thuff Enuff’ Thuff. Awesome!”

“Oh, we’re not stopping at crummy T-shirts, my friend.” Gardo picked up another pizza slice and eyed it from different angles. “We’ll do hats and sweatshirts and mugs. The memorabilia shop on level four will be begging for Thuff Enuff stuff. Begging! And the endorsement deals, they’ll pour in by the boatload.” He bit into the slice and talked while he chewed. None of his food spit out, though. “Thuff Enuff, my good man, I am going to make you rich and famous.”

I thumped him solidly on the back. “And when I’m rich and famous, Gardo Esperaldo, you can call my play-by-play at the Glutton Bowl.”

“Oh, I’ll call it, all right.” He tossed his slice back into the box and jumped to his feet with his arms spread wide, right in the middle of the food court. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, sports fans of all ages! I give you the one, the only…Sherman ‘Thuff Enuff’ Thuff!”

He yanked my hand straight up into the air like I was Rocky Balboa himself. I went with it, standing up and throwing my other arm into the air.

“Sit down!” Lucy whipped up her binder to hide her blushing face.

Some kids in yellowy-red GO, ROMA TOMATOES! T-shirts pointed at our table from the Nature’s Nectar smoothie counter. Seventh graders, probably. Their matching yellowy-red ball caps were tilted back on their heads as they slurped at their fruit shakes. The geeks. One of them dropped his smoothie, splashing pink goo up the front of his jeans.

Please tell me I wasn’t that pathetic last year. “So they’re looking at us,” I told Lucy. “Who cares? We’re higher up in the food chain than a bunch of pea-greeners.” A seventh grader’s opinion was as useful as an empty can of Coke, especially seventh graders from Del Heiny Junior High #11, home of the Roma Tomatoes. I shouted in their direction: “Thank you! Thank you!”