Konawallia Founders Fest, Kulwick County’s biggest annual event.
Terry DeBorte remembered when the sign was handpainted and Louise Fuller freaked because a thirteenth vendor wanted in.
Terry’s dad sold custom belt buckles and engraved lighters back then and was the great grandnephew of the actual founder of Konawallia, so they couldn’t deny him a slot in the county auction yard where the fest was originally held.
Now everything was sparkly and LED and a frigging bank that originated in Texas was the title sponsor.
Terry watched his new neighbor at the fest set up his bay.
Within minutes, maybe seconds, Terry knew the guy was new to the festival vending game.
Terry had first sold his Terry’s TasteBombs out of his dad’s belt buckle booth when he was 13.
Deep Fried Pickles and Deep Fried Twinkies.
The new guy loaded fresh fruit out of a Subaru wagon, stacking the boxes up mostly so they were in his own way.
Not only was the guy obviously new, he was generally clumsy, in an endearing, physical comedy kind of way.
Terry saw the guy’s boring signage. Smoothies.
A little knot formed in Terry’s stomach, right above his horseshoe belt buckle, on its side to resemble the D in DeBorte.
The buckle was his dad’s. Had he not inherited it, he’d never wear anything like it, but he wore it with pride, every year to the fest.
The biggest, most popular corporate smoothie company had a three wide stall directly across the new fairgrounds which had been rejuvenated and expanded with fed money.
This new guy was in trouble.
Terry walked next to his catering truck and spit through his teeth like his dad used to.
“Sellout sons o’ bitches,” he hiss-whispered to himself.
Ella and Yancey, his teenage helpers, waltzed over, on time, smiling.
Terry knew he overpaid ‘em, didn’t care. He’d have three lines 15 deep before noon for his ever-morphing menu of deep-fried delights.
Ella and Yancey started setting up the paper monkey dishes and the dipping sauce stacks. Three years and they were experts.
The new guy next door dropped a pineapple next to a folding table that looked like it was missing a leg lock collar.
Someone was backing in a trailer across the way with portable, by the minute tanning beds.
Terry’s eyes rolled so hard he was afraid they’d stick.
“Founder’s got farm tans,” he said out loud.
“Hunh?” Ella asked.
“Nothin’,” Terry said.
The new guy was plugging in a cash register that looked like it had gotten discarded from a pharmacy in 1989.
“Ell, will you offer the new guy some help? He looks lost over there.”
The deep fryers started kicking, Terry running a small batch for his display case and a few for some festival volunteers.
Yancey had the dipping sauces stacked in an artsy, twisting way that a Vegas fountain would be proud of.
Ella helped the man hang his smoothie sign.
“Lord, that sign’s boring,” Terry thought, catching the words before they audibly formed.
Terry put his deep-fried concoctions in the custom-built display case with the hi-viz, cartoonish names. The Mushroom Cloud, Ballz to the Wall, Teriyaki Twister, and next to them, the dessert offerings: Mississippi Mud Bombs, Choco-Knockouts, and Sugar Heaven.
The Kulwick County Bell rang to signal the opening of the Founders Fest and dozens of kids squealed as they ran for the midway.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.