Wickett's Remedy (39 page)

It’s nothing personal, Cecil. Maybe another time when I’m not feeling so worn out.

You think you’re coming down with something?

I don’t know, Cecil. I guess I’ll see how I feel in the morning.

THE QDISPATCH

VOLUME 11, ISSUE 5 AUTUMN 1993

Boston or Bust

Well, QDevotees, we came, we saw, and we celebrated. QD Soda is now officially seventy-five! Talk about aging well—the birthday girl didn’t look a day over twenty! I don’t know why I’ve always thought of the soda as a lady, perhaps it’s those cute bottles she comes in. But enough about me. The rest of this issue will be devoted to the main event: the QD Soda 75th Jubilee Celebration.

A Happy Arrival

In addition to those of us who live in the QD capital, a few of us from out of town were able to attend the festivities. Audrey Mantz and I both came in by bus Friday afternoon and Harold Lozenge drove down from Hartford. I think our most long distance arrival was Selma Kupik, who took the train all the way from Chicago. All of us out-of-towners stayed at the Best Western. Even though most of us stayed up past our bedtimes talking, it was still hard to fall asleep that first night. I for one didn’t get to sleep until long after midnight, and then I spent the whole time dreaming about the Jubilee.

A Promising Beginning

Saturday morning we met on Washington Street to take the walking tour. Many of us had taken it before, but it was still a real treat. For me, one of the most bittersweet parts is seeing what little is left of the neighborhoods where the
QD Follies
used to be and where Quentin Driscoll grew up. It really steams me to see how much QD history has been erased, but I
suppose that’s the price of progress.

When we arrived at QD Soda Headquarters we were met by the QD President, Mr. Ralph Finnister himself, which was a big thrill. It turns out he is a real gentleman in addition to being a “great Sodaman” and a fine writer! He gave us complimentary bottles of soda as well as free tickets for the factory tour. Most of us remembered the original tour from when we were kids and it wasn’t the same, of course, but it’s a really cute tour and perfect for all ages. There was even a puppet!

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the museum, which proves the saying: good things come in small packages. It is always a pleasure to while away the hours among the museum’s beautiful mint-condition collection of signs and magazine advertisements, not to mention their complete line of bottle caps and bottles, all of which were in beautiful shape, including the elusive 22-jag cork cap. Though of course I’d love to have a 22-jag of my own, it does my heart good to know there is one in a place where everyone, young and old, can come to enjoy it.

Reliving History

That night, we convened at the hotel to reminisce. To honor the Jubilee year, everyone agreed to share their first memories of QD Soda. Ken Gerard gave a touching description of his neighborhood soda counter, which left us wishing those places hadn’t gone the way of the dodo bird. Judy Niggles kept us laughing with her story of being a very, very little girl when she was fed her first QD Soda in a bottle—with a nipple attached! As usual we stayed up far too late catching up on each other’s lives, but for those of us who attended the Coin-Op
show this year, there was a little less ground to cover as we had enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company just a few months before.

A New Name for an Old Street

The next afternoon, we headed back to 162 B Street for the Jubilee’s main event. While it’s true I would have attended QD Soda’s seventy-fifth birthday party whether or not Quentin Driscoll was going to be there, I am not alone when I say that meeting the inventor of the best soda in the world was something I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. I even sewed a special dress to wear to the occasion! Now before you QDevotees get too excited, let me tell you I had no designs on Mr. Driscoll—after all I
am
a happily married woman and he
is
old enough to be my grandfather. I just wanted the day to be special, as it isn’t everyday you get to fix your eyes on your girlhood hero.

The weather was nice, and it was good to see so many neighborhood children in attendance. There were free balloons and free cups of soda. Recordings from the
QD Radio Comedy Hour
“Best of” collection were played, which was a real hoot.

We hadn’t been there long before Ralph Finnister arrived with Quentin Driscoll. The two of them were absolutely adorable in their matching QD Soda ties. But Quentin Driscoll was so old! I know that’s a silly thing to say considering that unless Quentin Driscoll had his famous dream while he was still in the womb he would have to be even older than his soda, but I’ve always thought of him as eternally in his prime—sort of a Sodaman version of Cary Grant in
His Girl Friday.

Knowing how thrilled we were to meet Mr. Driscoll, Ralph Finnister led him right over to us to shake our hands and take pictures. I haven’t developed the film yet but I’m sure my smile is a mile long.

Mr. Finnister spoke first, and as you might expect from having read his fine writing in past issues, his speech was quite inspirational. The way he talked about the soda over the years brought tears to my eyes! We were a little disappointed not to see the Mayor in attendance, but I suppose it’s hard to be everywhere when you’re in charge of a whole city.

Then came the moment we’d been waiting for, which is to say it was Quentin Driscoll’s turn at the microphone. He didn’t speak at first, which I took for his being overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment. Then he smiled at the crowd and raised his cup of soda as if he was about to begin a toast—and I’ll be durned if he didn’t surprise us all! That man might be in his golden years, but he has some spunk in him yet. If he hadn’t made it in the soda business, I bet he would have gone far in show business. He stood on that stage and with a completely straight face said that he was not the actual inventor of QP Soda! It was hard to hear what he said after that because of all the laughs, but it was something about the soda’s true inventor being a woman he had known back when he was a young man. Then he suggested that the block of B Street be named after her instead! We thought that was a real hoot and gave him a big round of applause, though Mr. Finnister looked none too pleased as he led Mr. Driscoll off the stage. I only
hope that when I’m that old I have as good a sense of humor!

Fond Fairwells

Once the ceremony was over it was time to say our good-byes. After a grand time sharing old memories and making new ones, we went our separate ways feeling new bonds with our old soda friends. To Quentin Driscoll, whose appearance made our trip so special, I offer on behalf of all of us QDevotees the following words from a certain inspiring memoir: Sir, you have filled my little bottle with everything that you have, and I am all the richer for it.

In This Issue

Should QD Go Twist-Off? The Great Bottle Cap Divide…. Page 4

Soda Fountain: Ken Gerard’s Jubilee Tribute Reprised…. Page 5

S
he awoke to the expectancy that had once accompanied birthdays and Christmases. Her body was a coiled spring, the dawning day a hand unfurling its fingers to reveal the small treasure held in its palm. Swinging her bare feet to the floor, she savored the breeze playing across the surface of her skin. She relished the perfection of her vertebrae stacked one atop the other, the velvet air that ebbed and flowed from her lungs. She did not realize she was smiling until she walked to the window and caught her reflection in the glass. The sight made her smile wider still. The last time she had been happy—but she could not remember when that had been. Not on Gallups, certainly, or during the weeks leading up to her arrival. At Carney she had felt satisfaction, but that was not the same thing. It shocked her that she had not noticed the duration and degree of happiness’s banishment. She needed to remember that this was how she was meant to feel. This was the essential state to which life—after necessary digressions and detours—ought to return her.

She wbas grateful that her feet were dirty and that the hem of her nightdress was soiled: this proved that she was not basking in the afterglow of a particularly
potent dream. She could recall with delicious precision the press of Frank’s hand on her back, the briny smell that had enveloped her as they danced, and the fleeting warmth of his breath gracing her skin.

She looked at her clock: she had woken early. She lay back down and closed her eyes to enjoy the novel feeling of being awake without needing to be anywhere. At the sound of footsteps in the hallway she almost got up again—she found the notion of surprising Cynthia in the hallway to wish her a good morning oddly appealing;—but when the door to the barracks opened and closed she did not really mind having missed her chance.

When she next opened her eyes it was to the sound of reveille. Her earlier, first awakening had the distant and slightly embarrassing feeling of an impassioned midnight conversation whose fervency, by day, seems due less to its substance than to the lateness of the hour. As she dressed she thought of the east ward. She dreaded entering that room. Her anticipation of that moment muted her happiness, but it did not vanquish it entirely. As she made her way across the compound, her memory of the previous night lodged warm and solid in her chest, a small blue candle.