Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“We will,” Makena assures her. She touches a light hand to my arm as she adds, “Parker needs one of those. Don’t you, Parker?”
“I was thinking you needed one of those,” I say. “But we can get a medium and share it.”
“Or get matching shirts,” Gum Lady says. “That’s couple goals right there. Now, let’s get you two ready to party. Ten bucks general admission or twenty apiece gets you cleared to compete in all the events, includin’ the callin’, the racin’, and the eatin’ contest.” She leans closer as she adds, “Though I don’t recommend the last one unless you’ve got good insurance. We had three people end up in the hospital last year. And Ricky Weems always wins anyway. He put down twelve pounds in twelve minutes last year and is determined to beat his record again this year.”
“Twelve pounds?” I blink as I try to math that out. If a single crawfish tail weighs maybe an ounce, how many mudbugs lost their life to Ricky last year?
The answer—a whole fucking lot.
“Would’ve been more, but his esophagus seized up.” Gum Lady shrugs. “But I mean, feel free to go for it, if you want. Just for the experience and all. There’s limited space at the eatin’ contest table, though. So be there at least thirty minutes early to check in if you want to throw your bib in the ring.”
“I think we’ll be fine just watching that one,” Makena says with a laugh. “Don’t want to fly too close to the sun our first time out.”
“Yeah, and it’s going to be a hot one,” the woman agrees. “So, stay hydrated.”
We pay our twenty bucks each and get matching wristbands that declare us “Certified Mudbug Maniacs.” After an exploratory trek around the perimeter, we decide on deep-fried cornmeal crawfish tails as our first mudbug snack and head to the races. They’re being held in massive kiddie pools with lanes marked by pool noodles, with a new heat taking off every fifteen minutes.
The crawfish, clearly having not signed up for this, mostly sit there looking existentially confused.
“Ten bucks on Speedy Gonzales,” I tell the bookie, who’s running odds from a lawn chair.
“That one ain’t moved since we put him in the starting area,” he warns, even as he reaches for the bill.
“I don’t know, he looks like a winner to me,” I say. “I think he’s just conserving energy so he can leave it all on the field.”
Makena puts a fiver on Princess Pinch, and we find a spot in the crowd near the ropes with about twenty other people. The heat begins with the blast of an air horn, and soon we’re cheering our lungs out for crustaceans who want nothing more than to return to whatever ditch they came from.
“And they’re off!” the announcer shouts, even though they’re definitely not. “And it’s Princess Pinch taking the lead straight outta the gate.”
“That’s it, Princess!” Makena cheers, jumping up and down. “That’s my girl!”
“Come on, Speedy,” I shout. “It’s not too late, buddy. Wake up and move those little legs.”
Princess Pinch stalls out pretty quickly, but still ends up winning by default when all the other crawfish in her heat crawl over the pool noodles to pile up in a corner. Speedy Gonzales is disqualified for being asleep.
Or dead. Hard to tell.
“I won!” Makena turns to me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the sun. “Parker, I’m a champion!”
“I hope you’ll still be my friend,” I say. “Now that you’re crawfish racing royalty and all.”
Clearly fighting a grin, she says seriously, “I’ll try not to let it go to my head. It’ll be hard, but…I’ll try. Now, let’s go collect my winnings. I’ll buy you a beer to help you feel better about being a loser.”
“Technically, Speedy is the loser,” I say as we head toward the guy in the lawn chair. “But I appreciate that.”
Beers and a big bowl of gumbo to share acquired, we head to the eating contest. We don’t enter that one, thank Christ, but we watch from the stands as grown adults shovel mudbug butts into their faces with the desperation of people who’ve made questionable life choices. The winner—in a stunning upset, not Ricky Weems, who choked on a drink of water five minutes in—manages nearly thirteen pounds.
“That’s going to revisit him later,” Makena observes, draining the last of her beer.
“Revisit is a precious way of putting that.”
“Violently exodus?”
“Better.”
We grab another beer and wander to the shade to watch the costume contest, both of us happy that it’s human beings who are dressing up like crawdaddies, not costumes on actual mudbugs. It kind of feels like the crawdaddies have been through enough today, though they are way more delicious than I remember.
The costume pageant is a blast, and watching people of all ages strut down the catwalk, showing off their homemade costumes, inspires me in unexpected ways.