King Mai (The Lost and Founds) by Manning Edmond

Author:Manning, Edmond [Manning, Edmond]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pickwick Ink Publishing
Published: 2013-07-12T16:00:00+00:00

A few minutes later, I jog ahead, touch Tim on the shoulder, and thank him, letting him know his work is done. He’s delighted with the $40 tip and as Mai joins us, Tim offers to hang out and drink a beer.

“We’re on a date,” Mai says. “So while you were awesome and I won’t forget you were part of this bizarre day I’m having, I need to be alone with my buddy if you can understand that.”

Tim assures us this is no problem and we all shake hands vigorously, like characters in a Dickens novel who will not meet again for a couple hundred pages. Mai requests a flyer to read and keep.

I drag us to the nearest falafel booth and watch as they assemble mine on the grill with thick onion curls and angular green pepper wedges. I nudge Mai and use my eyebrows to indicate the vegetables.

“It’s a start,” he says dryly.

The lead guitar from Mr. Myers welcomes us with genuine enthusiasm to Corn Fest 1996 and communicates the band’s intention on this gorgeous Saturday afternoon—to rock our world. The growing crowd howls to accept this challenge. Despite his earlier protests, Mai eats my falafel when offered and he concedes it’s decent. I insist on buying us both souvenir T-shirts and together we agree on 1994’s official Corn Fest design. It features NIU’s prominent dormitories in silhouette and underneath, the tagline in red block letters reads: GOD, WE NEED A HOBBY. I love DeKalb takes this festival seriously and yet still laughs at itself. A few feet away we hide in the shadows and don the crisp white shirts, letting our morning tees dangle from empty back pockets.

While listening to island beats in a Bob Marley cover, we grab icy cherry lemonades to slake our thirst and hunt around the block, looking for a painted ear of corn. We stop at art booths featuring painted corn art and he smiles broadly.

“Is that it? Did I win?”

“Do you feel like a king?”

“No.”

“Well then, that’s not it.”

Mai frowns. “When I find it, I’ll know?”

“You will most definitely know.”

Drunk NIU students stroll down Lincoln Highway, making loud jokes with their friends, and toddlers chase their parents while dragging brightly colored balloons. I’m pleased to see two women holding hands, which means we’re not the only homos celebrating this day. Older kids point out souvenir options with wistful glances to seemingly deaf parents, but the kids know something the parents do not: this is a day to remember. This is one of those.

A block or two later, I say, “Ready for corn dogs?”

“Oh my God,” he says. “You eat like a bubba, too. You’re all programmed to want corn dogs.”

While Mai grabs us beer, I buy us a corn dog to share and after I wiggle it in his face a few times, he caves, chomping a bite before passing it back to me.

He says, “If I tell you 64% of hot dog meat comes from one ingredient and it’s not exactly—”

I must interrupt this.

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