A heartwarming story about a summer when times were hard, money was scarce and a sandwich-eating contest was the only way a boy could win a bike.
All the guys liked them, but it was forever a mystery to us how the two Lomax boys could be so fat. Their sisters weren't and not their folks. Glandular, it was said, and that didn't mean a lot to us at age 13 and thereabouts. We never saw them eat much. The thing was, of course, they didn't have much to eat. They were as poor as anyone I knew as a boy. While tree-cutting a huge maple, their father had been sideswiped, and his back was never right after that. No sooner would he get work than he'd be off again.We all had a soft spot for them and tried to be extra considerate when we had our wits about us, which was not always at age 13 and thereabouts. One of the few times in my life when I felt truly ashamed had to do with the Lomaxes. It may be, of course, I should have felt ashamed a few more times than I have. But, anyway, this one time was out at country camp, which was then set up at the far edge of the city. We used to ride across town on our bikes, out past the grain elevators and the dog pound and, finally, to the campgrounds, almost every chance we got during the year I'm remembering. It had to be at least a 12-mile ride to camp, but from a recent visit, seeing how things have shrunk compared to my recollections, it was seven miles maybe. For sure, it was far enough that the Lomaxes found it hard going, especially since they had just this one old bicycle between them. The way they managed was a system of sharing the like of which I haven't seen since. One would ride the thing for a block, or, if they were on the highway, the distance between two telegraph poles. Then that one would lay it down and start walking. The other, who had done the same thing a-ways back, would walk up, mount the bike and ride on past. They would keep trading off and on until they got to where they were going. You might think that with the bike being laid down all over the place, someone might try to take it. Nobody ever did. In fact once, when Little Lomax laid down the bike in a strange neighborhood, a man called after him, demanding that he not be leaving junk on his street corner. Little Lomax tried ignoring him, and the man ran after him halfway up the block. By then, of course, Big Lomax was pedaling by. Little Lomax explained to the man, who told him he still shouldn't be doing it, no matter what.
They had a hard time of it. We never called them by their first names. These were biblical and unusual, and the two had enough against them. In volume, they looked about the same, but the older and taller was called Big Lomax; the younger, Little Lomax. They called each other, simply, Brother. That bike of theirs was the most pitiful thing you would ever want to see going down the street, with black friction tape flapping from around the hard tires more places than not, rags tied on for seat padding and the frame all speckled with sand that had blown when they painted it with some awful orange paint they had found somewhere. Another thing that set them apart, as I remember, was that the rest of us had sleeping bags. In those days, one of the stores used to allow you to grind your own coffee, and the beans came to the store in big canvas bags. If you talked to the manager, you could buy the bags for 15 cents apiece. With three of these, a big needle and some bees waxed thread; you could sew together a heavy but functional sleeping bag. None of the rest of us were really poor, and in due time we could scrape up 45 cents. But when it came to sleeping out, the Lomaxes just had a couple of old quilts, each other and the hope it wouldn't rain. But the thing that shame keeps me putting off from telling has to do with the two boys having next to no food when they came to camp. Big as they were, it was common for them to have only a can of pork and beans to last both of them for the whole weekend. The rest of us always had plenty - more than what we would be eating at home, more than we needed. It was natural that we share with the Lomaxes. Though they never asked for a thing, it was just as natural that they came to expect and count on having a little of ours since we had too much. One spring evening, after making it to camp, we had set to cooking our supper over three little fires, as usual, with the Lomaxes still not there, them always taking much longer to arrive. This one time they were later than ever. We finished eating and they still weren't there. About that time a pathetic mangy old dog wandered in from who knows where, begging food, and George Wilson scraped out half a pot of macaroni and cheese onto the ground where it was grassy. The dog ate about one gulp, sniffed at it and walked away. That started us rolling with laughter at the sorry state of George's cooking. And wouldn't you know, Steve Hendersen, just making a joke, says, "Scrape it back in and give it to the Lomaxes." Then, unthinking, as kids are at that age, or as people are at any, we all laughed even more - except for Steve. He was looking past and behind us. I turned around, and there was Little Lomax, sweat pouring from his round face, limping with a sore foot, his bed-roll hanging off to one side with a dangling broken strap. No question in the world, he had heard. Almost everyone found a time to tell him we were sorry, that nobody had meant anything by it. Little Lomax said he knew and it didn't matter. But for the first time ever they didn't accept food from us, not that night nor the next day. Steve said, as sincere as he could make it, "Hey, help me eat this stuff, will you?" He had cooked a new pot of macaroni and cheese, special. "I'm really full." And Little Lomax said, "Me too," with a weak smile. "Can't help you." Someone else asked, "Would you try some of this for me, Big Lomax? I'm experimenting with a new recipe." And Big Lomax answered, "Brother and me aren't feeling good. Thank you just the same." They split their can of beans, eating off by themselves, and in the morning had an open-fire-roasted bullhead the caught in the creek. We felt miserable about it. Nothing we could think of helped. Back in town, they were as friendly as ever. We hoped the whole thing had blown over. But, three weeks later, when we went out to camp, they didn't show. At school Monday we asked them how come they weren't at camp. They said they had a vacant lot somebody promised to give them four bits to clean up and they sure weren't about to let that slip by. We let them know they were missed, at least, and how we expected to see them out the next time around.
I remember, it was that same Monday that the posters were up and everyone was talking about the contest. That coming Saturday there was going to be a sandwich-eating contest in each of the local parks, sponsored by the biggest and newest bakery in town. The rules were simple. You didn't need to bring a bread wrapper, like some of the kids were telling around. Anyone 15 or under could compete. A line would be started at three o'clock, and at four they would pass out sandwiches and have the contest. They planned to have enough sandwiches for everyone who showed up. But if they didn't, the rules specified, those first in line would be the ones to be in the contest. A gun was to be fired to start the eating. The first girl and the first boy through eating who stepped forward and whistled would be the winners. These two, one boy and one girl, would compete in the finals at the Empire Theater, downtown, for the city championships. Prizes in the local parks, to be awarded to each of the winners, were $1 bills. The grand prizes downtown were balloon-tire bicycles with chrome trim, speedometers, wheel-generator lights, rear racks and even horns. As you might guess, there wasn't a guy amongst us who didn't think almost immediately of the Lomaxes - right after, of course, he had thought for a while about how he would like to win that slick new bike for himself. The Lomaxes were certain to come to mind. We all knew how great it would be for them to get that bike. We knew, too, that they might have the special talent to win. That Saturday, we came together at Prindle Park no later than three and were thunderstruck to find a line a half block long already there ahead of us. We ran for the best places left, shuffling around to make sure that the Lomaxes were in the front. We maneuvered Little Lomax up forward. But Big Lomax sensed what we were doing and fell in behind me, making him the very last of our bunch. "Wonder what's going to be in them," George pondered, meaning the sandwiches. "Hope cheese," said Big Lomax, more talking to himself. "Or maybe bologna." "Probably just oleo," said someone down the line. "This thing's really going to cost them." "My cousin," added Steve, "heard from some guy who actually works for the bakery that they bought 20 cases of persimmon jam, special-made, without hardly any sugar." "Dirty," said someone else. "What's persimmon?" "Some kind of fruit that makes your mouth all wrinkle up." "Nahhh. They wouldn't do that. Wouldn't be good for business." "They got to do something to make it hard, don't they?" "Yeah. Just eating a sandwich ain't nothing." "Nerts! Trying to get it down before all these other kids is." From there, talk turned to technique, the technique of fast eating, then to some consideration of whether the girls might win out over the boys. We were on divergent views of first aid for people choking on their food when the cheers started going up. The trucks had arrived. Along with the bread truck there was one with speakers and, after the traditional crackle and clunk, a loud voice blared, "Well, kids, you really turned out, didn't you? And we can see there won't be enough of everything." The groan that followed was louder from behind us in the line. I leaned out and saw about as many back there as there were in front of us. "We had planned to have ice cream for everybody after the contest." Some kids groaned. Some cheered. "Tell you what we're goin' ta do. Now we will pass out the sandwiches as far as they will go. And then we will give the rest of you ice cream. That way I think everyone will get something. Now, that's the best we can manage. Okay?" Again - cheers, groans and boos. "Don't unwrap your sandwiches," the voice instructed as they started passing them out from big cartons pulled along on the grass behind them. "Not yet. We're going to dispense the ice cream before the contest." Peanut butter, the word spread down the line ahead of the sandwiches. I could see that they were reaching deep as they neared us. Next to me, Big Lomax crossed fingers on both hands. "Good luck, son," the man said, handing me the very last sandwich; then he turned the carton upside down for effect. "Sorry," he said to Big Lomax "Now, we want you to lead the rest of the young people over to where those ladies are setting up under that elm tree." I sort of held out my sandwich to Big Lomax, saying, "You do it. You know I'm a slow eater," which I am. "I like ice cream anyway," he told me, a big smile on top of his disappointment, and lumbered along with the man toward the table with the ice cream containers. For half an hour I held the wax-paper-wrapped sandwich, watching them endlessly dip cones through the milling crowd of grown-ups that had gathered. Then, suddenly, the speaker shouted, "Everybody - ready! On signal, start when you hear the gun. The first boy and the first girl to step forward and whistle will be our winners. Those men with the red armbands are the judges. "Ready, set," he warned, then - "Bwammm!" A carbide cannon just the other side of the broad lilac bush behind us scared me half to death. George Wilson dropped his sandwich on the ground and came up with a few words I hadn't heard before. On my first bite I leaned out to look at Little Lomax. He was starting on his second. I never ate so fast before or since; but with me only half done, there he was, Little Lomax, shuffling out from the line and whistling away like for a dog. And we were cheering our heads off. Then it hit us that back there at the end of that long line, no judge was looking in our direction. We yelled. But everybody was yelling. No one could hear what we were saying. And the judge nearest us still wasn't looking our way.
The thing that saved the day, three women from the crowd who had seen the truth of it all grabbed hold of the judge, waved their arms and pointed toward Little Lomax. Right away he looked like a man who favored living. He tried smiling and, as though he knew it all the time, jogged over to raise Little Lomax's hand in the air as we cheered. I remember seeing Little Lomax in the neighborhood the afternoon of that next Saturday, the day of the second contest. A dozen kids, all sizes, were crowded around him. "What have you been doing to get ready?" someone asked. "Did you eat anything today?" "No," Little Lomax answered. "Not since last night." "Gee, that must be hard," a little girl exclaimed. Little Lomax shrugged, "Not when nothing's there," he answered, frankly, but so softly that no one paid much attention. After changing to my good clothes right after supper, I remember sitting on the back steps for just a few minutes before riding the bike downtown to the theater where the contest was being held. And I prayed some. I didn't pray a lot or very often, but I did about this. It wasn't that I was asking or pleading, as I recall, but just kind of calling attention to how keen it would be if the Lomaxes could have that new bike, and how this might make up for the way we had hurt their feelings at camp. The guys came together at the racks in front of the Empire in time to go in and see the feature before the contest took place. Big Lomax was with us and one of his sisters. Little Lomax was supposed to meet with the other contestants at the side door later on in the evening. I have no recollection of the show or what it might have been about. But I vividly remember a tuxedoed emcee coming on fast as the curtain creaked across the screen and the bright footlights came up. Then a big cardboard carton - like the ones we had seen in the park - was hauled out, obviously heavy, and sandwiches were passed out up and down the line. "Cheese this time," one of the contestants informed the audience, and everyone laughed. The wax paper was discarded and quickly picked up by an attendant; the contestants waited, bare sandwiches in hand. The starting gun was fired, this time a small blank pistol, and, with an ease approaching nonchalance, Little Lomax took his first bite. Some of the kids were cramming it in at a frantic rate that was hard to believe possible. The tallest boy in the line rolled his into a ball and put it all into his mouth at one time. Little Lomax, I thought to myself, doesn't stand a chance. He was just munching along, the same comfortable, appreciative way I had seen him eat a dozen times before at camp. A girl with one long red braid over her shoulder jumped forward trying to whistle. The attendant shook his head at her, tapping the side of his face to call attention to her one cheek, obviously still puffed wide with food. One boy choked, had to be slapped on the back, dropped part of his sandwich and was disqualified. Another, with close-cut black hair, was working his jaws up and down with his hands, trying to chew as fast as possible. When my eyes came back to Little Lomax, I couldn't believe it. He was licking the ends of his fingers almost daintily, a habit of his. "Whistle! Whistle!" I screamed and was joined by everyone around me. "Whistle!" He did, about one second before the tall kid, and we yelled, deliriously, jumping up and down and pounding each other on the shoulders. It died down and then started all over again when they rolled the bicycles out on the stage and took pictures of them with the winners. I grabbed Steve Henderson's arm next to me as we moved toward the aisle. "Cripes, we got to do something. Something," I told him. "Maybe have a party to celebrate. Let's try to get those leftover sandwiches." And against the solid mass of people leaving, I started squirming through the crowd toward the stage, pulling Henderson's arm along with me. The emcee told us we could have them as far as he was concerned. I stopped listening when he said, "But..." And not waiting for someone to say different, Steve and I took the big box down the aisle and out. From the weight, there had to be another 50 sandwiches in there, I figured. When the guys outside saw the box, they were ready to empty it on the spot. Steve declared that it was for a party at Lomaxes'. The three who had already taken sandwiches put them back. "Okay?" I aimed the question at Lomax's sister, not looking at Big Lomax. "About the party?" "Sure," she said, all smiles. "I've got some soda mix we can make to drink. Two envelopes." "I'll get ice," said George Wilson. "Count on me for that. Okay?" His grandfather ran the icehouse three blocks from the Lomaxes'. And off we went, Lomax's sister riding my bike so she could get there ahead of us and make the soda. Steve hadn't brought his bike, and he and I carried the box between us holding onto holes in the flaps that we had poked for handles. By the time the party in Lomaxes' front yard started, it was dark, but they lived on a corner, and there was a bright street light on the electric pole. And it was a warm night. Someone brought over lemons and sugar to stretch the tub of soda, and George came through with most of the 25-pound block of ice he had carried the three blocks in a gunnysack. Of course, everybody was exuberant about Little Lomax's bike. Neighbors, even grown-ups, came over to admire it. He had it up on that broken-down front porch; with him just sitting there cross-legged looking at it like he couldn't believe it was real. Word passed amongst the guys that no one should take more than one sandwich. When Steve took his, he tore it in half. We nursed it along between the two of us, making it last. "Hey, Little Lomax," George shouted at him. "You're going to ride it sometime, aren't you?" And everybody quieted down to see what Little Lomax was going to say. "I rode it all the way home," he answered with a tight smile that was on the verge of turning into laughter he was so happy. "Yeah, Little Lomax, give it a ride," said someone else. "You won't hurt it. Not just getting the tires dirty." "Ride it! See if the wheels go round." "Ride it..." He pushed up from the proch to his feet like a shy movie star. All eyes on him, he flipped the stand back into place with his toe and eased the bike down the rickety steps. "Boy, that is a swell bike. Really keen..." kids said. But halfway to the street he stopped short, as though he had only then remembered the very best thing of all. The smile held - there in the dimness of the street light - but it was a different smile. "Brother?" he called out. Big Lomax ambled closer. "Your turn," declared Little Lomax. "No, thank you," said Big Lomax. "Go on," he encouraged, "Ride your bike." "Half yours, Brother." "How do you figure? You won it. All yours." "You could have beat me." Big Lomax didn't answer. "You know it," said Little Lomax. "You could've." Big Lomax pursed his lips and thought on it - maybe six, seven seconds. He didn't disagree either. Just gave Little Lomax a one-armed bear hug and then rode the bike off down the street with 30 kids running alongside. Big Lomax's following was even larger as he came back into view riding up the street, and I was worried about the food holding out. But then neighbors began bringing over more things. The man from the corner store brought down a whole case of grape juice. A big crock half full of caraway-seed cookies came from across the street. The old lady next door, who we had always thought was so crabby, brought over a breadboard piled high with slices of fresh-baked bread and set it on the corner of the porch along with a saucer of white oleo. And it kept coming. There was so much good stuff to eat that, when it was finally time to leave, at least a dozen sandwiches were still in the bottom of that big carton. I remember the warm satisfaction I felt as we set it inside the Lomaxs' screen door. There never was a better party. And during the months to follow, it was a joy each time we saw one of the Lomaxs on that new bicycle. Funny, we had thought they didn't have much ... but we were wrong. Even before they had the bike they had a lot. They had each other. We were sorry all that summer that they never came back to camp.
