Lunchtime
"PICKLES SO GREEN AND MEAT SO BROWN! LUNCHTIME'S FUN WITH SLUSHY THE CLOWN!"
Two young voices piped from the back seat of the tricked-out 1950s coupe. They giggled with delight at their rendition of the classic tune, and the girl said, "Do it again!"
"PICKLES SO GREEN AND MEAT SO BROWN! LUNCHTIME'S FUN WITH SLUSHY THE CLOWN!"
More giggles, then she instructed the boy beside her, "Now, I'll do the pickle part and you do the meat part after me, and then we'll both do the last part."
The black-haired boy with the triangular nose made a sad puppy face and moped, "I want to be the pickle."
The square-nosed girl pointed at her hair as she explained, "I have to be the pickle because I'm green."
"I never get to go first at anything," he lamented.
"Allll righhhht, Isaac," Felicia Fletcher gave her eyes a little roll, "you can be the pickle. But you have to point at me when you say it," she insisted.
"Okay, Fleece," Isaac Flynn grinned, perking right up. But, instead of merely pointing, he extended both hands toward her in a Ta-da! gesture before warbling, "PICKLES SO GREEN…"
"AND MEAT SO BROWN!" Felicia pointed at her cousin in response before they chimed together.
"LUNCHTIME'S FUN WITH SLUSHY THE CLOWN!"
Isaac beamed with satisfaction then said, "Okay, you can be the pickle now."
Roles swapped, they repeated the performance.
"PICKLES SO GREEN…"
"AND MEAT SO BROWN!"
"LUNCHTIME'S FUN WITH SLUSHY THE CLOWN!"
The car turned the corner with just the slightest roll and the hint of a screeching tire or two.
"Now," said Felicia, "this time we'll do every other word. Do you need to be the pickle again?" she offered patiently.
"No, I'm good," he smiled.
"Okay." She began it, pointing alternately to herself and to Isaac with each word. "PICKLES."
"SO."
"GREEN."
"AND."
"MEAT."
"SO."
"BROWN."
"LUNCH." Isaac stopped here and looked expectantly at his cousin.
"No, you're supposed to say Lunchtime," Felicia corrected. "It's one word."
"Is it?" He looked surprised by this assertion.
"Yes," she insisted. "Yes, it is. Start over. PICKLES."
"SO."
"GREEN—"
This was when their chauffeur finally spoke up. "Enough."
Felicia met her father's eyes in the rearview mirror and, with a contrite look, instantly pressed her lips together. Isaac giggled and got out his next word before she gave him a noisy, "Shhhhhhhh!" and hissed, "He said the secret word!"
Isaac blinked. "What secret word?"
"Enough," she explained. "It's Mum and Dad's secret word that they say when they really really mean no."
"Thank you, Felicia," said Ferb, a small smile flickering at her as he glanced once more in the mirror. How on earth had he ever allowed himself to be badgered into taking a couple of six year olds to Mr. Slushy of all places? It was a rhetorical question; he knew perfectly well how it had happened. Felicia had given him that pouty smile, so like her mother's, and clasped her hands together in appeal and begged, "Pleeeeeze, pleeeeeze-pleeeezy-weeeezy…" And Ferb knew exactly who had taught her that little trick, and if that was the worst thing she learned from her Grandpa Heinz, they would all be lucky.
It had been inevitable, of course, once the Fletchers moved their young family to Danville, that Felicia would be intrigued by the colorful, clown-infested commercials for the biggest fast food chain in the Tri-State Area, with their catchy jingle and mouth-watering depictions of piled-high burgers and juicy hot dogs. Isaac Flynn had been no help in discouraging her obsession, regaling his eager cousin with tales of his Fourth Birthday Party at the flagship Mr. Slushy downtown, where he and his friends had stuffed themselves with burgers and dogs and slurped slushies until their tongues were purple and orange and blue, and Slushy the Clown ("the real one") had made him a special birthday crown out of balloons. That was the last time Isaac had been to Mr. Slushy. His fifth birthday had been a back yard fiesta catered by his Mom, Nana and Grammy, and this year he had opted for Pat Pelican's Pizza Pier. No one would take him to Mr. Slushy unless he made it his birthday request. His Mom said it wasn't good for him to eat all that junk, and his Dad always took any request for burgers or hot dogs as an excuse to fire up the SizzleMaster 3000 for a cookout – or cook-in if the weather was bad.
When Felicia had begun testing her powers of persuasion in pursuit of a Slushy lunch, she had included Isaac in the proposed outing. Vanessa, to her credit, had tried to palm the kids off on their Uncle Jeremy, but he had said that, after spending his teen years working for the Clown, he "knew too much" to want to go back. At last, worn down by his daughter's pleading, Ferb had reasoned that experience was the only way she would ever learn – and so here they were now, pulling into the parking lot and climbing out of the coupe.
"Mind the cars," Ferb warned, keeping them close as they approached the building. Once they had cleared the parking lot, however, the children darted toward the statue of Slushy the Clown outside the restaurant.
"Take our picture!" Felicia exclaimed, striking a pose in imitation of the figure behind her. Laughing, Isaac did likewise, and Ferb took out his FlynnTech F-Phone and snapped a couple of holographic images. After all, with any luck, this was going to be a once in a lifetime event.
The three of them then proceeded inside and got into a line at the counter. The hungry little birds began chirping their orders at Ferb and when they reached the cashier he requested a Chee-zee Dawg and a grape Slushy for Felicia, a Classic Slushy Burger and a blue pineapple Slushy for Isaac, and an order of Swirly Fries for them to share. A simple iced tea for himself, and their tray was full. His young charges made their way to a booth by the window and scrambled into the seats, facing each other across the table. Ferb slid in beside his daughter and began doling out the food.
"Why is the pineapple slushy blue?" Felicia wondered, regarding it with a wrinkled nose.
"Because the yellow is lemonade," Isaac explained, then asked, "Aren't you eating anything, Uncle Ferb?"
"Not just now," he answered, setting the tray of fries between them. At once, fingers leapt out from both sides and latched onto the largest, swirliest fry in the tray – frankly, the only fry of any significant size or swirl – and a tug of war ensued.
"Let go," said Felicia.
"You let go," Isaac retorted, in a rare display of defiance.
"Felicia," said Ferb, in a gently warning tone.
"But that's the biggest one!"
Deftly, he reached between them and pinched the spiral of fried potato apart in the center. "Not any more."
Grinning, Isaac made a great show of devouring his half of the fry, and Felicia frowned a bit as she munched on her half. Isaac picked up a plastic packet of ketchup and wrestled with it for a minute before he gave his uncle a helpless look, and Ferb tore off the corner for him and squirted ketchup into one side of the fry tray. He trusted there would be no more fighting over the less impressive loops and rings that remained.
With an eager smile, Isaac opened the colorful cardboard box in front of him and picked up his burger. As he began eating, Felicia looked at it skeptically. "Is that all you got?"
He nodded, unconcerned, then looked at the sandwich, himself, and admitted, "It was bigger when I was four."
Getting her dawg untangled from it's paper wrapper, Felicia dug in as well. After a bite, she said, "Dad, can I have some mustard?"
Ferb leaned over and peeked at her bun. "You've already got mustard."
Working on a second bite, she noted, "It's kind of plain. It's not like what we have at home."
With a look of innocent concern, Ferb offered, "If you don't like it, we can…"
"No," Felicia quickly cut him off. "It's fine. It's good," she insisted, taking a big bite as proof.
Ferb sipped at his tea – weaker than he would have liked, but no worse than expected – while the children ate their lunches. At some point, Felicia began chucking semi-circular bits of fry into Isaac's burger box, and he dipped one in the ketchup and began doodling on her hot dog wrapper. When they had finished, Ferb asked pleasantly, "How was it?"
Felicia sat back with a critical twist of her mouth. "It was okay. But not as good as the hot dogs Grandpa Heinz makes."
"That's because those are bratwurst. Isaac?"
The dark-haired boy looked at the empty container in front of him and said, "I'm hungry."
"I suppose we could order something else," said Ferb, looking toward the counter and scooting himself to the edge of the booth.
"No, that's okay," Felicia blurted, and Isaac chimed in, "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Well, I'm not," Ferb patted his stomach. Lifting a finger as if he had only just come up with this idea, he declared, "I think I'll head over to Goldie's for a nice piece of cherry pie. You two can stay here," he got to his feet. "I'll pick you up on my way back."
"No, wait!" Isaac scrambled out of the booth in alarm, but Felicia just laughed and said, "Da-a-ad!" They gathered their trash and Ferb disposed of it as they headed out the door, leaving Slushy the Clown in their wake.
"Chocolate pie, chocolate pie," Felicia sing-songed, laying hold of her father's hand and tugging him toward the car.
"What's Goldie's?" asked Isaac.
Ferb put his other hand on his nephew's shoulder and smiled. "Oh, you'll see."
THE END
A/N – Felicia Fletcher and Isaac Flynn are mine; everyone else belongs to Dan Povenmire and Jeff "Swampy" Marsh. And if you're wondering the same thing as Isaac – Goldie's Diner figures in my stories, "First Dinner in Danville" and "Starting Out." This story falls into the middle of a bigger arc, so yes, Jeremy is "Uncle Jeremy" by this point, and prior to this, the Fletchers have been living in the DC suburbs (remember the "Ferb's still at Camp David" line from the "Quantum Boogaloo" episode?).