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CokeCola, account of my tongue is dry as my toe an I might even be dyin of thirst. I could of just got me some water, but by now, I have definately got CokeCola on my mind.
    They was a big ole pantry, an inside it was hundrits of little jars an bottles of all sorts of sizes and shapes. One says cumin, an another says Tabasco, an another says tarragon vinegar. They was jars an bottles an little boxes of other stuff, too. I found some olive oil I figgered might cut the bacon grease taste some, an then a jar of chocolate sauce that might take off some of the turpentine flavor. I mixed up about twenty or thirty different things in a bowl that was settin out on the counter, an when I was finished, I mushed them all together with my fingers an then dipped out a couple of spoonfuls an thowed it into the CokeCola glass. For a moment, the stuff begun to boil an hiss like it was gonna blow up, but the more I stirred it in with the ice, the better it looked, an after a few minutes, it begun to look like CokeCola again.
    At this point I was startin to feel like one of them desert gold prospectors that was bakin to death under the sun, an so I lifted the glass an drunk it down. This time, it gone on down pretty good, an while it wadn’t exactly CokeCola, it didn’t taste like shit, neither. It was so good, in fact, that I poured mysef another glass.
    Just then, Mrs Hopewell returned to the kitchen.
    ‘Ah, Forrest,’ she says, ‘how is that CokeCola?’
    ‘It is pretty good,’ I tole her. ‘Matter of fact, I’m gonna have some more. You want some?’
    ‘Ah, thank you, but thank you, no, Forrest.’
    ‘Why not?’ I ast. ‘Ain’t you thirsty?’
    ‘Why, as a matter of fact I am,’ she says. ‘But I’d prefer, well, a little libation of a different sort.’ She went over an poured hersef a glass about half full of gin an then put some orange juice in it.
    ‘You see,’ she says, ‘I am always amazed that anybody can drink that crap. My husband, in fact, is the feller that invented it. Somethin they want to call “New Coke.”’
    ‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘Well it don’t exactly taste like the ole one.’
    ‘You’re tellin me, buster! I never had anything so wretched in my life. Kinda tastes like – hell, I dunno –
turpentine
or something.’
    ‘Yeah,’ I says. ‘I know.’
    ‘Some stupid deal his bosses up at the Coke company in Atlanta have dreamed up. “New Coke” my ass,’ she says. ‘They always screwing with something just so’s they can figger a new angle to sell it with. Ask me, it’s gonna be a bunch of bullshit.’
    ‘That so?’ I ast.
    ‘Damn right. Matter of fact, you’re the first person ever got a whole glass of it down without gagging. You know, my husband’s the vice president of CokeCola – in charge of research and development. Some research – some development, if you ask me!’
    ‘Well, it ain’t half bad if you put some other stuff in it,’ I says. ‘Just fix it up a little.’
    ‘No? Well, that’s not my problem. Look,’ she says, ‘I didn’t get you in here to talk about my husband’s hare-brained schemes. I bought your goddamn encyclopedias, or whatever they are, now I want a favor. I had a masseuse coming over this afternoon and he didn’t show. You know how to give a back rub?’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘A back rub – you know, I lie down and you give me a rub. You’re so big on books about world knowledge, you gotta know how to rub somebody’s back, right? I mean, even an idiot can figure out how to do that.’
    ‘Yeah, well . . .’
    ‘Listen, buster,’ she says, ‘bring the goddamn CokeCola and come with me.’
    She took me around to a room that had mirrors on all the walls an a big old raised bed in the middle of it. Music was playin through speakers in the ceilin, an they was a big ole Chinese gong settin there by the bed.
    Mrs Hopewell got up on the bed and thowed off her little slippers an nighty an put a big towel over her bottom half, an she was laid down on her