Mission Impossible

It's 1943, the hallway of 1582 York Avenue is behind my grandmother. On the right of the hallway is the entrance to a candy store. On the wall is an advertisement for Mission Soda. It was good to see Mission was a favorite back then, because it was certainly a favorite for many kids in the 1960s'.

For instance.

Despite his record-breaking cheapness, Joe was no fool. If you had a candy store you must have ice cold soda. Kids boycotted candy stores that ignored this rule. The water temperature in Joe's cooler always flirted with the freezing mark. Sometimes, you needed to submarine your hand through a thin crust of ice forming on the surface. 200 bottles of soda buried deep beneath the sea, in a light so dim the eels bumped into each other. More than twenty different brands slept on the ocean's floor. With the cooler sitting on a foot tall base anyone less than four feet tall needed to lift himself to plunge into the Loch in search of Nessy. Unfortunately, I usually craved a bottle of Mission Cream. Mission soda was a local favorite with 10 different flavors. Mission's bottles had zero variation in style, texture or height. All Missions being equal led to a courage speech I'd give myself before each attempt. "You can do it. I've seen you do it. Do it." Shorter than the top of the coffin, I'd hop up, and swing my arm over its front wall. My armpit was now responsible for keeping me airborne. I'd sink my other arm into the icy water with a numbing splash. I was 100 percent dependent on my tactile skill for the bottle retrieval. My hand and forearm would tighten up before I achieved bottle depth. When I reached the wreck, my numb digits embraced the familiar Mission shape and pulled one up. Orange. "Ooooh," I moaned. Back down the bottle would go. I'd do my best to remember where I replanted it. The bottles were snug as sardines. I had limited time before my arm below the elbow lost all sensation. If my search stretched beyond a minute and my favorite soda remained unlocated, sensors went off. The front of my arm turned into a bottle-nosed dolphin. Using the pain impulses shooting through my hand, sonar signals would strike the bottles then return to my brain revealing vital bottle data. Rotating my arm in a corkscrew motion increased blood circulation allowing a brief search extension, but the water was too cold. Pride swallowed, I raised the last bottle I touched before my hand passed out. It was a Root Beer. "Grrrrr." I moved the second place soda gently from my puffy blue hand to my landlubber hand. I tucked my arm under my noncombatant armpit, rocking back and forth till warmth returned. With phony bravado, I grinned at my friends. A wicked pleasure swept through the crowd when someone chose a soda you knew wasn't their first choice. Everyone knew each other's favorite soda right behind knowing their favorite sports team or movie star. When I was in the hot seat, I sat there drinking the soda, faking enjoyment, saying, "hmmm" or "aaahhh", followed by a satisfying swipe of my mouth. I knew, they knew, I was lying. It didn't matter, I went down swinging. Addressing the mob, I'd say, "I do like it. I really do like it. I just didn't tell anybody."
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this is a section from My First Coffin, published in A Prairie Home Companion in 2007. You can read the whole story by hitting the link on the left.
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