They was a big ole pantry, an inside it was hundrits of little jars an bottles of all sorts of sizes an 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 harebrained 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 an thowed off her little slippers an nighty an put a big towel over her bottom half, an she was laid down on her stomach. I tried not to look at her while this was goin on, but account of the whole room was mirrors, this was not very easy to do.

"Okay," she says, "start rubbing."

I got sort of aside of her an begun to rub her shoulders. She begun to make little oh-ah sounds. The more I rubbed, the louder they got. "Lower. Lower!" Mrs. Hopewell says. I gone on an rubbed lower, an the more I did, the lower I got! It was beginnin to get awkward for sure. In fact, I was now at the top of the towel. Finally she begun to pant an then she reaches over an hits the Chinese gong! It made the room shake an the mirrors seem like they gonna fall off the walls.

"Take me, Forrest," she moans.

"Where you want to go?" I ast.

"Just take me!" she screams. "Now!"

At this point I suddenly begun to think about Jenny an about a bunch of other things, an Mrs. Hopewell was grappin at me an writhin an pantin on the bed, an this shit seemed about to get out of hand when, without no warnin, the door to the mirror room bust open an they is a little man standin there wearin a suit an tie an steel-rimmed glasses, kinda look like a Nazi German.

"Alice," he shouts, "I think I have got it figured out! If we put some steel-wool shavings into the formula, it will make it quit tasting like turpentine!"

"Jesus God, Alfred!" Mrs. Hopewell hollers. "What are you doing home this time of day!" She done bolted upright an was tryin to pull the towel up around hersef to look decent.

"My researchers," the feller says, "have found the solution!"

"Solution! Solution to what?" Mrs. Hopewell asts.

"The 'New Coke,' " he says. The feller strides into the room, actin like I'm not even there. "I think we got a way to get people to drink it."

"Oh, for godssake, Alfred. Who would want to drink that crap anyhow?" Mrs. Hopewell looks like she's about to burst into tears. She ain't got but that one towel, an she is tryin to cover hersef up, bottom an top, with it. Ain't workin too good, an so she is grappin for her nighty, which is on the floor, but ever time she graps for it, the towel falls off. I am tryin to look away again, but the mirrors won't give me no other view.

About this time, Alfred, I guess was his name, noticed me.

"Are you the masseuse?" he ast.

"Sort of," I says.

"That your CokeCola?"

"Yup."

"You're drinking it?"

"Uh huh."

"No shit?"

I nodded. I didn't exactly know what to say, account of it is his new invention.

"And it don't taste awful?" His eyes got big as biscuits.

"Not now," I says. "I fixed it."

"Fixed it? How?"

"I put some stuff in it from the kitchen."

"Let me see that," he says. He took the glass an helt it up to the light an examined it, sort of like a person will examine somethin nasty in a laboratory jar. Then he drunk a little sip of it an got a kind of squinty look in his eyes. He look at me, then at Mrs. Hopewell, then he slugged down a big ole swallow.

"My God!" he says. "This shit ain't half bad!"

He drunk some more an get a real amazed look on his face, like he was seein a vision or somethin.

"You fixed this!" he shouts. "How in hell did you fix it?"

"I done put a few things from that pantry in it," I says.

"You! The masseuse?"

"He's not exactly a masseuse," Mrs. Hopewell says.

"He's not? Then what is he?"

"I'm a encyclopedia salesman," I says.

"Encyclopedias—Huh?" Alfred says. "Then what are you doing here? With my wife?"

"It is kind of a long story," I tole him.

"Well, it doesn't matter," he says. "We'll get to that later. What I want to know now is what in hell did you do to this CokeCola? Tell me! My God, tell me!"

"I dunno, exactly," I says. "It was like, well, it didn't taste so good at first, an I thought it could have stood some doctorin up, you know?"

"Didn't taste good! Why, you moron, it tasted like shit! Don't you think I know that? And you have made it at least drinkable! Do you have any idea what something like this is worth? Millions! Billions! C'mon now, try to remember. What was it, er—What's your name, anyhow?"