Spitting Distance

By Pamela Love

“Nothing like cold watermelon on a hot summer’s day,” said Grandpa.

We sat on a beach towel in his backyard, gobbling the treat. He leaned sideways, pursed his lips, and spat out a seed that rang the metal watering can like a bell.

I blinked. “Wow!”

Grandpa threw back his head and laughed. “Family talent. There was an Independence Day back in the 1800s where one of your ancestors competed in the greatest ever watermelon seed–spitting contest…”

***

Farmer Jerry Wheeler fidgeted through the band concert and only picked at the lunch his mother had packed. His stomach fluttered like the flags on every home around Reedville, Pennsylvania’s, town square that Independence Day.

“What’s gotten into you, Jeremiah? Not my fried chicken.” His mother tossed her graying curls. “You’ve hardly even nibbled your pie.”

“Sorry, Ma. I’m just looking forward to the games.”

His mother sighed. As a schoolboy, Jerry had never been much good at sports. Even now, despite daily labor in the field and barn, he was still on the scrawny side. Reedville held races and other sporting contests every year on the Fourth of July, followed by a baseball game. While other young men earned their share of glory, Jerry never did. Yet he insisted on trying, and every year, she’d pat him on the shoulder. “Maybe next time, son.”

Jerry squeezed his hands together, staring at a narrow strip of ground bordering Main Street. The year before, Reedville had added a watermelon seed–spitting contest in that very spot. Jerry had come in third. To Ma, it was just another loss. To Jerry? He’d felt amazed as he wiped off his chin. I’ve never come so close to winning. Wait till next year.

Day after day for twelve months Jerry practiced, experimenting with a handful of seeds he’d saved. He worked out a technique to send the seed zipping through the air like an arrow. By now he could spit one from the barn’s front door to its back—sixty feet, fifteen better than the winner in the contest’s first year.

At last, it was time. “Watch this, Ma.” Jerry lined up behind the others for the seed-spitting contest. On his turn, he almost strutted to the mark. Fifty feet—I can beat that standing on my head.

Someone strode past the watching crowd and joined the line. Thump… thump… thump… Those massive boots made Jerry’s straw hat tremble. Jerry tilted his head way back, so far his hat slid right off his head, to look his rival in the eye. His heart sank. It was none other than Paul Bunyan, the world-famous giant lumberjack!

Jerry gulped. A year’s worth of work wasted. Folks will only remember that Paul Bunyan won, not who came in second.

Paul studied the young farmer’s pale, freckled face, then held up a hand. “Tell you what. I’ll spit a whole watermelon, not just a seed. Will that make it fair?”

No, but the only thing worse than people forgetting my name would be remembering I’m a bad sport. “Sure,” Jerry croaked. He popped a seed onto his tongue and spat. Powered by his frustration, it streaked far past the fifty-foot marker.

The contest judge paced off the extra distance. “Sixty-five feet! Nice job, Jerry.”

Paul whistled in admiration while the townsfolk gave him a polite round of applause.

Then it was Bunyan’s turn. The crowd leaned forward as he stooped so the mayor could give him a watermelon. Bunyan stretched to his treetop-tall full height and sucked in his breath. “Ah-ah—choo!”

Like a great green cannonball, the watermelon went flying in a regular Niagara Falls of spit and snot.

“Where’d it go?” hollered one man.

“Clear to New Jersey, I bet!” cried another.

“No, there it is!” shrieked a girl, swinging her sunbonnet in excitement.

Paul’s watermelon had landed, somewhat the worse for wear, about six inches behind Jerry’s seed marker. You never heard such cheering. Jerry certainly never had.

“Attaboy, son!” His mother grabbed him in a fierce hug.

With a puzzled grin, mighty Paul Bunyan bowed to Jerry, who swelled with such pride he almost burst his suspenders.

***

My eyes must have been bicycle-wheel wide by that point. “My great-great-great—I don’t know how many—grandfather… he really beat Paul Bunyan?”

Grandpa shrugged. “Well… it was a bit more complicated than that.”

***

The judge picked up the watermelon. He gave it a closer look, then held up his hand. “Wait, everybody! Tarnation! Look what’s on it.”

People squinted at the vividly colored poster stuck to one end. Jerry trotted up and saw a clown standing on his head beside a rearing horse.

“‘Circle Time Circus in San Francisco through July 14th!’” the mayor read. “Why, that’s thousands of miles away. How’d it get on this watermelon?”

Jerry swallowed hard. “Somebody was about to put it on a wall in California, and it musta got stuck on the watermelon going round the world. Seems you’re the winner after all, Mr. Bunyan.” As the crowd gasped, he made an awkward bow, then turned away. Ma squeezed his shoulder, but her son barely felt it. Don’t let them remember me as a sore loser. Bunyan will move on, but I’ll be stuck here. Better slap a smile on my face. He twisted the corners of his mouth upward.

“Three cheers for Paul Bunyan, champion watermelon seed–spitter of the world!” bellowed the judge, waving his hat. “Hip, hip—”

But the giant stepped back, shaking his head. “Now, hold on there. Jerry here’s still the winner.”

“How do you figure that, Paul?” asked the mayor, putting his hands on his hips.

“Simple. I sneezed that watermelon. And you said it yourself, this was a spitting contest.”

***

I giggled. “So Jerry won after all?”

Grandpa licked the juice off his hands. “Yup! Remember, sneezing is believing.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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