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The Guesstimate Game

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Rainbow Swirl: Thick, creamy ice cream in a range of bright and varied colours, all swirled together to create a delicious taste savoured by children and adults alike.

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People’s personalities are defined by their favourite flavour of ice cream.

Really. Most people would never suspect it, but there is actual psychological proof that a person’s preferred flavour of ice cream corresponds with their personality. And yeah, maybe it’s only my evolutional research that proves it so far, but I’m willing to bet the twenty bucks Grandma Germ gave me for a new pair of sneakers that my research will one day be published in TIME.

Let’s look at the evidence here. A great, big, hulking thing resembling a truck driver walked in about half an hour ago and ordered a ‘long black, brazil’. Which in English translates to ‘long black coffee flavoured full fat ice cream, sprinkled with brazil nuts’.

When I politely asked him if he particularly enjoyed crunching through copious amounts of nuts, as I was sure that his blackened and jagged teeth were the result, he smiled sadistically at me and said, “No more than you do, babe.” After that engaging exchange, he proceeded to stare at my chest for the next three and a half minutes until his order was ready.

This man, despite being a tank, really wasn’t that bad to look at. Similarly, long blacks are fine until you actually get a whiff – or a taste, and then you have to excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and throw up. I doubted that Chuck (as I’m now referring to him) had showered in the last week, and once his true colours showed through (ie the yellow and black of his teeth), I was ready to give him the first ingredients I could find and wave him out the door.

The whole situation was made all the more disconcerting with the added realisation that Chuck was Brazilian. Not that I’m saying Brazilians are bad, or anything – it’s just another piece of evidence to go in my TIME article.

Brazil nuts are the type of nuts that you only need to take one look at and you instantly know that they’re disgusting. Remarkably, Chuck the truck driver was also one of those people that you stare at and go, “Yuck.”

As my Grandma Germ says, “There are just yuck people out there and there’s nothing you can do about it, save for pulling out your .22.” That insightful pronouncement was made under the influence of six and a half bottles of beer, so I’m not too sure about its validity.

If that wasn’t enough to sway you, perhaps exhibit B will alter your opinion.

Every Thursday, Mrs Florshiem comes into the store and buys half a tub of reduced-fat peppermint crisp ice cream, sprinkled with macadamia nuts. (She orders sorbet, but I’m not game enough to inform her that there’s no such thing as peppermint sorbet, and that oh-my-gawd I can’t believe she didn’t know!)

Eloisa Florshiem is a species unto her own. She sashays through the door, pausing long enough so that the entrance bell tinkles for an extra few seconds, then wanders around the parlour for a few minutes, hoping (I suppose) that the manager will come out and talk to her (Flora Perditt is a notorious gossiper).

When she finally realises that Flora has more important things to do than her job, she sighs dramatically and makes her way over to me, resting her ample bosom on the counter near my arm. For the next five minutes, she asks me complacently if I’ve heard about the latest town scandal (“Really, Mrs Florshiem? I never knew that nineteen-year-old Milla Birchmore went home with a boy last weekend! Whatever was she thinking?”).

Mrs Florshiem, much like peppermint, only has to be in the room before it turns frosty. Her clothes are always immaculate, with never a crease on them – although it could be that her clothes are more expensive than anything anyone else in town owns, as her husband is the bank owner two towns over. It’s also the reason she regularly indulges in macadamias – no one else can afford them, save for her.

The general consensus of the townspeople is that Mrs Florshiem is nothing more than a miserable old hag with nothing better to do than poke her nose in where it’s not wanted. The only reason no one says anything is because without her husband’s generous donations to the local high school, we’d be without three classrooms and a roof.

Yalladandah State High School, in case you haven’t guessed, is more than a little neglected by the government. Grandma Germ says they’re all egoistical fascists, but honestly, if I were a big city hot-shot there would be no way I’d care about the little people in a small town on top of the mountains.

After all, it’s not like we’re a tourist destination that they can make money from, or even have any natural wonders such as a big rock or a pretty forest. The only thing we’re good for is giving the truckies a snack on their way to Adelaide or Perth, and it’s not like we’ve never had anything interesting being trucked through, such as a few tonnes of chocolate. No, the best we’ve had was a few crates of tomato sauce – and even then they were all past their use-by date.

In short, Yalladandah is a red-neck’s Mecca. We may have a courthouse (if only because it’s on some sort of heritage list, because it’s around two hundred years old) and a bank, but make no mistake – if we were a dry town, our population would halve within a week.

So, do I have an excuse for bagging the shit out of my home town? Technically, I’m only ‘visiting’ – I’ve just had visitor status for the last thirteen years, after my father had an affair that caused my mother to sue him for every last cent he owned. As Grandma Germ says, “Hell hath no fury like the lawyer of a woman scorned.”

Placing me in her mother-in-law’s care because she needed to ‘find herself’ while travelling with a circus was a rash decision, but it works for me because whenever the circus comes to Sydney I get free tickets and merchandise, although the last time she came I managed to worm my way out of seeing her again. What can I say? – I’m just extremely cunning (and used what I thought were my ‘feminine wiles’, although I was probably about twelve at the time).

My father decided to stay at his cushy job with some high-flying law firm in the city, and he also agreed that it was in ‘everyone’s best interests’ (read: his) if I stayed with my grandmother for ‘a short while’. Despite the short while turning into almost thirteen years, it’s better than having the whole ‘you take the brat for this week, I’ll take her the next week’ deal going on.

It’s not like I’m messed up because of it, although I have to admit that it wouldn’t be hard to be a bit screwed in the head with a name like Nikita. Well, Nikita Leigh Allitt, if you want to be formal. I think my parents were going through a pseudo-Indian phase at the time (for all I know, I’m an Indian’s love child – it’s not like I don’t have the complexion to prove it). I’m an optimist at heart, so I always remind myself it could have been worse – I could have been named after my paternal grandmother, Germaine.

It was Grandma Germ’s idea that I get a job, to ‘increase my independence and become economically wiser through the saving of my own funds’. Yeah, whatever, Grandma Germ, you just didn’t want me to keep scabbing money off you whenever my friends and I took it into our heads to catch a bus to the nearest town with a working cinema.

The only job available at the time though, was a part-time weekender at the Yalla Ice Creamery, where their slogan is a catchy, ‘Voted best ice cream parlour in Australia, 1989’. Although I’m told the reason why we haven’t won one since is because ice cream parlours just ‘aren’t around any more’ and that they are a ‘dying breed’.

You know why they’re a dying breed? Because really, who wants to go all the way to an ice creamery and buy half a tub of the stuff for seven dollars when they can just nip down to the local IGA and get a value 4L carton for three fifty?

But nevertheless, Flora Perditt obviously saw something in me, as she hired me a few days later with a welcoming of, “I knew as soon as I saw you that you were right for the job. I find workers that are heteromorphic make the store appear all that much more quaint.”

Thanks for that, Flora. I mean, I know that I may be vertically challenged, but you don’t have to be so blunt about my shortcomings (even if I didn’t actually know what it meant until I looked it up in a dictionary).

I’ve been working at the Yalla Ice Creamery for almost a year now, and in that entire time my philosophies haven’t changed. I haven’t met one person that doesn’t match their ice cream flavour in some way or another.

Take Flora, for instance. Her favourite flavour is ginger apricot (she invented it herself) and at first it was hard to assimilate, but when she’s rushing around madly like she is right now, throwing ingredients into the blender and hurrying over to another bowl to taste the new flavour she’s concocting, I can see it.

Ginger apricot (and yes, I have been made to try it) is a bit of an assault on the tastebuds, really. It’s kind of overbearing, but then the sweetness of the apricots comes through and it’s not as unpalatable as you’d think.

Flora herself can be a bit overzealous, but she has her moments and she’s always ready to drop everything for someone else. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to come in to man the shop because she had to go be at a birth, or give someone sick a freshly made tub of sorbet.

Like now, for instance. The new flavour she’s creating – honey banana, a specially requested order – is about to go straight over to Mr Donohue, who’s just had a hip replacement. She’s already given me instructions for closing the shop and made sure that I have a way home.

“Nik,” she calls over her shoulder, “are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself? I’d get Gavin to come in and help, but business isn’t exactly booming…” Gavin’s her son, and while he’s usually away at university, he’s come back for the week because of some holiday he’s got on.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I say dryly. “It’s not like there’s going to be a hold-up or anything.” The last customer came in half an hour ago and I’m bored. There’s only so many times you can stick your hand in a freezer and count how long it takes to go numb.

She frowns. “You never know with the people going through here, especially those truck drivers-” She’s in the middle of her rant about how revolting truckies are, and why won’t the government build a bypass – I think that she conveniently forgets they (and the families that drive through on their way to the coast) represent about three quarters of her customers – when the phone rings.

“Hello? Excuse me? No, I wasn’t told… But it was the workers’ fault, not the business’…” Hearing Flora’s one sided conversations are always amusing, because her voice rises and falls so quickly that it’s like listening to someone who hasn’t inhaled quite enough helium. Her voice gets squeakier the more stressed she becomes and the longer the conversation goes for.

“I wasn’t told I’d be liable to pay the damages if something did go wrong. I can’t afford the costs, I have a child to support…” I almost snort at this. At twenty-two, you’d think Gavin would be a little more eager to show his self-sufficiency, but he told me the other day that ‘modern men’ are becoming increasingly reliant on their parents and that pretty soon it’s going to become a worldwide phenomenon, so why not just accept it and follow the trend?

Because, Gavin, only a pansy like you would want to remain reliant on your mother, and still think that girls are keen on it.

“No, I can’t come up with the funds!” I think I’ve been watching far too many B-grade crime movies, because the instant Flora shouts this I have a passing suspicion she’s an obsessive compulsive gambler, despite the fact Yalladandah has no pokie machines to speak of. Or better yet, a depressed crack addict.

“You can’t call the ATO on me… Look, I can’t afford a lawyer…” In my eyes, she’s just digging herself deeper – except now she’s a tax evader who’s ripping off Centrelink. “I’m sorry if you feel that way, but I can’t possibly… Wait, what? I most certainly will not- hello?” With murder in her eyes, Flora turns to me and growls, “He hung up!”

Look, I don’t really believe that my boss is a gambling, tax-evading druggie, but the look in her eyes right now suggests that she would have no problem with chasing after Phone Man and ripping his limbs off, one by one. It’s more than a little intimidating, let me tell you.

“Um… what did he want?” I hesitantly inquire. I’d like to lie and say that my voice isn’t shaking and that I haven’t backed up about three feet, but the truth is that I’m an absolute coward and that even the sight of my Grandma Germ chopping up pumpkins can send me running for the hills.

“Do you remember the workmen that carved up half of the lawn last month?” Of course I remember – they’d started at four in the morning and had been loud enough for half the town to hear.

They were government issued, something about faulty sewerage, but they’d accidentally drilled through a water pipe and caused a few megalitres to erupt and wash down the main street. It had semi-flooded half a dozen shops and completely ruined the nice little mini garden at the front of the shop that Flora had worked so hard to maintain.

“Well, the bigots over at the Department of Sustainability have lobbed the damage costs over to us. We have to pay them five thousand dollars by the end of the month or we’ll get taken to court.”

I do my whistle/letting-out-air thing (I’ve never actually been able to whistle properly) to show that I’m impressed. Five thousand dollars may not seem like much to some people, but to ask a small town ice cream parlour to be able to come up with that much for a little bit of damage to a nature-strip is practically ludicrous.

“Are you going to challenge it?”

Flora sighs. “I can’t afford to, not since I bought those new freezers. And now that tourist season is almost over, I won’t be able to save anything substantial up until spring.”

“Oh.” I could offer to let her cut my pay, but I can’t think of a way to bring it up that won’t be incredibly awkward or look like I’m only offering out of pity. Not that I’m not usually generous – well, okay, I’m not – but the whole situation would be more than a little weird.

Suddenly a door slams and Rhiannon Cuierso walks in, flicking a section of her shiny blonde hair over a shoulder. She works day shifts sometimes, even though she goes to Yalla High like me. She’s doing her year twelve course over two years, so she only has to come a few times throughout the week.

Rhiannon’s a French vanilla – cultured, normal, yet impossibly smooth talking and relaxed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do anything more strenuous than raise an eyebrow. Still, she’s nice enough; if smooth-talking carbon copies are your thing.

“Why don’t you get Nikita to do that thing?” She asks, her voice in the same, flat monotone it always is.

“Pardon?” Flora looks from her to me quizzically. I’m regretting that I ever showed Rhiannon my ‘discoveries’ because she never really understood what I was talking about. She thought it was just luck that I’d managed to correctly guess her flavour when I’d first met her; the truth is that I find French vanilla just as boring and mundane as I do her.

“You know,” Rhiannon moves a hand around in what I assume to be a prompting gesture. It looks more like she’s trying to show us the breaststroke in slow motion. “That freaky guesstimating game you play.”

“Right.” I’m not convinced, although Flora still has no idea what we’re talking about. “And how do you propose we earn money from that?”

“Easy,” Rhiannon shrugs as though she’s had this all planned out from the start. “If you’re as good as you say you are, you offer a free tub of ice cream to every person that you get wrong.”

“Free?” Flora still hasn’t quite managed to catch on, but any entrepreneur can recognise that word from a mile away. “I’m not sure about that-”

“Oh, don’t worry. It can come out of Nikita’s pay,” she assures Flora, much to my disgruntlement. It’s all very well for her to say that, and while my theory hasn’t failed me yet, I don’t exactly want to bet my wage on it. After all, what if a customer cheats and denies it just to get free ice cream?

I mention this little detail to Rhiannon, who just quirks her mouth in what I think is supposed to be a smile and shrugs. “I’m an expert at differentiating a lie and a truth.” I’m mildly impressed – I never thought she knew any big words.

“We don’t work shifts together,” I point out. I really don’t want to do this, and I can’t possibly ascertain how it will work. But it’s not like Flora will actually let the future of the Yalla Ice Creamery rest on my shoulders, so I suppose I have nothing to worry about-

“I think it’s a fine idea,” beams Flora, who has apparently just been filled in by Rhiannon. “Thank you so much for offering, Nikita. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it…” Well. It looks like my fate’s been set then, thanks to Rhiannon Cuierso and her slyly manipulative ways.

Rhiannon attempts to smile smugly at me. “We’ll charge three fifty a guess.” I move to protest – who’d want to pay that much just to find out if someone could really tell them their favourite flavour of ice cream – but she shoots me a hard silencing look, and I instantly glance away.

“…We’ll increase ice cream flavours by a dollar, extras by thirty cents and hold a raffle. The winner can get their weight in ice cream, and we can always get Barty Anderson to advertise for us, I’m sure he won’t mind…” Barty Anderson is our local ‘radio jock’. He’s really into patriotism and big on community, and he’s always featuring shows on ‘Aussie battlers’. I guess right now, we can qualify as ‘Aussie battlers’.

“And if we still don’t have enough funds, we can always coerce Mrs Florshiem into donating us the rest, for the benefit of the township, maybe give her a good citizen plaque to help sway her…” Who knew that inside that vapid looking exterior was a shrewd businesswoman just waiting to break out?

“Excellent thinking, Rhiannon, I’m so glad you girls are so keen to help. It means the world to me,” Flora smiles brightly at us. And then, I see it. The subtle shifting of the arms, the gleam in her eye – she’s about to give us a hug.

Quickly, I turn back to face Rhiannon, who isn’t looking nearly as panicked as I feel. Instead she’s got a self-righteous expression on her face, which I can tell is meant just for me.

“Why are you here, anyway?”

The boldness of the question takes her aback and she looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since she’s arrived. For a moment I think she’s going to say something meaningful, like, “I had an eye spasm which alerted me to your plight,” but her face slowly scrunches up into an imitation of a smirk and she says, “For my shift. Why else would I be here?” Although she doesn’t say it, the duh in the tone of her voice is left to reflect off of the walls.

Flora nods pleasantly, apparently still too caught up in her gratitude to notice anything amiss in our exchange. “Yes, I asked Rhiannon to take inventory, seeing as we got that new delivery yesterday. Of course, I could have asked you to do it, Nik, but I thought that being Friday and all…” The ‘we’d actually have business’ is left unsaid, but we’re all thinking it.

The silence that follows seems to stretch out for hours. Finally, Rhiannon breaks it, looking at Flora as she speaks and completely ignoring me. “If anyone needs me I’ll be in the store room.” She flicks a strand of hair carelessly over her shoulder and saunters back out of the shop, leaving me alone with Flora again.

“Oh,” Flora presses a palm against her forehead, “I completely forgot about Mr Donohue. He’ll be wondering where I am…”

I suppose I should actually make an effort this time, instead of letting other people volunteer me. “I’ll stay an extra few hours and close shop, if you’d like,” I offer half-heartedly. Most people go out on Friday nights, but what do I get stuck doing? Manning an empty shop, that’s what.

“Really?” Just when I think Flora’s smile can’t get any bigger, it does. “Oh, Nikita, you’d really be doing me a favour. Thank you so much, I’ll pay you overtime, I promise.”

“No, it’s okay, I don’t mind.” After all, it’s too late to do anything; everyone else will already have plans. If I go home now I’ll only be keeping Grandma Germ company while she watches the footy and yells at the players to ‘tackle harder!’

“Don’t be silly,” she waves it off. “Here’s the key, my mobile number is over there by the phone. I’m sure Rhiannon will be happy to give you a lift home,” she places the blue key in my outstretched hand and walks over to the door. “Thanks again, Nik. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably get Gavin to do everything,” I snicker under my breath after she’s left. I attempt to pass the time by sitting down and watching the clock – one hour, two minutes and forty-three seconds until closing time – but realise quickly that it’s really not getting me anywhere. If I were smart I would’ve brought my philosophy homework with me, but I’ve left it in my locker at school, despite the fact I have a three thousand word essay due next Thursday.

I entertain myself my creating a sign for my ‘guesstimate game’, as Rhiannon was quick to dub it. I’m not the most artistic person in the world, but despite that the sign ends up not being half-bad. In the centre, in simple block letters I’ve put Play the Guesstimate Game – Be Told Your Favourite Flavour Today! Considering I failed my advertising class back in year ten, it’s the best I can come up with at such short notice. The price is in smaller print underneath, and the entire sign has a border of ice cream cones.

Five minutes and twenty-one seconds after I’ve tacked the sign onto the front window, the entrance bell tinkles and I look up from my clock watching. My first customer for two hours has arrived, although it’s not the usual dishevelled truck driver, Hawaiian-motif wearing tourist or even barefoot local.

It’s a guy around my own age, with jaw-length dark brown dreadlocks pushed out of his face and wearing a thick green hoodie. Visitor, then – all of us locals are used to the mountain range temperatures than can border on sub-zero at night. His battered jeans are almost falling apart at the bottom, where they’re slightly too long, and grimy runners are barely visible underneath. Admittedly, I wouldn’t call him Most Likely To Win Bachelor Of The Year, but it’s his height I notice first.

At least six feet, he uses every inch of his vertical fortuity to his advantage. Compared to my meagre five two, imposing is a word I usually associate with height. This guy, though, could probably appear imposing even if he were shorter than me. I’ve never fully understood how people like him do it – whether it’s the set back shoulders, straight posture of set jaw – but they’re the kind of people that cause every eye in the room to be trained on their figure. Their very presence can make a room go silent, and that’s how it is with me – even the clock chooses the very second to break down.

He raises an eyebrow at me (I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that) to let me know that I’m staring. I blush – for someone with naturally black (presently dyed blue) hair, I blush a hell of a lot – and avert my eyes to the pad in front of me (for membership inquiries – so for now it’s just my doodling pad).

I’m wishing that I’m not always so daunted when I’m around assertive people and trying not to choke on my own spit at the same time. Dreadlock Guy clears his throat and it brings me back out of my thoughts. I put on my best ‘quality customer service’ smile that Flora taught me.

“Hi, how can I help you today?” Flora says it’s best to tack ‘today’ onto everything because then they’ll subconsciously be compelled to come here more often. I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but I figure that I’ll at least give it a go.

“Yeah, can I have…” His eyes search the list of varieties as he pauses and he glances back up at me after a second. “… The strawberry sorbet?”

I’m surprised. “You don’t seem like the strawberry sorbet type.” Thank God he didn’t ask me to guess, because I never would have suspected strawberry.

He looks bemused. “I’m not, it’s for my mum.”

I resist the urge to snigger. It’s not very often we get mummy’s boys in here, although I don’t tell him so because at this point we’re going to need every customer we can get, even if he is a tool. I move over to the sorbet freezer and pull out a container. Dreadlock Guy’s gaze follows me and he rests his arms on the counter-top.

After sitting alone for so long with no human contact at all, the silence is almost stifling, and despite my discomfort around people (both in general and like him), I fish for something to say out of desperateness. “How long are you visiting?” A nice, safe question.

For a second he looks startled, but it’s soon replaced with an inquiring glance. “How’d you know I’m not a tourist?”

I pause for a second. I don’t, really, but it’s not often we get tourists his age coming in to buy ice cream for their mothers. Besides, at this time of night, most people would just speed right through Yalladandah. “The layers kind of gave it away.” I indicate my blue tee and three-quarter denims, “Tourists drive right through, but most people around here are used to the weather.”

He nods thoughtfully, and the burgeoning conversation grinds to an abrupt halt. The sorbet is ready now, and I carry the container over to the counter to hand to him when I remember my new money-making mission. Might as well scam some cash out of him while he’s here.

“Did you see the sign on the door for the guesstimate game?” I ask in what I think is a conversational tone. I barely give him time to nod before I explain hurriedly, “We’re trying to raise funds for a bill the government’s sent us, even though technically their workers did the damage. Um, I was volunteered to help ‘save the ice creamery’,” I roll my eyes, “and so now I have to guess people’s favourite flavour of ice cream based on their personalities. I’ve never been wrong yet,” I add, in case he thinks I’m a faker with no talent at all.

In spite of my babbling, he still hasn’t been scared off. Instead, he digs a few coins out of his front pocket and asks, “How much?”

“Three fifty,” I answer, ready to add it to his bill. He agrees wordlessly and stands impassively while I scrutinise him.

He’s a bit harder than some other people I’ve faced (aka Rhiannon) but nothing I can’t handle. Within the minute I announce confidently, “It’s English toffee.”

Dreadlock Guy’s expression doesn’t change as he says, “No, actually. It’s not.” He takes out the money for the sorbet – and the guesstimate game – and places it on the counter, picking up his order with the other hand. He’s halfway out of the door when he turns around and asks, “What’s yours?”

I’m still in shock from my failure; everyone has to be egoistical about something, and the fact that I have – had – a perfect record was like my bragging right. I would go so far as to say that it’s almost like the world as I know it has come crashing down around me and that my self-confidence has fallen down in tatters with it. Nevertheless, I manage to utter, “Rainbow swirl.”

The corners of Dreadlock Guy’s mouth curve up in a half-smile, the most emotion I’ve seen him show in the last five minutes. “Rainbow swirl,” he repeats, and nods. Then he turns back around and leaves, without showing the slightest indication of having said anything at all.

I turn my gaze absently to the form in front of me and realise that there, on the ‘Yalla Ice Creamery Membership Application Card (10 per cent Discount)’, what is presumably his mother’s name is written in neat block letters. Underneath though, is a local address – a house that I know has only been sold in the last week, as it’s a few doors down from my own.

“Well,” I say quietly, still slightly stunned, “welcome to Yalladandah, Mr Clarke.”

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Welcome To: YALLADANDAH

Home Of The Big Sprout

Pop: 2,674

Alt: 902m a.s.l.

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A/N: Both the title and summary are subject to change; if anyone has any better ideas, questions, comments or criticism, please feel free to review. No pressure at all… But if you were nice people, you would.