Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

Grimace
By Ma rgue ri te Alcaza ren de Leon

“Put it on,” instructed Vic, the branch manager, before he left the storage room.
Dexter stared at the large heap of purple fabric sitting in the corner. Even
without a person inside it, the Grimace costume was as tall as he was and twice as
wide. It was made of two main pieces: a pear-shaped torso with all four limbs already
attached, and a head with large plastic eyes and a hollowed-out smile.
The mascot’s identity was something to ponder over. With or without someone
inside it, the costume remained a huge, purple, indistinguishable blob. What Grimace
was had always provided bored lunch-goers with something to debate about, and there
were three popular assumptions.
The first was that Grimace was a blueberry shake. Back in the eighties in the
United States, blueberry shakes were a part of the McDonald’s menu. But why make a
mascot of thick liquid? Why not a drink container mascot? And if Grimace was based on
something that existed somewhere else two decades ago, why have him in the
Philippines at all?
The second was that Grimace was everyone’s inner child. Grimace, supposedly,
represented the faculty of wonder. Why McDonald’s felt that wonder should look like a
big purple lout was the problem.
The third was that Grimace was a taste bud. This made slightly more sense.
Since McDonald’s was an eating establishment, having a taste bud mascot seemed
logical enough, albeit eccentric. And it looked more like a taste bud than it did a
blueberry shake.
But the biggest problem about Grimace, which immediately affected whatever it
was, was its name. Why call the mascot Grimace? The word implied disapproval, which
was the last thing one would want from an advocate of a fast food chain. It didn’t seem
likely of McDonald’s to promote an unhappy palate or an unhappy inner child. Plus, the
mascot was always smiling. Why call it Grimace if it never does? Why didn’t anyone
bother changing its name?

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

Of course, all these mental crises were not evident to Dexter, who had been a
trainee at McDonald’s for almost three weeks. He never questioned why Grimace was
what it was. He wasn’t going to spend his time speculating on a big piece of foam.
There were other, more harrowing things on his mind, things like: You’re about to
prance around in a big piece of foam.
Dexter approached the costume cautiously. He picked the head up and stared
deep into its scratched, plastic eyes. He was going to become this, because this,
apparently, was what “miscellaneous tasks” meant on his application form. An almost
hysterical sadness surged through him.
He was a familiar face among his fellow scholars and Dean’s Listers at the
university across the street, so if anyone found out about him and Grimace, they all
would. It would have been bad enough to be seen working the sundae machine or
buffing up the Ronald McDonald on the sidewalk, which had happened a few times
already. It was a lowly job for someone as smart as he was.
Still, nothing would be more humiliating than to be caught dancing around in a
Grimace costume. He would never wish the wrong kind of attention on himself.
It was Dexter’s sense of duty that kept him from running off. Though his
scholarship covered every bit of his private school tuition, food, transportation, books
and all those other little beasts still gnawed at his heels. If he didn’t attend to them, he
feared that his life as a top student—along with his dream of becoming someone of
significance—could be over. The problem was, all his old tutoring jobs had fizzled out
one by one. The kids he taught found him too overbearing.
The little commercial district across his school was his only other option, and the
McDonald’s job was the only one available at the time. It was a far cry from the more
cerebral chores he was used to, but it was in the right location and fit his schedule best.
It would have been more foolish not to give it a try. At least, that was how Dexter
reasoned it out with himself before he took the job.
Dexter jutted his lip out a little. Grimace continued to stare back, its eyes wide,
wide open, urging him to zip up.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

He set the head aside, stripped to his shorts and undershirt and heaved the torso
upright. It was heavy, and it took him a minute to shuffle towards the zipper running
down its back. He pulled it down to reveal darkness, stepped inside and found it to be a
particularly warm and itchy darkness. As he began adjusting his lanky limbs to
Grimace’s fat frame, he could feel an extra, despicable heaviness hugging his skin. It
was from neither the foam nor the fabric.
And then, the head; it took some time for the new, plump Dexter to bend over
and pick it up, and when he finally did, he gave it one last look of disdain. He turned
the head around and placed it over his own, a tight fit because of his thick glasses It
was as dark as he expected.
“Ready?” a voice asked through the door. Before Dexter could say anything, Vic
burst in and tugged the torso’s zipper up. “The kids are getting bored.” He escorted
Dexter out of the storage room, through the kitchen and out into the dining area,
guiding him by his huge, grapey paw.
Dexter was relieved that there was someone to maneuver his bulk around. It
was difficult to walk in Grimace’s huge, padded feet and to see clearly through
Grimace’s meshed mouth. He felt handicapped—imperfect, incompetent, fodder for the
diners’ pity and amusement. He could feel their eyes prying through the purple, trying
to figure out what the sad fuck inside looked like. At least Vic would be by his side
throughout all of it.
“I’ll leave you here,” Vic said as they approached the glass-walled party room.
Dexter jerked to a stop, bear-hugging Vic for balance.
“You can’t leave me here!” Dexter gasped during their embrace.
“You’ll do fine,” Vic replied, pulling away. He placed a hand on Grimace’s shoulder
and looked into Grimace’s mouth. “Just dance around and be nice. Anybody can do
that.”
Dexter wished Vic could see the absolute panic in his eyes.
“I have to go, Dex. I have a lot more to do.”

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

The moment Vic left, a mob of small, screaming children gathered at Dexter’s
feet, pounding on his belly. Dexter couldn’t tell whether the glint in their eyes was of
wonder or murderous intent.
“Look, kids! It’s Grimace!” a muffled voice exclaimed.
Dexter recognized Mayelle, one of his fellow trainees, holding a microphone and
waving at him from inside the party room. He waved back reluctantly.
“Come on, kids!” Mayelle continued, hyped up on something Dexter couldn’t
distinguish. “Bring Grimace in! Woohoo! Goooo Grimaaaaace!”
Dexter yelped as a dozen tiny hands pulled his fur towards the glass door. Once
the kids had pulled him completely inside, he felt an immediate, overwhelming alarm.
Every bit of the celebration was right before him, and though Dexter could see and hear
little from inside the suit, whatever little he saw and heard was frightening enough.
The music was the first thing that jarred him. It was “Jumbo Hotdog,” a hit by a
group of topless, muscle-bound men called the Masculados.
Dexter hated these novelty songs. There was nothing novel about bad, sexual
metaphors set against a bass-laden melody. It was mindless, vulgar and hideously
catchy. It made him want to boogie for all the wrong reasons, to dance and feel disgust
at the same time. The fact that it was on full blast at a children’s party made things
worse, not to mention that some children were singing along by memory.
“Jum-bo hotdog, kaya mo ba ‘to?” a little girl in a little pink jumper sang in her
little voice, wiggling her little body to the synthesized song. “Kaya mo ba ‘to? Kaya mo
ba ‘to?”
Dexter was also disturbed by the decorations. It wasn’t just because of the
gigantic tarp with a single picture of the birthday boy stretched out and pixilated. It was
also because the image of Grimace waving was on every other printed surface he could
see, his smiling purple face like some all-pervading force. There were Grimaces waving
from placemats, Grimaces waving from table napkins, Grimaces waving from posters,
Grimaces waving from cardboard party hats, Grimaces waving from loot bags, Grimaces
waving from pencil-toppers sticking out of the loot bags.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

Now all we need is Grimace, Dexter thought, rolling his eyes. Then he
remembered that he was hot, itchy and looking through a hole.
“Grimace! Grimace!” a grown-up man with a digicam called out in excitement.
“Quick! Quick! Take a picture with Miko!” Sitting stiffly beside the man was the birthday
boy, normal-sized and un-pixilated but with a look on his face that was very much
distorted.
Dexter took a deep breath to ready himself and then waddled over to Miko,
waving. Miko remained stiff and dour as the countless other Grimaces waved back.
“There! Be friends with Grimace!” the man with the digicam exclaimed, stepping
back. He made a fanning gesture with his free hand. “Stick closer to each other! Closer!
Grimace, put your arm around Miko’s shoulder! There! Now, be friends! Be friends!”
Dexter did as he was told, the huge arm completely enveloping Miko’s own. The man
crouched and examined his LCD screen. “There! Perfect! Now look at daddy’s
cameraaaaa! Say ‘cheeeeeeese!’”
Dexter refused to smile. He wasn’t exactly in the mood, and was never really one
to smile in the first place. He had always made sure to depict himself in photographs as
a thinker, with the piercing eyes, hint of a scowl and chin held up high. It was important
to look dignified, not giddy with ignorance.
As he stared at the cocked digicam from the dimness of his suit, however, he
realized that no expression was necessary. No matter what kind of grimace he made,
Grimace’s large, permanent, open-mouthed smile would endure.
Dexter stuck his tongue out.
Suddenly, right before the camera flashed, he noticed a figure smirking at him
from one of the tables. It was JB, his blockmate. With him at the table were three other
varsity basketball members, all wearing the same, generic look of disrespect.
The camera flashed.
As Dexter waited for the green and red flecks to dissolve from sight, he hoped
that JB and his crew would cease to be there once his vision had cleared.
JB gave Grimace the finger. The four of them laughed.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

Dexter was glad to be inside the suit for the first time. In fact, he hoped that
there would be no way for him to take it off ever again. JB had it in for Dexter ever
since their Asian History group project, which was 35% of their grade for that course.
JB attended only one out of four planning sessions, contributed only half a page of
shoddy research and did not show up for their presentation, so Dexter, the group
leader, thought it only right to report his ineptitude to Ma’am Ramirez. JB had to do a
solo report because of this, did predictably badly, and failed Asian History.
“I love you Grimaaace!” JB gushed.
Dexter’s reputation was for him to slaughter.
But only if he knew it was you, Dexter reminded himself. So keep your head on
your shoulders.
“Heeere comes the birthday cake!” Mayelle screeched into the microphone.
“Jumbo Hotdog” slowly faded out, innuendo by innuendo. “Come on, kids! You know
what that means! Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for Mikoooo!”
Vic and a trainee wheeled a large, red and yellow-frosted cake up to Miko and
Dexter. A plastic Grimace figurine waved from the edge, dwarfed by a gold-glittered
Styrofoam “M” wedged into the cake’s center. The “M” glowed from the light of the six
purple candles right below it.
“Are you alright?” Vic whispered to Dexter as the guests shuffled around the
cake. Dexter noticed that JB and his crew had stayed put at their table, grinning
diabolically.
“There are Grimaces everywhere.”
“He’s Miko’s favorite character,” Vic explained. “It was a special request.”
Dexter glanced at the unsmiling birthday boy, whose arm was still bound by a
long wad of fur. Dexter moved his hand away. Miko’s empty expression remained.
“Grimace!” Miko’s father cried out in panic. “Put your arm back! Now!”
Dexter quickly placed his arm back, frowning.
Suddenly, Mayelle appeared by Dexter’s side, grinning frantically at everyone. “Is
everyone ready? Ready? Okay? ‘Happy Birthday,’ okay? Okay! Five, six. Five, six, seven,
eight!”

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

The guests sang ‘Happy Birthday’ the way Dexter found appropriate, like a
requiem. They prolonged note after flat note, droning through the melody, staring at
the cake as they sang. Miko stared at his double-knotted shoelaces.
The song ended.
“Blow the candles, Miko!” Miko’s father instructed, puffing his cheeks out and
nodding encouragingly.
“Blow the candles, Miko!” the other guests echoed, making the same funny
faces. Purple candle wax had begun to sink into the yellow frosting, making tiny,
brownish puddles. Miko still refused to look up.
“What’s wrong with your brother?” one of the varsity boys asked JB. JB shrugged
with the least bit of concern.
Dexter bent his knees as much as his suit would allow and pointed at the candles
with his free paw. The boy was probably slow in the head. As someone with the gift of
complex thought, Dexter suddenly felt the responsibility to encourage him. It was the
least he could do for the poor boy.
“Blow the candles, Miko,” he repeated.
An entire minute passed, punctuated by soft, awkward come-on-Mikos from one
person to another. Miko still refused to look up.
“It’s okay, Miko, it’s okay,” Miko’s father finally murmured. “I’ll do it. It’s okay.” He
went up to the candles and blew them out. They had already sunk halfway into the
cake, their wax’s brownish puddles linked into a firm, opaque stream. The applause
from the guests was as quick and delicate as the smoke trembling from the six wicks.
“Oookay!” Mayelle screeched, blowing the calm apart. Another novelty song
barged in. “Who wants cake?”
“Caaake!” JB and his crew cried out from their table.
As they and the other guests scrambled for paper plates and plastic forks, Dexter
slowly shuffled away from the table and up to Vic, who was dumping burger wrappers
into a giant trash bag.
“Is something wrong with Miko?” Dexter asked. “Is he sick? Is he autistic?”

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

“No,” Vic replied, shaking his head. “I talked to his father earlier. Miko had a bad
time at school yesterday.”
“Bullies?” Dexter glanced over at JB, who had taken a corner piece of the cake
and was skimming icing off the other slices.
“No, not bullies.”
“What? Did anyone die?”
“He lost the spelling bee.”
Dexter fell silent.
“Even the father thinks it’s a tragedy. He said they trained for months,” Vic
continued, picking up an empty ketchup sachet. “To be honest, it sounds ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Dexter mumbled.
Dexter didn’t find it ridiculous at all. In fact, he completely understood where
their misery came from. Spelling bees required a special, intellectual skill. He could
already imagine how taxing Miko’s training must have been, and how important it was
that he win.
People don’t join academic competitions for love of the game. They join it to
conquer it, to emerge the most learned, the most advanced, the most worthy of
everyone’s hatred and admiration. Losing—coming in second, even—was rightfully
tragic; it meant that someone else knew more. What smart little boy wouldn’t be
crushed? What father of a smart little boy wouldn’t be crushed?
Of course, people like Vic, who had neither the brains nor the drive to take on a
bee, would never understand this. But Dexter, who had achieved so much academically
in the first two decades of his life, and thus knew how different it was to be smart and
special, understood it all too well. Miko’s silence was as piercing as a million fire alarms
and fog horns. It was no wonder the boy was miserable.
“More than ridiculous, actually,” Vic added. “It’s sad.”
“Pathetic?”
“No, not pathetic. Just sad.” Vic twisted the trash bag’s mouth with finality. “It’s
your job to make him happy.”
“I’ll try,” Dexter mumbled, meaning it.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

“Please try. This party is terrible.”

Dexter watched his manager drag the trash bag away.
“Okay, everybodyyyy!”
Dexter turned around. In the middle of the party room stood Mayelle, a ten-foot
pole wrapped in alternate strips of gold and ruby in her hand. It gleamed with deceit.
“It’s time for party gaaaaames! Whooooo knows how to limbo rooooock?”
A high-pitched sound began pulsing from the speakers, like a softer, subtler
Psycho screech. Dexter eyed the glass door in panic, his sentiments for Miko quickly
draining away. He knew immediately what the song was. A decade of suppression had
failed to temper its menace. It was the Macarena.
Dexter quickly waddled to the door, hoping by some miracle that nobody would
notice an enormous wad of purple fur wobbling away.
“Grimace loooves to limbooo!”
Dexter froze, the glass door right in front of him. The reflection wasn’t his but
that of a large, purple, indistinguishable blob smiling with endless earnestness. Serving
as a backdrop were the customers outside, eating, talking, looking for free tables,
giving him the occasional glance of amusement. Some even waved. He slowly lifted his
hand in response. They knew nothing of his torment.
“Come on, Grimace!” Mayelle tugged Dexter away from the door. “Why don’t you
go first?”
“I hate you,” Dexter hissed as Mayelle brought him right in the center of the
room. Two middle-aged men—Miko’s uncles, most probably—approached him holding
both ends of the limbo pole. “I’m never lending you jeep fare again.”
“Okay, round oooone!” Mayelle announced, deaf to his threat. The guests had
begun to crowd around and clap. JB and the other three were standing on their seats
and hooting.
“Grimaaace! I love youuu!” they called out, blowing kisses spiked with scorn.
The Macarena rose in volume, becoming one long, loud, Latino mantra, and the
uncles lifted the pole to Grimace’s eye level, two inches above Dexter’s own head.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

This was a situation Dexter’s schooling hadn’t prepared him for. He could wrestle
his way out of a mean thesis statement. He could wrench apart formulae and clobber
bad grammar. But defeating a pole in a foam suit was a trial that had never, ever
crossed Dexter’s mind. In fact, it was probably the one thing that was beyond his great
comprehension.
Dexter glanced at Miko, who was still stoic in his seat, and suddenly remembered
the tragedy behind the boy’s silence. He moved his gaze to the sparkling pole.
No way to go but down, Dexter told himself.
He bent his back. Finding the pole still a few inches from his face, he
remembered that Grimace was much taller. He bit his lip and bent back even further
just to make sure. Then, he began to make very tiny hops forward. The hooting and
clapping around him intensified. He closed his eyes and just kept edging onward, and
then, before he knew it, he could hear people screaming in delight. He opened his eyes.
The pole was behind him. Dexter and Grimace jumped up and beamed in triumph.
“That was great, Grimace!” Mayelle cried. “Time for round twoooo!”
The uncles lowered the pole to Dexter’s own eye level. Dexter bent his back with
more confidence, making sure to dip lower than the last time.
He seemed to be good at this.
He shuffled forward. The crowd cheered.
“Go Grimace!” Mayelle shrieked as Dexter dodged the pole. “Time for round
threeee!”
The uncles dropped the pole all the way to Dexter’s chin. It was
uncompromisingly low. Dexter tried bending back as much as he could, but the suit
prevented him from going completely horizontal. He wasn’t sure if it was enough to
clear the pole.
“How looow can you go?” everyone around him started to chant. “How looow
can you go?”
Dexter gritted his teeth and tried bending even lower. He refused to be
disheartened. He was good at limbo. He was very good at limbo. And if there was one
thing Dexter could never ignore, it was the call to greatness.

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Grimace by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

“How looow can you go?” JB called out as he wiggled his hips. “How looow can
you go?”
Dexter began to shimmy.
After a few moments, realizing that he still hadn’t grazed the pole, Dexter
shimmied with even more finesse.
“How looow can you go?”
Dexter shimmied.
“How looow can you go?”
Dexter shimmied again.
“How looow can you go?”
Dexter shimmied some more.
“How lo—”
A sudden surge of light stung Dexter’s eyes. The dark felt smothering his face
was gone. He held his position, staring at the tiny cardboard Grimace twirling from the
ceiling right across from him. The air-conditioning swiftly cooling his head filled him
with fear.
“Dexter!” JB proclaimed, guffawing with pure happiness.
Dexter slowly heaved himself upright. Everyone else had begun laughing their
own heads off. The uncles were chuckling so hard that the dratted pole had dropped
from their fingers. Mayelle, still holding the microphone to her lips, amplified the most
genuine giggle she had given all afternoon, the children’s cackles echoing along. Even
Grimace’s head, which had rolled right up to Dexter’s feet, stared at him with scratched,
plastic, laughing eyes, its hollowed-out smile packed tight with contempt.
Dexter tried reaching for the head, but his padded paws and thick torso made for
tricky maneuvering. He was bumbling, ridiculous.
“I love you, Grimaaace!” JB repeated amidst his friends’ hard, hearty laughter.
As he continued to fumble for the head, Dexter glanced over at Miko. The
birthday boy, still stiff in his seat, was staring straight at him. A smile had formed on his
lips. 

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