Photos by Adam Wallcavage

diner Jumbo Size   McKenna's Jumbo Lounge 795 N. 24th St. 232-3247 Cruising through the Art Museum area after an exhaustive day of swimsuit shopping, Brian and Pete were starving. Like stoners in the throes of a pot binge, they sought food. As though through divine providence, the area in front of St. Hedwig's church appeared at the corner of 24th and Brown and offered just enough curb space to parallel park their cumbersome El Dorado. On the opposite corner stood Hedwig's antipodean cousin, McKenna's Jumbo Lounge. Though little more than a hole in the wall, a faded plastic sign hinted that there may be life inside, however pallid. They strolled in through the "Ladies' Entrance," hoping to avoid the catcalls of the lechers inside. But there were no lechers, rather a quiet trio of locals mollified by the beer and good company. Although inflation's jacked up the price of beer considerably, it's still a scant 60 cents a glass at McKenna's. Once again, sacred powers seemed to be intervening when Angels in the Outfield appeared on the Superstation over the bar. Ready to dig into a plate of something tasty, Pete and Brian discovered to their dismay that the cook was "not in today." According to Frank the genial bartender, the cook "hasn't been cooking much lately." "Have a Peanut Chew," interjected a patron, offering his box Pete's way. Pete - famished and longing to fit in - accepted graciously. His appetite waxing but wary of the kindness of strangers, Brian declined. He instead lined up a brigade of 60-cent Buds, knocking each back. The binge, compounded by simple malnutrition, left Brian an easy target for specters looking to manifest. As Pete munched one bite of peanutty goodness after the next, Brian stared into a Milky Way-shaped knot in the bar. Strange that wood so pure as mahogany would have knots; even stranger was the ghostly little obese man who emerged from it. This 2-foot-tall apparition was none other than "Jumbo" McKenna, late owner of the bar. "How goes it there, lads?" said Jumbo in his wee brogue. "Headin' to Connie Mack fer the game there, are ye?" "Where's that?" inquired Pete, dumfounded. "Connie Mack stadium was leveled years ago, Jumbo," answered Brian. "Ahh, I know," lamented Jumbo. "Seems as if I'm living in the past. Aye, but those were the days. Years ago when I was around. Guys and gals eatin', drinkin' and laughin'. Ahh the laughter. St. Hedwig's sodality, the Strikebreakers' bowlin' team, the guards from the prison. Christ wept! Now all that's left is trusty Frank and a few old-timers. And to think I passed on before I'd found my grease-filled grail. I dreamt of one day serving up the Batter-Dipped Burger and Double-Fried French Fry Platter. 'Twas my greatest invention. 'Twould be more fat than you could bail with a bucket." "Jumbo, stop it!" squalled Pete. "We're starving here as it is." "I think the batter-dipped burger sounds fabulous," squealed Brian. "Aye, it would never fly," countered the wee Jumbo in a voice which ground like a pencil sharpener. "Everyone's too concerned with longevity and looking good at the beach. In my day, you hung out of yer swimsuit like sandbags in the belfry. You went to the beach flabby and hairy and the sand stuck to your sweaty back, and you liked it. Now everyone's into this low-calorie, low-fat garbage. Not me. Even though I'm dead, I'm comfortable with my Jumbo-ness. I'm Jumbo McKenna. But no one's into grease anymore." "But we love grease, and plenty of other people do, too," consoled Pete. "Don't question the dead!" retorted Jumbo. "When Harry Truman left office, everything good went with him. And ya can't tell me I'm wrong neither." And with that, as if sucked up in some supernatural hiccup, tiny Jumbo vanished. "Well, that was surreal," mused Brian. "I'm all for cheap beer, but this poltergeist stuff is too taxing. Wanna head down the street for some pizza?" asked Pete. "Sure. Is it low-fat?" smirked Brian. - Pete Brown and Brian Howard