Paragraphical Tales, Vol. 2
22 More Short Fun-Sized Stories
Paragraphical Tales, Vol. 2
22 More Short Fun-Sized Stories
The Magician
When I completed the penultimate trick of my act, I expected raucous applause and exuberant cheers, however, I received a confusing cackle of laughter. I am not a comedy magician but a straight illusionist with serious overtones in my performance. A true artist. Bewildered but determined to finish with a complicated and impressive showstopper which was guaranteed to produce a healthy and worthwhile ovation, I completed my final magical feat. Once again, I was awarded only childish giggles and jeers—an embarrassment of chuckles. After the show, driving home with a confusion of echoing chortles, I tried to decipher the mistakes I had made with my new stage presence. Where had I gone wrong? I arrived home emotionally drained, stupefied by the indignity I experienced, but still seeking answers. Hoping for a sympathetic ear, I told my wife about the confusing reaction I had received from my young audience. She stood there laughing, unable or unwilling to offer a supportive sentiment or an encouraging viewpoint, which quite frankly, I needed at that point. Now angered and with a shattered ego, I stormed into the washroom to remove my white face makeup and red clown nose.
The Beef
Earlier today, I walked up to the Chicken Coop with anger in my heart, knowing he was inside. I entered with a sense of purpose—retribution was my goal. I saw him in the rear of the place, casually pecking at some organic corn. (Mr. P has always been good to us.) He looked as if he’d done nothing wrong—cocky, if I may use an appropriate expression. I had received some information that he’d been seen around with my hen, which is something I cannot let stand. Yes, my feathers were ruffled, and I aimed to make an example of him—my usual gentlemanly demeanor be damned. I headed his way, seething with intense hatred, when a shiny object off to the side caught my eye. Momentarily distracted, I changed course to investigate. It looked like a silver plastic bracelet, probably belonging to Mr. P’s young daughter, which someone obviously dragged in from the Yard. I pecked at it, and it gave an enjoyable wobbling twitch. I continued to play with the thing, amusing myself to no end, and I completely forgot the reason why I came into this place.
The Letter
Oona found the unopened letter underneath the entrance rug four months after her husband’s passing. It had her singular name on the envelope in what appeared to be her late husband’s scrawl, nothing else. How it came to be unnoticed or unremembered in such a secretive and flattened location is still a mystery. It had been trod upon by well-wishers and mourners alike, and Oona herself, struggling to maintain the dignity of everyday life. Excited by a new message from their father, Oona, at once, called her two sons, and they arrived three days later—one from Osaka, Japan, the other from Montreal. After the familial reunion and much ballyhoo over the contents of the letter, Oona and sons sat in her husband’s den to unveil its contents. My dear Oona, the letter started, If you are reading these words, I have gone. Oona broke down in sobs, and the two men comforted their mother the best they could. I humbly request you see it in your heart to remember me. No doubt there will be someone new, and I hope you treat him with the love and respect you’ve shown me. Charles. The two brothers looked at each other as their mother quietly cried. Finally, they could contain their confusion no longer and gently inquired about the identity of this “Charles.” Oona dabbed at her eyes with her husband’s handkerchief and managed this heartfelt response: “He was our mailman.”
The Magical Frog
The cool, clear water trickled down the wooded hillside into Maggie McDermott’s backyard. It had rained, and the runoff was a common occurrence in the small Appalachian village where Maggie lived. Along with the water came a sleek green frog who possessed magical qualities. Maggie was hanging her laundry on the clothesline in her backyard when the frog approached her. Now, you might think this frog had the ability to speak and was interested in granting Maggie three wishes. If this was a fairy story, you may be correct. But this is a true story, and unfortunately, your hypothesis is right. After the initial shock of meeting a talking frog, Maggie was surprised to learn this was no ordinary talking frog but one who granted wishes. Three of them. The frog explained the situation and offered Maggie the three-wish opportunity because... well, she was the first person he came across. After pondering for nearly seven seconds, Maggie wished for 463 million dollars. The frog rather indifferently announced her first wish was granted. Maggie ran inside and called her bank and asked for her balance. The rather startled response: $463,002,133.14. Maggie danced around her kitchen, forgetting to say thank you to the bank clerk, and ran back outside. The frog asked for her second wish, and Maggie stated she wanted another $463M. The altruistic amphibian yawned and stated it was granted. Again, Maggie called the bank: $926,002,133.14. Maggie was beside herself, to say the least, and sat at her kitchen table to calm her heart. The magical frog entered the kitchen and reminded Maggie she had one last wish. This time, Maggie contemplated the possibilities for nearly twenty seconds. She wanted the sun to always be out and for it to never rain so she wouldn’t need to take down her laundry from the line, only to put it back up when the weather cleared. The frog confirmed her wish was granted and hopped out of Maggie’s ramshackle house and back into the woods. The weeks, months, and years that followed saw no rainfall and brilliant sunshine. Rivers dried up, crops failed, fresh water was scarce. The ecosystem was thrown off kilter. Millions of people perished. Maggie spent ungodly amounts of money on a new mansion and an industrial water desalination plant. She lived like a queen and wasn’t in need of anything. Unfortunately, her health was failing. The magical frog visited her on her deathbed one sunny afternoon. Maggie thanked the frog for all her riches. The frog stared at her with a contemptuous sneer and finally said, “Ya know, you could have just bought an electric clothes dryer.”
The Baseball Glove
Oliver borrowed my baseball glove, and he won’t give it back. He kept saying he returned it, but he’s a dumb, no-good liar. My mother explained that if he wouldn’t give it back, it meant Oliver didn’t borrow it; he stole it. She said when my dad gets home, we will all go over to Oliver’s house and demand it back. Oliver’s dad will probably ground him for a week. Maybe two. He’ll probably make him go to bed extra early and not let him have any dessert. Wow, he is in some serious trouble. When my dad gets home, it’ll probably be the last I’ll see of Oliver for a while. They might even pack up and move to Russia or something, they’ll be so mad at him. All the kids at school will call him Oliver the Robber or something mean like that. I can’t wait ‘til my dad gets home. I think Oliver is probably going to cry when he sees us all. He is going to be so... Oh. There’s my glove. I guess he did give it back. Stupid Oliver.
The Party
I hate office birthday parties. Today, Kaitlin chose to hang the streamers, and Candice opted to blow up the balloons, so it was left to me to buy the cake. Jasmine’s kid was sick—she was out. I put on my coat and walked across the parking lot to my car, almost slipping on some black ice on the way. When I got to the ice cream shop, I chose a pre-made cake from the freezer display—chocolate salted caramel or something similar. I asked the crotchety lady behind the counter if she could customize it with some icing. Another five dollars for Happy Birthday Roger. The grumbling and the frown were free. I made my way back to the office after stepping in some gray slush in the parking lot. The streamers were hung in such a haphazard manner I thought a psychotic monkey could’ve done better, and Kaitlin was sitting atop a desk texting on her phone. Candice managed to inflate three balloons halfway before pooping out and was lying on the floor. I asked her if she was dead or just needed an ambulance. She coughed. I put the cake in the office fridge in the break room. Later, after a depressing rendition of the birthday song sung in two different keys, I wished for a better job and blew out the candles. Kaitlin gave me a Top Ten Boss mug with coffee stains in it and a chip on the handle, and Candice gave me an expired $10 gift card to Sephora. I hate office birthday parties.
The Cow
Hey Ma, there been a catastrophe down here.
Oh, Lordie and Saint Joe, what the hay happened?
Cody got his pecker stuck in the milkin’ machine agin.
Jiminy Cricket, where’s your Pa at?
He here. Pa got him out. I keep tellin’ Cody, you gotta use the lard with that thing. He just don’t listen, Ma.
Well, long’s he’s all right.
But Cody ain’t the catastrophe, though, Ma.
Oh, heavens above, what is it?
Where you at anyways?
I’m down here in Pekoe at the fabric store. Gonna make a new dress for when Pa gets inner-viewed by the tee-vee lady. Now tell me what’s went on before I bust with tension.
One of the dang cows exploded, Ma. Right there outside the barn. Happened dern quick too. One second he was grazin’ the grass, and the next second he was a bunch a tiny bloody bits. It’s got on the windows and everthin’.
Well, Jesus and Mary, ain’t this a big ol’ mess a beans. Please tell me it dint get on my petunias.
No, Ma, tweren’t anywheres near your flowers.
Where’s your Pa now?
Cleanin’ it up.
Well, glory be, the man is actually doin’ somethin’.
When you gettin’ home, Ma?
I’ll be leavin’ here soon, prolly gonna be ‘bout a hour. Are you sure Cody’s all right?
Yes, ma’am. He’s cryin’ and all, but he okay. Pa said it hurt his pride more’n it hurt his pecker.
Okay, then. I’ll be seeing y’all later on.
Wait, Ma?
Yes, what is it?
You might wanna take yer time.
Why for? What’s wrong?
Pa still ain’t found the head.
The Account of Classic Clarissa
She wasn’t the type of girl you noticed across a crowded house. She was a green eyed lady, had a spooky tooth, and wore deep purple eyeshadow. It wasn’t a look that was the cream of the crop or would stop traffic, but I thought she carried herself like royalty. Maybe not a queen, but it was possible a chic prince might’ve asked her out. I know I would be at her beck and call. However, she wasn’t a foreigner; she was from America—born in Kansas, raised in Boston, now living in Chicago. Her favorite bad joke was Knock, knock—Who’s there?—Guess who?—Who?—Yes. But she had a good heart. I knew she could be the cure to the kinks in my love life. I wanted to be the Dagwood to her Blondie. But to actually believe I could even kiss her was madness. I might as well believe I could squeeze water from stones. I wonder if she even thinks of me in that way. What a jam I’m in. Call the emotional police and have me locked up behind steel doors. Which is a roundabout way of saying, if you think I could get a girl like her, then dream on.
The Student
It was right before 6 p.m. when Ashleigh came into my office. I had already packed my briefcase and shut down my computer. She said she wanted to discuss her final grade with me, but my mind was on a cold pilsner and a steak dinner with my wife. From her appearance—a micro skirt, two inches of visible cleavage, and a fresh application of lip gloss on her bubblegum-pink lips—I knew I needed to step lightly and extricate myself from a potentially scandalous situation. I told her I couldn’t meet with her in my office after hours and suggested she submit her grievance in writing, hoping that would send her back to wherever pretty, young students call home. I hate to admit that her girlish pouting and flirtatious comments about my broad shoulders and strong, masculine hands had me thinking in a disrespectful manner. I mean, I do work out and try to stay in shape, but that’s beside the point. She told me there was a pizza place near her apartment where we could talk about “things,” and it was very important to her that we have this discussion. She also said she would do anything to get a better grade—her voice becoming breathy on the anything part. Fifteen minutes later, we were at a Chuck E. Cheese at a table near a window—my one stipulation for agreeing to this impromptu conversation—thinking the public atmosphere would keep Ashleigh from engaging in any salacious maneuvers. Almost immediately, I felt her bare foot caressing my shin as I sipped my Budweiser. She began drawing concentric circles on the back of my hand with her Barbie-pink fingernail. Yes, this got a response from me, which I will not expound upon. I explained to Ashleigh that her work this semester did not warrant anything higher than a C. She suggested we work this out at her apartment. I reluctantly agreed because an English professor I am friends with had just walked in with her two small children. In the parking lot, I had a change of heart and asked Ashleigh to come back to my house, since my wife was out for the evening. She grasped my necktie, pulled my head down, and licked me on the cheek. She said if her actions were improper and a spanking was deemed necessary, she understood. At that moment, the English professor appeared with a rather disappointed look on her face and told me that my behavior was abhorrent and a call to the dean’s office the following day was to be expected, and the woman I was with should stop trying to dress like a teenager. This is my story of the events of last night as I remember them. I have spoken to my wife about the entire situation, and we both agreed that, in the future, our fantasy dates will take place in the privacy of our own home.
The Spat
The door slammed with enough physical and emotional force that I was stunned into disbelief. She was angry, to put it mildly, and her physical demonstration of that anger was probably more brutal than I’ve ever witnessed. Yesterday, she tried throwing something at my head, but it didn’t amount to much. But today... This is beyond anything I thought she was capable of even conceiving, let alone carrying through. Okay, I admit it—everything is my fault. Did I need to come clean and confess my wrongdoings? No. It wasn’t necessary at the time; I could have waited until our relationship was on a more solid foundation. Did I try to gently apologize and give her some space to think things through? Well, I attempted the soft approach, but she’s a hothead. I knew she had a temper from the day I first met her, and after three years, I truly believed she had simmered—still a fiery redhead, but not as cantankerous or violent. So now I’ve run out of options. She doesn’t return my numerous and pleading calls. She doesn’t even acknowledge my existence anymore. I’ve tried begging like a blubbering baboon. No response. I will die here—I’ve come to accept this depressing fact. Unless she opens the hatch and retrieves me, I’m a goner. The capsule is more than thirty meters away now, I’m untethered, and I only have twenty-some minutes of oxygen left. Never, ever, spend a week in space with your... Wait! There she is—my beautiful, adoring wife coming to... Oh, shit. She just jettisoned my autographed Beach Boys CD.
The Ultimate Guide to Surviving the First Grade Without Looking Like a Complete Idiot: Boy Edition
... If you went to kindergarten, you're an old pro at this. Except no naps.
... If you didn't go to kindergarten, you're in for a culture shock.
... If your mom, dad, or legal guardian made your lunch, you're golden. If not, I’m sorry to report school food is nasty.
… Re No. 3: Except for the tater tots.
… Don't fall in love with your teacher; there’s a 100% chance she's not into you.
... And for Pete’s sake, don’t call her “Mom.”
… Recess: It's not the end of the day, so don't worry about your stupid sweater back in the classroom.
... The girl in front of you will have a ponytail—do not pull it.
... Do not cry. Repeat, do not cry. This will make you look weak, and most likely the other kids will make fun of you. This is not what you want when trying to impress your peers. So suck it up, kid.
... Do not tip your chair back. Yes, it looks cool to balance on two chair legs, but you absolutely do not possess the grip strength to hold yourself up. If you fall backward, kids will laugh at you, and there's a high probability of tears.
... Re No. 10: Unless you plan on being the class clown, in which case it's a great opening move for that particular career goal.
... Try to make a friend as soon as possible. This will give you someone to play with at recess, and you won’t look like a loner.
... Re No. 12: Except Gerald. Stay away. He picks his nose a lot. A lot.
... Try to befriend kids with repeating names, e.g., Coco, Gigi, Bobo, Kiki, JoJo, etc. They’re always super fun to be around.
... When you know an answer to the teacher’s question, don’t go waving your hand in the air while making monkey noises. This tactic is like the Close Door button in an elevator—it rarely works when you need it to.
... Avoid bringing your teacher an apple in exchange for favoritism. This is an old trick that is now frowned upon. Teachers these days prefer Asian pears.
... Re No. 16: A foot massage is also a good choice.
... Eating paste. This is entirely optional. Go with your gut on this one, but please use a spoon. Plastic spoons are available from the lunch personnel in the cafeteria or may be found in the art supply cabinet.
... Elementary school scissors are blunt and dull. They won’t cut crap. Bring your own Fiskars Contoured Performance All Purpose 8” Titanium bad boys. Smooth and sharp. And Emily will want to borrow them, if you catch my drift. She’s a crafting fuh-natic.
... Familiarize yourself with some good literature so you will appear intelligent and worldly to the other students. Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss and The Road by Cormac McCarthy are excellent choices.
And finally,… No gold chains. C’mon.
The Reversal of Fortune
-or-
Why is Daddy Walking So Funny?
I saw the sunrise last evening, and this morning I watched the sun set. Well, this is ugly strange, I thought to myfles. Um, myself. I went to the kitchen to grab some breakfast, and my wife was speaking gibberish. I couldn’t oversit her. Oversit. Overstand. Understand. I couldn’t understand her. I had my coffee and tsaot and took a shower. It was quite unusual for the water to be traveling upward as I washed. (I’m not even going to attempt to describe some other bathroom activities.) I kissed my wife hello and left for work. The rac... the car was acting weirdly too. I couldn’t get it out of reverse. So I had to frontdown... backup the entire way. Strangely, my office was open—nobody was there—so I went back emoh. My daughter was down by that time, and she looked at me with a driew expression as I deklaw in. Walked in. Hey, yenoH, I said as I kissed her on her keehc. I went into my eciffo… office to do some play at emoh. My efiw came in and put her hand to my daeherof. daeheroF. Dammit! Forehead. She said, mmH, and walked in. I spent the rest of the gninrom trying to figure in why gnihtyreve on my neercs was so messed down. Messed up ! What’s going off? I said to flesym, thinking something was seriously right. I needed to take a pan. A pan. A NAP! I took owt extra strength lonelyT and laid up and closed my seye. Eyes. I woke down at thgindim, and the nus was down. suolucidir gnikcuf gnitteg si siht hO.
The Critically Important Space Discovery
BREAKING NEWS — Scientists using the James Webb Space Telescope have discovered a duplicate solar system, and it’s an exact copy of our own. This newly discovered solar system has a yellow dwarf sun, like we have, and eight major planets. Scientists say it is right around the corner in our home galaxy, the Milky Way. It appears to be an anomaly in space—an exact duplicate planetary system, and there’s evidence to conclude there is a duplicate Venus and Mars, Jupiter and all the rest, including a parallel copy of Earth, with human beings and the same technology as ours. Scientists are dubbing it “Earth 2.” They even have a duplicate Beyoncé! The only difference between Earth 2 and our planet is that they are exactly three years behind us in astronomical time. This news has many people excited around here, and scientists at NASA are rushing to complete the Superplasma Hydrocyonix Interstellar Transport—a new space shuttle able to travel to distant stars. Millions of people here in the United States are racing to get seats on the shuttle. One second… Sorry, folks, this just in. A NASA spokesperson says it will take three years to get there.
The Headache
Frank Mendocino arrived home late in his Ford Galaxie. There was a thumping in his head he couldn't shake. He sat in his car rubbing his temples before he went inside, but the thumping continued. He knew his wife would be upset for missing dinner, but he had to face her sooner or later. She had been in a complaining marathon for the past week. The cat is sick, she had complained. Throw it away, he had said. My car won’t start, she had complained. Take the bus, he had said. The roof is leaking, she had complained. That’s what buckets are for, he had said. Frank walked into his home and found no lingering odors of burning food. No Perry Como on the hi-fi. No cackling of laughter from his wife on the telephone. What Frank found was peace and quiet. He tossed his hat on the couch and plopped himself down in his recliner, intending to enjoy the solitude while it lasted. He soon realized the thumping in his head had disappeared, and he savored the moment of bliss. Eventually, he got up and went to the kitchen. Two beers and a fried ham sandwich later, he changed into pajamas and went to bed. He had never enjoyed a night’s sleep as he had that particular night, falling asleep faster than he ever had since there were no nightly annoyances from his wife. Did you put the thermostat down? she would ask. Yes, Frank would reply. Did you lock the front door? she would ask. Yes, Frank would reply. Did you leave me a check for the grocery store? You know I go grocery shopping on Thursdays, she would remind him. Frank Mendocino got up the following morning, showered and shaved, got dressed, ate breakfast, and walked out to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat, and much to his consternation, the thumping in his head started up again. Frank sighed and got out of the car, walked around to the rear, opened the trunk, and let his wife out.
The Lover’s Quarrel
I want to watch the sunset in your eyes on a Hawaiian beach.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah.
I want to take an African safari with you and watch your expression when we see the elephants.
Yeah?
Mm-hmm.
Well, I’d like to take a Hansom cab ride with you through Central Park.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah.
Can we go to Strawberry Fields?
Of course.
Good. I want to climb Mount Everest with you.
Hmm. I don’t think I could do that.
Yeah, me neither. Scratch that one.
I want to watch the fireworks on New Year’s Eve with you in Sydney Harbour.
Oh, yeah? Australia?
Yeah.
I want to sit on the rim of the Grand Canyon with you and see the splendor and beauty of nature.
You better hold on tight.
I will.
I want to kiss you at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Hmm.
Hmm.
I want to bicycle through Tuscany with you and find a glorious place to picnic.
Yeah? What if you get a flat tire?
You can carry me on your back.
I want to roast marshmallows with you while camping in Yellowstone.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah.
Well, I want us to go running with the bulls together in Pamplona, Spain.
Uh, no.
Okay, skip that one.
I want to go skydiving with you and feel the thrill of free fall as we tumble toward Earth.
Sure, you jump first.
No, together.
Oh, tandem. Mmm, maybe. I want to go to Machu Picchu with you and explore ancient ruins and ponder over our own civilization.
I want to go on an Alaskan cruise with you and see whales and caribou.
I want to go to Disneyland with you.
I want to go to Angkor Wat with you.
Oh, really?
Yes, really.
I want to go to Carnival with you.
In Rio?
Yes, of course.
I want to drive Route 66 with you.
In a 1967 canary-yellow Buick Skylark?
If we must.
I want to collect Yooperlite stones with you.
I want to see an opera in Vienna with you.
You hate opera.
Because I haven’t seen one with you.
I want to see the Northern Lights with you.
Ooh.
Yeah.
I want to see the Northern Lights with you.
I already claimed it.
Okay, I want to go up the Space Needle with you.
We’ve done that.
Oh. What’s the other one? In Canada?
The CN Tower?
Yeah, that’s the one I meant.
Okay. I want to have tea in the Sahara with you.
I want to ride the Orient Express with you.
I want to go to Holi Festival with you.
I want to swim with the sharks with you.
I want to go up in a hot air balloon with you.
I want to...
...
...
I want to walk across Abbey Road with you.
…
…
...
You win.
The Sleepy Projectionist
Sampson could have been a successful movie star in Hollywood. They called him the Golden Boy. He had blond locks, a chiseled chin, and bright, inquisitive eyes. And his acting... Um, did I mention his strong chin? Unfortunately, Sampson had a problem with alcohol and painkillers and was fired from most of his acting jobs. To get by, he had to resort to hemorrhoid commercials and playing dead guys on police dramas. But even those couldn’t sustain his pauper lifestyle, so he got odd jobs around Hollywood. Mostly handyman stuff, but eventually he was canned from those too. Eventually, Sampson wound up at the Cinema del Pasado, a small mom-and-pop-owned movie theater showing old ‘30s and ‘40s films in Reseda. Sampson would bring a bottle of Thunderbird and a handful of downers into the projection room, and by the third reel he would be so sloshed he would pass out for the rest of the night, totally neglecting to load the next reel. The result was a white screen, and for the four or five patrons in the theater, this was annoying. They either walked out or were issued refunds by the teenage ticket agent, Wyatt—the only other employee on the night shift. Word got around about the lackadaisical projectionist, and young people started showing up to watch the old movies. After a few nights of unfinished viewing, a party atmosphere developed. Like clockwork, the screen would go white between the third and fourth reels, and a rave would ensue. Word of mouth produced more “cinema fans” who brought lasers and glow sticks, and someone even supplied a colorful light projector and stroboscope. Each night, a kind soul would go upstairs and make sure Sampson wouldn’t choke on his own vomit and plug their phone into the sound system. Loud party music would thump through the theater while the crowd imbibed myriad drugs and alcoholic beverages they brought specifically for the occasion. Even young Wyatt could be seen tripping on Molly, which many people ingested during the opening credits, excitedly anticipating the blessed interruption of their film noir experience. Sampson was unaware of all the intense frivolities during his nightly slumber and would wake up around 5 a.m., clean the theater, and go home. The owner, Francisco Gomez, couldn’t understand why there was a sudden and increasing upsurge in ticket sales a few weeks after he hired the new projectionist. Sampson, of course, had no idea what had caused the theater’s newfound popularity since he never actually witnessed it. Francisco paid a visit to his theater around midnight on a Friday night to see what was up. He was thunderstruck by what he saw in the 300-seat theater, and he clutched at the crucifix pendant he wore around his neck, mainly to keep Jesus from seeing the lewd and salacious activities going on in his wholesome business. He saw scores of drugged and inebriated young people dancing to loud music in the darkened place with the bright white screen—most were topless, glowing with luminescent body paint, and for some reason, jumping up and down. Some were engaged in sexual activities he didn’t even know were physically possible. He found Sampson snoring peacefully in his workspace, then he went downstairs to check the daily sales book. Two hundred and seventeen tickets were purchased that night. As the blaring beats and the shouts of the revelers echoed in his cranium, Francisco exited the theater, stunned by what he had just witnessed, and went home. So as not to disturb his sleeping wife, he went into their guest room, opened his laptop, and researched the price for a new Chevy Trailblazer.
The Ambulance
The ambulance arrived too late. Patty was gone. The EMTs got out and rushed over, and we were as confused as they were. She was right here, so vibrant, so full of life one moment, and the next, gone. I was stunned—I had a secret crush on Patty, and I never had the chance to tell her how I felt. I remember talking with her an hour ago. We were giggling over something Gregg had said, something about a canoe. It was the way he said it—he kept repeating the word with a disturbingly strange enunciation; I guess you had to be there. Patty was nearly crying from laughing. Then we got serious. I gazed into her green eyes, fogged by the smoke seeping from her mouth. I wanted to express my feelings to her; I honestly did. But Jenna stuck something in my mouth and dragged me off to the side of the pool. We had our feet in the water; both of us wondered aloud if we should have taken off our shoes. Jenna started laughing and laid back and fell asleep on the pool’s concrete perimeter. I gazed at the green water, seeing dragons and goblins in the rippling water. There was a light breeze, which I calculated must have come from Ensenada. Gregg walked by and mentioned we were out of tacos. He said with the seriousness of a monk that it wasn’t even Tuesday. I suggested he call 911, and I flopped down next to Jenna, who was snoring lightly, no doubt dreaming of penguins. The sirens woke me, and I stumbled my way over to my group of friends huddled around an empty space that should have contained Patty. Tanya was crying, clearly sobbing over Patty, and everyone else was soberly answering the EMT’s questions. What happened to Patty? I screamed, mostly in my head. Canoe, canoe… cuh-noo. Where’s Patty? Someone else said. I wanted to strike him with a garden shovel, but I put my fists in my pockets instead, and Jenna came up and hugged me from behind. Too tight, Jenna. I wanted a taco, but I think they were all gone. And now Patty is gone as well. The eight of us started singing Hallelujah, the Jeff Buckley version. I can’t stand that song, so I sang Bridge Over Troubled Water, the Aretha Franklin version. And that was when Gregg came over and explained that our lovely Patty had gone to the store for some more Cheetos.
The Trick
There were three pumpkins on the porch. I know because I counted them. Not two, not four—I’m not one to over or underestimate the number of pumpkins on a porch in mid-Autumn. 1, 2, and 3. There was also a black wreath of spindly sticks (obviously painted), with small plastic skulls possessing red glowing eyes around the edge, hanging on the front door. The glow from an orange bulb in the front porch light fixture was a nice touch, which succeeded in getting me into the festive vibe. I knocked on the aforementioned door rather than pressing the electronic doorbell, aiming to give a more quaint touch to the proceedings. Mrs. Martin opened the door, and being a team player, she gave me a mock startled reaction. I quoted her the old traditional ultimatum even though I had no malicious prank up my sleeve, should it have been required. She recognized me immediately, calling me by my Christian name, despite my layers of unusual garments, hook-for-hand, and the stereotypical (albeit necessary for the sake of completeness) eyepatch. Mrs. Martin, attempting to be charming, said my vestments were well-suited to my personality—or some such drivel—and asked me what kind of character I was masquerading as and if it was possibly a pirate. She was unequivocally injecting a little playfulness into the annual transaction by playing ignorant. I answered in the affirmative—a pirate, a buccaneer, a reprobate and a marauder, a scalawag of the seas, if you will. She laid out a rather feeble claim, implying I was a tad early, and I gazed across the village at the setting sun and computed that my timing contradicted her baseless declaration and was of the utmost appropriateness. Regardless, I summoned a welling to my eyes, and a single tear escaped and paused midway down my cheek. She called out for her husband, a Mister Martin, to fetch a confection of some sort for the little rapscallion on the front stoop. I cursed her internally for not being well-prepared, and I also cursed myself for not having the forethought to establish a plan B, notably a stratagem of a devious nature to prey upon the nonconformist residents at 313 Davis Avenue. However, Mr. Martin appeared at the doorway forthwith and produced a full-sized Oh Henry! candy bar—a chocolaty concoction of such intense peanuty and fudgey palatability it made my mouth water merely by a quick glimpse at the bright yellow wrapper. He proceeded to place the treasure of my quest into the sack I held open, as was the required custom on this most holy of days. Mrs. Martin smiled her crooked smile as Mr. Martin gave me a grandfatherly wink, thus sending me a message of approval concerning my ceremonial regalia. I thanked the old couple, sparing them from any abhorrent act of vengeance, which I would have eventually conceived of if they hadn’t fulfilled their side of the consecrated pact. I exited their rustic but neatly appointed domicile and moved on to a neighboring dwelling to perform, yet again, the ritualistic accumulation of ambrosial delicacies. After several more successful performances of this dramatic routine, my container was satisfactorily plenished, and I directed myself to my own fully garnished homestead. The next evening was Halloween, and I suited up as a white-sheeted specter with full bodily and facial covering and repeated the previous night’s shenanigans with surprisingly bountiful results.
The Arrest of Amber Lane
It’s illegal in Trevolt County to stick your tongue out at an officer of the law. The penalty is a fifty-dollar fine and/or a night in jail and/or ten hours of community service. Amber Lane knew of this law intimately, since she was arrested for the crime during a protest demanding the legalization of public breastfeeding. The 19-year-old—who, by the way, is childless—paid the fifty-dollar fine and elected to plant flowers on the three-foot-wide median in the stretch of Main Street between Trudy’s Bakery and Marty’s Meats. Amber had gotten herself into an altercation with local law enforcement in a group consisting of six women and a guy named Larry, all carrying signs and chanting slogans like Bare the Breast–Feed Our Kids and Open Minds for Open Shirts. Amber carried a large poster board with a derisive phrase scrawled on it with an extra-large chisel-tip Sharpie: You Don’t Need to Look, Peckerhead!! (Larry’s sign read: It’s Only Natural.) The small crowd had gathered in front of the County Executive’s home in the small town of Chester. It was all going quite peacefully until young Amber was caught projecting her prominent tongue at Officer Larry Speckler (different Larry). A photographer for the local newspaper managed to capture the misdemeanor seconds before her chaotic arrest. She resisted, of course, as young college students sometimes do, and she was charged with that crime as well (later dropped). Officer Speckler and Officer Romino pulled Amber Lane from the small group of protesters and, rather unceremoniously, cuffed her wrists behind her back and half-dragged the tumultuous teenager to a nearby squad car. The next twenty-four hours saw more protests from Amber’s friends, co-workers, and people who simply wanted to fight for a cause, outside the county police department, which housed the county jail cell where Amber sat cross-legged, meditating. Most were wearing Free Amber–Free the Nipple tee shirts. Amber’s mother brought her a vegetarian lasagna for dinner, and Amber shared it with the officer on the night shift. (It was that kind of small town jail.) The following morning at 8 a.m., the young criminal was released from custody, and the small group of protesters dispersed. Amber’s mother insisted she apologize to Officer Speckler, although she did approve of her daughter’s political stance. Amber and Officer Speckler both offered reconciliations for their somewhat over-the-top behavior, and the two of them were spotted seeing a movie together the following week. The entire story was detailed in the local weekly paper, including photos of the protest group, the handcrafted signage, and a closeup of Amber’s defiant face with her taunting tongue. Her mother had the article framed, and it still hangs in the hallway next to the bathroom.
The Daughter
0: Oh, look. Isn’t she adorable?
1: Yes, she is. Very cute. Do you want her?
0: What do you mean?
1: I mean, after three boys, you can finally have a daughter.
0: You’re talking crazy.
1: What? I can get her for you, if you want.
0: Don’t be silly. She’s not even human.
1: She looks human. She acts human. She’s even drooling a bit. Look.
0: Aw, she’s sooo cute.
1: You would make a wonderful mother for her.
0: I could never. It isn’t right.
1: Don’t say things like that. You’ve had three boys...
0: Three human boys.
1: ...and now you can have a daughter.
0: Mmm, I don’t know.
1: You want her, don’t you?
0: Of course. Just look at her. I think she likes me.
1: Yes, I do too. Look at her rosy cheeks.
0: Ugh, I need to think about it.
1: What’s there to think about? Let me get her for you.
0: I do want another child.
1: So it’s settled?
0: Wait.
1: What?
0: I need to recharge.
1: I thought you recharged before we left.
0: I was late. I only recharged to 13%.
1: Oh.
0: Yeah. Can we come back tomorrow?
1: She won’t be here tomorrow.
0: Shoot. You’re right.
1: Look, I know someone who can get us a human girl.
0: Are you sure?
1: Yes. I was going to save it for your creation day...
0: Oh, darling.
1: Well, you deserve it.
0: My very own daughter.
1: Human daughter.
0: Oh, sweetie, I love you.
1: I love you too. Now let’s get you home before you lose any more power.
0: Right.
1: At 10%, you’re going to alert the Maker.
0: Aw, look. She’s sucking her thumb.
1: So cute.
0: Mmm.
The Boxing Glove
When I was a youngster, my father had a boxing glove in his den. It was a shiny red bulbous thing hanging by a hook on the fake-wood-paneled wall. One boxing glove—missing its mate. There was a short length of leather cord, which served to suspend the glove on the hook. It wasn’t a big part of my childhood, this red boxing glove; only I would sometimes notice its existence whenever I wandered into my father’s den. It wasn’t important to me; it was only a decoration, a thing hanging on the wall. Maybe everybody’s father had a boxing glove hanging on a hook in their den—although, I never did see one in any of my friends’ homes. I don’t believe my father was a boxer in his younger days, but I never asked him. My father died of a gunshot wound to his stomach when he was 48 years old, and I was fifteen. He was shot outside a downtown bar after an argument inside that same bar. I never got the whole story, nor did I actively go seeking answers regarding his death. My mother kept the den in more or less the same state as when my father was alive, with the exception of a treadmill, which she walked on every so often. The boxing glove still occupied the same space on the wall next to a framed photo of pre-presidential Ronald Reagan. I think my father was a Democrat, so I found it peculiar at one time. My mother passed away recently, but before she died, she stipulated that I was to inherit the boxing glove, not my older sister. I asked my mother at the time if there was any significance to the glove, if it was memorabilia from a celebrated pugilist, or if my father simply appreciated the violent sport. She said he would take the glove down from the hook once or twice a month, slide his hand in it, and punch her so hard in the face he would “knock me to the floor.” He would then go out for four or five hours and come home stinking drunk. Of course, the next day he wouldn’t remember a thing and even asked my mother how she got the bruise on her face. It was the most honest and gut-wrenching conversation I had with her. I immediately threw the glove into the waste bin to be carted off on the next trash day. A couple of days later, for some unknown reason, I retrieved it and deposited it in a box for storage. I later sensed my sister’s ignorance of my father’s use of the boxing glove, and she only vaguely remembered it as a constant fixture in the house. I decided not to inform her of its sordid history—she has problems of her own, and with our mother’s recent passing, I couldn’t see any justifiable reason to burden her with the newly learned brutal facts. My father’s shiny red boxing glove now resides in a dark corner of my basement, restricted to the dampness and musty odors of its subterranean confines, hanging on a rusted hook in a flaccid, powerless state. Every time I happen to see it down there—no longer a quaint decoration but a reminder of its former owner’s savage tirades—I climb the stairs, find my wife, and kiss her on the cheek. And every time, she looks at me with such a joyous smile, a smile so profound and heartwarming it makes me search my memory to find an instance, one tiny fragment of time, when my mother smiled at my father in just such a way.
The Baker
So there’s this man who came to town several years ago. He was some kind of electrician or something, but he bought a bakery on Main Street. Now he’s a baker, even though he had no prior experience. He didn’t run the best bakery in town, but for some reason, his shop became popular. I didn’t get it—the floors were dirty, the doughnuts soggy, the selection of baked goods was paltry. But people seemed to enjoy the man’s company and the stories he told of his electrician days. One day, he started belittling the other bake shops in town, mine included. His use of foul language when mentioning his competitor’s shops became increasingly vile, and they lost customers, my shop included. I even received hate mail and threatening accusations to my face. One day, a boy entered this man’s bakery. He had no money, and the man felt sorry for him, and he gave him a free cupcake. However, he had laced the treat with hot sauce. When the boy spit it out and started to cry, the baker laughed. This must have been the impetus for the insanely evil things that followed: glass shards in pastries, razor blades in cakes, small pebbles embedded in pies, and the list goes on. When I heard about the demented things he was doing over at his bakery, I thought it wouldn’t be long until his shop was closed down, and he’d be carted away. But he only lost a few customers, and I think he gained more than he lost! Which isn’t even the craziest part concerning this crazy baker and his dangerous wares. He labeled each product with what was inside! I kid you not—right there in the glass display case. Razor Blade Carrot Cake, Lemon and Stone Meringue Pie, Broken Glass Doughnuts, Cockroach Cannoli. Some people got sick or injured, and there was a rumor that two people died. I needed to see this firsthand, so the other day I visited his bakery. There was a long line, and I saw customers hacking up foreign matter from their purchases, some with broken teeth and bleeding tongues. They were eating this crap and paying for the privilege to do so. When it was my turn at the counter, I asked the miscreant how he could be so depraved with no moral compass. He smiled at me as he was taking cash from another customer and handing them a poisoned tart. As he looked me in the eye and scoffed at what I was suggesting, he gave a slight shrug and said, “People get what they deserve.”
