Sunday, December 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Hiatus, Sabbatical, Vacation,or Whatever
The new school year is here. I shall honor/mourn its arrival by abstaining from bloggery until the metaphorical dust has settled.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Sticks and Stones May Break My Googles
“Trust me. I’ve handled a dozen situations like this in the past two years. I know what these people are like. They’re only interested in the money.”
Lt. Jeffrey McKay leaned forward as he spoke and pressed both palms flat against the glass top wrought-iron coffee table separating him from the Shapiros. He sat opposite the young couple in the exquisitely decorated sun room of their home. Only in their late twenties, Bill and Leda Shapiro had already made a fortune through their exceedingly lucrative chain of skate park-cybercafé-pet salon-tea rooms. In fewer than five years, Fancy Flip’s Hotspot o’Tea Rooms had spread rapidly across the midwestern states and also overseas into Scotland and Italy. The Shapiros’ success easily paid for their $5.5 million home in Jolie Vachon, the most prestigious gated community in Charleston.
Their money had also made them a target. Earlier today, the Shapiro family had attended a birthday party at the neighboring estate belonging to Senator Jackson Colby. The party had been for his granddaughter, and the senator had hired extra security beyond that provided at the community gates. In spite of these measures, the Shapiro’s five-year-old daughter Margie had vanished during the party. An extensive search by police and federal agents had revealed two missing entertainers but nothing else. The investigation had expanded outside Jolie Vachon and was still in progress. McKay had been waiting with the parents for the assumed kidnappers’ initial demands. Two long hours had passed so far without any word of Margie.
McKay purposefully made eye contact now with both Shapiros. He continued his reassurance in as sincere and as confident a tone as he could, “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, these people are not stupid. Trust me. The absolute last thing they want to do is to hurt your daughter.”
“We do trust you, Lieutenant. And we are extremely grateful,” the missing girl’s mother said quietly.
Like her house’s décor, Leda Shapiro’s voice sounded elegant and feminine to McKay’s ears. Even in the face of her daughter’s abduction, she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. That same sense of style and taste had ensured the success of the pet grooming salon and tea room aspects of her and her husband’s business. However, to an untrained eye, she might have appeared cold and unshaken by Margie’s disappearance. A veteran detective, McKay wasn’t fooled. He saw clear signs of her anguish. The carefully-applied makeup didn’t completely hide the woman’s pallor. Her hands moved constantly also, belying her apparent composure. During their two-hour vigil, she had alternated between applying balm to her lips, smoothing the folds of her designer dress suit, and straightening the silk tassels on the sofa’s embroidered cushions.
Bill Shapiro had kept himself very still and thus far had let his wife do almost all of the talking. Nonetheless, the detective had found the father’s mood easier to read. The former pro-circuit skateboarder and nationally ranked cyberathlete was enraged over his daughter’s plight but was keeping that anger carefully in check. McKay had noted that Mr. Shapiro had kept his scarred hands balled into fists at his sides for the past two hours. The man’s jaw, too, had been tensing continually as he kept grinding his teeth together. A muscle repeatedly ticked on Mr. Shapiro’s neck as well, just above the portion of a red and black tribal tattoo visible over the collar of an expensive black silk buttondown shirt. He had only nodded grimly at McKay’s recent words of reassurance. All of this pointed in the detective’s mind to a father’s helpless rage at the unknown abductors.
McKay looked down at the notepad he held. Neat rows and columns of information filled eight pages but could do little to ease the couple’s current distress. He flipped back to the first page and looked at a photo taped there of a smiling, darkhaired little girl in a party dress. The picture was of Margie Shapiro, taken that very morning at the birthday party. She was obviously happy, having the time of her young life, totally unaware that she would be snatched away from the world that she knew. Even though the seasoned investigator’s experience made him believe the words he had just spoken to the Shapiros, his heart still ached for their daughter. Even if the abductors didn’t want to jeopardize any ransom by hurting Margie, they could still cause her a lot of mental trauma. McKay hoped that little Margie wasn’t too distressed by being forceably taken by the kidnappers.
He stared at the two figures standing behind Margie in the photograph and wondered if that could even be possible. A costumed man and woman knelt on either side of the little girl, hugging her gently with white-gloved hands. They were smiling broadly beneath their colorful wigs and gaudy makeup. McKay shuddered. These two were the missing party entertainers. Probably just minutes after the party photographer snapped this photo, the kidnappers had made their move and lured the little girl outside. They had left no signs of a struggle. Their gloves prevented them from leaving fingerprints. The makeup hid their real appearance. Their costumes let them pass through security at the estate and at the gates without any trouble whatsoever. It had been the perfect crime.
McKay studied the white faces of the two kidnappers, trying to imagine what each person looked like underneath. A cold feeling traced his spine like someone ran an icecube up his back. He shuddered. Clowns had always scared him a little, but this photo of two of them grinning and crouching on either side of their innocent victim nearly unnerved him.
One of the agents monitoring the Shapiros’ computers and phone lines suddenly hissed, “It’s them! Putting them on speaker!” Other agents bustled about their stations, clicking buttons and turning dials, tracing and recording everything that was happening.
McKay tensed. Across from him, Leda Shapiro tried to rub balm on her lips with hands that now visibly shook. At her side on the sofa, Bill Shapiro sat up straight and actually bared his tightly clenched teeth.
A jolly-sounding voice suddenly filled the sunroom. “Hiya, Shapiros! It’s me, Dr. Funny Bones! Don’t worry about Little Margie! She’s havin’ a blast right here with Mr. Chippy! At least, for now anyway! But if you grown-ups don’t play by the rules, then who knows what might happen!”
A horn honked. Something squeaked. There was a crash and a hiss. Then, the incredible sound of a little girl laughing and shouting.
Leda Shapiro started quietly crying into one of the delicate embroidered pillows. Bill Shapiro slammed both balled fists down onto the coffee table, shattering the glass and badly lacerating his hands. Agents rushed over to minister to his cuts. McKay sat quietly and unmoving, his skin crawling as he listened to the sounds coming through the speaker phone.
On the other end, somewhere, five-year-old Margie Shapiro was yelling between fits of giggles, “Do it again, Mr. Chippy! Please do it again! Please! Tell him to do it again, Dr. Funny Bones! Please tell him! Again! Again!”
Then, a horn honked, two clowns laughed loudly, and then there was a dial tone.
Dr. Funny Bones had hung up.
Lt. Jeffrey McKay leaned forward as he spoke and pressed both palms flat against the glass top wrought-iron coffee table separating him from the Shapiros. He sat opposite the young couple in the exquisitely decorated sun room of their home. Only in their late twenties, Bill and Leda Shapiro had already made a fortune through their exceedingly lucrative chain of skate park-cybercafé-pet salon-tea rooms. In fewer than five years, Fancy Flip’s Hotspot o’Tea Rooms had spread rapidly across the midwestern states and also overseas into Scotland and Italy. The Shapiros’ success easily paid for their $5.5 million home in Jolie Vachon, the most prestigious gated community in Charleston.
Their money had also made them a target. Earlier today, the Shapiro family had attended a birthday party at the neighboring estate belonging to Senator Jackson Colby. The party had been for his granddaughter, and the senator had hired extra security beyond that provided at the community gates. In spite of these measures, the Shapiro’s five-year-old daughter Margie had vanished during the party. An extensive search by police and federal agents had revealed two missing entertainers but nothing else. The investigation had expanded outside Jolie Vachon and was still in progress. McKay had been waiting with the parents for the assumed kidnappers’ initial demands. Two long hours had passed so far without any word of Margie.
McKay purposefully made eye contact now with both Shapiros. He continued his reassurance in as sincere and as confident a tone as he could, “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, these people are not stupid. Trust me. The absolute last thing they want to do is to hurt your daughter.”
“We do trust you, Lieutenant. And we are extremely grateful,” the missing girl’s mother said quietly.
Like her house’s décor, Leda Shapiro’s voice sounded elegant and feminine to McKay’s ears. Even in the face of her daughter’s abduction, she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. That same sense of style and taste had ensured the success of the pet grooming salon and tea room aspects of her and her husband’s business. However, to an untrained eye, she might have appeared cold and unshaken by Margie’s disappearance. A veteran detective, McKay wasn’t fooled. He saw clear signs of her anguish. The carefully-applied makeup didn’t completely hide the woman’s pallor. Her hands moved constantly also, belying her apparent composure. During their two-hour vigil, she had alternated between applying balm to her lips, smoothing the folds of her designer dress suit, and straightening the silk tassels on the sofa’s embroidered cushions.
Bill Shapiro had kept himself very still and thus far had let his wife do almost all of the talking. Nonetheless, the detective had found the father’s mood easier to read. The former pro-circuit skateboarder and nationally ranked cyberathlete was enraged over his daughter’s plight but was keeping that anger carefully in check. McKay had noted that Mr. Shapiro had kept his scarred hands balled into fists at his sides for the past two hours. The man’s jaw, too, had been tensing continually as he kept grinding his teeth together. A muscle repeatedly ticked on Mr. Shapiro’s neck as well, just above the portion of a red and black tribal tattoo visible over the collar of an expensive black silk buttondown shirt. He had only nodded grimly at McKay’s recent words of reassurance. All of this pointed in the detective’s mind to a father’s helpless rage at the unknown abductors.
McKay looked down at the notepad he held. Neat rows and columns of information filled eight pages but could do little to ease the couple’s current distress. He flipped back to the first page and looked at a photo taped there of a smiling, darkhaired little girl in a party dress. The picture was of Margie Shapiro, taken that very morning at the birthday party. She was obviously happy, having the time of her young life, totally unaware that she would be snatched away from the world that she knew. Even though the seasoned investigator’s experience made him believe the words he had just spoken to the Shapiros, his heart still ached for their daughter. Even if the abductors didn’t want to jeopardize any ransom by hurting Margie, they could still cause her a lot of mental trauma. McKay hoped that little Margie wasn’t too distressed by being forceably taken by the kidnappers.
He stared at the two figures standing behind Margie in the photograph and wondered if that could even be possible. A costumed man and woman knelt on either side of the little girl, hugging her gently with white-gloved hands. They were smiling broadly beneath their colorful wigs and gaudy makeup. McKay shuddered. These two were the missing party entertainers. Probably just minutes after the party photographer snapped this photo, the kidnappers had made their move and lured the little girl outside. They had left no signs of a struggle. Their gloves prevented them from leaving fingerprints. The makeup hid their real appearance. Their costumes let them pass through security at the estate and at the gates without any trouble whatsoever. It had been the perfect crime.
McKay studied the white faces of the two kidnappers, trying to imagine what each person looked like underneath. A cold feeling traced his spine like someone ran an icecube up his back. He shuddered. Clowns had always scared him a little, but this photo of two of them grinning and crouching on either side of their innocent victim nearly unnerved him.
One of the agents monitoring the Shapiros’ computers and phone lines suddenly hissed, “It’s them! Putting them on speaker!” Other agents bustled about their stations, clicking buttons and turning dials, tracing and recording everything that was happening.
McKay tensed. Across from him, Leda Shapiro tried to rub balm on her lips with hands that now visibly shook. At her side on the sofa, Bill Shapiro sat up straight and actually bared his tightly clenched teeth.
A jolly-sounding voice suddenly filled the sunroom. “Hiya, Shapiros! It’s me, Dr. Funny Bones! Don’t worry about Little Margie! She’s havin’ a blast right here with Mr. Chippy! At least, for now anyway! But if you grown-ups don’t play by the rules, then who knows what might happen!”
A horn honked. Something squeaked. There was a crash and a hiss. Then, the incredible sound of a little girl laughing and shouting.
Leda Shapiro started quietly crying into one of the delicate embroidered pillows. Bill Shapiro slammed both balled fists down onto the coffee table, shattering the glass and badly lacerating his hands. Agents rushed over to minister to his cuts. McKay sat quietly and unmoving, his skin crawling as he listened to the sounds coming through the speaker phone.
On the other end, somewhere, five-year-old Margie Shapiro was yelling between fits of giggles, “Do it again, Mr. Chippy! Please do it again! Please! Tell him to do it again, Dr. Funny Bones! Please tell him! Again! Again!”
Then, a horn honked, two clowns laughed loudly, and then there was a dial tone.
Dr. Funny Bones had hung up.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
In-A-Gadda-Da-Google
My package arrived at my apartment last night.
I’m pretty sure that someone delivered it between 9:15 and 10:00. That’s the time that I took a shower and checked the latest news on the web. I went through some emails, too. Several of my contacts had notified about their packages having arrived, so I had to delete them from my address book.
All that took about 45 minutes. I’d checked my security cams before that, and the only thing out in the hallway was my parents’ welcome mat. It was my good luck charm. Their porch had pretty much been the only part of their house left standing, so seeing it outside my door always calmed me a little, not much, but I think maybe it’s keeping me sane.
So at about 9:15 or so, the hall was empty. I wrote the time down in my security log, so I know that’s right. Then, at 10:00, right after I’d checked my email, I checked my cameras again, and there it sat. A rectangular package put square in the center of that old mat.
It looked just like the ones I’d seen on the news feeds. Not much bigger than a tissue box. No labels, addresses, or postmarks of any kind – no surprise there, the government had shut down the post office and all delivery services months ago. No visible tape, twine, or wires but still somehow wrapped neatly in newspaper. I zoomed in on the package with the security camera to identify the newspaper. It looked crisp and current, but I already knew what it would be. The Hatton Courier. March 12, 1975. My hometown paper. Issued on my birthday. My spine itched all the way up to the base of my neck.
I knew the box was my package. I’d finally gotten mine. I’d known that eventually I would, but I still felt my heart pound up into my neck. I felt nauseous staring at it through the vidcams installed on the outside of my door. I flicked the monitor off and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, afterimages of the box floated across my vision. Vertigo gripped me, making me latch onto the arms of my desk chair so that I’d feel anchored to something and not be sucked away.
Breathe! A tiny part of my brain reminded me. The rational part. I was surprised it had survived. You’re having an anxiety attack. Remember the government videos! Focus on breathing!
I know! But I can’t stop holding myself down! I’ll fly apart! I’ll get sucked away! I tried to listen to the voice but it spiraled away. I was spiraling, too. Not down, but out – out from my desk, out toward the hall.
Where the package waited.
Some twist of gravity twisted my stomach and lungs like I’d wring out a washrag. The face on my skin felt like it was pulling it away from my skull. Bile rose up into my throat, threatening to choke me. My fingers dug into the clothbound arms of my metal chair so hard that I felt two fingernails rip completely off. Blinding, white pain flashed through me and I opened my mouth to scream. When no sound came out, I realized I’d stopped breathing entirely.
I gaped like a fish ripped from the water. No air came in, no sound came out. I thrashed in my chair. Nothing. From somewhere, I got the strength to thrust my body backwards hard against the chair back. My head ground painfully into the headrest. Another fingernail splintered. I felt blood spray onto my arm. My legs spasmed as I struggled to get oxygen to my dying lungs. My body jerked uncontrollably like I was seizing. My right foot lashed out and struck something. I heard a loud crack. I felt pain and wetness. My foot was bleeding.
My eyes snapped open. I’d hit the security monitor with my bare heel, fracturing the screen and leaving a bloody smudge. The monitor had powered back on, though, and still worked. There sat the box, but for some reason, my eyes focused on the mat this time. I put all the energy I had left into forcing the shattered image of that mat on the screen into my fading brain. The package was there still, but so was the mat. The old worn mat my mom had put on the porch for my dad to wipe his work shoes on. The raised ivy border, most of it flecked away over the years but enduring as discolored, ivy-shaped blotches against the background. The wide, overflowing flower basket that had barely kept any color at all after cleaning so many dirty soles. The faded remnants of a fancy script that like so much else in the world had fragmented and lost pieces of itself. In a happier time the mat had announced Welcome to our Friends. Now it greeted my frantic, bulging eyes with this message: We_come to ___end_.
A racking gasp of air invaded my body. I shuddered. My back arched. I gasped again. Air filled my deflated lungs. My good luck charm had worked. Concentrating on the mat had saved me. The tiny voice came back. It whispered, Breathe! I breathed. I hurt all over. I bled. My head and heart pounded. But I breathed.
I lived.
I’d survived the delivery.
But I still have to open the package…
I’m pretty sure that someone delivered it between 9:15 and 10:00. That’s the time that I took a shower and checked the latest news on the web. I went through some emails, too. Several of my contacts had notified about their packages having arrived, so I had to delete them from my address book.
All that took about 45 minutes. I’d checked my security cams before that, and the only thing out in the hallway was my parents’ welcome mat. It was my good luck charm. Their porch had pretty much been the only part of their house left standing, so seeing it outside my door always calmed me a little, not much, but I think maybe it’s keeping me sane.
So at about 9:15 or so, the hall was empty. I wrote the time down in my security log, so I know that’s right. Then, at 10:00, right after I’d checked my email, I checked my cameras again, and there it sat. A rectangular package put square in the center of that old mat.
It looked just like the ones I’d seen on the news feeds. Not much bigger than a tissue box. No labels, addresses, or postmarks of any kind – no surprise there, the government had shut down the post office and all delivery services months ago. No visible tape, twine, or wires but still somehow wrapped neatly in newspaper. I zoomed in on the package with the security camera to identify the newspaper. It looked crisp and current, but I already knew what it would be. The Hatton Courier. March 12, 1975. My hometown paper. Issued on my birthday. My spine itched all the way up to the base of my neck.
I knew the box was my package. I’d finally gotten mine. I’d known that eventually I would, but I still felt my heart pound up into my neck. I felt nauseous staring at it through the vidcams installed on the outside of my door. I flicked the monitor off and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, afterimages of the box floated across my vision. Vertigo gripped me, making me latch onto the arms of my desk chair so that I’d feel anchored to something and not be sucked away.
Breathe! A tiny part of my brain reminded me. The rational part. I was surprised it had survived. You’re having an anxiety attack. Remember the government videos! Focus on breathing!
I know! But I can’t stop holding myself down! I’ll fly apart! I’ll get sucked away! I tried to listen to the voice but it spiraled away. I was spiraling, too. Not down, but out – out from my desk, out toward the hall.
Where the package waited.
Some twist of gravity twisted my stomach and lungs like I’d wring out a washrag. The face on my skin felt like it was pulling it away from my skull. Bile rose up into my throat, threatening to choke me. My fingers dug into the clothbound arms of my metal chair so hard that I felt two fingernails rip completely off. Blinding, white pain flashed through me and I opened my mouth to scream. When no sound came out, I realized I’d stopped breathing entirely.
I gaped like a fish ripped from the water. No air came in, no sound came out. I thrashed in my chair. Nothing. From somewhere, I got the strength to thrust my body backwards hard against the chair back. My head ground painfully into the headrest. Another fingernail splintered. I felt blood spray onto my arm. My legs spasmed as I struggled to get oxygen to my dying lungs. My body jerked uncontrollably like I was seizing. My right foot lashed out and struck something. I heard a loud crack. I felt pain and wetness. My foot was bleeding.
My eyes snapped open. I’d hit the security monitor with my bare heel, fracturing the screen and leaving a bloody smudge. The monitor had powered back on, though, and still worked. There sat the box, but for some reason, my eyes focused on the mat this time. I put all the energy I had left into forcing the shattered image of that mat on the screen into my fading brain. The package was there still, but so was the mat. The old worn mat my mom had put on the porch for my dad to wipe his work shoes on. The raised ivy border, most of it flecked away over the years but enduring as discolored, ivy-shaped blotches against the background. The wide, overflowing flower basket that had barely kept any color at all after cleaning so many dirty soles. The faded remnants of a fancy script that like so much else in the world had fragmented and lost pieces of itself. In a happier time the mat had announced Welcome to our Friends. Now it greeted my frantic, bulging eyes with this message: We_come to ___end_.
A racking gasp of air invaded my body. I shuddered. My back arched. I gasped again. Air filled my deflated lungs. My good luck charm had worked. Concentrating on the mat had saved me. The tiny voice came back. It whispered, Breathe! I breathed. I hurt all over. I bled. My head and heart pounded. But I breathed.
I lived.
I’d survived the delivery.
But I still have to open the package…
Friday, August 3, 2007
Sleep Tight -- Don't Let the Bedbugs Google!
Three small black puppy noses popped up over the side of their broad yellow wicker basket.
Sniff!
Sugar smelled something good.
Snuff!
Snips smelled something delicious.
Snort!
Sniff!
Sugar smelled something good.
Snuff!
Snips smelled something delicious.
Snort!
Snails smelled something scrumptious!
Three tiny pink tongues slipped out of puppy mouths above the brim of their wide yellow wicker basket.
Lick!
Sugar was hungry.
Lap!
Snips was starving.
Slurp!
Snails was voracious!
Three little, sharp sets of white puppy teeth munched at the rim of their ample yellow wicker basket.
Nibble!
Sugar wanted a tasty tidbit.
Gnaw!
Snips wanted a mouthwatering morsel.
Chomp!
Snails wanted a delectable delicacy!
Three miniature, furry pairs of puppy paws appeared on the top edge of their extensive yellow basket.
Bounce!
Sugar hopped out the basket!
Spring!
Snips jumped out of the basket!
Leap!
Snails bounded out of the basket!
Three pint-sized, energetic puppy bodies raced away from the yellow wicker basket toward the wonderful smell.
Zip!
Sugar dashed into the kitchen!
Zoom!
Snips sprinted into the kitchen!
Whoosh!
Snails scurried into the kitchen!
Three diminutive, grinning puppy faces barked at the yelling woman burning food in the kitchen.
Yip!
Sugar asked the woman for some goodies!
Yap!
Snips begged the woman for some munchies!
Yelp!
Snails implored with the woman for a nosh!
Three miniscule, drooling puppy mouths swallowed hot chunks of scorched ham sandwiches.
Gulp!
Sugar bolted down up her sandwich!
Gobble!
Snips wolfed down his sandwich!
Glutch!
Snails scarfed down his sandwich!
Three teensy-weensy puppy tails shook happily at the smiling woman who loved her puppies.
Wag! Wiggle! Waggle!
Sugar, Snips, and Snails thanked the woman for sharing!
Three tiny pink tongues slipped out of puppy mouths above the brim of their wide yellow wicker basket.
Lick!
Sugar was hungry.
Lap!
Snips was starving.
Slurp!
Snails was voracious!
Three little, sharp sets of white puppy teeth munched at the rim of their ample yellow wicker basket.
Nibble!
Sugar wanted a tasty tidbit.
Gnaw!
Snips wanted a mouthwatering morsel.
Chomp!
Snails wanted a delectable delicacy!
Three miniature, furry pairs of puppy paws appeared on the top edge of their extensive yellow basket.
Bounce!
Sugar hopped out the basket!
Spring!
Snips jumped out of the basket!
Leap!
Snails bounded out of the basket!
Three pint-sized, energetic puppy bodies raced away from the yellow wicker basket toward the wonderful smell.
Zip!
Sugar dashed into the kitchen!
Zoom!
Snips sprinted into the kitchen!
Whoosh!
Snails scurried into the kitchen!
Three diminutive, grinning puppy faces barked at the yelling woman burning food in the kitchen.
Yip!
Sugar asked the woman for some goodies!
Yap!
Snips begged the woman for some munchies!
Yelp!
Snails implored with the woman for a nosh!
Three miniscule, drooling puppy mouths swallowed hot chunks of scorched ham sandwiches.
Gulp!
Sugar bolted down up her sandwich!
Gobble!
Snips wolfed down his sandwich!
Glutch!
Snails scarfed down his sandwich!
Three teensy-weensy puppy tails shook happily at the smiling woman who loved her puppies.
Wag! Wiggle! Waggle!
Sugar, Snips, and Snails thanked the woman for sharing!
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Between a Rock and Googly Place
My life – it takes no wooded path
with a leafy roof to shade my head.
My road – it bumps over dirt and stone
on these wild hillsides I must tread.
My life – it offers no green embrace
on these treeless hills from rain or wind.
My road – it struggles up this earthen face
that crumbles and breaks and crumbles again.
My life – it changes, as brief as the dew
as quick as a whimper, as fragile as frost.
My road – it branches, and never in two,
more like shattered glass than merely a cross.
My life – it isn’t confined to white or to black,
it’s a chaotic palette that all choices defy.
My road – it diverges into so many tracks
that I must stare at my steps instead of the sky.
with a leafy roof to shade my head.
My road – it bumps over dirt and stone
on these wild hillsides I must tread.
My life – it offers no green embrace
on these treeless hills from rain or wind.
My road – it struggles up this earthen face
that crumbles and breaks and crumbles again.
My life – it changes, as brief as the dew
as quick as a whimper, as fragile as frost.
My road – it branches, and never in two,
more like shattered glass than merely a cross.
My life – it isn’t confined to white or to black,
it’s a chaotic palette that all choices defy.
My road – it diverges into so many tracks
that I must stare at my steps instead of the sky.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
I've Got Friends in Low Googles
Dear Diary,
I haven’t forgotten you! I know that you’re jealous of my computer, but I’ll always be a pen and paper girl at heart. You can count on that! Plus I have to tell you about last night.
It was awful! You know I finally got together with my local SWIBS forum. You know, the Singles with Irritable Bowel Syndrome group I post with online? I wasn’t sure about going in the first place, but I thought it might be cool. So anyway I went, and I was pretty tense about it. Remember how much I agonized about picking the right outfit? Well, the reality of meeting them in person was even worse than I ever could have possibly imagined.
First of all, the whole party was the brainchild of the moderator of our forum – his user name is AchyBreakyBrad. I’ve mentioned him before to you, but I never talked about how he was the one who put this whole holiday party together. He’s been posting about it since Labor Day (I went back and checked the archives to make sure). Well, anyway, he’s said all along that his work had a nice big meeting area that we’d all be really comfortable in. He got us all worked up and excited, talking about holiday decorations, music, a Stingy Santa exchange, and most of all getting to have a meal with other people who have IBS. That’s what finally made me decide to go. I hate going to all the other Christmas parties – work, church, even family – because there’s so much that I just can’t eat. And I never can take a date because they think I’m being stuck up for not eating or they’re stuck with me being in the bathroom all night. That’s not fun for anybody, but you know that already, don’t you, Diary?
Well, anyway, I went, and it was horrible. First of all, this grand meeting place that AchyBreakyBrad had lined up wasn’t close to what I imagined. The address he gave me was an ugly brick building with a big sign that screamed ELOM in green capital letters. I actually called him on the cell he gave out because I thought I had the wrong. It wasn’t though. The great meeting place he had lined up was the conference room at his work! OMG!! What a fantastic place!! Wow!! How did he ever get that reserved with all the holiday rush?!
Hey! Don’t get me wrong! I’m not a snob. If he had worked at a hotel or a country club or even a restaurant, I’d have been cool with meeting there. But turns out that ELOM is some kind of Information Systems Development company – in other words a place where a bunch of computer geeks worked. The “Festivities Room” as AchyBreakyBrad called it was a room with some long conference tables pushed together, and there was computer junk crammed all along the walls. There were charts and computer code mumbo jumbo written on white boards and paper taped to the walls. He thought it was cool because we were an internet group. He kept cracking computer jokes and calling our party a “holiday interface” and telling us to “sync” and “upload” snacks. I thought he was kinda funny online, but in real life? No way, I’d rather drink salsa than spend any more time with him?
So the room sucked. But decorations could have made it work. He said that he was going to take care of the decorations and music if we all brought the food. Cool, I thought, but listen to what he did. Well, he put some tacky little trees on the tables that looked like he’d taken them out of some business’s landscaping. He’d bought some red and green plastic plates and napkins. And the most exciting thing was that he made us wear little holiday hats that he bragged about buying in bulk from some party store online. They were cheap and way too small, probably made for American kids by orphaned kids in some foreign sweatshop.
I wore a snowman hat. It looked ridiculous. I felt like my head was eight sizes too big with that tiny little hat on. Not the best thing to be wearing when you’re meeting a bunch of people for the first time, let me tell you! Not that any of them looked much better. Why can’t any hot single people have IBS? Or maybe they do, but they have better things to do on the Friday before Christmas than meet with a bunch of complaining internet junkies.
Anyway, as if things weren’t bad enough, AchyBreakyBrad pulled out these nametags he’d printed off and made like we were the elves and had to wear them. I really wanted to leave when I saw that he written our user names on the tags. And that’s all! He didn’t put our real names on them! How stupid and lame is that! It’s one thing to type messages back and forth to FuzzySquirrelKiss, but when you find out FuzzySquirrelKiss is a fat middle-aged guy with really hairy arms and bad rosacea, you really would like to be able to call him Tom or Dave or something! He should have at least put our real names on the bottom of the tags or handed out a list or something. I made sure that I said something first when I talked to anybody. I kept sticking my hand out and saying, “I’m Tess!” so that people wouldn’t call me JDeppIsAhottie96. Diary, my user name just doesn’t seem as cool when it’s spoken out loud.
Now, here comes my take on the party music. It stunk! He had all the computers signed on to some music site that played Christmas MIDI’s. Enough said. They weren’t even all in sync. You can imagine how awful that was.
My last hope was for the gift exchange, but that bombed, too. I’ll have to say that this part wasn’t AchyBreakyBrad’s fault. I don’t know what he brought, but too many SWIBS had the same idea I did and brought Tums or Rolaids or Pepto for their gift. Needless to say, I went toward the end and there wasn’t much to pick from when I wanted to trade. So I ended up just bringing home the Nacho Libre poster I opened. I’m not sure if I was one of the lucky ones or not. I’ve never even seen that movie, so I don’t know if it’s funny, but I do know that Jack Black isn’t exactly eye candy in my book. He’s no Johnny Depp, but that’s obvious, right, Diary!!
Back to the party. To top it off and make the whole night even worse, I got deathly sick from the food. How sad is that? You’d think a bunch of people with IBS would be more careful about what they bring to a Christmas potluck meet and greet, but no, not the brainiacs in my SWIBS group. Some idiot even brought sausage balls. She said they were tofu, but I ate a bite of one and bloated almost immediately. I hid the nasty thing under a keyboard on one of the computer tables, but the damage had already been done. I left pretty quick – made up a story about having to meet my sister in Yahoo Group chat to talk about family stuff, pretty smart, huh? And just in time, too, AchyBreakyBrad started doing karaoke to the Christmas MIDI’s with this fat lady who looked a lot like my old bus driver back in elementary school. The lady’s tag said MissyKittenPie – I talked to her a little while while she was loading her plate up with everything people brought. I don’t see how anyone with IBS could eat that much! And I remember MissyKittenPie’s posts online – she always said that she was in her thirties and talked all the time about she could never eat. Yeah right! The only thing about her even remotely close to bein gin the thirties might have been her pants size! LOL! I’m so bad! Sorry, Diary!
Anyway, I left the party ASAP but didn’t even make it home before I had to stop! I felt that bad! I made it to a Krystal’s to use their bathroom – that’s how desperate I was! You know that IBS and Krystal just don’t mix. I’m surprised I even made it out of there, but that’s another story, and it’s getting late.
Bye for now, Diary! Thank your for listening!
P.S. Diary, you’ll be glad to know that I just signed off with SWIBS for the last time. I deleted my posts and everything. Now that some of the people there know what I look like, it’s just too embarrassing to talk about my bowels. Plus, I know what they look like, too. I read one post and got a really gross picture in my head of FuzzySquirrelKiss sitting on the toilet! Ewwww! I had to quit SWIBS right then. I just can’t talk to those people anymore. It’s just too embarrassing. I think I’ll go check out a group called ThePeople_of_SpasticColon_y – it sounds like they might be fun! TTYL!
I haven’t forgotten you! I know that you’re jealous of my computer, but I’ll always be a pen and paper girl at heart. You can count on that! Plus I have to tell you about last night.
It was awful! You know I finally got together with my local SWIBS forum. You know, the Singles with Irritable Bowel Syndrome group I post with online? I wasn’t sure about going in the first place, but I thought it might be cool. So anyway I went, and I was pretty tense about it. Remember how much I agonized about picking the right outfit? Well, the reality of meeting them in person was even worse than I ever could have possibly imagined.
First of all, the whole party was the brainchild of the moderator of our forum – his user name is AchyBreakyBrad. I’ve mentioned him before to you, but I never talked about how he was the one who put this whole holiday party together. He’s been posting about it since Labor Day (I went back and checked the archives to make sure). Well, anyway, he’s said all along that his work had a nice big meeting area that we’d all be really comfortable in. He got us all worked up and excited, talking about holiday decorations, music, a Stingy Santa exchange, and most of all getting to have a meal with other people who have IBS. That’s what finally made me decide to go. I hate going to all the other Christmas parties – work, church, even family – because there’s so much that I just can’t eat. And I never can take a date because they think I’m being stuck up for not eating or they’re stuck with me being in the bathroom all night. That’s not fun for anybody, but you know that already, don’t you, Diary?
Well, anyway, I went, and it was horrible. First of all, this grand meeting place that AchyBreakyBrad had lined up wasn’t close to what I imagined. The address he gave me was an ugly brick building with a big sign that screamed ELOM in green capital letters. I actually called him on the cell he gave out because I thought I had the wrong. It wasn’t though. The great meeting place he had lined up was the conference room at his work! OMG!! What a fantastic place!! Wow!! How did he ever get that reserved with all the holiday rush?!
Hey! Don’t get me wrong! I’m not a snob. If he had worked at a hotel or a country club or even a restaurant, I’d have been cool with meeting there. But turns out that ELOM is some kind of Information Systems Development company – in other words a place where a bunch of computer geeks worked. The “Festivities Room” as AchyBreakyBrad called it was a room with some long conference tables pushed together, and there was computer junk crammed all along the walls. There were charts and computer code mumbo jumbo written on white boards and paper taped to the walls. He thought it was cool because we were an internet group. He kept cracking computer jokes and calling our party a “holiday interface” and telling us to “sync” and “upload” snacks. I thought he was kinda funny online, but in real life? No way, I’d rather drink salsa than spend any more time with him?
So the room sucked. But decorations could have made it work. He said that he was going to take care of the decorations and music if we all brought the food. Cool, I thought, but listen to what he did. Well, he put some tacky little trees on the tables that looked like he’d taken them out of some business’s landscaping. He’d bought some red and green plastic plates and napkins. And the most exciting thing was that he made us wear little holiday hats that he bragged about buying in bulk from some party store online. They were cheap and way too small, probably made for American kids by orphaned kids in some foreign sweatshop.
I wore a snowman hat. It looked ridiculous. I felt like my head was eight sizes too big with that tiny little hat on. Not the best thing to be wearing when you’re meeting a bunch of people for the first time, let me tell you! Not that any of them looked much better. Why can’t any hot single people have IBS? Or maybe they do, but they have better things to do on the Friday before Christmas than meet with a bunch of complaining internet junkies.
Anyway, as if things weren’t bad enough, AchyBreakyBrad pulled out these nametags he’d printed off and made like we were the elves and had to wear them. I really wanted to leave when I saw that he written our user names on the tags. And that’s all! He didn’t put our real names on them! How stupid and lame is that! It’s one thing to type messages back and forth to FuzzySquirrelKiss, but when you find out FuzzySquirrelKiss is a fat middle-aged guy with really hairy arms and bad rosacea, you really would like to be able to call him Tom or Dave or something! He should have at least put our real names on the bottom of the tags or handed out a list or something. I made sure that I said something first when I talked to anybody. I kept sticking my hand out and saying, “I’m Tess!” so that people wouldn’t call me JDeppIsAhottie96. Diary, my user name just doesn’t seem as cool when it’s spoken out loud.
Now, here comes my take on the party music. It stunk! He had all the computers signed on to some music site that played Christmas MIDI’s. Enough said. They weren’t even all in sync. You can imagine how awful that was.
My last hope was for the gift exchange, but that bombed, too. I’ll have to say that this part wasn’t AchyBreakyBrad’s fault. I don’t know what he brought, but too many SWIBS had the same idea I did and brought Tums or Rolaids or Pepto for their gift. Needless to say, I went toward the end and there wasn’t much to pick from when I wanted to trade. So I ended up just bringing home the Nacho Libre poster I opened. I’m not sure if I was one of the lucky ones or not. I’ve never even seen that movie, so I don’t know if it’s funny, but I do know that Jack Black isn’t exactly eye candy in my book. He’s no Johnny Depp, but that’s obvious, right, Diary!!
Back to the party. To top it off and make the whole night even worse, I got deathly sick from the food. How sad is that? You’d think a bunch of people with IBS would be more careful about what they bring to a Christmas potluck meet and greet, but no, not the brainiacs in my SWIBS group. Some idiot even brought sausage balls. She said they were tofu, but I ate a bite of one and bloated almost immediately. I hid the nasty thing under a keyboard on one of the computer tables, but the damage had already been done. I left pretty quick – made up a story about having to meet my sister in Yahoo Group chat to talk about family stuff, pretty smart, huh? And just in time, too, AchyBreakyBrad started doing karaoke to the Christmas MIDI’s with this fat lady who looked a lot like my old bus driver back in elementary school. The lady’s tag said MissyKittenPie – I talked to her a little while while she was loading her plate up with everything people brought. I don’t see how anyone with IBS could eat that much! And I remember MissyKittenPie’s posts online – she always said that she was in her thirties and talked all the time about she could never eat. Yeah right! The only thing about her even remotely close to bein gin the thirties might have been her pants size! LOL! I’m so bad! Sorry, Diary!
Anyway, I left the party ASAP but didn’t even make it home before I had to stop! I felt that bad! I made it to a Krystal’s to use their bathroom – that’s how desperate I was! You know that IBS and Krystal just don’t mix. I’m surprised I even made it out of there, but that’s another story, and it’s getting late.
Bye for now, Diary! Thank your for listening!
P.S. Diary, you’ll be glad to know that I just signed off with SWIBS for the last time. I deleted my posts and everything. Now that some of the people there know what I look like, it’s just too embarrassing to talk about my bowels. Plus, I know what they look like, too. I read one post and got a really gross picture in my head of FuzzySquirrelKiss sitting on the toilet! Ewwww! I had to quit SWIBS right then. I just can’t talk to those people anymore. It’s just too embarrassing. I think I’ll go check out a group called ThePeople_of_SpasticColon_y – it sounds like they might be fun! TTYL!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Somewhere Over the Google
If Ham had stayed where he belonged , he would never have found the rainbow.
He wanted to share his beautiful discovery, but no one would climb as high as he had.
So, he watched the gorgeous arch of colors all by himself. The rainbow didn’t stay long. Misty clouds above the rainforest dropped down and cloudy mists rose up from the foliage. Together, they hid the rainbow from sight.
Then, very slowly and very sadly, he lowered himself hand over feet, down through the treetops, to where his six brothers and sisters were waiting on a broad branch in the all-too-familiar canopy.
“You’re going to be in trouble!” his brother Rocky yelled out when Ham’s face popped out of the thick leafy ceiling over their heads.
“Mother’s going to be mad!” his brother Mooch shouted as he swung his body down through the leaves and dangled his feet just above their frowning faces.
“We’re telling!” sang his sisters Spark, Missy, Gee, and Little Doodies when he dropped down right in front of them onto their branch. Then, with a nasty laugh, all of his brothers and sisters leapt away, from branch to branch, in the direction of home.
Ham sighed. He looked up at the tangle of leaves and branches, vines and flowers. He cocked his head at the sound of twittering birds and buzzing insects. He flared his nostrils to absorb the rainforest smells – some sweet and fragrant, some stinky and rotten. He opened his mouth and pretended to taste everything on his pink tongue.
Nothing could make him forget. He missed the rainbow.
When he finally arrived home, he was very late. He had not leapt from branch to branch. He had not swung on liana vines. He had moved very slowly, pretending to be one of those odd upside-down animals who always ignored his questions and never laughed at any of his tricks.
His brothers and sisters were waiting on the branch just below their family nest.
“We told!” Spark, Missy, Gee, and Little Doodies giggled.
“Mother’s mad,” Mooch chortled.
“You’re in trouble!” Rocky sniggered.
Ham ignored them and climbed into his nest.
His mother pointed a long finger at him, “Your brothers and sisters told me what you did. Do you have any idea how mad I am and how much trouble you are in?”
Ham sat and stared at his feet. His tail wrapped nervously around his waist. He held its tip in both hands. “I wanted to see over the treetops.”
His mother threw her head back and howled once at the puzzle of leafy branches that blocked every bit of the sky. Their rainforest neighbors echoed her angry shout. Ham heard his brothers, his sisters, lots of other monkeys, all kinds of birds, and even what sounded like a jungle cat from way down in the shadowy understory. Ham gripped his tail tightly. He looked up into his mother’s fuming eyes.
She pointed at his chest. “What are you?”.
“A monkey,” he replied.
She nodded and gestured at the branches surrounding the nest. “Yes, and where do monkeys play?”
“In the canopy,” he answered softly.
She nodded and bared her teeth. “Yes! The canopy! Play there and stay there! Never go lower…”
Ham remembered the cat’s scream and nodded vigorously.
“…and never climb higher,” his mother warned. She stared at him as though waiting for him to nod. He didn’t.
“But monkeys climb trees,” he whispered instead. “And some trees go high, much higher than the canopy, way up into the clouds, up almost to the sky. If the trees go there, why can’t we climb all the way up, too?”
His mother arched her back and howled a second time, even louder than before. Ham wanted to cover his ears with his hands, but he just held his tail more tightly.
As the echoes died, she lowered her face close to his and hissed, “Why would we, Ham? There is no reason to go up there! We have everything we need right here in the canopy!” She waved at the nest around them.
Ham looked at the stockpiled of food his family had gathered. He looked at the plump greenish-purple figs, the funny-looking starfruits, the papayas, the heaped cacao nuts, and a even a few delicious beetles creeping about. He closed his eyes and thought about how fantastic all those things tasted. He remembered all the other wonderful things he’d seen and heard and smelt on the way back to the nest.
He opened his eyes and looked sadly at his mother. Behind her, he spied the eyes of his siblings peeking over the edge of the nest. He turned his back on them and covered his face with his hands. His mother had to lean in closely to hear his whispered words.
“But we don’t have any rainbows.”
He wanted to share his beautiful discovery, but no one would climb as high as he had.
So, he watched the gorgeous arch of colors all by himself. The rainbow didn’t stay long. Misty clouds above the rainforest dropped down and cloudy mists rose up from the foliage. Together, they hid the rainbow from sight.
Then, very slowly and very sadly, he lowered himself hand over feet, down through the treetops, to where his six brothers and sisters were waiting on a broad branch in the all-too-familiar canopy.
“You’re going to be in trouble!” his brother Rocky yelled out when Ham’s face popped out of the thick leafy ceiling over their heads.
“Mother’s going to be mad!” his brother Mooch shouted as he swung his body down through the leaves and dangled his feet just above their frowning faces.
“We’re telling!” sang his sisters Spark, Missy, Gee, and Little Doodies when he dropped down right in front of them onto their branch. Then, with a nasty laugh, all of his brothers and sisters leapt away, from branch to branch, in the direction of home.
Ham sighed. He looked up at the tangle of leaves and branches, vines and flowers. He cocked his head at the sound of twittering birds and buzzing insects. He flared his nostrils to absorb the rainforest smells – some sweet and fragrant, some stinky and rotten. He opened his mouth and pretended to taste everything on his pink tongue.
Nothing could make him forget. He missed the rainbow.
When he finally arrived home, he was very late. He had not leapt from branch to branch. He had not swung on liana vines. He had moved very slowly, pretending to be one of those odd upside-down animals who always ignored his questions and never laughed at any of his tricks.
His brothers and sisters were waiting on the branch just below their family nest.
“We told!” Spark, Missy, Gee, and Little Doodies giggled.
“Mother’s mad,” Mooch chortled.
“You’re in trouble!” Rocky sniggered.
Ham ignored them and climbed into his nest.
His mother pointed a long finger at him, “Your brothers and sisters told me what you did. Do you have any idea how mad I am and how much trouble you are in?”
Ham sat and stared at his feet. His tail wrapped nervously around his waist. He held its tip in both hands. “I wanted to see over the treetops.”
His mother threw her head back and howled once at the puzzle of leafy branches that blocked every bit of the sky. Their rainforest neighbors echoed her angry shout. Ham heard his brothers, his sisters, lots of other monkeys, all kinds of birds, and even what sounded like a jungle cat from way down in the shadowy understory. Ham gripped his tail tightly. He looked up into his mother’s fuming eyes.
She pointed at his chest. “What are you?”.
“A monkey,” he replied.
She nodded and gestured at the branches surrounding the nest. “Yes, and where do monkeys play?”
“In the canopy,” he answered softly.
She nodded and bared her teeth. “Yes! The canopy! Play there and stay there! Never go lower…”
Ham remembered the cat’s scream and nodded vigorously.
“…and never climb higher,” his mother warned. She stared at him as though waiting for him to nod. He didn’t.
“But monkeys climb trees,” he whispered instead. “And some trees go high, much higher than the canopy, way up into the clouds, up almost to the sky. If the trees go there, why can’t we climb all the way up, too?”
His mother arched her back and howled a second time, even louder than before. Ham wanted to cover his ears with his hands, but he just held his tail more tightly.
As the echoes died, she lowered her face close to his and hissed, “Why would we, Ham? There is no reason to go up there! We have everything we need right here in the canopy!” She waved at the nest around them.
Ham looked at the stockpiled of food his family had gathered. He looked at the plump greenish-purple figs, the funny-looking starfruits, the papayas, the heaped cacao nuts, and a even a few delicious beetles creeping about. He closed his eyes and thought about how fantastic all those things tasted. He remembered all the other wonderful things he’d seen and heard and smelt on the way back to the nest.
He opened his eyes and looked sadly at his mother. Behind her, he spied the eyes of his siblings peeking over the edge of the nest. He turned his back on them and covered his face with his hands. His mother had to lean in closely to hear his whispered words.
“But we don’t have any rainbows.”
Monday, July 30, 2007
Busy as a Google
“Did you know my ceiling has exactly 5,384 stars, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao!
Miao!
Tony lay on his bed the wrong way. His socked feet were propped on his pillow, and his head was resting on his linked hands near the scratched and dinged footboard. On the matching dresser by the bed, a black cat had flicked its ears forward and mewed at the sound of the boy’s voice. Now, it stood. It yawned and stretched, arching its back and showing a white patch the size of a hen's egg on its chest. It jumped down onto the bed when the boy lazily reached out his right hand. He stroked the cat from its forehead back to to the tip of its tail and repeated, “5,384 stars. How about that, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao?
Tony scratched the black cat under his chin. The cat’s yellow eyes closed to slits and loud purring filled the boy’s bedroom. “I know they aren’t really stars, but look,” he stopped petting to point at one of the cream-colored ceiling tiles. They had a rough texture speckled with a pattern of little holes. Each hole was about the size of a pencil lead. Tony pointed at them with one finger. “See all those dots up there, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao!
The cat swiped gently at Tony’s hand and rubbed the side of his face against the boy’s chest. Tony started petting him again. “See how they are all kinda in little groups of five? Well, if I draw lines connecting those five little dots, it’ll look like a star.” Tony rolled his head to side and stared at the black cat. “You know how I know that, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao.
Mr. Bailey rubbed his side against Tony’s face and turned around to rub his other side in the same way. Tony laughed. The cat’s fur tickled his nose. He scrunched his face and stuck out his lower lip to blow a puff of air up at his nose. His nose itched now, and he rubbed it hard with his knuckles. “Look over in the corner. By the dresser. You see it? That’s how I know. But don’t tell Grandma? Okay, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao?
The black cat only wanted to be petted. It didn’t care about the half-dollar sized star Tony had drawn in the room’s darkest corner. Earlier in the afternoon, he’d used a red crayon to make lines between five dots right by the crown moulding. “Now, if I drew stars like that all across the tile, there’d be forty whole stars and nine half-stars.” He held both hands up high to show his cat nine fingers. “That makes forty-four stars and a half. And that’s just on one tile, Mr. Bailey.”
Miao!
Tony held one open hand down in front of the cat’s face. The cat pressed his wet nose hard back and forth against the fingers until the boy started stroking his back again. “I only drew one star though. I counted the rest in my head. Grandma’d notice forty-four and a half red stars, wouldn’t she?” The loud sound of women laughing made the boy and cat both look toward the closed bedroom door. “Don’t worry, that’s just Grandma and her quilt party downstairs. She told us to stay up here and behave, but I think they’re the ones being too noisy. Don’t you think so, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao.
The cat licked his paw. Then, he circled twice, curled his back against the boy’s side, and started to purr. Tony could feel the vibrations through his whole body. He touched the cat’s nose with one finger. The cat licked the fingertip once and then started to gently gnaw it with its side teeth. Tony pulled his finger away and giggled. He locked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Now about the stars – where was I? I’d just told you about one tile, I think. Forty-four and a half stars on one tile. Just one tile. And look at how many tiles there are up there! I counted. Then, I just did the math. You don’t know the times tables, but I had to memorize them all, Mr. Bailey.”
miao
The mew was very quiet. Tony slowly rolled onto his side and curled around the black cat that was falling asleep. Yellow eyes flicked once to look at him but closed again after a brief yawn. “So that’s 5,384 stars on my ceiling. Plus a half, actually, but I threw the half away. Mrs. Fykes said that it’s okay to do that in math.” He lay quietly and still for a few minutes. Then, another noise from downstairs came muffled through the door. Tony couldn’t tell if it was laughter or something else. He yawned. “I wish they’d finish that quilt. After all that counting and multiplying stars, I can say I worked on school work and it’s not a lie. Then, I can watch my shows.” Another yawn claimed him. His eyes blinked slowly closed and then opened quick, only to fall shut again in only a second. After a third yawn, the boy whispered, “Maybe I’ll nap for a little while with you. Is that okay, Mr. Bailey?”
prrrrrrrrrrr...
Miao?
Tony scratched the black cat under his chin. The cat’s yellow eyes closed to slits and loud purring filled the boy’s bedroom. “I know they aren’t really stars, but look,” he stopped petting to point at one of the cream-colored ceiling tiles. They had a rough texture speckled with a pattern of little holes. Each hole was about the size of a pencil lead. Tony pointed at them with one finger. “See all those dots up there, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao!
The cat swiped gently at Tony’s hand and rubbed the side of his face against the boy’s chest. Tony started petting him again. “See how they are all kinda in little groups of five? Well, if I draw lines connecting those five little dots, it’ll look like a star.” Tony rolled his head to side and stared at the black cat. “You know how I know that, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao.
Mr. Bailey rubbed his side against Tony’s face and turned around to rub his other side in the same way. Tony laughed. The cat’s fur tickled his nose. He scrunched his face and stuck out his lower lip to blow a puff of air up at his nose. His nose itched now, and he rubbed it hard with his knuckles. “Look over in the corner. By the dresser. You see it? That’s how I know. But don’t tell Grandma? Okay, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao?
The black cat only wanted to be petted. It didn’t care about the half-dollar sized star Tony had drawn in the room’s darkest corner. Earlier in the afternoon, he’d used a red crayon to make lines between five dots right by the crown moulding. “Now, if I drew stars like that all across the tile, there’d be forty whole stars and nine half-stars.” He held both hands up high to show his cat nine fingers. “That makes forty-four stars and a half. And that’s just on one tile, Mr. Bailey.”
Miao!
Tony held one open hand down in front of the cat’s face. The cat pressed his wet nose hard back and forth against the fingers until the boy started stroking his back again. “I only drew one star though. I counted the rest in my head. Grandma’d notice forty-four and a half red stars, wouldn’t she?” The loud sound of women laughing made the boy and cat both look toward the closed bedroom door. “Don’t worry, that’s just Grandma and her quilt party downstairs. She told us to stay up here and behave, but I think they’re the ones being too noisy. Don’t you think so, Mr. Bailey?”
Miao.
The cat licked his paw. Then, he circled twice, curled his back against the boy’s side, and started to purr. Tony could feel the vibrations through his whole body. He touched the cat’s nose with one finger. The cat licked the fingertip once and then started to gently gnaw it with its side teeth. Tony pulled his finger away and giggled. He locked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Now about the stars – where was I? I’d just told you about one tile, I think. Forty-four and a half stars on one tile. Just one tile. And look at how many tiles there are up there! I counted. Then, I just did the math. You don’t know the times tables, but I had to memorize them all, Mr. Bailey.”
miao
The mew was very quiet. Tony slowly rolled onto his side and curled around the black cat that was falling asleep. Yellow eyes flicked once to look at him but closed again after a brief yawn. “So that’s 5,384 stars on my ceiling. Plus a half, actually, but I threw the half away. Mrs. Fykes said that it’s okay to do that in math.” He lay quietly and still for a few minutes. Then, another noise from downstairs came muffled through the door. Tony couldn’t tell if it was laughter or something else. He yawned. “I wish they’d finish that quilt. After all that counting and multiplying stars, I can say I worked on school work and it’s not a lie. Then, I can watch my shows.” Another yawn claimed him. His eyes blinked slowly closed and then opened quick, only to fall shut again in only a second. After a third yawn, the boy whispered, “Maybe I’ll nap for a little while with you. Is that okay, Mr. Bailey?”
prrrrrrrrrrr...
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Will the Google Be Unbroken?
“Mom, what does that sign say?”
“Which one, sweetie?”
“That one over there.”
“The stop sign? It says Stop.”
“NO! The orange one!”
“Calm down, sweetie. Mommie’s driving and can’t look right now, okay? Wait until I stop.”
“It’ll be gone then! I want to know what it said! It looked like a warning sign!”
“It probably was telling everyone to be quiet and let Mommie drive,” the mother joked. She glanced at the back of the van through her baby rear view mirror to see if that satisfied her oldest child’s curiosity. It hadn’t. He was frowning.
“It DID NOT say that!” “What did it SAY!”
“Do not shout at me while I am driving! Calm down or we’re going home!”
She kept driving, trying to watch the road in front of her and the back seat at the same time. In the mirror, she saw her son flail a bit in his seat. Then, he started pushing his body up on his arms, using the arm rests of his booster seat like a gymnast’s balance beams to strain against the seat belt’s shoulder harness. His eyes bugged with the effort. His nostrils flared with each breath. He stretched his mouth into a wide line. His lips pulled back. His teeth ground together. The tendons in his neck popped out clearly on his skinny neck. His face flushed beet red. In the carseat next to him, a smaller – and for once infinitely calmer – version of himself slept peacefully, draped over the buckle straps like a little ragdoll.
“Calm down! You’re making yourself sick! And you’re going to wake up your brother!”
The van stopped at a red light. She turned and met her son’s eyes, matching him glare for glare. He almost looked like he was snarling, but he didn’t say anything. She checked her other son. He had flopped his head up and then back down again like his neck was made of taffy. He still slept, though, completely oblivious to the trouble brewing beside him. The light changed, and the mother focused on the road.
The mother worried more about her younger son waking up. From lots of experience, tantrums were highly contagious in the minivan. It didn’t matter who started it or what it was about. Soon, all three children would be bawling and screaming like tiny banshees. They didn’t even need reasons.
She flicked her eyes to the mirror. Her son was glowering at her, still flushed and breathing heavily. His jaw stuck out stubbornly. He was being quiet, but they weren’t out of the danger zone. She looked past him to the empty carseat in the very back of the van. She whispered a quick prayer of gratitude that the baby at least wasn’t there to take part in the drama. Her little girl was the lucky one, playing at home with the daddy, while she took the boys on a few errands.
Suddenly, she heard an ambulance siren coming from behind her. She slowed down to let it pass in the left lane.
“Oooh! Look, an ambulance! Do you think someone up ahead got hurt?”
Her son said nothing. She started driving again but at the next curve saw that traffic had stopped completely. She groaned in dismay but tried to distract her son again.
“Looks like there’s a wreck up ahead, sweetie. We’re going to be stuck for a while, I guess. Did you hear the siren?”
Silence answered her from the back seat.
Since the van was stopped, she looked around into eyes that still were full of a five-year-old’s fury.
He raised one hand threateningly. Sunlight from the passenger windows glinted off the shiny silver bottom of a toy car he clutched in one small fist.
“I’m gonna throw this car at you!” her son announced with all the grim severity of a judge condemning a guilty man to the electric chair.
“Throw it and you’ll be in deep trouble, mister!”
She turned back to the steering wheel and canceled her earlier prayer. If her husband had come along, he would have made up some crazy story about the sign. Her son would have bought the lie or he would have laughed at how ridiculous it was and made up something of his own.
The car suddenly whizzed by her ear. It pinged off the windshield onto the passenger seat.
“That’s it! I’m calling your dad!” She reached between the bucket seats into her purse and yanked out her cell phone. She flipped it open and hit 1 to phone home.
Her son let loose for real now. He started screaming loud enough to carry through the van’s closed windows. Drops of spit actually began flying around in the back seat as though he were a rabid dog. His brother sat up and looked around groggily for a second before he started to cry. The mother shrunk a bit in her seat and kept from looking at the cars stopped around her for fear that they could hear. She stared at the bumper in front of her and pressed her phone hard against her ear. She counted the rings. Three, and then the voice she needed to hear said, “Hey – whoa! What’s up? Sounds like you’re murdering somebody!”
“Your son’s trying to murder me! Throwing cars at me while I’m driving!” she hissed, not in the mood to joke around. She didn’t think it was possible but the screams got louder when she said that.
“Talk to your son!” she yelled into the phone. She stuck her arm back toward her oldest son. He slammed himself back and forth in the seatbelt and ignored her.
“Talk to your dad!” she screamed.
“I’m not!”
He shook his head over and over and yelled twice more, but finally he snatched the phone out of her hand. She expected him to throw it but he didn’t. He stuck it to his ear and listened for probably one second. Then, he wailed one long piercing “NO!” that vibrated the mother’s ear drums. Wincing, she focused on trying to soothe her three-year-old, who was crying but hadn’t gone full-power yet.
She had one chance with him – he had a bottomless stomach, especially after a nap, and she had a granola bar and half a bottle of water in her purse. She worked on getting him to open his mouth for a bite.
The older boy cried and snorted and slobbered. He would put the phone to his ear and then wave it around for a few minutes. Amazingly, he never closed it or threw it across the van. By the time his little brother started alternating deep sobs with messy bites of granola, he was actually listening to whatever the dad was saying . The mother felt a glimmer of hope for the first time. She also felt a twinge of jealous anger, though, and whispered another prayer. This time she asked God why he had to give the dads more power over the kids than their mothers.
Traffic still wasn’t moving when her son finally handed her the phone.
“Dad wants, to talk, to you,” he stuttered, not yet able to breathe normally after his outburst. He swiping his other arm across his wet, crimson face. It came away covered in snot and tears. He rubbed it onto his shorts. “I want, a snack, too,” he added quietly as she took the phone. He smeared both hands across his face and then rubbed his eyes. She snapped what was left of the granola bar in half and handed both boys their share. She faced forward.
Her husband was laughing when she got the phone to her ear. “It’s not funny!” she snapped, still frustrated. Then, too low for the boys to hear, she whispered, “He was awful! He nearly pegged me in the back of the head with one of his cars!”
“Yeah, that’s why I told him his cars were going to Goodwill for some other well-behaved boy to play with.”
The mother nodded. “Ah, so that’s why he let out that awful scream right at the first!” The bumper in front of her moved. Traffic finally was starting to creep forward. She sighed in relief.
“Yeah, it got his attention. Then, I just had to wait for him to calm down enough to tell me what started it all.”
“The sign.” She said too loudly. She flinched and looked at the mirror. Sometimes, a word would trigger a second round of fits. Both boys had bits of granola stuck on their faces and were poking around at the tangle of toys between their seats. They stopped as the van came level with the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. It was only a little bumper bender, but it got both of them jabbering with excitement. “Looks like whatever you told him worked. He’s over it now.”
“Yeah –you should have just made up something about the sign. You know he never gives up when he wants to know something.”
“Yeah, I wonder where he gets all that stubbornness from!” The dad laughed. “And for your information, Mr. Smartypants, I did make something up! I told him it said for him to be quiet and let me drive!”
“That’s such a mommy lie!” the dad laughed. “No kid would ever believe that!”
“Fine! You’re the better liar. I admit it!” she chuckled, feeling much better now that she was past the wreck and the tantrum both. “What did you tell him anyway?”
“Simple. You saw it near the park, right? I think that’s what he said anyway. It was hard to tell with all the crying. Well, anyway, I told him that he was right, it was a warning sign that told people to Beware of the Flautists!”
The mother burst out laughing. “And my lie was stupid? He actually bought that?”
“Sure he did! I had to explain it, of course. And flautists can be quite dangerous, you know. Especially at the park! If you drive or walk too close, they lash out with those metal flutes. Those things sting! They can break bones, too, or slash holes in tires. You really have to watch out for those flautists, sweetie!”
The mother shook her head even though her husband couldn’t see it. “You’re awful!”
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? I just hope you guys don’t run into some real flautists today. It might freak him out.”
“Ha, that’d serve him right!” she giggled. “Little Sister’s being really quiet. Is she playing in her room?”
“Nah, she’s been asleep ever since you guys left. I was going to do some laundry, but I decided to play games online instead since you were out goofing around with the boys…”
The mother cursed and hung up the phone. Then, she prayed a third prayer, this time to keep her from killing her husband when she finally made it home.
“Which one, sweetie?”
“That one over there.”
“The stop sign? It says Stop.”
“NO! The orange one!”
“Calm down, sweetie. Mommie’s driving and can’t look right now, okay? Wait until I stop.”
“It’ll be gone then! I want to know what it said! It looked like a warning sign!”
“It probably was telling everyone to be quiet and let Mommie drive,” the mother joked. She glanced at the back of the van through her baby rear view mirror to see if that satisfied her oldest child’s curiosity. It hadn’t. He was frowning.
“It DID NOT say that!” “What did it SAY!”
“Do not shout at me while I am driving! Calm down or we’re going home!”
She kept driving, trying to watch the road in front of her and the back seat at the same time. In the mirror, she saw her son flail a bit in his seat. Then, he started pushing his body up on his arms, using the arm rests of his booster seat like a gymnast’s balance beams to strain against the seat belt’s shoulder harness. His eyes bugged with the effort. His nostrils flared with each breath. He stretched his mouth into a wide line. His lips pulled back. His teeth ground together. The tendons in his neck popped out clearly on his skinny neck. His face flushed beet red. In the carseat next to him, a smaller – and for once infinitely calmer – version of himself slept peacefully, draped over the buckle straps like a little ragdoll.
“Calm down! You’re making yourself sick! And you’re going to wake up your brother!”
The van stopped at a red light. She turned and met her son’s eyes, matching him glare for glare. He almost looked like he was snarling, but he didn’t say anything. She checked her other son. He had flopped his head up and then back down again like his neck was made of taffy. He still slept, though, completely oblivious to the trouble brewing beside him. The light changed, and the mother focused on the road.
The mother worried more about her younger son waking up. From lots of experience, tantrums were highly contagious in the minivan. It didn’t matter who started it or what it was about. Soon, all three children would be bawling and screaming like tiny banshees. They didn’t even need reasons.
She flicked her eyes to the mirror. Her son was glowering at her, still flushed and breathing heavily. His jaw stuck out stubbornly. He was being quiet, but they weren’t out of the danger zone. She looked past him to the empty carseat in the very back of the van. She whispered a quick prayer of gratitude that the baby at least wasn’t there to take part in the drama. Her little girl was the lucky one, playing at home with the daddy, while she took the boys on a few errands.
Suddenly, she heard an ambulance siren coming from behind her. She slowed down to let it pass in the left lane.
“Oooh! Look, an ambulance! Do you think someone up ahead got hurt?”
Her son said nothing. She started driving again but at the next curve saw that traffic had stopped completely. She groaned in dismay but tried to distract her son again.
“Looks like there’s a wreck up ahead, sweetie. We’re going to be stuck for a while, I guess. Did you hear the siren?”
Silence answered her from the back seat.
Since the van was stopped, she looked around into eyes that still were full of a five-year-old’s fury.
He raised one hand threateningly. Sunlight from the passenger windows glinted off the shiny silver bottom of a toy car he clutched in one small fist.
“I’m gonna throw this car at you!” her son announced with all the grim severity of a judge condemning a guilty man to the electric chair.
“Throw it and you’ll be in deep trouble, mister!”
She turned back to the steering wheel and canceled her earlier prayer. If her husband had come along, he would have made up some crazy story about the sign. Her son would have bought the lie or he would have laughed at how ridiculous it was and made up something of his own.
The car suddenly whizzed by her ear. It pinged off the windshield onto the passenger seat.
“That’s it! I’m calling your dad!” She reached between the bucket seats into her purse and yanked out her cell phone. She flipped it open and hit 1 to phone home.
Her son let loose for real now. He started screaming loud enough to carry through the van’s closed windows. Drops of spit actually began flying around in the back seat as though he were a rabid dog. His brother sat up and looked around groggily for a second before he started to cry. The mother shrunk a bit in her seat and kept from looking at the cars stopped around her for fear that they could hear. She stared at the bumper in front of her and pressed her phone hard against her ear. She counted the rings. Three, and then the voice she needed to hear said, “Hey – whoa! What’s up? Sounds like you’re murdering somebody!”
“Your son’s trying to murder me! Throwing cars at me while I’m driving!” she hissed, not in the mood to joke around. She didn’t think it was possible but the screams got louder when she said that.
“Talk to your son!” she yelled into the phone. She stuck her arm back toward her oldest son. He slammed himself back and forth in the seatbelt and ignored her.
“Talk to your dad!” she screamed.
“I’m not!”
He shook his head over and over and yelled twice more, but finally he snatched the phone out of her hand. She expected him to throw it but he didn’t. He stuck it to his ear and listened for probably one second. Then, he wailed one long piercing “NO!” that vibrated the mother’s ear drums. Wincing, she focused on trying to soothe her three-year-old, who was crying but hadn’t gone full-power yet.
She had one chance with him – he had a bottomless stomach, especially after a nap, and she had a granola bar and half a bottle of water in her purse. She worked on getting him to open his mouth for a bite.
The older boy cried and snorted and slobbered. He would put the phone to his ear and then wave it around for a few minutes. Amazingly, he never closed it or threw it across the van. By the time his little brother started alternating deep sobs with messy bites of granola, he was actually listening to whatever the dad was saying . The mother felt a glimmer of hope for the first time. She also felt a twinge of jealous anger, though, and whispered another prayer. This time she asked God why he had to give the dads more power over the kids than their mothers.
Traffic still wasn’t moving when her son finally handed her the phone.
“Dad wants, to talk, to you,” he stuttered, not yet able to breathe normally after his outburst. He swiping his other arm across his wet, crimson face. It came away covered in snot and tears. He rubbed it onto his shorts. “I want, a snack, too,” he added quietly as she took the phone. He smeared both hands across his face and then rubbed his eyes. She snapped what was left of the granola bar in half and handed both boys their share. She faced forward.
Her husband was laughing when she got the phone to her ear. “It’s not funny!” she snapped, still frustrated. Then, too low for the boys to hear, she whispered, “He was awful! He nearly pegged me in the back of the head with one of his cars!”
“Yeah, that’s why I told him his cars were going to Goodwill for some other well-behaved boy to play with.”
The mother nodded. “Ah, so that’s why he let out that awful scream right at the first!” The bumper in front of her moved. Traffic finally was starting to creep forward. She sighed in relief.
“Yeah, it got his attention. Then, I just had to wait for him to calm down enough to tell me what started it all.”
“The sign.” She said too loudly. She flinched and looked at the mirror. Sometimes, a word would trigger a second round of fits. Both boys had bits of granola stuck on their faces and were poking around at the tangle of toys between their seats. They stopped as the van came level with the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. It was only a little bumper bender, but it got both of them jabbering with excitement. “Looks like whatever you told him worked. He’s over it now.”
“Yeah –you should have just made up something about the sign. You know he never gives up when he wants to know something.”
“Yeah, I wonder where he gets all that stubbornness from!” The dad laughed. “And for your information, Mr. Smartypants, I did make something up! I told him it said for him to be quiet and let me drive!”
“That’s such a mommy lie!” the dad laughed. “No kid would ever believe that!”
“Fine! You’re the better liar. I admit it!” she chuckled, feeling much better now that she was past the wreck and the tantrum both. “What did you tell him anyway?”
“Simple. You saw it near the park, right? I think that’s what he said anyway. It was hard to tell with all the crying. Well, anyway, I told him that he was right, it was a warning sign that told people to Beware of the Flautists!”
The mother burst out laughing. “And my lie was stupid? He actually bought that?”
“Sure he did! I had to explain it, of course. And flautists can be quite dangerous, you know. Especially at the park! If you drive or walk too close, they lash out with those metal flutes. Those things sting! They can break bones, too, or slash holes in tires. You really have to watch out for those flautists, sweetie!”
The mother shook her head even though her husband couldn’t see it. “You’re awful!”
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? I just hope you guys don’t run into some real flautists today. It might freak him out.”
“Ha, that’d serve him right!” she giggled. “Little Sister’s being really quiet. Is she playing in her room?”
“Nah, she’s been asleep ever since you guys left. I was going to do some laundry, but I decided to play games online instead since you were out goofing around with the boys…”
The mother cursed and hung up the phone. Then, she prayed a third prayer, this time to keep her from killing her husband when she finally made it home.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Thirty Days Hath Google
"Hey! Look at that!" Bernard said over his shoulder as they stepped off the ferry.
"How could I not? It's as long as the ferryboat almost!"
"Yeah, I know! I'm a little disappointed actually. I think it should be bigger."
"Keep it up, Mr. Bighead, and I'll switch to the other side!" Ann shoved him on the right shoulder just as he started up the steps at the end of the boarding platform. Bernard stumbled but caught himself on the railing with his right hand. His gym bag slipped off his other shoulder, making him fumble with that hand to catch it.
Ann didn't bother hiding her amusement at her brother's expense. She laughed loud enough that the three people that had shared the ride to the island turned around and looked back down the steps.
"Fine! Go ahead" Bernard said in mock anger. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a slim red phone. "And kill me too while you’re at it! Good thing that railing was there or I'd have fallen into the surf and been sucked away into the ocean and drowned!" He harrumphed loudly and spun on one heel.
Ann followed him up the steps, giggling. The ferry’s wake was still slapping the beach below. At most it was a two foot drop from the dock to the beach. "Drowned. Yeah, right. Whatever, Drama Boy. You’d have a better chance of knocking your brains out on a pebble down there than drowning."
“Hey, anything’s possible, traitor,” he said over his shoulder, still pretending to be mad. Then, he grinned. “Hey, I’m proof of that, right?”
The siblings had reached the top of the stairs now and were level with the parking lot. A white placard bolted to two concrete posts pointed to the North Hatton Island Visitor’s Center on their right. Dwarfing that sign, however, was what had caught their attention earlier. A long white vinyl banner, probably close to thirty feet long, was strung high between two of the parking lot’s light poles. On it was a message printed in blue block capital letters each three feet high: "THINK POSITIVE, ST. BERNARD! WE DO."
Bernard held up his cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the banner. Then, he turned and held the phone out backwards so that he could be in the foreground of the shots. After each click, he spun around and changed his facial expression into a different emotion. He went from happy to surprised to proud to dazed to nauseated in just a matter of a minute or so.
Laughing, Ann set down her bag and pulled out her digital camera. She started hamming it up with her brother. She alternated between taking backwards shots of herself with her brother’s welcoming banner in the background and snapping photos of her brother’s hilarious poses. When he jumped onto a bench and threw both his arms up directly beneath the ST., she shouted, “Work it, Miracle Boy!” like a runway photographer to a model. Bernard burst out laughing and fell onto the bench. Holding his sides, he waved her away as she kept taking more pictures.
“No, Sis,” he scolded, hugging his sides to try to stop laughing, “Don’t take pix when I’m down! It’ll ruin my image!”
“Ha ha! Can you say blackmail? extortion?” Ann cackled dramatically, still taking photos until he straightened and flipped his phone shut against his thigh. With his other hand, he also flipped her off, which to her delight she caught on camera. She danced around in a circle with the camera clutched to her chest. “Oooh! Pay dirt, brother! P-A-Y-dirt!”
Bernard jumped at her as though he were going to wrestle the camera away. Instinctively, she leaned forward and curled her body around it. All he did though was lock his right arm around her neck and rub his left knuckles briskly across her scalp. She squealed but didn’t drop the camera.
“Ha to you, Anna Banana!” He let her go and stuck his tongue out at her as he called her by the nickname he gave her that used to make her cry as a little girl. “The only thing you’ll get out of me will be more noogies!”
Ann was leaning on her knees laughing but still had her arms pulled close to her chest. She shuffled over to her bag like a crab guarding a morsel of food and stuffed her camera inside. Straightening, she grabbed her brother’s elbow and tugged him toward the weathered white building at the far end of the sidewalk.
“Come on, Mr. Saint Bernard, let’s stop playing and get to that Visitor Center. They’ll tell us how to get to this Cutie Pie Man you have to see.”
“Mercutio Pieta, Ann.” Bernard snorted. He fell into step behind her. “I am meeting with Cardinal Mercutio Pieta. Get it right. Cutie Pie Man makes him sound like some pedophile or goofy Pokemon collector.”
Ann raised an eyebrow and smirked, “There’s a difference?”
Bernard chuckled. “Just call him Church Guy if you forget, okay.” Ann nodded, and they walked a few steps in silence. As they neared the building, they noticed that a large crowd of people had gathered on a big veranda on its far side. The sidewalk they were following looked like it led right up to the crowd. The building’s main entrance had to be there.
“Do you think he’s meeting us here?” Bernard asked quietly as they approached the crowd. “I figured you’d have to go to a church to talk to a canonization expert, but I see a whole lot of people up there.”
At about the same time that Ann noticed that signs bearing Bernard’s name stuck on poles and hanging from the building’s roof, the people on the veranda started cheering. The cheer was obviously heartfelt but a little ragged since probably three-fourths of the crowd was quite elderly. Ann sighed. Ever since her brother’s powers became obvious, she’d seen crowds like this one many times. Her heart still ached for how eager they were though.
“It’s just talk anyway, Little Brother. If this ‘expert’ is here or not, these people have brought some work for you to do here first, I think.” Ann jerked her chin toward the waiting people. Her brother nodded, his young face suddenly very composed. His exuberance and goofiness of only a few minutes before had gone somewhere deep within himself, and a look of intense sincerity and caring had taken its place.
They neared the veranda, and she started counting crutches, wheelchairs, walkers, and even a stretcher or two. A few people who were more mobile had canes they waved, and Ann counted them, too. The faces of the hopeful but obviously healthy she ignored.
“Looks like we’ll be maybe an hour or two,” Ann whispered. “Unless more show up, that is. And it’s possible. I mean, obviously, you’ve got quite a fan club going on here. Who knew. I thought this island was an out of the way place.”
A grin flitted across his face, showing that her brother was still her brother, no matter what wonderful things he might be able to do.
“Yeah, me too, Sis,” he whispered back. “You know, I was really hoping when I agreed to this canonization petition that it’d at least get us a trip to Rome. But no, we get to meet someone in an island in Maine. Ooooh! Whoopee!”
Ann had time to smother a laugh before they reached the end of the sidewalk. Then, arm in arm, the brother and sister stepped up onto the veranda into a sea of outstretched hands.
"How could I not? It's as long as the ferryboat almost!"
"Yeah, I know! I'm a little disappointed actually. I think it should be bigger."
"Keep it up, Mr. Bighead, and I'll switch to the other side!" Ann shoved him on the right shoulder just as he started up the steps at the end of the boarding platform. Bernard stumbled but caught himself on the railing with his right hand. His gym bag slipped off his other shoulder, making him fumble with that hand to catch it.
Ann didn't bother hiding her amusement at her brother's expense. She laughed loud enough that the three people that had shared the ride to the island turned around and looked back down the steps.
"Fine! Go ahead" Bernard said in mock anger. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a slim red phone. "And kill me too while you’re at it! Good thing that railing was there or I'd have fallen into the surf and been sucked away into the ocean and drowned!" He harrumphed loudly and spun on one heel.
Ann followed him up the steps, giggling. The ferry’s wake was still slapping the beach below. At most it was a two foot drop from the dock to the beach. "Drowned. Yeah, right. Whatever, Drama Boy. You’d have a better chance of knocking your brains out on a pebble down there than drowning."
“Hey, anything’s possible, traitor,” he said over his shoulder, still pretending to be mad. Then, he grinned. “Hey, I’m proof of that, right?”
The siblings had reached the top of the stairs now and were level with the parking lot. A white placard bolted to two concrete posts pointed to the North Hatton Island Visitor’s Center on their right. Dwarfing that sign, however, was what had caught their attention earlier. A long white vinyl banner, probably close to thirty feet long, was strung high between two of the parking lot’s light poles. On it was a message printed in blue block capital letters each three feet high: "THINK POSITIVE, ST. BERNARD! WE DO."
Bernard held up his cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the banner. Then, he turned and held the phone out backwards so that he could be in the foreground of the shots. After each click, he spun around and changed his facial expression into a different emotion. He went from happy to surprised to proud to dazed to nauseated in just a matter of a minute or so.
Laughing, Ann set down her bag and pulled out her digital camera. She started hamming it up with her brother. She alternated between taking backwards shots of herself with her brother’s welcoming banner in the background and snapping photos of her brother’s hilarious poses. When he jumped onto a bench and threw both his arms up directly beneath the ST., she shouted, “Work it, Miracle Boy!” like a runway photographer to a model. Bernard burst out laughing and fell onto the bench. Holding his sides, he waved her away as she kept taking more pictures.
“No, Sis,” he scolded, hugging his sides to try to stop laughing, “Don’t take pix when I’m down! It’ll ruin my image!”
“Ha ha! Can you say blackmail? extortion?” Ann cackled dramatically, still taking photos until he straightened and flipped his phone shut against his thigh. With his other hand, he also flipped her off, which to her delight she caught on camera. She danced around in a circle with the camera clutched to her chest. “Oooh! Pay dirt, brother! P-A-Y-dirt!”
Bernard jumped at her as though he were going to wrestle the camera away. Instinctively, she leaned forward and curled her body around it. All he did though was lock his right arm around her neck and rub his left knuckles briskly across her scalp. She squealed but didn’t drop the camera.
“Ha to you, Anna Banana!” He let her go and stuck his tongue out at her as he called her by the nickname he gave her that used to make her cry as a little girl. “The only thing you’ll get out of me will be more noogies!”
Ann was leaning on her knees laughing but still had her arms pulled close to her chest. She shuffled over to her bag like a crab guarding a morsel of food and stuffed her camera inside. Straightening, she grabbed her brother’s elbow and tugged him toward the weathered white building at the far end of the sidewalk.
“Come on, Mr. Saint Bernard, let’s stop playing and get to that Visitor Center. They’ll tell us how to get to this Cutie Pie Man you have to see.”
“Mercutio Pieta, Ann.” Bernard snorted. He fell into step behind her. “I am meeting with Cardinal Mercutio Pieta. Get it right. Cutie Pie Man makes him sound like some pedophile or goofy Pokemon collector.”
Ann raised an eyebrow and smirked, “There’s a difference?”
Bernard chuckled. “Just call him Church Guy if you forget, okay.” Ann nodded, and they walked a few steps in silence. As they neared the building, they noticed that a large crowd of people had gathered on a big veranda on its far side. The sidewalk they were following looked like it led right up to the crowd. The building’s main entrance had to be there.
“Do you think he’s meeting us here?” Bernard asked quietly as they approached the crowd. “I figured you’d have to go to a church to talk to a canonization expert, but I see a whole lot of people up there.”
At about the same time that Ann noticed that signs bearing Bernard’s name stuck on poles and hanging from the building’s roof, the people on the veranda started cheering. The cheer was obviously heartfelt but a little ragged since probably three-fourths of the crowd was quite elderly. Ann sighed. Ever since her brother’s powers became obvious, she’d seen crowds like this one many times. Her heart still ached for how eager they were though.
“It’s just talk anyway, Little Brother. If this ‘expert’ is here or not, these people have brought some work for you to do here first, I think.” Ann jerked her chin toward the waiting people. Her brother nodded, his young face suddenly very composed. His exuberance and goofiness of only a few minutes before had gone somewhere deep within himself, and a look of intense sincerity and caring had taken its place.
They neared the veranda, and she started counting crutches, wheelchairs, walkers, and even a stretcher or two. A few people who were more mobile had canes they waved, and Ann counted them, too. The faces of the hopeful but obviously healthy she ignored.
“Looks like we’ll be maybe an hour or two,” Ann whispered. “Unless more show up, that is. And it’s possible. I mean, obviously, you’ve got quite a fan club going on here. Who knew. I thought this island was an out of the way place.”
A grin flitted across his face, showing that her brother was still her brother, no matter what wonderful things he might be able to do.
“Yeah, me too, Sis,” he whispered back. “You know, I was really hoping when I agreed to this canonization petition that it’d at least get us a trip to Rome. But no, we get to meet someone in an island in Maine. Ooooh! Whoopee!”
Ann had time to smother a laugh before they reached the end of the sidewalk. Then, arm in arm, the brother and sister stepped up onto the veranda into a sea of outstretched hands.
Friday, July 27, 2007
It Was a Dark and Googly Night
It was a dark and stormy night. A perfect night for murder.
“Hey! Joey! Man, it’s way too dark back here!”
Well, almost perfect, Eddie thought as he turned to look at his partner. Why Mr. Lee wanted this to be a two-man job, I don’t know.
“Shut up!” Joey hissed. “You want to give us away? Blow the whole thing?”
“Nah, but can’t we move closer to the elevator? Light’s better there. Here, I can’t see my own hands in front of me.”
“You don’t need to see your hands – you only need to see the vick.”
“But by the elevator…”
“He’ll walk out, we’ll jump out. Surprise! Whammo with the bats! We'll take a few pics, send them to the boss, then go get some Starbucks and coffee cake! It's that easy!”
Joey set his the tip of his baseball bat between his feet to hold it steady. He peeled off his thin black gloves and flexed his long fingers. His knuckles popped. Waiting always made him tense. The partner Mr. Lee had assigned wasn’t helping matters either.
“You’re not listenin’, Joe,” Eddie whispered, leaning in. His breath smelled like the peppermints he’d been crunching earlier until Joey stopped him. “What I’m sayin’ is that we’d have more light if we waited by the elevator. I’d do a better job if I could see what I was hittin’.”
“What’s to see, Eddie? We have baseball bats! Hit the guy anywhere and he’s going down. Keep on hitting and the job’s done.”
Eddie was silent for a minute. Joey kept his eyes on the brightly lit square of the parking garage by the elevator. Their target would walk out of that elevator exactly eight seconds after its bell chimed. Joey knew because he’d been able to time it twenty-five times already. In the final seconds of the game, the two hit men had slipped past security to the team’s private level of the garage, five levels below the arena. The northeast corner held some maintenance equipment, storage bins, trashcans, and a sweeper mounted on a white Chevy truck.
Joey had decided that a spot next to the sweeper was dark enough to keep the players from seeing them even if they’d lost and walked out slowly. Plus, the spot was still close enough to the elevator that they could watch everyone leaving the locker rooms and getting into their cars. All but two spots were empty now – a red Honda and a bright yellow Hummer. They were waiting on the vick – the hockey team’s mascot, Pucky the Purple Pig. Or more specifically, the guy behind the pigskin mask.
And everything’s going perfectly! Two cars left, just like Mr. Lee’s email said, Joey thought to himself. We’re in the perfect spot. And the storm up top sets the perfect tone.
“Hey! Joey! Man, it’s way too dark back here!”
Well, almost perfect, Eddie thought as he turned to look at his partner. Why Mr. Lee wanted this to be a two-man job, I don’t know.
“Shut up!” Joey hissed. “You want to give us away? Blow the whole thing?”
“Nah, but can’t we move closer to the elevator? Light’s better there. Here, I can’t see my own hands in front of me.”
“You don’t need to see your hands – you only need to see the vick.”
“But by the elevator…”
“He’ll walk out, we’ll jump out. Surprise! Whammo with the bats! We'll take a few pics, send them to the boss, then go get some Starbucks and coffee cake! It's that easy!”
Joey set his the tip of his baseball bat between his feet to hold it steady. He peeled off his thin black gloves and flexed his long fingers. His knuckles popped. Waiting always made him tense. The partner Mr. Lee had assigned wasn’t helping matters either.
“You’re not listenin’, Joe,” Eddie whispered, leaning in. His breath smelled like the peppermints he’d been crunching earlier until Joey stopped him. “What I’m sayin’ is that we’d have more light if we waited by the elevator. I’d do a better job if I could see what I was hittin’.”
“What’s to see, Eddie? We have baseball bats! Hit the guy anywhere and he’s going down. Keep on hitting and the job’s done.”
Eddie was silent for a minute. Joey kept his eyes on the brightly lit square of the parking garage by the elevator. Their target would walk out of that elevator exactly eight seconds after its bell chimed. Joey knew because he’d been able to time it twenty-five times already. In the final seconds of the game, the two hit men had slipped past security to the team’s private level of the garage, five levels below the arena. The northeast corner held some maintenance equipment, storage bins, trashcans, and a sweeper mounted on a white Chevy truck.
Joey had decided that a spot next to the sweeper was dark enough to keep the players from seeing them even if they’d lost and walked out slowly. Plus, the spot was still close enough to the elevator that they could watch everyone leaving the locker rooms and getting into their cars. All but two spots were empty now – a red Honda and a bright yellow Hummer. They were waiting on the vick – the hockey team’s mascot, Pucky the Purple Pig. Or more specifically, the guy behind the pigskin mask.
And everything’s going perfectly! Two cars left, just like Mr. Lee’s email said, Joey thought to himself. We’re in the perfect spot. And the storm up top sets the perfect tone.
Even through three levels of steel and concrete he could hear the boom and rumble of the thunder. The rain hadn’t made it this far down, but the air was damp and heavy. His thin cotton ski mask felt like a wet bag pulled across his face. He pulled the neck up for a second and breathed deeply twice. The air tasted like exhaust. He grimaced and covered his face again.
Joey slipped his gloves back on and swung his bat up slowly to his right shoulder. He slid his grip up and down the wooden handle a few times. Finding the right spot took only a second or two. College ball hadn’t been so long ago after all, he reminded himself.
Joey slipped his gloves back on and swung his bat up slowly to his right shoulder. He slid his grip up and down the wooden handle a few times. Finding the right spot took only a second or two. College ball hadn’t been so long ago after all, he reminded himself.
His knee made him stop playing, but obviously his hands hadn’t forgotten what to do. Grinning under his mask, he lowered the bat and tapped its tip gently against the soles of his Converse sneakers. They were all black, like his mask and his sweats. He’d even chosen black ash wood for the bat.
Perfect bat for slamming home runs. And perfect for slamming the head in on hockey mascots, too! This is turning out to be a perfect hit.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of teeth grinding hard peppermints brought him back to reality.
Almost perfect, he thought for a second time and turned to Eddie. The younger man was dressed just like Joey but had his ski mask pushed up past his forehead. He was unwrapping a green-and-white peppermint slowly, muffling the crinkling plastic somewhat . He stopped when he saw Joey staring.
“You don’t chew hard candy on a job! I told you that already!” Joey whispered, forcing all of his annoyance and anger into his eyes and into his voice. “And you’d better not be dropping any of those wrappers either! The last thing we need is a trail of candy wrappers leading back to us!”
“Course I’m not droppin’ the wrappers – I’m not a noob,” Eddie grunted as he shoved a handful of mints back into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Just don’t see why we have to hide in the shadows and dress in all black and use these stupid bats.”
The younger man kicked with one toe at the bat he’d leaned against the sweeper. To Joey’s dismay, he’d shown up at the assigned meeting place dressed like a college kid and carrying a cheap aluminum bat. Only Joey’s threats to text Mr. Lee made him reluctantly change and then cover the shiny barrel with tape on the ride to the arena.
Eddie kept griping. “This whole hit’s been a hassle and a waste of time, right from the start. I could’ve picked the vick off with my M40A3 from outside and avoided all this clichéd crap.”
“Dammit, Eddie! We talked about all this back at the gym!” Joey fought the urge to brain his co-worker with his ash bat. “If you want to call the shots, go freelance! Get a MySpace and advertise! Then, you can do it your way. Wear a clown suit and hit your vicks with a frying pan if you want! But for now, you have to do it the way the boss says!”
Eddie grunted, but the elevator chimed suddenly. Silencing both men, it reverberated off the concrete walls and steel pylons supporting the roof. Joey’s eyes snapped to the lighted area. Eddie tugged his mask down into place.
Eight seconds! Joey mentally began counting them down. He flexed glove fingers around his bat. He readied his stance. At his side, he sensed Eddie doing the same thing.
Seven seconds! According to the email, the vick would walk out with #71, the team center. The vick drove the Honda. The center drove the Hummer.
Six seconds! The vick and the center always left the locker room last so that no one would know they were dating. The center would be wearing a jersey. The vick would be carrying the mascot head.
Five seconds! Jealous spouse? Angry fan? Owner afraid of bad publicity if it leaks that the star center’s being gay with a purple pig? Joey didn’t know and didn’t care – his job was just to follow the boss’s orders.
Four seconds! The vick and the center would walk to the Hummer and make sure that no one was around. Then, the vick and the center would share a long kiss.
Three seconds! The kiss would be the best time to get to work. The vick and the center would be occupied and caught by surprise. Kill the vick and do whatever to the center. That’s all the orders had said. That’s all Joey needed to know.
Two seconds! Behind the closed doors, the elevator settled at the bottom of the shaft with a dull thud. Joey bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. He tightened his grip on the ash handle of his bat. A rush of adrenaline flowed through him. He felt like he was back at bat in the state finals.
One second! Joey heard muffled crinkles coming from his left. Ignoring it, he clenched his teeth. He had to keep his eyes on the elevator doors. Out of sight, gears began grinding. A metallic clang echoed as everything locked into place.
Open Sesame! His timing was perfect. The doors parted with a hum at that exact moment.
Perfect bat for slamming home runs. And perfect for slamming the head in on hockey mascots, too! This is turning out to be a perfect hit.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The sound of teeth grinding hard peppermints brought him back to reality.
Almost perfect, he thought for a second time and turned to Eddie. The younger man was dressed just like Joey but had his ski mask pushed up past his forehead. He was unwrapping a green-and-white peppermint slowly, muffling the crinkling plastic somewhat . He stopped when he saw Joey staring.
“You don’t chew hard candy on a job! I told you that already!” Joey whispered, forcing all of his annoyance and anger into his eyes and into his voice. “And you’d better not be dropping any of those wrappers either! The last thing we need is a trail of candy wrappers leading back to us!”
“Course I’m not droppin’ the wrappers – I’m not a noob,” Eddie grunted as he shoved a handful of mints back into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Just don’t see why we have to hide in the shadows and dress in all black and use these stupid bats.”
The younger man kicked with one toe at the bat he’d leaned against the sweeper. To Joey’s dismay, he’d shown up at the assigned meeting place dressed like a college kid and carrying a cheap aluminum bat. Only Joey’s threats to text Mr. Lee made him reluctantly change and then cover the shiny barrel with tape on the ride to the arena.
Eddie kept griping. “This whole hit’s been a hassle and a waste of time, right from the start. I could’ve picked the vick off with my M40A3 from outside and avoided all this clichéd crap.”
“Dammit, Eddie! We talked about all this back at the gym!” Joey fought the urge to brain his co-worker with his ash bat. “If you want to call the shots, go freelance! Get a MySpace and advertise! Then, you can do it your way. Wear a clown suit and hit your vicks with a frying pan if you want! But for now, you have to do it the way the boss says!”
Eddie grunted, but the elevator chimed suddenly. Silencing both men, it reverberated off the concrete walls and steel pylons supporting the roof. Joey’s eyes snapped to the lighted area. Eddie tugged his mask down into place.
Eight seconds! Joey mentally began counting them down. He flexed glove fingers around his bat. He readied his stance. At his side, he sensed Eddie doing the same thing.
Seven seconds! According to the email, the vick would walk out with #71, the team center. The vick drove the Honda. The center drove the Hummer.
Six seconds! The vick and the center always left the locker room last so that no one would know they were dating. The center would be wearing a jersey. The vick would be carrying the mascot head.
Five seconds! Jealous spouse? Angry fan? Owner afraid of bad publicity if it leaks that the star center’s being gay with a purple pig? Joey didn’t know and didn’t care – his job was just to follow the boss’s orders.
Four seconds! The vick and the center would walk to the Hummer and make sure that no one was around. Then, the vick and the center would share a long kiss.
Three seconds! The kiss would be the best time to get to work. The vick and the center would be occupied and caught by surprise. Kill the vick and do whatever to the center. That’s all the orders had said. That’s all Joey needed to know.
Two seconds! Behind the closed doors, the elevator settled at the bottom of the shaft with a dull thud. Joey bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. He tightened his grip on the ash handle of his bat. A rush of adrenaline flowed through him. He felt like he was back at bat in the state finals.
One second! Joey heard muffled crinkles coming from his left. Ignoring it, he clenched his teeth. He had to keep his eyes on the elevator doors. Out of sight, gears began grinding. A metallic clang echoed as everything locked into place.
Open Sesame! His timing was perfect. The doors parted with a hum at that exact moment.
Out walked a tall blond-haired man wearing a red, black, and silver jersey emblazoned with the number 71. He was smiling and laughing.
The center! Joey breathed.
The second person walked out of the elevator. Just like the order emailed to Joey said, the vick was carrying a giant purple pig’s head. Much shorter than the center, the vick was laughing at whatever his boyfriend had said on the ride from the locker rooms.
The center! Joey breathed.
The second person walked out of the elevator. Just like the order emailed to Joey said, the vick was carrying a giant purple pig’s head. Much shorter than the center, the vick was laughing at whatever his boyfriend had said on the ride from the locker rooms.
Her boyfriend, Joey corrected himself as the couple looked around and then walked hand-in-hand toward the parked vehicles. She's laughing at her girlfriend. The vick's a woman.
Beneath the mask, he bit his lower lip. His thoughts whirled around like the gears grinding the elevator doors shut. Damn. I assumed it was a guy. Stupid to assume anything. I know better. But it doesn’t matter. It’s just a mistake. Mr. Lee forgot or got some papers mixed up – that’s all. Left out a detail on the order. It happens all the time probably. Just hasn't to me before. But nothing to get upset about. Easy to fix. Just got to talk to Eddie for a secong...
Eddie leaned over and pressed his face against Joey’s left cheek.
“How about that! The vick’s a girl! I had no idea! And she’s cute! Lucky us, huh, Joe? Maybe doing this up close won’t be so bad after all!”
With Eddie’s face pressed against his, Joey could feel the young man’s molars ever so slowly crunch down through a piece of candy. And even through both of their masks, he could smell the peppermint. Eddie chuckled quietly as he pulled back and looked at the couple. They’d reached their cars.
“Look! They’re getting’ ready to kiss! God, she’s hot! It's time. You ready for some fun, Joe?”
Joey exhaled and held it. He stepped back and set his weight on his right leg. With muscles trained by years spent on high school and college baseball teams, he swung his bat up and smoothly to the left. His speed was incredible – a decade spent pursuing his present career ensured that the younger hit man didn’t have a chance.
“Shut up!” Joey hissed as his muscles went through the familiar motions that had once given him the most joy in his life.
As he spoke, the tip of his hard ash bat connected with a solid thonk against Eddie’s left temple. The man dropped to the pavement without a sound. His legs twitched a few times but stopped after Joey slammed down another hit. He hit a third time just to be sure. It was kind of a tradition when he did a hit – he called it the Power of Three. It worked just as well with a ball bat as it did with a gun.
Satisfied, Joey finally inhaled. He straightened. He laid the bat down carefully and pulled out his phone. Behind him, the vick and her hockey center boyfriend broke their kiss and started getting into their vehicles.
By the time Joey finished his text, the Hummer and the Honda had left him alone in the parking garage. The storm still rumbled up on the surface.
It took him longer to text than most people. Refusing to use silly abbreviations, he typed out each word. He even put commas where they belonged. When he was done, he hit
A few seconds later, Thomas Lee received this text message during dessert with his wife and children:
Mr. Lee, I apologize for any inconvenience, but I did not finish tonight's project. I had not been told that the pig was female. You will remember that my application and my resume both specify my policy regarding females. I shall pay for wasted resources, time lost and also for company property I destroyed (ED). Also, this message is my two weeks’ notice. I’m considering pursuing freelance work elsewhere. Would you consider being a reference?
Eddie leaned over and pressed his face against Joey’s left cheek.
“How about that! The vick’s a girl! I had no idea! And she’s cute! Lucky us, huh, Joe? Maybe doing this up close won’t be so bad after all!”
With Eddie’s face pressed against his, Joey could feel the young man’s molars ever so slowly crunch down through a piece of candy. And even through both of their masks, he could smell the peppermint. Eddie chuckled quietly as he pulled back and looked at the couple. They’d reached their cars.
“Look! They’re getting’ ready to kiss! God, she’s hot! It's time. You ready for some fun, Joe?”
Joey exhaled and held it. He stepped back and set his weight on his right leg. With muscles trained by years spent on high school and college baseball teams, he swung his bat up and smoothly to the left. His speed was incredible – a decade spent pursuing his present career ensured that the younger hit man didn’t have a chance.
“Shut up!” Joey hissed as his muscles went through the familiar motions that had once given him the most joy in his life.
As he spoke, the tip of his hard ash bat connected with a solid thonk against Eddie’s left temple. The man dropped to the pavement without a sound. His legs twitched a few times but stopped after Joey slammed down another hit. He hit a third time just to be sure. It was kind of a tradition when he did a hit – he called it the Power of Three. It worked just as well with a ball bat as it did with a gun.
Satisfied, Joey finally inhaled. He straightened. He laid the bat down carefully and pulled out his phone. Behind him, the vick and her hockey center boyfriend broke their kiss and started getting into their vehicles.
By the time Joey finished his text, the Hummer and the Honda had left him alone in the parking garage. The storm still rumbled up on the surface.
It took him longer to text than most people. Refusing to use silly abbreviations, he typed out each word. He even put commas where they belonged. When he was done, he hit
A few seconds later, Thomas Lee received this text message during dessert with his wife and children:
Mr. Lee, I apologize for any inconvenience, but I did not finish tonight's project. I had not been told that the pig was female. You will remember that my application and my resume both specify my policy regarding females. I shall pay for wasted resources, time lost and also for company property I destroyed (ED). Also, this message is my two weeks’ notice. I’m considering pursuing freelance work elsewhere. Would you consider being a reference?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Happy Googles to You!
Who knew that nature sucked?
I sure didn’t.
I mean, I knew that I liked being indoors. I knew that I’d miss air conditioning and the internet, but I thought nature would be all right. It was just for a weekend anyway – actually a four-day weekend, but I survive five days of school each week, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal.
I mean, four days of nature couldn’t be worse than school, right?
Wrong!
If I’d known how wrong I was, I would have told my mom I had a sore throat. I’d have come down with sudden violent constipation. I’d have faked seizures. I’d have done something – anything! – to have gotten out of this stupid field trip!
Trust me, national parks suck. I know that now. It’s too late for me, but if you find yourself with the choice of hiking to a waterfall or spending the day at school, pick school everytime.
Don’t go on the trip.
Trust me.
See, I didn’t know. No one told me. I fell for the hype: “Think of it, class! Two days out of school! A four-day weekend! You’ll get to share a tent with a friend and go canoeing! We’ll see the highest waterfall in the state! We’ll explore a cave with three species of endangered bats! You’ll reconnect with nature!”
Blah blah blah.
Mrs. K. might as well have added that we were going to dress like 1920’s flappers, smoke dried banana peels, and discover our animal spirit guides. I wouldn’t have cared. She had me hooked with the two days out of school.
Big mistake. School is so much better. Even right now – I’d be in Keyboarding, but I don’t care. That’d beat this by a long shot. I need some technology right now, even if it’s with Mrs. Crowell. That’s how much nature sucks.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against waterfalls or against nature in general. I’m not a tree hater. I don’t abuse animals. I always throw my trash in the trash can. I recycle when I remember to. I don’t start forest fires. I’m taking environmental science as an elective. I think nature’s cool.
In theory. From a distance.
But up close, in person, for an extended period of time? Trees all are looking alike. Kids are getting excited about chipmunks and caterpillars. Lungs are hurting from all the fresh air. Sinuses are itching from pollen and God knows what else I’m breathing. Brain is shutting down from inactivity. I probably going to slip into sleep mode and roll back down to the trailhead.
And the packed parking lot, let me add. That’s right – packed. And not with motorcycles or little cars either. We’re talking other school busses, tour busses, church busses, busses from old folks’ homes, SUV’s the size of busses, enormous hummers seating ten or twenty probably, ancient station wagons, minivans with campers – not a two-seater in the bunch. Some major car pooling was going on to protect the ozone, I guess.
It’s got to be all the stuff on the news about the greenhouse effect. Everybody’s rushing out to blow their CO2 on the trees and suck up all the oxygen while it’s still free. My sister’s really into all that conservation-ecological crap. She’s always bookmarking environmental sites and downloading signs to hang in her bedroom or on her locker. I have to fight to get time to level my Warcraft toons or download new music for my iPod.
Oh yeah, this is great trip, Mrs. K!
I’m really reconnecting with nature here! Yeah, me and about a million other people.
We’re all pitching tents and singing “This Land is Your Land”, snapping digital photos of anthills, and looking up the types of bark in our free field guides from the welcome center. What a fantastic wonderful time we’re having standing in line watching moss grow! We’re making memories that we can treasure forever!
I’m being sarcastic, of course. I can reconnect with nature way better in my bedroom. Link to the park’s virtual tour. Watch a Photobucket slide show. Eat some trail mix. Even read a book. All way better than standing for an hour on a nature trail just to see a freaking waterfall!
Stand in line for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Probably.
Stand in line for Guitar Hero III? Definitely.
Stand in line to ride the Kingda Ka? Of course!
Stand in line for Bloodhoung Gang tickets? Absolutely!
Stand in line for a waterfall? No way! We’re talking cruel and unusual punishment there! And probably against the Geneva Convention, now that I think about. Prisoners have rights, too, you know. I’ve read blogs about Guantanamo Bay.
But not Mrs. K, I guess. She’s oblivious, and here I am.
Me and just about a billion other people all here on the same day, all doing the same thing. All lined up down a nature trail just to watch what basically goes on in our bathroom showers. And back home, I only have to wait on my sister to get finished.
Not here though. Mrs. K woke us at seven, just so we could come here and wait. It’s been an hour. I can’t see the top of the trail. I can’t even hear the falls yet. My ankles hurt. I’m bored. But I’m stuck.
What other choice do I have? Run off the trail into the wilderness in search of civilization? No way – I’ve seen Deliverance. Email mom and dad? No luck – too many trees, no Wifi, and they were too glad I was getting out of the house. Fake heart trouble because of the rigorous climb? No chance – I wouldn’t get sent home. Mrs. K showed us the emergency first aid station at the campground, and I thought the ranger there looked like a serial killer. No one else agreed, but my luck’s not running so good. He’d say he was driving me to a hospital, but I’d probably end up down a well in his basement having to rub lotion on my skin so he can do his little kooky dance.
Nothing to do but stick it out.
And record everything. So in a few hours when I go Donner Party and start eating the kid in front of me, the police’ll find my Blackberry and know the reason why.
I was just reconnecting with nature, officers. Survival of the fittest. Circle of life. Nature of the beast.
Sucks, doesn’t it?
I sure didn’t.
I mean, I knew that I liked being indoors. I knew that I’d miss air conditioning and the internet, but I thought nature would be all right. It was just for a weekend anyway – actually a four-day weekend, but I survive five days of school each week, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal.
I mean, four days of nature couldn’t be worse than school, right?
Wrong!
If I’d known how wrong I was, I would have told my mom I had a sore throat. I’d have come down with sudden violent constipation. I’d have faked seizures. I’d have done something – anything! – to have gotten out of this stupid field trip!
Trust me, national parks suck. I know that now. It’s too late for me, but if you find yourself with the choice of hiking to a waterfall or spending the day at school, pick school everytime.
Don’t go on the trip.
Trust me.
See, I didn’t know. No one told me. I fell for the hype: “Think of it, class! Two days out of school! A four-day weekend! You’ll get to share a tent with a friend and go canoeing! We’ll see the highest waterfall in the state! We’ll explore a cave with three species of endangered bats! You’ll reconnect with nature!”
Blah blah blah.
Mrs. K. might as well have added that we were going to dress like 1920’s flappers, smoke dried banana peels, and discover our animal spirit guides. I wouldn’t have cared. She had me hooked with the two days out of school.
Big mistake. School is so much better. Even right now – I’d be in Keyboarding, but I don’t care. That’d beat this by a long shot. I need some technology right now, even if it’s with Mrs. Crowell. That’s how much nature sucks.
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against waterfalls or against nature in general. I’m not a tree hater. I don’t abuse animals. I always throw my trash in the trash can. I recycle when I remember to. I don’t start forest fires. I’m taking environmental science as an elective. I think nature’s cool.
In theory. From a distance.
But up close, in person, for an extended period of time? Trees all are looking alike. Kids are getting excited about chipmunks and caterpillars. Lungs are hurting from all the fresh air. Sinuses are itching from pollen and God knows what else I’m breathing. Brain is shutting down from inactivity. I probably going to slip into sleep mode and roll back down to the trailhead.
And the packed parking lot, let me add. That’s right – packed. And not with motorcycles or little cars either. We’re talking other school busses, tour busses, church busses, busses from old folks’ homes, SUV’s the size of busses, enormous hummers seating ten or twenty probably, ancient station wagons, minivans with campers – not a two-seater in the bunch. Some major car pooling was going on to protect the ozone, I guess.
It’s got to be all the stuff on the news about the greenhouse effect. Everybody’s rushing out to blow their CO2 on the trees and suck up all the oxygen while it’s still free. My sister’s really into all that conservation-ecological crap. She’s always bookmarking environmental sites and downloading signs to hang in her bedroom or on her locker. I have to fight to get time to level my Warcraft toons or download new music for my iPod.
Oh yeah, this is great trip, Mrs. K!
I’m really reconnecting with nature here! Yeah, me and about a million other people.
We’re all pitching tents and singing “This Land is Your Land”, snapping digital photos of anthills, and looking up the types of bark in our free field guides from the welcome center. What a fantastic wonderful time we’re having standing in line watching moss grow! We’re making memories that we can treasure forever!
I’m being sarcastic, of course. I can reconnect with nature way better in my bedroom. Link to the park’s virtual tour. Watch a Photobucket slide show. Eat some trail mix. Even read a book. All way better than standing for an hour on a nature trail just to see a freaking waterfall!
Stand in line for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? Probably.
Stand in line for Guitar Hero III? Definitely.
Stand in line to ride the Kingda Ka? Of course!
Stand in line for Bloodhoung Gang tickets? Absolutely!
Stand in line for a waterfall? No way! We’re talking cruel and unusual punishment there! And probably against the Geneva Convention, now that I think about. Prisoners have rights, too, you know. I’ve read blogs about Guantanamo Bay.
But not Mrs. K, I guess. She’s oblivious, and here I am.
Me and just about a billion other people all here on the same day, all doing the same thing. All lined up down a nature trail just to watch what basically goes on in our bathroom showers. And back home, I only have to wait on my sister to get finished.
Not here though. Mrs. K woke us at seven, just so we could come here and wait. It’s been an hour. I can’t see the top of the trail. I can’t even hear the falls yet. My ankles hurt. I’m bored. But I’m stuck.
What other choice do I have? Run off the trail into the wilderness in search of civilization? No way – I’ve seen Deliverance. Email mom and dad? No luck – too many trees, no Wifi, and they were too glad I was getting out of the house. Fake heart trouble because of the rigorous climb? No chance – I wouldn’t get sent home. Mrs. K showed us the emergency first aid station at the campground, and I thought the ranger there looked like a serial killer. No one else agreed, but my luck’s not running so good. He’d say he was driving me to a hospital, but I’d probably end up down a well in his basement having to rub lotion on my skin so he can do his little kooky dance.
Nothing to do but stick it out.
And record everything. So in a few hours when I go Donner Party and start eating the kid in front of me, the police’ll find my Blackberry and know the reason why.
I was just reconnecting with nature, officers. Survival of the fittest. Circle of life. Nature of the beast.
Sucks, doesn’t it?
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Just Sign on the Dotted Google
Ham Shapiro had worked at Jackson Lampmakers Ltd. for a little over thirty-five years. In that time, he’d done lots of jobs, from starting out sweeping the assembly rooms to being one of the top assemblers in the factory. According to the chalkboard by the time clock, he currently held two records that the other line workers hadn’t beaten: The Most Consecutive Days Without Illness or Accident (312) and the ‘Catch-All’ Clear Line Award (62.4 inches).
The ‘Catch-All’ Award had to do with his working the very tail end of the Floor Lamp Base line. Only the best workers could be put in the last spot of any line. It’s what the foremen call the ‘Catch-All’ position. His job was to put the final twists and turns on all the bolts and screws that the workers in front of him had laid into place. If any were missing or crooked, he had to correct them, and at the same time, he had to lay the brass top plate on each lamp base in its exact position and set its fasteners. Only then could he slide the finished base to his right to switch it over to the next line. A lot of clear line between the Catch-All and the first worker of the next line meant that the Catch-All was fast and accurate. A fast Catch-All meant his line could move faster, and a faster line meant more units could be manufactured. The factory bosses gave the Catch-All’s incentives to move more efficiently – the key to the foremen’s lavatory and free meals in the canteen, not to mention the higher pay for more units produced. The line with the fastest Catch-All got daily bonuses also, so that motivated the workers to make few mistakes and to work faster themselves.
With over two yards of clear line to his right and nearly a year of perfect attendance, Ham Shapiro couldn’t be touched by anyone trying to beat his records. He was so good that there was even talk going around in the canteen about his name being moved from the chalkboard to a metal plaque. He was the factory’s golden child, people said. The foremen loved his speed and consistency, the workers on his line loved their bonuses, and the bosses loved the figures on their production sheets.
Add to those things these three facts that everyone at Jackson Lamplighters Ltd. knew about Ham: he never lost his temper, he never laughed at off-color jokes, and he always smoked a quarter of a cigar in the canteen at the close of each day’s shift. People also gossiped that he had studied with Prussian scientists at a university in his home country. Others reported that as a youth he had sworn secret oaths to the Kaiser and then fled to America just before the War ended. One or two Catch-All’s from other lines even whispered that he had a portrait of Kaiser Wilhelm II in his apartment. But no one really believed those tales. They were too unlikely.
What people did believe were his work records and those three facts. Everything else people said about him was idle rumor. Ham always went straight home after his cigar, and always alone. He never invited anyone, and the few curious enough to invite themselves were always kindly turned away. Nosy people could never get him to say anything about his personal life either. If pushed, he would reluctantly talk about only two subjects – work or temple. Nothing more, nothing less.
So people thought that’s all there was to Ham Shapiro – just the factory and the scriptures. Even his landlady believed that was all there was to the quiet, middle-aged assembly line worker who rented the basement of her boarding house.
When he didn’t come to the factory on what would have been the 313th day, the foremen knew something had to be terribly wrong. When they telephoned his boarding house and heard that he wasn’t answering the landlady’s knock and had bolted his door, they feared the worst.
When men from the factory came to the boarding house to help break down the door on what would have been the 314th unmissed work day, they expected to find Ham Shapiro dead.
When the men discovered an empty apartment filled with a homemade forge and crates of metal tools and parts stolen from the factory over the past thirty-five years, they all scratched their heads and wondered why Ham needed all that metal.
When they learned that police had found strange chemicals and foreign schematics among the stolen goods and that federal agents had come in to investigate, they all remembered the rumors about Ham having sworn secret oaths to the Kaiser before the War.
When they read in the papers that the U.S. Government had confirmed that the basement apartment had been a bomb factory for at least the past thirty years, they wondered how where Ham had taken the bombs and how many he could have made over three decades.
When they heard on the radio that the discovery in Ham’s apartment had led federal agents to over a dozen similarly abandoned basement factories in cities across the country, they realized that Ham must have had many more connections that just at the factory and at temple.
When the explosions started a month later, they all realized that they hadn’t known Ham Shapiro at all.
The ‘Catch-All’ Award had to do with his working the very tail end of the Floor Lamp Base line. Only the best workers could be put in the last spot of any line. It’s what the foremen call the ‘Catch-All’ position. His job was to put the final twists and turns on all the bolts and screws that the workers in front of him had laid into place. If any were missing or crooked, he had to correct them, and at the same time, he had to lay the brass top plate on each lamp base in its exact position and set its fasteners. Only then could he slide the finished base to his right to switch it over to the next line. A lot of clear line between the Catch-All and the first worker of the next line meant that the Catch-All was fast and accurate. A fast Catch-All meant his line could move faster, and a faster line meant more units could be manufactured. The factory bosses gave the Catch-All’s incentives to move more efficiently – the key to the foremen’s lavatory and free meals in the canteen, not to mention the higher pay for more units produced. The line with the fastest Catch-All got daily bonuses also, so that motivated the workers to make few mistakes and to work faster themselves.
With over two yards of clear line to his right and nearly a year of perfect attendance, Ham Shapiro couldn’t be touched by anyone trying to beat his records. He was so good that there was even talk going around in the canteen about his name being moved from the chalkboard to a metal plaque. He was the factory’s golden child, people said. The foremen loved his speed and consistency, the workers on his line loved their bonuses, and the bosses loved the figures on their production sheets.
Add to those things these three facts that everyone at Jackson Lamplighters Ltd. knew about Ham: he never lost his temper, he never laughed at off-color jokes, and he always smoked a quarter of a cigar in the canteen at the close of each day’s shift. People also gossiped that he had studied with Prussian scientists at a university in his home country. Others reported that as a youth he had sworn secret oaths to the Kaiser and then fled to America just before the War ended. One or two Catch-All’s from other lines even whispered that he had a portrait of Kaiser Wilhelm II in his apartment. But no one really believed those tales. They were too unlikely.
What people did believe were his work records and those three facts. Everything else people said about him was idle rumor. Ham always went straight home after his cigar, and always alone. He never invited anyone, and the few curious enough to invite themselves were always kindly turned away. Nosy people could never get him to say anything about his personal life either. If pushed, he would reluctantly talk about only two subjects – work or temple. Nothing more, nothing less.
So people thought that’s all there was to Ham Shapiro – just the factory and the scriptures. Even his landlady believed that was all there was to the quiet, middle-aged assembly line worker who rented the basement of her boarding house.
When he didn’t come to the factory on what would have been the 313th day, the foremen knew something had to be terribly wrong. When they telephoned his boarding house and heard that he wasn’t answering the landlady’s knock and had bolted his door, they feared the worst.
When men from the factory came to the boarding house to help break down the door on what would have been the 314th unmissed work day, they expected to find Ham Shapiro dead.
When the men discovered an empty apartment filled with a homemade forge and crates of metal tools and parts stolen from the factory over the past thirty-five years, they all scratched their heads and wondered why Ham needed all that metal.
When they learned that police had found strange chemicals and foreign schematics among the stolen goods and that federal agents had come in to investigate, they all remembered the rumors about Ham having sworn secret oaths to the Kaiser before the War.
When they read in the papers that the U.S. Government had confirmed that the basement apartment had been a bomb factory for at least the past thirty years, they wondered how where Ham had taken the bombs and how many he could have made over three decades.
When they heard on the radio that the discovery in Ham’s apartment had led federal agents to over a dozen similarly abandoned basement factories in cities across the country, they realized that Ham must have had many more connections that just at the factory and at temple.
When the explosions started a month later, they all realized that they hadn’t known Ham Shapiro at all.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
How Much Is That Google in the Window?
Sparky’s tongue always got him into trouble.
He was just a puppy, but he knew that all the trouble couldn’t be his fault. It was his tongue!
Like today, when Sparky managed to pull snag the ice cream container out of the trash can. He wanted to show the master that he had thrown the tub away too early. He could smell cookies and cream stuck at the bottom. He was really careful and, even with his recent injury his tongue had caused, he hadn’t spilled any garbage on the kitchen floor. His tongue, though, wanted a taste, and that’s what started the trouble this time.
It was always his tongue that made Sparky misbehave. It made him break things. It created hopeless messes. It provoked the master and made him shake his finger at him. It even made the master call Sparky a naughty little dog! His tongue sometimes made Sparky feel so sad that he had to run and hide behind the big recliner in the master’s den.
However, even back there out of sight, he couldn’t get away from his tongue. The sneaky pink thing was always right there, right in his mouth, just behind his teeth. It even popped out of his mouth all the time, wiggling and drooling all over the place. No matter how hard Sparky tried, he could never keep it tucked away out of sight. It was always looking for trouble.
And trouble was so easy for his tongue to find.
Once, it found trouble in the kitchen when the master dropped an ice cube. Sparky just wanted to sniff it, to see what the cold thing smelled like, but guess what his tongue did?
It popped out, it touched the cube, and it stuck there! It wouldn’t let go!
Sparky shook his head until his ears clapped. He hopped in a circle. He yipped and yapped. Then, he ran all around the kitchen, shaking and hopping and yipping and yapping, but he couldn’t get his tongue to drop that ice cube. When Sparky knocked over his water bowl, the master yelled, and only then, of course, did his tongue finally let go. The ice cube fell right into his food dish where it melted all over his Nibbly Dibbles – Yuck! Sparky liked his dibbles crispy! Not soggy and mushy!
His tongue didn’t care though. It liked everything wet.
His tongue found trouble once when the master had company. Sparky hopped onto the bed just to wag his tail and say hello to the master’s friend. He wanted to show her the new trick his master had taught him. He just wanted to be friendly. He didn’t want to scare her and make her scream. His tongue did that. The master punished Sparky though. He shook his finger, called him a naughty little dog, and then locked him in the garage with the noisy crickets.
His tongue didn’t care about the garage. It kept trying to lick one of the crickets.
Another time his tongue caused so much trouble that Sparky had to visit the vet. The master was cleaning the hallway upstairs, and Sparky was having fun playing one of his favorite games – tag the vacuum cleaner. He was having a good time, and everything would have been fine if his tongue had behaved itself. The vacuum didn’t mind barking, the vacuum didn’t mind snapping, the vacuum didn’t even mind a little chewing, but Sparky found out that it hated wet dog tongues. Sparky rushed in to tag the machine, his tongue stuck itself out, and the vacuum bit his tongue right on its pink tip. Sparky yelped, jumped back, and fell right down the stairs. He hurt his back and had to ride in the car to the clinic. Sparky hated that place – the scary smells upset his stomach, and he was already hurting from his tumble downstairs.
His tongue didn’t mind getting hurt though. It didn’t even care that the vacuum had bitten it. It was still having a great time licking the strange thing the vet put around Sparky’s back legs.
Then, his tongue caused this latest disaster with the ice cream container. It just had to have a taste and got Sparky’s head stuck inside the plastic tub. The tub covered his eyes, it covered his ears, and his nose couldn’t smell anything except ice cream. He tried to bark, but the tub was too tightly wedged around his face. He wanted to roll on his back or run around, but he still had the vet thing on his back legs and couldn’t.
He could shake his head from side to side. The tub didn’t budge though. It was stuck on his collar, he thought. Then, he knocked something over. The trash can, he realized when he felt crinkly wrappers and slimy banana peels under his front paws. It made a big mess, he guessed, and something yucky had probably fallen into his Nibbly Dibbles, too. With what felt like wet coffee grounds stuck in his paws, he backed his way slowly out of the kitchen, whining for help the whole time.
It took Sparky a long time, but he finally found the master. The master had his friend over again. Sparky heard her laughing and knew that it was at him. He whined louder and shook his trapped head. The tub hit something, and there was a huge crash and a female screamed. Then, the master shouted the dreaded words – “Naughty little dog!” – and even through the plastic container, Sparky knew that the finger was shaking at him.
His tongue didn’t care about words or fingers though. It didn’t care about being stuck in a tub or knocking over trash cans or soggy dibbles or tracking coffee grounds all through the master’s house. It didn’t even care about loud crashes or screaming ladies.
His tongue did like ice cream though, and, no matter how much Sparky whined and tried to keep his mouth shut inside that ice cream tub, his tongue just kept licking and licking and licking…
He was just a puppy, but he knew that all the trouble couldn’t be his fault. It was his tongue!
Like today, when Sparky managed to pull snag the ice cream container out of the trash can. He wanted to show the master that he had thrown the tub away too early. He could smell cookies and cream stuck at the bottom. He was really careful and, even with his recent injury his tongue had caused, he hadn’t spilled any garbage on the kitchen floor. His tongue, though, wanted a taste, and that’s what started the trouble this time.
It was always his tongue that made Sparky misbehave. It made him break things. It created hopeless messes. It provoked the master and made him shake his finger at him. It even made the master call Sparky a naughty little dog! His tongue sometimes made Sparky feel so sad that he had to run and hide behind the big recliner in the master’s den.
However, even back there out of sight, he couldn’t get away from his tongue. The sneaky pink thing was always right there, right in his mouth, just behind his teeth. It even popped out of his mouth all the time, wiggling and drooling all over the place. No matter how hard Sparky tried, he could never keep it tucked away out of sight. It was always looking for trouble.
And trouble was so easy for his tongue to find.
Once, it found trouble in the kitchen when the master dropped an ice cube. Sparky just wanted to sniff it, to see what the cold thing smelled like, but guess what his tongue did?
It popped out, it touched the cube, and it stuck there! It wouldn’t let go!
Sparky shook his head until his ears clapped. He hopped in a circle. He yipped and yapped. Then, he ran all around the kitchen, shaking and hopping and yipping and yapping, but he couldn’t get his tongue to drop that ice cube. When Sparky knocked over his water bowl, the master yelled, and only then, of course, did his tongue finally let go. The ice cube fell right into his food dish where it melted all over his Nibbly Dibbles – Yuck! Sparky liked his dibbles crispy! Not soggy and mushy!
His tongue didn’t care though. It liked everything wet.
His tongue found trouble once when the master had company. Sparky hopped onto the bed just to wag his tail and say hello to the master’s friend. He wanted to show her the new trick his master had taught him. He just wanted to be friendly. He didn’t want to scare her and make her scream. His tongue did that. The master punished Sparky though. He shook his finger, called him a naughty little dog, and then locked him in the garage with the noisy crickets.
His tongue didn’t care about the garage. It kept trying to lick one of the crickets.
Another time his tongue caused so much trouble that Sparky had to visit the vet. The master was cleaning the hallway upstairs, and Sparky was having fun playing one of his favorite games – tag the vacuum cleaner. He was having a good time, and everything would have been fine if his tongue had behaved itself. The vacuum didn’t mind barking, the vacuum didn’t mind snapping, the vacuum didn’t even mind a little chewing, but Sparky found out that it hated wet dog tongues. Sparky rushed in to tag the machine, his tongue stuck itself out, and the vacuum bit his tongue right on its pink tip. Sparky yelped, jumped back, and fell right down the stairs. He hurt his back and had to ride in the car to the clinic. Sparky hated that place – the scary smells upset his stomach, and he was already hurting from his tumble downstairs.
His tongue didn’t mind getting hurt though. It didn’t even care that the vacuum had bitten it. It was still having a great time licking the strange thing the vet put around Sparky’s back legs.
Then, his tongue caused this latest disaster with the ice cream container. It just had to have a taste and got Sparky’s head stuck inside the plastic tub. The tub covered his eyes, it covered his ears, and his nose couldn’t smell anything except ice cream. He tried to bark, but the tub was too tightly wedged around his face. He wanted to roll on his back or run around, but he still had the vet thing on his back legs and couldn’t.
He could shake his head from side to side. The tub didn’t budge though. It was stuck on his collar, he thought. Then, he knocked something over. The trash can, he realized when he felt crinkly wrappers and slimy banana peels under his front paws. It made a big mess, he guessed, and something yucky had probably fallen into his Nibbly Dibbles, too. With what felt like wet coffee grounds stuck in his paws, he backed his way slowly out of the kitchen, whining for help the whole time.
It took Sparky a long time, but he finally found the master. The master had his friend over again. Sparky heard her laughing and knew that it was at him. He whined louder and shook his trapped head. The tub hit something, and there was a huge crash and a female screamed. Then, the master shouted the dreaded words – “Naughty little dog!” – and even through the plastic container, Sparky knew that the finger was shaking at him.
His tongue didn’t care about words or fingers though. It didn’t care about being stuck in a tub or knocking over trash cans or soggy dibbles or tracking coffee grounds all through the master’s house. It didn’t even care about loud crashes or screaming ladies.
His tongue did like ice cream though, and, no matter how much Sparky whined and tried to keep his mouth shut inside that ice cream tub, his tongue just kept licking and licking and licking…
Monday, July 23, 2007
Fe-Fi-Fo-Google
My grand-dad is a quiet man. He always has been, for at least as long as I can remember.
But don’t get me wrong, he’s not quiet in the sense that he sits around and doesn’t talk to anybody. That’s not true about him at all – he’s always enjoyed joking around and telling good stories. What I mean by quiet is that he thinks about what he says before he says it. Looking back, I can’t think of a single time that he ever went off the deep end and yelled at me, not even when I broke the lock on his car trying to pick it with a piece of copper wire. Sure, he was mad, but he wasn’t loud. He was calm and in control, and that made me listen. His quiet way of dealing with things worked, and I really admire that now that I’m a dad myself.
I admire it even more when I think about how hard he worked back then. I mean, I work two jobs now to take care of my family, and my temper gets short, but I’m super-lazy compared to how hardworking he was and still is. I learned that about him first hand when I was nine and my mom and I moved in with him and my grandma.
He worked at the glass plant then, but he still made time to farm a couple of fields, keep a few cows, and get us all to church three or more times each week. And when he finally retired, he didn’t just kick his heels back and take it easy. No, he cut wood, bush-hogged fields, planted fruit trees, and took care of the house, the church, and all of us whenever we needed it. When he got sick a few times, he always bounced right back up and got right to work. When my grandma got really sick, he cut back on some things around the farm but worked extra hard taking care of her.
Now that I’m in my thirties, I look back and really admire how quietly and patiently he works at taking care of everything. But as a kid, I didn’t appreciate all that extra labor, especially in the garden – I was a city boy at heart, I guess, and enjoyed the air conditioning too much. I’d always sneak back to the house to cool off or play a quick game until my mom made me go back and help. I just didn’t understand back then why we had to do all that extra work. I sure didn’t mind the fresh corn on the cob and beans when my grandma cooked them though.
A lot of years have passed since then, and a lot has changed. I still like to eat, but we lost my grandma this year, and the garden’s not as big as it was when I was a kid. But this much hasn’t changed though – my grand-dad can still work circles around me and a lot of people who are only a quarter of his age. He never boasts about it though, and he never tries to make anyone feel bad. He just keeps moving along and getting things done.
I guess it’s a combination of his being quiet and always working so hard that makes me admire him so much. I have three little children that I want to be a good example to, and so did he when my mom was little. I know that it’s hard for me to work hard and then keep calm when my kids act crazy, so I think about him when I get really stressed.
I remember a story my mom tells me about my grand-dad getting mad at her when she was little. She’s the oldest and was maybe four or five at the time, my uncle was a couple of years behind her, and my aunt was only a little baby. My grandma had gotten the whole family going to church, and she and my grand-dad were both pretty strict about having their children behave during the services.
The church was a little building with a narrow auditorium made all out of wood. There was no carpet on the floor and no padding on the seats. My mom says that every little sound echoed in that auditorium. They had to sit extra quiet and not kick their heels on the chairs or play with little toys or do anything noisy. My grand-dad especially didn’t want them misbehaving and disrupting the services.
Well, on the day that my mom talks about, the preacher was in the middle of his sermon when a big swarm of termites buzzed in through an open window. My mom remembers sitting and staring at them, but a look from my grand-dad was enough to keep her in her seat and quiet. Then, the termites flew up and started hovering around the preacher, who just kept preaching the Word like nothing was happening. It was too much for my mom, who jumped up and ran out into the aisle to get a better look. She says those termites kept circling in the light over the preacher's head like a big halo. She pointed and jumped and called to her brother to come see the bugs on the preacher’s head until my grand-dad scooped her up and took her out. She laughs about it now when she tells the story at family get-togethers, and she has a few more like it.
What I admire though is that she always starts off the stories by telling about what she or my aunt and uncle did to get in trouble and then finishes with how my grand-dad corrected them. He didn’t scream, he didn’t lose his temper, he didn’t throw things or scare them half to death. He just quietly explained what they did wrong and worked at getting them to do better the next time.
I admire that about him, and I hope that I can work at being a dad and later a grand-dad that’s even a quarter of the kind of man that he is.
But don’t get me wrong, he’s not quiet in the sense that he sits around and doesn’t talk to anybody. That’s not true about him at all – he’s always enjoyed joking around and telling good stories. What I mean by quiet is that he thinks about what he says before he says it. Looking back, I can’t think of a single time that he ever went off the deep end and yelled at me, not even when I broke the lock on his car trying to pick it with a piece of copper wire. Sure, he was mad, but he wasn’t loud. He was calm and in control, and that made me listen. His quiet way of dealing with things worked, and I really admire that now that I’m a dad myself.
I admire it even more when I think about how hard he worked back then. I mean, I work two jobs now to take care of my family, and my temper gets short, but I’m super-lazy compared to how hardworking he was and still is. I learned that about him first hand when I was nine and my mom and I moved in with him and my grandma.
He worked at the glass plant then, but he still made time to farm a couple of fields, keep a few cows, and get us all to church three or more times each week. And when he finally retired, he didn’t just kick his heels back and take it easy. No, he cut wood, bush-hogged fields, planted fruit trees, and took care of the house, the church, and all of us whenever we needed it. When he got sick a few times, he always bounced right back up and got right to work. When my grandma got really sick, he cut back on some things around the farm but worked extra hard taking care of her.
Now that I’m in my thirties, I look back and really admire how quietly and patiently he works at taking care of everything. But as a kid, I didn’t appreciate all that extra labor, especially in the garden – I was a city boy at heart, I guess, and enjoyed the air conditioning too much. I’d always sneak back to the house to cool off or play a quick game until my mom made me go back and help. I just didn’t understand back then why we had to do all that extra work. I sure didn’t mind the fresh corn on the cob and beans when my grandma cooked them though.
A lot of years have passed since then, and a lot has changed. I still like to eat, but we lost my grandma this year, and the garden’s not as big as it was when I was a kid. But this much hasn’t changed though – my grand-dad can still work circles around me and a lot of people who are only a quarter of his age. He never boasts about it though, and he never tries to make anyone feel bad. He just keeps moving along and getting things done.
I guess it’s a combination of his being quiet and always working so hard that makes me admire him so much. I have three little children that I want to be a good example to, and so did he when my mom was little. I know that it’s hard for me to work hard and then keep calm when my kids act crazy, so I think about him when I get really stressed.
I remember a story my mom tells me about my grand-dad getting mad at her when she was little. She’s the oldest and was maybe four or five at the time, my uncle was a couple of years behind her, and my aunt was only a little baby. My grandma had gotten the whole family going to church, and she and my grand-dad were both pretty strict about having their children behave during the services.
The church was a little building with a narrow auditorium made all out of wood. There was no carpet on the floor and no padding on the seats. My mom says that every little sound echoed in that auditorium. They had to sit extra quiet and not kick their heels on the chairs or play with little toys or do anything noisy. My grand-dad especially didn’t want them misbehaving and disrupting the services.
Well, on the day that my mom talks about, the preacher was in the middle of his sermon when a big swarm of termites buzzed in through an open window. My mom remembers sitting and staring at them, but a look from my grand-dad was enough to keep her in her seat and quiet. Then, the termites flew up and started hovering around the preacher, who just kept preaching the Word like nothing was happening. It was too much for my mom, who jumped up and ran out into the aisle to get a better look. She says those termites kept circling in the light over the preacher's head like a big halo. She pointed and jumped and called to her brother to come see the bugs on the preacher’s head until my grand-dad scooped her up and took her out. She laughs about it now when she tells the story at family get-togethers, and she has a few more like it.
What I admire though is that she always starts off the stories by telling about what she or my aunt and uncle did to get in trouble and then finishes with how my grand-dad corrected them. He didn’t scream, he didn’t lose his temper, he didn’t throw things or scare them half to death. He just quietly explained what they did wrong and worked at getting them to do better the next time.
I admire that about him, and I hope that I can work at being a dad and later a grand-dad that’s even a quarter of the kind of man that he is.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Seven Deadly Googles
“Hey, Gret? Turned out to be a beautiful day after all! No rainclouds anywhere and a nice breeze so we won’t sweat to death! Told you there was nothing to worry about!”
Robin literally bounced into the junior bathroom to share this good news with her best friend. She was wearing a rabbit costume, but bouncing seemed to come naturally to this girl. She couldn’t stand still more than a second, hopping from mirror to mirror and wiggling her pink-painted nose at her reflection.
From inside the stall, Gretta wondered for the millionth time how her best friend since fourth grade could always be so full of fun and energy.
“You alive in there, Gret?” Robin yelled and jumped over to kick at the closed stall door with one big fuzzy foot. “Everyone else has already gone outside to line up!”
“Just fixing my costume!” shouted Gretta. “I’ll just be a second. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have worried!”
“Yeah, you not worry? Ha! I’m going to wait just outside, so hurry up! We can’t be late!”
Robin kicked again at the stall door and then bounced back out into the hall while her friend struggled to get ready.
Gretta sighed. She was already wearing most of her costume – the suit and the matching shirt and tie. The only part left other than a few accessories was the mask. It waited in the brown paper bag at her feet. Unable to stall any longer, she pulled it out and started wiggling it onto her head. It was a little difficult to get on, but that was how she had wanted. Hard to put on, hard to fall off, she’d reasoned while she was working with her grandmother to put everything together in the weeks leading up to Duggan Academy’s homecoming parade.
While Gretta didn’t have her friend’s energy, she did have more than enough creativity for both of them. With help from her grandmother only on the hardest bits of sewing, she’d made the shiny purple three-piece suit almost entirely by hand . She’d sculpted the paper mache lion mask herself and, for the mane, she’d attached strips of brown velour and felt with thin wire that let them curl and bounce the way she wanted. She’d even Scotch-guarded it all in case it rained on the parade day. For the final touches, she’d borrowed a her grandfather’s cane and her older sister’s yellow stiletto heels. Her family had loved the final product.
And Gretta had thought her costume looked really great, too. At least, that’s how she’d felt last night and even earlier this morning. Then, during first period, everyone started showing off their professionally-made or expenisve store-bought costumes. By second period, she’d begun to feel queasy and had asked Robin to check her iPhone to see if the weather forecast had changed. In the next class, she prayed during the whole biology lecture that a big storm would roll in and cancel everything. It didn’t though, because after lunch, the principal’s voice came over the intercom and told everyone it was the time to get dressed and line up with his or her classes,.
So, Gretta had hauled her bags to the bathroom and shut herself in the first available stall. She’d then lingered until everyone else had dressed and gone to the back of the school.
Everyone but her best friend, it seemed.
Gretta sighed and fiddled with the mask a bit more. Outside, Robin apparently had decided Homecoming Day was special enough that the teachers wouldn’t mind her singing at the top of her lungs in the hallway. The words to “Little Bunny Foo Foo” started to drift into the bathroom. In spite of her nerves, Gretta giggled.
“I’m the goon,” she said out loud, her voice echoing inside the mask. “Especially if I make Rob miss the whole parade because I’m hiding in the bathroom.”
With a final twist, she set the mask straight, eyeholes and everything lined up just right so that she could see and breathe at the same time. She pushed open the stall and looked at herself in the long mirror over the sinks. The lion face she’d painted sneered arrogantly back at her with downturned pipecleaner whiskers studded with tiny rhinestones. The brown and gold mane curled just right down to her shoulders. She twisted slowly, and even under the fluorescent lights, the purple lame suit and yellow sequined vest shimmered. In sunlight, she hoped it would be dazzling. She smoothed her yellow tie and straightened the matching handkerchief. She tugged on a pair of shiny yellow nylon gloves and pushed and pulled at a few more places until she heard Robin yell her name from the hallway.
“Coming!” Gretta shouted back. Her voice echoed a bit in the mask and sounded a little spooky. With a half-smile and clenched teeth, she slipped on her sister’s shoes and picked up her grandfather’s cane. She walked out just as she’d practiced, careful to keep her head and back straight so that the top-heavy mask wouldn’t slip. The three-inch heels didn’t help, but she’d decided that she could sacrifice a little comfort and balance for the overall effect.
It worked, too, because her friend squealed excitedly when she saw her.
“I knew you’d look awesome, Gret, but wow! Just wait until those seniors see us! We are so gonna win!” Robin bounced over and offered a big fuzzy paw for a high five. Gretta carefully slapped it with her gloved hand and then laughed when Robin turned and shook her fluffy bunny tail at her.
“Ha, Rob! You make the cutest bunny ever!”
“Of course, I do! All the boy bunnies are crazy about me, you know!”
Robin stopped bouncing long enough to strike a pose like those wannabe glamour shots that she and Gretta made fun of on MySpace. She pursed her lips, tucked her chin down, and fluttered her lashes. Then, she wiggled her pink nose and glued-on whiskers until the two of them burst out laughing.
Suddenly, the principal’s voice boomed over the intercom, telling everyone left in the building that the parade would get underway with or without them in exactly five minutes. Robin’s mood was contagious, and Gretta found herself squealing in excitement along with her.
As they moved down the hall, Robin leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “You know, my mom spent a lot of time online buying this. Nearly starved, it took her so long – thank God that we don’t have dial-up! And, Gret, she clicked her poor mouse finger to the bone! To the bone! And then, why, she even had to type in the credit card number herself. Herself!”
“Oh! However did she survive?” Gretta gasped in mock horror and dramatically placed the back of her right hand against her lion’s forehead. The two girls laughed.
Their friend Cameron was waiting near the exitdoor at the end of their class’s hall. Robin leapt ahead cheering, “Go Juniors! We’re gonna win! We’re gonna win! Go Juniors!”
Cameron was wearing a chubby paper mache snowman suit covered in glittery snowflakes, so she couldn’t jump. She was wearing her ballet slippers though, so instead, she spun a happy little pirouette and chimed, “Go Sophomores!”
She spun again as Gretta walked up and said, “Typical Gret craftsmanship! You look spectacular! Everyone’s going to love it!”
“You, too! I love the carrot!” Gretta replied. Cameron’s mom had cut an oval shape from the snowman’s face and powdered her daughter’s face stark white except for glittery eye makeup and lipstick that gave her a jolly smile. A big plastic carrot nose was the final touch. “How’s it stay on?”
“I know! Duck tape!” Robin giggled before Cameron could answer. Gretta laughed as the bunny and the snowman both pirouetted at the same time.
“You both look so great! Let’s go meet the others before the parade starts!”
The three friends walked outside toward the soccer field at the rear of the school. Robin moved a lot faster in her professionally made bunny costume, so she bounced up ahead and then back, sometimes circling her two more cautious companions. Gretta was feeling a bit more confident, so she prissed a bit on her heels and occasionally spun her crystal-tipped cane. Cameron gracefully walked en pointe along side her, pirouetting occasionally, and waving a candy cane that she’s pulled from somewhere in her costume.
A resounding chorus of oohs and ahs from their classmates greeted their arrival, and Gretta blushed beneath her mask. Her queasiness had vanished, and so had her worries. It was Homecoming Day, and she was with her friends. It was time to have fun.
“Thanks, guys! Everyone looks so wonderful!” she shouted as she joined her class. “But not as wonderful as I look, of course,” she added jokingly, puffing out her chest so that the sunlight dazzled off her sequin vest.
All of the girls laughed at her words. Those whose faces were visible stuck out their tongues. Robin turned and shook her bunny tail in mock anger. The whole while Gretta leaned on her cane and acted as though she was oblivious to the rest of her class.
“Well done, ladies!” a lively voice said suddenly. Gretta turned to see Ms. Tilton, her literature teacher and the junior class sponsor, approaching from farther down the field. The gray-haired woman wore her formal academic robes but was laughing just like her excited students. On one arm, she had a big wicker basket full of differently colored silk sashes. In the other, she held a brown leather clipboard bearing the school emblem. Gretta waved one gloved hand in imitation of a queenly greeting while at her side Cameron danced and Robin bounced.
“Well done, all of you,” Ms. Tilton repeated before addressing Gretta directly. “But I have to say, Miss Bassett, that I overheard your comment to your classmates, and it was the most arrogant, ungrateful, perfectly sinful thing I’ve heard all day! Well done!” As the juniors around them cheered, she removed a thin white sash from her basket. “And your choice of costume is so wonderfully appropriate! You never fail to impress me.”
The teacher handed Gretta the sash, which bore the letters P-R-I-D-E embroidered in gold thread, and added, “Although, technically, you are short a few lions, but we’ll let that little inaccuracy slide in light of this being Homecoming Day and a special occasion.”
Gretta laughed happily and curtsied as she took the sash. She was afraid a bow might knock her head off. While Ms. Tilton passed out sashes to everyone else, Robin helped her pin hers across her jacket and vest, which both almost blindingly reflected the bright sunlight. Once everyone wore a sash, the two best friends and their fellow juniors cheered again, loud enough this time, that the juniors must have heard it. A chant – “Seniors Rule! Seniors Rule!” – rolled in around the school from the front lawn. Gretta thought she could hear the sophomores shouting something, too, from the softball field. A tiny rumble from the rear parking lot meant that even the freshmen were getting into the spirit of the day.
Everyone yelled and laughed until they heard the sound of bagpipes and drums coming from the other side of the school. The junior girls quieted in an instant and looked to Ms. Tilton.
“Come along, my Little Vices! Fall in! Prepare yourselves! The pipers approach! Onward and outward after the Seniors, and not a second earlier!”
The girls waited, giggling and fidgeting as much as their costumes allowed.
The Duggan Academy Marching Band rounded the building first. Then, behind it, proudly marching and singing the alma mater in Latin, came the senior class. Their banner proclaimed their theme for this year’s homecoming – The Seven Holy Virtues – and they wore sashes over their costumes, too.
The juniors fell into step and sang like the seniors. Gretta pranced proudly right behind the banner proclaiming her class’s theme. Robin bounced along at her side, flapping her bright pink sash reading L-U-S-T with every leap. On her other side danced the most graceful paper snowman as Cameron spun with her candy cane – her sash spelling out G-L-U-T-T-O-N-Y. The rest of the Seven Deadly Sins followed along, all singing at the top of their lungs.
By the time, Gretta passed the sophomores – the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World – and the freshmen – the Seven Dwarves – her throat hurt from singing, her legs ached from prissing on those heels, and her face dripped inside the hot lion mask.
But she couldn’t have possibly cared less, she was having that much fun. She laughed and pranced with her friends, pride personified.
It turned out to be beautiful day, she thought to herself as the parade marched down the school driveway toward the waiting town.
And we are going to win!
Robin literally bounced into the junior bathroom to share this good news with her best friend. She was wearing a rabbit costume, but bouncing seemed to come naturally to this girl. She couldn’t stand still more than a second, hopping from mirror to mirror and wiggling her pink-painted nose at her reflection.
From inside the stall, Gretta wondered for the millionth time how her best friend since fourth grade could always be so full of fun and energy.
“You alive in there, Gret?” Robin yelled and jumped over to kick at the closed stall door with one big fuzzy foot. “Everyone else has already gone outside to line up!”
“Just fixing my costume!” shouted Gretta. “I’ll just be a second. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have worried!”
“Yeah, you not worry? Ha! I’m going to wait just outside, so hurry up! We can’t be late!”
Robin kicked again at the stall door and then bounced back out into the hall while her friend struggled to get ready.
Gretta sighed. She was already wearing most of her costume – the suit and the matching shirt and tie. The only part left other than a few accessories was the mask. It waited in the brown paper bag at her feet. Unable to stall any longer, she pulled it out and started wiggling it onto her head. It was a little difficult to get on, but that was how she had wanted. Hard to put on, hard to fall off, she’d reasoned while she was working with her grandmother to put everything together in the weeks leading up to Duggan Academy’s homecoming parade.
While Gretta didn’t have her friend’s energy, she did have more than enough creativity for both of them. With help from her grandmother only on the hardest bits of sewing, she’d made the shiny purple three-piece suit almost entirely by hand . She’d sculpted the paper mache lion mask herself and, for the mane, she’d attached strips of brown velour and felt with thin wire that let them curl and bounce the way she wanted. She’d even Scotch-guarded it all in case it rained on the parade day. For the final touches, she’d borrowed a her grandfather’s cane and her older sister’s yellow stiletto heels. Her family had loved the final product.
And Gretta had thought her costume looked really great, too. At least, that’s how she’d felt last night and even earlier this morning. Then, during first period, everyone started showing off their professionally-made or expenisve store-bought costumes. By second period, she’d begun to feel queasy and had asked Robin to check her iPhone to see if the weather forecast had changed. In the next class, she prayed during the whole biology lecture that a big storm would roll in and cancel everything. It didn’t though, because after lunch, the principal’s voice came over the intercom and told everyone it was the time to get dressed and line up with his or her classes,.
So, Gretta had hauled her bags to the bathroom and shut herself in the first available stall. She’d then lingered until everyone else had dressed and gone to the back of the school.
Everyone but her best friend, it seemed.
Gretta sighed and fiddled with the mask a bit more. Outside, Robin apparently had decided Homecoming Day was special enough that the teachers wouldn’t mind her singing at the top of her lungs in the hallway. The words to “Little Bunny Foo Foo” started to drift into the bathroom. In spite of her nerves, Gretta giggled.
“I’m the goon,” she said out loud, her voice echoing inside the mask. “Especially if I make Rob miss the whole parade because I’m hiding in the bathroom.”
With a final twist, she set the mask straight, eyeholes and everything lined up just right so that she could see and breathe at the same time. She pushed open the stall and looked at herself in the long mirror over the sinks. The lion face she’d painted sneered arrogantly back at her with downturned pipecleaner whiskers studded with tiny rhinestones. The brown and gold mane curled just right down to her shoulders. She twisted slowly, and even under the fluorescent lights, the purple lame suit and yellow sequined vest shimmered. In sunlight, she hoped it would be dazzling. She smoothed her yellow tie and straightened the matching handkerchief. She tugged on a pair of shiny yellow nylon gloves and pushed and pulled at a few more places until she heard Robin yell her name from the hallway.
“Coming!” Gretta shouted back. Her voice echoed a bit in the mask and sounded a little spooky. With a half-smile and clenched teeth, she slipped on her sister’s shoes and picked up her grandfather’s cane. She walked out just as she’d practiced, careful to keep her head and back straight so that the top-heavy mask wouldn’t slip. The three-inch heels didn’t help, but she’d decided that she could sacrifice a little comfort and balance for the overall effect.
It worked, too, because her friend squealed excitedly when she saw her.
“I knew you’d look awesome, Gret, but wow! Just wait until those seniors see us! We are so gonna win!” Robin bounced over and offered a big fuzzy paw for a high five. Gretta carefully slapped it with her gloved hand and then laughed when Robin turned and shook her fluffy bunny tail at her.
“Ha, Rob! You make the cutest bunny ever!”
“Of course, I do! All the boy bunnies are crazy about me, you know!”
Robin stopped bouncing long enough to strike a pose like those wannabe glamour shots that she and Gretta made fun of on MySpace. She pursed her lips, tucked her chin down, and fluttered her lashes. Then, she wiggled her pink nose and glued-on whiskers until the two of them burst out laughing.
Suddenly, the principal’s voice boomed over the intercom, telling everyone left in the building that the parade would get underway with or without them in exactly five minutes. Robin’s mood was contagious, and Gretta found herself squealing in excitement along with her.
As they moved down the hall, Robin leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “You know, my mom spent a lot of time online buying this. Nearly starved, it took her so long – thank God that we don’t have dial-up! And, Gret, she clicked her poor mouse finger to the bone! To the bone! And then, why, she even had to type in the credit card number herself. Herself!”
“Oh! However did she survive?” Gretta gasped in mock horror and dramatically placed the back of her right hand against her lion’s forehead. The two girls laughed.
Their friend Cameron was waiting near the exitdoor at the end of their class’s hall. Robin leapt ahead cheering, “Go Juniors! We’re gonna win! We’re gonna win! Go Juniors!”
Cameron was wearing a chubby paper mache snowman suit covered in glittery snowflakes, so she couldn’t jump. She was wearing her ballet slippers though, so instead, she spun a happy little pirouette and chimed, “Go Sophomores!”
She spun again as Gretta walked up and said, “Typical Gret craftsmanship! You look spectacular! Everyone’s going to love it!”
“You, too! I love the carrot!” Gretta replied. Cameron’s mom had cut an oval shape from the snowman’s face and powdered her daughter’s face stark white except for glittery eye makeup and lipstick that gave her a jolly smile. A big plastic carrot nose was the final touch. “How’s it stay on?”
“I know! Duck tape!” Robin giggled before Cameron could answer. Gretta laughed as the bunny and the snowman both pirouetted at the same time.
“You both look so great! Let’s go meet the others before the parade starts!”
The three friends walked outside toward the soccer field at the rear of the school. Robin moved a lot faster in her professionally made bunny costume, so she bounced up ahead and then back, sometimes circling her two more cautious companions. Gretta was feeling a bit more confident, so she prissed a bit on her heels and occasionally spun her crystal-tipped cane. Cameron gracefully walked en pointe along side her, pirouetting occasionally, and waving a candy cane that she’s pulled from somewhere in her costume.
A resounding chorus of oohs and ahs from their classmates greeted their arrival, and Gretta blushed beneath her mask. Her queasiness had vanished, and so had her worries. It was Homecoming Day, and she was with her friends. It was time to have fun.
“Thanks, guys! Everyone looks so wonderful!” she shouted as she joined her class. “But not as wonderful as I look, of course,” she added jokingly, puffing out her chest so that the sunlight dazzled off her sequin vest.
All of the girls laughed at her words. Those whose faces were visible stuck out their tongues. Robin turned and shook her bunny tail in mock anger. The whole while Gretta leaned on her cane and acted as though she was oblivious to the rest of her class.
“Well done, ladies!” a lively voice said suddenly. Gretta turned to see Ms. Tilton, her literature teacher and the junior class sponsor, approaching from farther down the field. The gray-haired woman wore her formal academic robes but was laughing just like her excited students. On one arm, she had a big wicker basket full of differently colored silk sashes. In the other, she held a brown leather clipboard bearing the school emblem. Gretta waved one gloved hand in imitation of a queenly greeting while at her side Cameron danced and Robin bounced.
“Well done, all of you,” Ms. Tilton repeated before addressing Gretta directly. “But I have to say, Miss Bassett, that I overheard your comment to your classmates, and it was the most arrogant, ungrateful, perfectly sinful thing I’ve heard all day! Well done!” As the juniors around them cheered, she removed a thin white sash from her basket. “And your choice of costume is so wonderfully appropriate! You never fail to impress me.”
The teacher handed Gretta the sash, which bore the letters P-R-I-D-E embroidered in gold thread, and added, “Although, technically, you are short a few lions, but we’ll let that little inaccuracy slide in light of this being Homecoming Day and a special occasion.”
Gretta laughed happily and curtsied as she took the sash. She was afraid a bow might knock her head off. While Ms. Tilton passed out sashes to everyone else, Robin helped her pin hers across her jacket and vest, which both almost blindingly reflected the bright sunlight. Once everyone wore a sash, the two best friends and their fellow juniors cheered again, loud enough this time, that the juniors must have heard it. A chant – “Seniors Rule! Seniors Rule!” – rolled in around the school from the front lawn. Gretta thought she could hear the sophomores shouting something, too, from the softball field. A tiny rumble from the rear parking lot meant that even the freshmen were getting into the spirit of the day.
Everyone yelled and laughed until they heard the sound of bagpipes and drums coming from the other side of the school. The junior girls quieted in an instant and looked to Ms. Tilton.
“Come along, my Little Vices! Fall in! Prepare yourselves! The pipers approach! Onward and outward after the Seniors, and not a second earlier!”
The girls waited, giggling and fidgeting as much as their costumes allowed.
The Duggan Academy Marching Band rounded the building first. Then, behind it, proudly marching and singing the alma mater in Latin, came the senior class. Their banner proclaimed their theme for this year’s homecoming – The Seven Holy Virtues – and they wore sashes over their costumes, too.
The juniors fell into step and sang like the seniors. Gretta pranced proudly right behind the banner proclaiming her class’s theme. Robin bounced along at her side, flapping her bright pink sash reading L-U-S-T with every leap. On her other side danced the most graceful paper snowman as Cameron spun with her candy cane – her sash spelling out G-L-U-T-T-O-N-Y. The rest of the Seven Deadly Sins followed along, all singing at the top of their lungs.
By the time, Gretta passed the sophomores – the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World – and the freshmen – the Seven Dwarves – her throat hurt from singing, her legs ached from prissing on those heels, and her face dripped inside the hot lion mask.
But she couldn’t have possibly cared less, she was having that much fun. She laughed and pranced with her friends, pride personified.
It turned out to be beautiful day, she thought to herself as the parade marched down the school driveway toward the waiting town.
And we are going to win!
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