After his fake art exhibition, Wheeler's friends decided to take him to a popular surgical pub called Retractor. He had worked on his poorly-conceived creations all month to impress his friends, and they were eager to show their appreciation. The hostess led the five of them through the crowded bar area to an operating table and laid the drink menus down on a heavyset male dummy. Wheeler reached for a menu, but Reena slapped his hand away.
"Drinks are on us, Piscasco," she said, slurring.
"That's really cool of you." Wheeler rubbed his hand. "But can I decide what I want first?"
"Oh, you're right," Reena said, giggling.
Reena, Paulette, Max, and Clark started in on Wheeler's show as he studied the menu.
"It was the absolutely the worst," Max said, clearly still awestruck from the exhibition. "I've never seen such a miserable mess in full display."
"I agree," Paulette said. "A complete fiasco." She beamed at Wheeler, who looked up from the menu and conjured a devilish grin to show appreciation.
Reena nodded and giggled some more. The free wine from the art show had obviously caught up to her, but Wheeler didn't mind. They were at Retractor to celebrate his lousy art, not for a serious surgery score. And Max would keep her from wandering over to any groups that were.
Clark, standing across from Wheeler, shook his head. "I really can't get over it, Wheeler. Well done, sir. And by that, I mean 'horribly' done."
The waiter, a young woman dressed in OR scrubs, approached.
"Hi, everyone. I'm Ana and this," she said, waving her arms over the large dummy laying on the greenly-lit table, "is Dudley. Dudley is a Wall Street stockbroker suffering from a blocked aortic valve in his left ventricle, so it's looking like a cardiothoracic kind of night! What can I get you to drink?"
The group ordered their beverages, Ana left, and the glowing condemnations for Wheeler's show continued.
"To call your paintings and sculptures 'godawful' doesn't do them justice," Paulette said as she picked up one of the scalpels laid out near their table. "You're the master of dreck, Wheeler."
"Agrees with," Reena mustered, maintaining her balance somehow.
Paulette lowered the blade above the faux patient before catching herself. She lifted her gaze to the Wheeler. "May I?" she asked. "I mean, you are the man of the hour."
Wheeler gave a thumbs-up and Paulette sliced into Dudley's chest.
The dummies weren't filled with blood or viscera for obvious reasons, but Reena pantomimed as though she were getting splashed. The others politely smiled as they clamped the edges of Dudley's synthetic skin, revealing his store-bought sternum.
Their drinks arrived and Clark offered a toast. "To Wheeler's delightfully inelegant style. To his clumsy, clichéd themes. And to all of the mundane works of art - each to be drowned in the wake of the truly despicable ones we gazed upon tonight."
Reena lifted her glass emphatically. "Thass amoré, baby." She took a deep drink, and Max smiled nervously to the others. Confused, she began to look for a place to set down her drink. Patient Dudley took up the main table's surface, backed by a green "Go" light. Max gently removed the scotch & soda from Reena's hand and placed it out of her reach, off to the side on one of the smaller tables.
"Well, I'm glad you hated it, you guys," Wheeler said, smiling. He took a sip of his drink. The cocktail burned going down his throat and he wondered if the bartender was rewarding or punishing him. The others were starting to select surgical tools to try and revive Dudley's plastic bum ticker.
Wheeler lifted his drink again and they all froze. "We should also thank the Fountain Center Trust," he started. "I couldn't have procured the space without their support. It was cool of them to believe in me, even if it was kind of a prank."
Paulette laughed and looked over to Clark. "More like an exploded septic tank," she said.
Wheeler continued as though he hadn't heard her. "And I'd also like to thank some of the people that said some really nice things tonight, in spite of the obvious poor quality of the collection. I mean, I know it was pretty bad, but it still took a lot of time and...yeah. So, that was cool too."
"Totally, man," Max said, a bit concerned. "Totally. But...I mean, you knew that it was going to be the worst thing you'd ever done in your entire life, right?"
"Yeah, I know." Wheeler looked down and saw that he had emptied his drink. He shook his head a bit. "I know."
Before any of them realized what was happening, Reena reached into Dudley's chest and pulled out the heart. The dummy was lifted off of the table for a moment before the plastic tubes masquerading as arteries and aortas snapped away. Dudley fell back onto the table with a thud. Reena brought the heart to her mouth and pretended to eat it, complete with loud munching sounds.
"Myyummmm, yumm, yumm."
The green light beneath the dummy turned red and "You Lose" music blasted over their group. Max tried to wrestle the heart away from Reena, who couldn't stop laughing.
"C'mon, not cool," Clark said. Reena had knocked his drink over when she lifted the dummy off the table. "Jesus, where's the waitress?" Paulette joined Max in a chase around the table as Reena played a delirious game of keep-away with the dummy heart.
Wheeler began to laugh. It was the first time in weeks he'd laughed at someone other than himself, and it brought back pieces of his soul that he didn't know he'd lost. Reena was giving him and his friends something his bad art couldn't, not with all the work he'd put into it and certainly not by fooling himself into thinking it was better than it was. All it had taken Reena was complimentary wine and a surgical dummy to show Wheeler that joy comes from an honest place; painfully genuine, fearlessly true.
Wheeler waved for their waitress to reset poor Dudley for another round. Quietly, the terrible artist hoped it would be he who had the courage to tear the heart out next time.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
Marble Wattage
Whether you possess the capacity to tolerate them or not, you have to admire the persistence of idiots. Fully unaware of their idiocy, these lowbrow dimwits are more than happy to dispense venomous tirades on topics they barely comprehend, even made-up topics about nonsensical qualifiers such as "jumping jack density" or "marble wattage". When they are politely hushed or corrected by their unimpressed audience, the modern idiot will redirect his or her indignation toward the naive ideology of their supposed betters, the overweening elite, in order to regain the sympathies of their supporters, along with any loose pocket change available for bus fares.
However, tempers are easily engaged and the resulting arguments are best described as disgraceful, embarrassing, intermittently provocative, and always entertaining. I myself was fortunate enough to be gifted with the idiot's perspectives during a brief stop in Dubuque last weekend. In the spirit of discovery, I would like to take this opportunity to share the experience with you, my adoring readership.
I was traveling to one of those Canadian states, which our neighbors to the north refer to as "provinces, eh", when the airplane I was traveling upon required an emergency landing in Iowa's tenth-largest city. All 200 of the aircraft's passengers were ushered out of the terminal and given twelve hours to freely roam the city, to do with the time what we would. I volunteered that we should all visit some of the local museums which I'd heard nothing about, but the overwhelming majority elected that we should go to the mall instead.
We, the Manitoba-bound passengers, all arrived at Dubuque's Kennedy Mall around noon. As our flight did not serve any type of meal, our wearisome herd instinctively shuffled toward the food court. I tried suggesting to several people closest to me that, rather than all of us eating at the same place, we should each of us instead select whichever restaurant we desired the most. This method, I felt as strongly then as I do now, would have had the added benefit of not overcrowding one establishment. However, Burt Billingsley, middle management for a soda vendor out of Winnipeg, had already appointed himself as the de facto leader of our group and led us all to a Hot Dog on a Stick.
The Hot Dog on a Stick employees were ill-prepared for such a large group and the wait time for a corn dog (or its vegetarian counterpart, the "cheese dog") quickly rose to over an hour. I asked Burt if it would be okay if I got a slice of pizza from Sbarro, but he retorted with a string of insinuations regarding my love of museums and probable hatred of the mall. He asked me if I had designs against the group and even implied that I had played a part in sabotaging our flight. I carefully apologized to him for my disobedience, as well as to a few other passengers within earshot of our decreasingly private conversation. With a slight bow, I returned to the line and resumed my wait, deciding that I would reward my allegiance to the group with a full-flavored lemonade to go with my corn dog.
Two hours later, we had all been fed and were growing bored. A group vote was taken and we decided to venture to the rest of the mall. All 200 of us went from store to store, passing the time and deciding various things about life. Whether it was "The best sports are played outdoors!" in the magazine section at Books-A-Million or "Bring harmonica songs back to the radio!" in the home furnishings section at Sears, we seemed to have an opinion on everything. Self-preservation had set in by that point, so I decided that complete compliance was the best course of action to take. The sensation, dear readers, was fascinatingly enjoyable, like snuggling up in a terry cloth bathrobe to watch cat videos on YouTube. I dare say that my time as "just one of the group" was one of the less stressful days of my life.
However, there were a few other patrons of the mall (presumably Iowans) who would inevitably disagree with some of our group's stances. When they would speak up on behalf of the NBA or guitar music, I and the other passengers of Manitoba Flight 897 would all turn to Burt, who would immediately get in the face of the (usually elderly) person arguing against us and ask them why they hated something that people usually don't profess to hating, like the feel of terry cloth bathrobes or cat videos on YouTube. At that, me and the others would chime in with supportive words for Burt, "Yeah!" and "That's right!" and (once, accidentally) "Good got that right job!"
After about ten hours of this behavior, which the shopkeepers were surprisingly cool with, we decided that we should go back to the Dubuque airport, giving ourselves a little extra time to get through security. We exited to the parking garage where the shuttles we'd rented stood waiting for us, the drivers each quietly complaining about the lateness of the hour. I rode in the third bus, a few seats behind Burt, who looked tired. During his day as commander of our peculiar group, Burt never carried a special staff or wore a goat skull helmet to show that he was the leader; he never needed to. However, once it became obvious that we no longer required leadership, he did put his shirt back on.
My day as an idiot ended much like it had begun, with me getting in a line, this time at the airport's gift shop. As I got closer to the cashier, I wondered if I wanted some gum and, if so, which kind should I get. Should I say something to the cashier? Would I use my credit card, debit, or pay with cash? What in the hell was my opinion on gum anyway?
The cashier smiled at me as panic ballooned from within.
However, tempers are easily engaged and the resulting arguments are best described as disgraceful, embarrassing, intermittently provocative, and always entertaining. I myself was fortunate enough to be gifted with the idiot's perspectives during a brief stop in Dubuque last weekend. In the spirit of discovery, I would like to take this opportunity to share the experience with you, my adoring readership.
I was traveling to one of those Canadian states, which our neighbors to the north refer to as "provinces, eh", when the airplane I was traveling upon required an emergency landing in Iowa's tenth-largest city. All 200 of the aircraft's passengers were ushered out of the terminal and given twelve hours to freely roam the city, to do with the time what we would. I volunteered that we should all visit some of the local museums which I'd heard nothing about, but the overwhelming majority elected that we should go to the mall instead.
We, the Manitoba-bound passengers, all arrived at Dubuque's Kennedy Mall around noon. As our flight did not serve any type of meal, our wearisome herd instinctively shuffled toward the food court. I tried suggesting to several people closest to me that, rather than all of us eating at the same place, we should each of us instead select whichever restaurant we desired the most. This method, I felt as strongly then as I do now, would have had the added benefit of not overcrowding one establishment. However, Burt Billingsley, middle management for a soda vendor out of Winnipeg, had already appointed himself as the de facto leader of our group and led us all to a Hot Dog on a Stick.
The Hot Dog on a Stick employees were ill-prepared for such a large group and the wait time for a corn dog (or its vegetarian counterpart, the "cheese dog") quickly rose to over an hour. I asked Burt if it would be okay if I got a slice of pizza from Sbarro, but he retorted with a string of insinuations regarding my love of museums and probable hatred of the mall. He asked me if I had designs against the group and even implied that I had played a part in sabotaging our flight. I carefully apologized to him for my disobedience, as well as to a few other passengers within earshot of our decreasingly private conversation. With a slight bow, I returned to the line and resumed my wait, deciding that I would reward my allegiance to the group with a full-flavored lemonade to go with my corn dog.
Two hours later, we had all been fed and were growing bored. A group vote was taken and we decided to venture to the rest of the mall. All 200 of us went from store to store, passing the time and deciding various things about life. Whether it was "The best sports are played outdoors!" in the magazine section at Books-A-Million or "Bring harmonica songs back to the radio!" in the home furnishings section at Sears, we seemed to have an opinion on everything. Self-preservation had set in by that point, so I decided that complete compliance was the best course of action to take. The sensation, dear readers, was fascinatingly enjoyable, like snuggling up in a terry cloth bathrobe to watch cat videos on YouTube. I dare say that my time as "just one of the group" was one of the less stressful days of my life.
However, there were a few other patrons of the mall (presumably Iowans) who would inevitably disagree with some of our group's stances. When they would speak up on behalf of the NBA or guitar music, I and the other passengers of Manitoba Flight 897 would all turn to Burt, who would immediately get in the face of the (usually elderly) person arguing against us and ask them why they hated something that people usually don't profess to hating, like the feel of terry cloth bathrobes or cat videos on YouTube. At that, me and the others would chime in with supportive words for Burt, "Yeah!" and "That's right!" and (once, accidentally) "Good got that right job!"
After about ten hours of this behavior, which the shopkeepers were surprisingly cool with, we decided that we should go back to the Dubuque airport, giving ourselves a little extra time to get through security. We exited to the parking garage where the shuttles we'd rented stood waiting for us, the drivers each quietly complaining about the lateness of the hour. I rode in the third bus, a few seats behind Burt, who looked tired. During his day as commander of our peculiar group, Burt never carried a special staff or wore a goat skull helmet to show that he was the leader; he never needed to. However, once it became obvious that we no longer required leadership, he did put his shirt back on.
My day as an idiot ended much like it had begun, with me getting in a line, this time at the airport's gift shop. As I got closer to the cashier, I wondered if I wanted some gum and, if so, which kind should I get. Should I say something to the cashier? Would I use my credit card, debit, or pay with cash? What in the hell was my opinion on gum anyway?
The cashier smiled at me as panic ballooned from within.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Best Wishes
The coffee shop was busy, but not crowded. It was a nice day and most people were getting their orders to go. Alan sat on a comfortable easy chair near the window as he sipped his latte and browsed Reddit. He considered getting back in line to order a biscotti from the miserable barista behind the counter when he noticed a heavyset man in a paisley shirt standing over his shoulder, studying him.
"Ata Kamil? Is that you?" the man asked. Alan craned his head toward the man. It had been two centuries since their last encounter, but Alan recognized him immediately. Ikram seemed to have settled on a style long ago: same thick mess of hair, same long, thin sideburns.
"Ikram. It's good to see you," Alan leaned across the small coffee table and shook Ikram's hand. "I go by 'Alan' now," he added.
Ikram furrowed his brow as he glanced down at Alan's expensive suit and the latest Apple gadget in his hand. "Alan. Very modern." He settled into a chair on the other side of the coffee table. "So, how have you been?"
"Well, it's been a long time. I've served many masters since the one you obliterated in Morocco."
"I was not going to bring that up. It was just business, you know."
"It's fine, all's forgiven. Can I get you a coffee?" Alan started to rise, but Ikram waved for him to sit down.
"No, no. I was going to get a sandwich, but they are out of vegetarian options. I was about to leave when I saw you."
"You've stopped eating meat? Too bad. That pesto turkey wrap is pretty sweet."
"Not too sweet for the turkey in it."
Alan smiled. He casually glanced around the cafe to make sure that nobody was eavesdropping. "And are you in service now?"
"Yes." Ikram shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "My master is a beggar woman...well, former beggar. Now she is a actress. You may have heard of her, um. Brighton Saunders?"
"Oh, yeah? Wow..." Alan shook his head and stated the obvious. "Well, she's terrible."
Ikram burst into laughter. "The worst." He rested his chin on his hand. "It is not much of a twist, her lack of talent, but she worded the command pretty carefully. I would have loved to have turned her into a famous dog or mule or something, but she made sure to specify that she would remain human."
"Oh, the selfish ones. Well, you were always the pretty good with the curve balls."
"Not as good as you," Ikram said. "How many twelve-inch pianists have you granted over the years?"
Alan burst into laughter; Ikram instantly joined in. A youngish couple with fresh coffees glanced down as they passed by them. Irkam wiped away a tear and caught his breath. "This is nice. I barely can get away nowadays, and to run into you. Well, this is something."
"I agree," Alan said, nodding. Ikram returned the nod, then lowered his gaze, quiet. Alan studied him, this all-powerful force locked into the wishes of others. It seemed backwards to him now, those things that were just the way they were the last time they had seen each other.
Ikram took a deep breath and mustered a smile. "And what about you, Alan? Who is your latest master?"
Alan's smile returned. He looked around. The coffee line was comprised of just one person now, who was berating the miserable barista over some screwed-up order. The couple quietly chatted at a table against the wall. Alan, now serious, reached into his inside jacket pocket and dragged out a necklace. On the end, swung a small brass trinket, shaped like a seashell. Ikram's mouth dropped open.
"No!" he said. "That can't be."
"It's true." Alan bowed his head and a roasted red pepper sandwich appeared on the table between he and Ikram. He gestured that it was all his if he wanted it. Ikram stared at the sandwich, his mouth still agape.
"But...how?"
"I found out a good fast ball is almost as good as a curve ball. I was controlled by a confused, young man who didn't know what he wanted out of life. I took advantage of that, suggesting at each step that charm was the thing he lacked. He grew angry, not wanting to waste a wish on something only others would enjoy."
"He fell for the limited wishes thing?" Ikram snapped his fingers. "You know, I try that every time. But they either figure it out or simply keep making wishes out of desperation."
"He would have gotten there too, for sure. But, like I said, he didn't have a game plan. So he saved the first three commands, held onto them for years in fact. Even when things got rough, he wanted to make sure that he got them just right. And all the while I kept suggesting charm was the thing he lacked. But, naturally, he settled for the trio."
"Health, wealth, and lots of sex," Ikram recited by rote. Alan pointed at him and winked.
"But once I granted his fourth wish, he realized I'd been lying to him and that I'd be with him as long as he had this." Alan held up the seashell trinket, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. "And once Kyle reached that new level of anger, I knew I had him. The next time that he got drunk, I again suggested to him that he should wish for charm, something he'd heard from me a thousand times by that point. He glared at me and the shittiest little smile spread across his face. 'Genie,' he said, 'I wish you had charm'.
Ikram sat back, amazed. "And now you do."
Alan smiled as he slid the seashell necklace back into his jacket pocket.
"Brilliant," Ikram said, shaking his head in disbelief. "An absolutely brilliant ploy." He leaned in, his eyes bright. "And this Kyle? What became of him?"
Alan nodded toward the miserable barista behind the counter. Ikram read the name tag on his shirt and began rocking in his seat, trying to control a new wave of laughter as best he could. Eventually, he regained composure. "That is a thing of beauty. And he has no memory of any of it?"
"Just enough to know that his life now sucks in comparison." Alan drank the last of his latte.
"Well, that is just...wow." Ikram grew silent again. "Well, I am happy for you, Ata...Alan. But for those of us not so ingenious, there is still the job." Ikram stood. "I must leave. Miss Saunders is throwing a gala tonight. For this, I am cooking, catering, valeting...you get the idea."
Alan stood and extended his hand. They shook. "Please." He gestured toward the vegetarian sandwich, now in a takeout box.
"No, thank you," Ikram said. "I trust you, but I feel bound to honor my servitude and not accept offerings."
Alan nodded, remembering the sensation of invisible restraints on every limb. Ikram returned a weak smile as he headed out of the cafe.
"It was good to see you again," he said.
Watching him go, Alan crossed over to the coffee line and ordered a biscotti. He could have simply wished himself a biscotti, along with pretty much anything else he might have wanted, but he liked to be served by Kyle. And, though it would certainly test the boundaries of his powers, one day he'd like to be served by all of his former masters. Even the one Ikram took care of in Morocco.
As he waited for the sullen man to bring him the crunchy baked good, Alan thought about the arbitrary line between magic and determination, wishes and objectives. With a thought forming in his mind, he decided that he'd like to check out Brighton Saunders' party and tell her what a terrible actress she is. This might set something interesting in motion for Ikram. Not an offering, but a start. Who knows where it might lead?
Kyle, unaware of the command he once held over the man in the expensive suit, presented his former master with the biscotti. Alan, polite as always to Kyle, asked the miserable barista if he could please get his order to go.
"Ata Kamil? Is that you?" the man asked. Alan craned his head toward the man. It had been two centuries since their last encounter, but Alan recognized him immediately. Ikram seemed to have settled on a style long ago: same thick mess of hair, same long, thin sideburns.
"Ikram. It's good to see you," Alan leaned across the small coffee table and shook Ikram's hand. "I go by 'Alan' now," he added.
Ikram furrowed his brow as he glanced down at Alan's expensive suit and the latest Apple gadget in his hand. "Alan. Very modern." He settled into a chair on the other side of the coffee table. "So, how have you been?"
"Well, it's been a long time. I've served many masters since the one you obliterated in Morocco."
"I was not going to bring that up. It was just business, you know."
"It's fine, all's forgiven. Can I get you a coffee?" Alan started to rise, but Ikram waved for him to sit down.
"No, no. I was going to get a sandwich, but they are out of vegetarian options. I was about to leave when I saw you."
"You've stopped eating meat? Too bad. That pesto turkey wrap is pretty sweet."
"Not too sweet for the turkey in it."
Alan smiled. He casually glanced around the cafe to make sure that nobody was eavesdropping. "And are you in service now?"
"Yes." Ikram shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "My master is a beggar woman...well, former beggar. Now she is a actress. You may have heard of her, um. Brighton Saunders?"
"Oh, yeah? Wow..." Alan shook his head and stated the obvious. "Well, she's terrible."
Ikram burst into laughter. "The worst." He rested his chin on his hand. "It is not much of a twist, her lack of talent, but she worded the command pretty carefully. I would have loved to have turned her into a famous dog or mule or something, but she made sure to specify that she would remain human."
"Oh, the selfish ones. Well, you were always the pretty good with the curve balls."
"Not as good as you," Ikram said. "How many twelve-inch pianists have you granted over the years?"
Alan burst into laughter; Ikram instantly joined in. A youngish couple with fresh coffees glanced down as they passed by them. Irkam wiped away a tear and caught his breath. "This is nice. I barely can get away nowadays, and to run into you. Well, this is something."
"I agree," Alan said, nodding. Ikram returned the nod, then lowered his gaze, quiet. Alan studied him, this all-powerful force locked into the wishes of others. It seemed backwards to him now, those things that were just the way they were the last time they had seen each other.
Ikram took a deep breath and mustered a smile. "And what about you, Alan? Who is your latest master?"
Alan's smile returned. He looked around. The coffee line was comprised of just one person now, who was berating the miserable barista over some screwed-up order. The couple quietly chatted at a table against the wall. Alan, now serious, reached into his inside jacket pocket and dragged out a necklace. On the end, swung a small brass trinket, shaped like a seashell. Ikram's mouth dropped open.
"No!" he said. "That can't be."
"It's true." Alan bowed his head and a roasted red pepper sandwich appeared on the table between he and Ikram. He gestured that it was all his if he wanted it. Ikram stared at the sandwich, his mouth still agape.
"But...how?"
"I found out a good fast ball is almost as good as a curve ball. I was controlled by a confused, young man who didn't know what he wanted out of life. I took advantage of that, suggesting at each step that charm was the thing he lacked. He grew angry, not wanting to waste a wish on something only others would enjoy."
"He fell for the limited wishes thing?" Ikram snapped his fingers. "You know, I try that every time. But they either figure it out or simply keep making wishes out of desperation."
"He would have gotten there too, for sure. But, like I said, he didn't have a game plan. So he saved the first three commands, held onto them for years in fact. Even when things got rough, he wanted to make sure that he got them just right. And all the while I kept suggesting charm was the thing he lacked. But, naturally, he settled for the trio."
"Health, wealth, and lots of sex," Ikram recited by rote. Alan pointed at him and winked.
"But once I granted his fourth wish, he realized I'd been lying to him and that I'd be with him as long as he had this." Alan held up the seashell trinket, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. "And once Kyle reached that new level of anger, I knew I had him. The next time that he got drunk, I again suggested to him that he should wish for charm, something he'd heard from me a thousand times by that point. He glared at me and the shittiest little smile spread across his face. 'Genie,' he said, 'I wish you had charm'.
Ikram sat back, amazed. "And now you do."
Alan smiled as he slid the seashell necklace back into his jacket pocket.
"Brilliant," Ikram said, shaking his head in disbelief. "An absolutely brilliant ploy." He leaned in, his eyes bright. "And this Kyle? What became of him?"
Alan nodded toward the miserable barista behind the counter. Ikram read the name tag on his shirt and began rocking in his seat, trying to control a new wave of laughter as best he could. Eventually, he regained composure. "That is a thing of beauty. And he has no memory of any of it?"
"Just enough to know that his life now sucks in comparison." Alan drank the last of his latte.
"Well, that is just...wow." Ikram grew silent again. "Well, I am happy for you, Ata...Alan. But for those of us not so ingenious, there is still the job." Ikram stood. "I must leave. Miss Saunders is throwing a gala tonight. For this, I am cooking, catering, valeting...you get the idea."
Alan stood and extended his hand. They shook. "Please." He gestured toward the vegetarian sandwich, now in a takeout box.
"No, thank you," Ikram said. "I trust you, but I feel bound to honor my servitude and not accept offerings."
Alan nodded, remembering the sensation of invisible restraints on every limb. Ikram returned a weak smile as he headed out of the cafe.
"It was good to see you again," he said.
Watching him go, Alan crossed over to the coffee line and ordered a biscotti. He could have simply wished himself a biscotti, along with pretty much anything else he might have wanted, but he liked to be served by Kyle. And, though it would certainly test the boundaries of his powers, one day he'd like to be served by all of his former masters. Even the one Ikram took care of in Morocco.
As he waited for the sullen man to bring him the crunchy baked good, Alan thought about the arbitrary line between magic and determination, wishes and objectives. With a thought forming in his mind, he decided that he'd like to check out Brighton Saunders' party and tell her what a terrible actress she is. This might set something interesting in motion for Ikram. Not an offering, but a start. Who knows where it might lead?
Kyle, unaware of the command he once held over the man in the expensive suit, presented his former master with the biscotti. Alan, polite as always to Kyle, asked the miserable barista if he could please get his order to go.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Suitable Distance
Mitch had known that the cabin wouldn't be perfect. The pictures on the rental company's website couldn't hide the fact that it was light on luxury, just a one-room cottage with a sparse kitchenette and tiny bathroom. And the hiker in him was disappointed that it wasn't nestled in or even near Mt. Pleasant, but rather just off I-25, near Ladson, which meant he'd be near the steady noise of interstate traffic, not to mention the hour commute to his seminar appointments in Charleston.
However, the tiny cabin had a rustic charm that he appreciated immediately. It smelled of cherry oak and a bit of dust, a nice alternative to the chemical odor of most hotel chains. Mitch also liked that there was a small patio where he could grill dinner or just sit back after long days at WISEC, otherwise known as the Wayford Institute for Supportive Education Conference.
The week had gone by fast, a whirlwind of workshops and team building exercises, which Mitch's company expected him to relay to his coworkers back home. He had expected a few days of trust falls and silly logic puzzles, but the program also required psychology evals and a surprising amount of yoga. It was more tiring than he'd imagined going in. Mitch was pretty sure his coworkers back home would have no interest in any of the stuff the conference covered, especially the physical fitness criteria. But he daydreamed about some of the more weasel-like members of his department trying to scam their way through a lizard or warrior pose, always good for a chuckle as he himself struggled with his balance.
If the conference was a bit of a bust, that went double for Mitch's idea of a pseudo-vacation. The exhausting days and long trips back to the cabin obliterated his "best laid plan" to enjoy his nights and maybe give the grill some use. Each night around eight, he practically fell out of his old Volvo, greasy paper bag in hand from one of the fast food places near the cabin's interstate exit. Trudging toward his tiny shack, he'd manage a wave to the elderly people who were staying in a nearby cabin, a nice older couple who seemed to be spending their vacation sitting on lawn chairs and getting blasted on margaritas. Mitch couldn't help but feel envious of them.
His last night in Ladson, Mitch forced himself to pick up a nice sirloin steak and some vegetables from a real grocery store in Charleston. Back at the cabin and bolstered by a real meal in his arms, he confidently waved to Mr. and Mrs. Margaritaville, camped out as usual on lawn chairs next to their blue SUV. Mitch decided that if Norman Rockwell were still around, they would have found their way onto Saturday Evening Post's cover more than just once. Picturing the results, he smiled to himself as he walked into his cabin.
Mitch dropped his keys, cellphone, and the last of his conference work pages on the tiny table in front of the couch. Grabbing a few items from the kitchenette, he brought the groceries out to the back patio area, still within view of the drunken couple. They waved to him again. Mitch repeated the gesture and they both lifted their cocktails, delighted by the recognition.
Well, there's the pose for the cover, Mitch thought. They looked to be in their sixties or seventies, but their cabin was just far enough away that it was difficult to tell for sure. He was glad for the distance, as the fogies seemed a little desperate for company. Why else would they spend each evening camped out on those lawn chairs, other than to invite conversation and/or company from surrounding cabin dwellers?
Mitch set the grocery bag on the patio table, along with some plates and silverware he'd brought from the kitchen. He gave the charcoal a sheen of lighter fluid and was about to fire up the grill when a man appeared from around the corner of the cabin.
The man was perhaps in his forties. His face was as dirty as a chimney sweep and there were dark stains, grease perhaps, on the front of his pants. He saw Mitch and froze, except for a jerky arm movement that might have been a wave. A silver chill found its way to the base of Mitch's skull, but he still managed a friendly smile.
"Hey, how's it going?" Mitch asked the stranger.
"Yep, pretty good," the man replied as he looked over the food on the patio table. He nodded, confident in his appraisal of the situation. "You about to cook out?"
Mitch tried to not stare. He readjusted some of the items on the patio table and nodded. "Yep. Just a sirloin. I'd offer you one, but..."
The man waited patiently for Mitch to complete the sentence.
"Well," Mitch said, followed by a weak laugh. "I've only got one."
"Hey, that's cool," the man said as he sat down on the bench of the picnic table, facing Mitch. "I was wondering though if I could trouble you for a quick lift. My car broke down down the road a ways up and I need to pick up a part from a place about four miles from here."
Mitch looked down at the wet charcoal, still nodding, and desperately wished that he would have been inside the cabin and out of sight when the man passed by. Fast food never sounded so good.
The filthy man continued. "Please, man. My wife and kid are still with the car and it wouldn't take you more than twenty minutes."
"Um," Mitch said, now standing by the grill. Time seemed to have slowed somehow, all the more passing moments with no idea of what to say. "You couldn't call a cab or something?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, I did, but the guy said it would take them two hours to get somebody out here." The man positioned his leg so that his foot was on the bench and began to chew on his thumbnail as he awaited Mitch's response.
Thoughts swirled in Mitch's head, clamoring for a logical end. He didn't believe that this guy had actually called for a taxi. Two hours wasn't probable, he likely just wanted a free ride. Or maybe he didn't...maybe he wanted Mitch's car, or money. There wasn't a wife or a kid or a broken-down car. And maybe getting robbed would only be the beginning. Mitch wanted to be wrong, but he knew it simply didn't matter because he wasn't going to give this man a ride.
However, making that decision wasn't the problem; the problem was getting this information across to the stranger without pissing him off.
"Look, you got to understand where I'm coming from," Mitch started. "I can't give you a ride. I don't know you." For a second, an unmistakable expression spread across the man's face, and it was bad. But the man quickly caught himself and began to plead his case again. Mitch cut him off. "I'm sure you're a good guy and all, but I can't do it. I could bullshit you and make up an excuse, but I'm just gonna tell you 'no' and say good luck. And I mean it, I hope you find somebody that can help you out. It's just not gonna be me. Sorry."
The man hopped off of the patio table and shuffled his feet a little, perhaps hoping for redemption. Mitch stood his ground.
"Well, do you mind if I use your bathroom?" the man asked. "It's just a piss, I swear."
Mitch thought about it a second, but the question had such a pathetic quality that made him feel bad.
"Sure."
The man walked inside. Mitch listened for the bathroom door to close and then let out a sigh of relief. The final negotiation had taken place and he was back on track. Almost.
The man came back outside a minute later.
"So, you sure I can't get a ride?" the man asked again, unsurprising to Mitch.
"Sorry, man."
"Yeah, okay. Well, thanks and god bless." With that, he walked back the way he had come from around the side of the cabin. Mitch realized after the man was gone that his face felt a little sore. He finally allowed his fake smile to fade and stood motionless, making sure the man had left for good.
After he was convinced that the man wouldn't reappear with more forceful ways of asking for a ride, Mitch opened a beer that he'd stowed in the half-fridge earlier in the week. Between sips, he seasoned his steak and fired up the grill. He couldn't help but replay the conversation in his head, reasoning with himself that he would have given the guy a lift if he (Mitch) wasn't alone at the cabin. He just felt unprotected.
Mitch threw the steak on the grill and began whistling some trash pop song that the WISEC crew had used to motivate their groups all week. As his meal was starting to take shape, something caught Mitch's attention: the stranger had made his way over to the next cabin. He was now talking to the elderly couple, their hands blocking the late evening sun as he no doubt related his sad tale to them.
Mitch walked to the edge of his cabin's patio area and considered going over to ask the man to leave the couple alone. Perhaps he'd even suck it up and give the man a ride himself, though not likely. However, he reasoned that even if the older man wanted to help out the stranger, he'd be much too inebriated to drive. Surely he would use that as an excuse. Mitch was almost convinced that would be the case, but then the old vacationer hopped up, ran into his cabin, and return with a flipflop in each hand. The old man kissed his lady on the top of her head as he slipped on each sandal and no more than ten seconds later he and the stranger were heading off in his blue SUV.
Well, that's that, Mitch thought. The woman stood as she watched her drinking buddy drive off. After the SUV was out of sight, she looked over in Mitch's direction, who couldn't look away for some reason. He wondered if the woman would walk over with the remainder of her margarita to tell him about the dirty stranger. Maybe she had seen him talking to Mitch earlier, he wasn't sure.
Mitch had plenty of thoughts on the matter, but he didn't feel like to trading opinions with anybody. He just wanted to have another beer, eat his dinner, and go to bed. The woman, perhaps sensing Mitch's aversion to company, simply shrugged to the twilight sky and walked into her cabin.
Since he hadn't been paying attention to it, Mitch's steak ended up overcooked. He sat on the patio table and watched the sky turn dark as he ate, washing the tough, dry meat down with another beer and leaving most of his vegetables untouched. He considered hopping into his Volvo and grabbing a burger from one of the nearby fast food places, but all he really wanted to do was watch the old man's blue SUV pull up their cabin. He wanted to be proved wrong about the stranded stranger.
Mitch gave up on finishing his dinner and slowly began to gather up the half-eaten meal. He threw the leftovers into the paper sack and carried the garbage around to a bin at the edge of the road. He looked over and saw that the lights were still on in the elderly couple's cabin. Faintly, he could hear country music playing from that direction, which meant it would have to be playing pretty loud. Mitch sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to go to sleep until the old man had gotten back safely. He grabbed an emergency cigar from his Volvo's glove box and the last beer from the tiny fridge.
About ten minutes later, Mitch had drained the brew and was about halfway through his cigar. It was dark now and there were no lights outside. He sat on the patio table, just as stranger had earlier with one leg up to his chin. He rubbed his tired eyes for the hundredth time and was relieved to see headlights splash across the elderly couple's cabin before the SUV finally rolled back up to its spot next to the lawn chairs. Mitch smiled and realized that he didn't even want to finish his cigar, though it was pretty good. It had been a long week and he was ready for bed. He extinguished the cigar and tossed it into the grill.
Surveying the patio area one last time before heading inside, Mitch realized that the old man hadn't gotten out of his SUV yet. The silver chill returned to his neck. Mitch walked to the edge of his patio, staying close to the side of the cabin and watched the vehicle closely. He could barely see through the dark, but the driver was still sitting there.
Maybe he's deciding whether or not to pick up more tequila. Maybe that's it.
He waited until a figure emerged from the SUV, but the light from inside the cabin only allowed for a silhouette, and it had never seemed so far away as it did then. For the first time all week, Mitch wished he was closer to the old drunks. The driver made his way to the side door and opened it on the one dark room in the entire cabin. Mitch squinted as the door closed.
It's probably the old man, he thought. But it could also very well be the stranger returning to do to the old woman what he's already done to the old man.
No risk taker he, Mitch decided to see if a sheriff could check things out. He started toward his cellphone, which was in the cabin, but then stopped before his hand touched the backdoor. Mitch remembered letting the man go inside to use the bathroom and realized that both his cellphone and his keys could be gone right now. And, if that were true, then he'd have his answer. He'd already know who was next door, along with where he'd be heading next.
Mitch turned back to the old couple's cabin and listened. Someone had either turned off the country music or was searching for another song, but Mitch knew what he was really listening for. As he steadied his breathing, he recalled the expression on the stranger's face when he had first told him that he wouldn't give him a ride. It was rage that Mitch had seen there. Pure rage.
However, the tiny cabin had a rustic charm that he appreciated immediately. It smelled of cherry oak and a bit of dust, a nice alternative to the chemical odor of most hotel chains. Mitch also liked that there was a small patio where he could grill dinner or just sit back after long days at WISEC, otherwise known as the Wayford Institute for Supportive Education Conference.
The week had gone by fast, a whirlwind of workshops and team building exercises, which Mitch's company expected him to relay to his coworkers back home. He had expected a few days of trust falls and silly logic puzzles, but the program also required psychology evals and a surprising amount of yoga. It was more tiring than he'd imagined going in. Mitch was pretty sure his coworkers back home would have no interest in any of the stuff the conference covered, especially the physical fitness criteria. But he daydreamed about some of the more weasel-like members of his department trying to scam their way through a lizard or warrior pose, always good for a chuckle as he himself struggled with his balance.
If the conference was a bit of a bust, that went double for Mitch's idea of a pseudo-vacation. The exhausting days and long trips back to the cabin obliterated his "best laid plan" to enjoy his nights and maybe give the grill some use. Each night around eight, he practically fell out of his old Volvo, greasy paper bag in hand from one of the fast food places near the cabin's interstate exit. Trudging toward his tiny shack, he'd manage a wave to the elderly people who were staying in a nearby cabin, a nice older couple who seemed to be spending their vacation sitting on lawn chairs and getting blasted on margaritas. Mitch couldn't help but feel envious of them.
His last night in Ladson, Mitch forced himself to pick up a nice sirloin steak and some vegetables from a real grocery store in Charleston. Back at the cabin and bolstered by a real meal in his arms, he confidently waved to Mr. and Mrs. Margaritaville, camped out as usual on lawn chairs next to their blue SUV. Mitch decided that if Norman Rockwell were still around, they would have found their way onto Saturday Evening Post's cover more than just once. Picturing the results, he smiled to himself as he walked into his cabin.
Mitch dropped his keys, cellphone, and the last of his conference work pages on the tiny table in front of the couch. Grabbing a few items from the kitchenette, he brought the groceries out to the back patio area, still within view of the drunken couple. They waved to him again. Mitch repeated the gesture and they both lifted their cocktails, delighted by the recognition.
Well, there's the pose for the cover, Mitch thought. They looked to be in their sixties or seventies, but their cabin was just far enough away that it was difficult to tell for sure. He was glad for the distance, as the fogies seemed a little desperate for company. Why else would they spend each evening camped out on those lawn chairs, other than to invite conversation and/or company from surrounding cabin dwellers?
Mitch set the grocery bag on the patio table, along with some plates and silverware he'd brought from the kitchen. He gave the charcoal a sheen of lighter fluid and was about to fire up the grill when a man appeared from around the corner of the cabin.
The man was perhaps in his forties. His face was as dirty as a chimney sweep and there were dark stains, grease perhaps, on the front of his pants. He saw Mitch and froze, except for a jerky arm movement that might have been a wave. A silver chill found its way to the base of Mitch's skull, but he still managed a friendly smile.
"Hey, how's it going?" Mitch asked the stranger.
"Yep, pretty good," the man replied as he looked over the food on the patio table. He nodded, confident in his appraisal of the situation. "You about to cook out?"
Mitch tried to not stare. He readjusted some of the items on the patio table and nodded. "Yep. Just a sirloin. I'd offer you one, but..."
The man waited patiently for Mitch to complete the sentence.
"Well," Mitch said, followed by a weak laugh. "I've only got one."
"Hey, that's cool," the man said as he sat down on the bench of the picnic table, facing Mitch. "I was wondering though if I could trouble you for a quick lift. My car broke down down the road a ways up and I need to pick up a part from a place about four miles from here."
Mitch looked down at the wet charcoal, still nodding, and desperately wished that he would have been inside the cabin and out of sight when the man passed by. Fast food never sounded so good.
The filthy man continued. "Please, man. My wife and kid are still with the car and it wouldn't take you more than twenty minutes."
"Um," Mitch said, now standing by the grill. Time seemed to have slowed somehow, all the more passing moments with no idea of what to say. "You couldn't call a cab or something?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, I did, but the guy said it would take them two hours to get somebody out here." The man positioned his leg so that his foot was on the bench and began to chew on his thumbnail as he awaited Mitch's response.
Thoughts swirled in Mitch's head, clamoring for a logical end. He didn't believe that this guy had actually called for a taxi. Two hours wasn't probable, he likely just wanted a free ride. Or maybe he didn't...maybe he wanted Mitch's car, or money. There wasn't a wife or a kid or a broken-down car. And maybe getting robbed would only be the beginning. Mitch wanted to be wrong, but he knew it simply didn't matter because he wasn't going to give this man a ride.
However, making that decision wasn't the problem; the problem was getting this information across to the stranger without pissing him off.
"Look, you got to understand where I'm coming from," Mitch started. "I can't give you a ride. I don't know you." For a second, an unmistakable expression spread across the man's face, and it was bad. But the man quickly caught himself and began to plead his case again. Mitch cut him off. "I'm sure you're a good guy and all, but I can't do it. I could bullshit you and make up an excuse, but I'm just gonna tell you 'no' and say good luck. And I mean it, I hope you find somebody that can help you out. It's just not gonna be me. Sorry."
The man hopped off of the patio table and shuffled his feet a little, perhaps hoping for redemption. Mitch stood his ground.
"Well, do you mind if I use your bathroom?" the man asked. "It's just a piss, I swear."
Mitch thought about it a second, but the question had such a pathetic quality that made him feel bad.
"Sure."
The man walked inside. Mitch listened for the bathroom door to close and then let out a sigh of relief. The final negotiation had taken place and he was back on track. Almost.
The man came back outside a minute later.
"So, you sure I can't get a ride?" the man asked again, unsurprising to Mitch.
"Sorry, man."
"Yeah, okay. Well, thanks and god bless." With that, he walked back the way he had come from around the side of the cabin. Mitch realized after the man was gone that his face felt a little sore. He finally allowed his fake smile to fade and stood motionless, making sure the man had left for good.
After he was convinced that the man wouldn't reappear with more forceful ways of asking for a ride, Mitch opened a beer that he'd stowed in the half-fridge earlier in the week. Between sips, he seasoned his steak and fired up the grill. He couldn't help but replay the conversation in his head, reasoning with himself that he would have given the guy a lift if he (Mitch) wasn't alone at the cabin. He just felt unprotected.
Mitch threw the steak on the grill and began whistling some trash pop song that the WISEC crew had used to motivate their groups all week. As his meal was starting to take shape, something caught Mitch's attention: the stranger had made his way over to the next cabin. He was now talking to the elderly couple, their hands blocking the late evening sun as he no doubt related his sad tale to them.
Mitch walked to the edge of his cabin's patio area and considered going over to ask the man to leave the couple alone. Perhaps he'd even suck it up and give the man a ride himself, though not likely. However, he reasoned that even if the older man wanted to help out the stranger, he'd be much too inebriated to drive. Surely he would use that as an excuse. Mitch was almost convinced that would be the case, but then the old vacationer hopped up, ran into his cabin, and return with a flipflop in each hand. The old man kissed his lady on the top of her head as he slipped on each sandal and no more than ten seconds later he and the stranger were heading off in his blue SUV.
Well, that's that, Mitch thought. The woman stood as she watched her drinking buddy drive off. After the SUV was out of sight, she looked over in Mitch's direction, who couldn't look away for some reason. He wondered if the woman would walk over with the remainder of her margarita to tell him about the dirty stranger. Maybe she had seen him talking to Mitch earlier, he wasn't sure.
Mitch had plenty of thoughts on the matter, but he didn't feel like to trading opinions with anybody. He just wanted to have another beer, eat his dinner, and go to bed. The woman, perhaps sensing Mitch's aversion to company, simply shrugged to the twilight sky and walked into her cabin.
Since he hadn't been paying attention to it, Mitch's steak ended up overcooked. He sat on the patio table and watched the sky turn dark as he ate, washing the tough, dry meat down with another beer and leaving most of his vegetables untouched. He considered hopping into his Volvo and grabbing a burger from one of the nearby fast food places, but all he really wanted to do was watch the old man's blue SUV pull up their cabin. He wanted to be proved wrong about the stranded stranger.
Mitch gave up on finishing his dinner and slowly began to gather up the half-eaten meal. He threw the leftovers into the paper sack and carried the garbage around to a bin at the edge of the road. He looked over and saw that the lights were still on in the elderly couple's cabin. Faintly, he could hear country music playing from that direction, which meant it would have to be playing pretty loud. Mitch sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to go to sleep until the old man had gotten back safely. He grabbed an emergency cigar from his Volvo's glove box and the last beer from the tiny fridge.
About ten minutes later, Mitch had drained the brew and was about halfway through his cigar. It was dark now and there were no lights outside. He sat on the patio table, just as stranger had earlier with one leg up to his chin. He rubbed his tired eyes for the hundredth time and was relieved to see headlights splash across the elderly couple's cabin before the SUV finally rolled back up to its spot next to the lawn chairs. Mitch smiled and realized that he didn't even want to finish his cigar, though it was pretty good. It had been a long week and he was ready for bed. He extinguished the cigar and tossed it into the grill.
Surveying the patio area one last time before heading inside, Mitch realized that the old man hadn't gotten out of his SUV yet. The silver chill returned to his neck. Mitch walked to the edge of his patio, staying close to the side of the cabin and watched the vehicle closely. He could barely see through the dark, but the driver was still sitting there.
Maybe he's deciding whether or not to pick up more tequila. Maybe that's it.
He waited until a figure emerged from the SUV, but the light from inside the cabin only allowed for a silhouette, and it had never seemed so far away as it did then. For the first time all week, Mitch wished he was closer to the old drunks. The driver made his way to the side door and opened it on the one dark room in the entire cabin. Mitch squinted as the door closed.
It's probably the old man, he thought. But it could also very well be the stranger returning to do to the old woman what he's already done to the old man.
No risk taker he, Mitch decided to see if a sheriff could check things out. He started toward his cellphone, which was in the cabin, but then stopped before his hand touched the backdoor. Mitch remembered letting the man go inside to use the bathroom and realized that both his cellphone and his keys could be gone right now. And, if that were true, then he'd have his answer. He'd already know who was next door, along with where he'd be heading next.
Mitch turned back to the old couple's cabin and listened. Someone had either turned off the country music or was searching for another song, but Mitch knew what he was really listening for. As he steadied his breathing, he recalled the expression on the stranger's face when he had first told him that he wouldn't give him a ride. It was rage that Mitch had seen there. Pure rage.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Moiré
Wendell peered through the swirling branches jutting out from the
large Podocarpus tree above him and determined that he was, at long
last, drunk. He and Alice usually didn't hit the red wine so hard during
their Sunday afternoon picnics in Tenroot Park, but they had started
drinking early and the overcast weather had warned off the judgmental
families that tended to swarm around the park on nicer days. The low, grey
clouds spun above the bushy trees' limbs in Wendell's vision as Alice,
also lying face up on the large, plaid blanket, softly sang "Lido
Shuffle".
After a joining her for a few "whoa oh oh ohs", Wendell sat up and topped off their red plastic cups with the remaining wine from the fourth (and final) bottle. He turned away from Alice, sitting on his side, and admired the distance between the real world and their quiet green spot on the far northwest corner of Tenroot. These afternoons had become something of a ritual when they had relocated back to Tulsa, just after that rocky year in Salt Lake City. The wine was a welcomed late edition, and Wendell was beginning to think that Alice would rather keep these afternoons than ever consider having a baby - not that he was sure they were ever headed in that direction. He envisioned a near future where this Sunday afternoon activity would bleed outwards, spreading its warmth into Saturday nights and Monday mornings.
Through glassy eyes, Wendell glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Alice's side of the blanket was sinking into the ground. He wondered if he was having a rare drunken hallucination, or perhaps it was some odd optical illusion gained from his vantage point. Then the ground beneath Alice completely gave way and pulled her and the entire blanket underground, causing Wendell to spin/roll onto the cold grass. Alice, the blanket, and the picnic basket full of empty wine bottles had all disappeared into a hole in the earth; Wendell had spilled red wine all over himself in the process of losing them.
Wendell stared at the hole, dumbfounded, and finally called for Alice. No response, nothing but a new chill in the air causing gooseflesh to cover his arms. He shivered and, without thinking, was about to crawl into the hole himself when Alice's arm launched out from the void and she dragged herself to the surface. Disheveled and out of breath, she stood up for a moment before plopping back down at the side of the hole. In one of her hands, Wendell saw that she was clutching a fresh bottle of red wine.
"Sorry, lost the blanket and the basket. Couldn't get them back up. Got this, though," she said, giving Wendell a closer look at the bottle. The label wasn't a brand he knew and appeared to be written with an alphabet he had never seen before. He struggled to speak, to make sense of the moment. Alice wiped some sweat from her brow, smearing some dirt across her forehead as she did so. After a moment, Wendell silently pulled the wine key from his pocket, opened the new bottle, and poured.
After a joining her for a few "whoa oh oh ohs", Wendell sat up and topped off their red plastic cups with the remaining wine from the fourth (and final) bottle. He turned away from Alice, sitting on his side, and admired the distance between the real world and their quiet green spot on the far northwest corner of Tenroot. These afternoons had become something of a ritual when they had relocated back to Tulsa, just after that rocky year in Salt Lake City. The wine was a welcomed late edition, and Wendell was beginning to think that Alice would rather keep these afternoons than ever consider having a baby - not that he was sure they were ever headed in that direction. He envisioned a near future where this Sunday afternoon activity would bleed outwards, spreading its warmth into Saturday nights and Monday mornings.
Through glassy eyes, Wendell glanced over his shoulder and noticed that Alice's side of the blanket was sinking into the ground. He wondered if he was having a rare drunken hallucination, or perhaps it was some odd optical illusion gained from his vantage point. Then the ground beneath Alice completely gave way and pulled her and the entire blanket underground, causing Wendell to spin/roll onto the cold grass. Alice, the blanket, and the picnic basket full of empty wine bottles had all disappeared into a hole in the earth; Wendell had spilled red wine all over himself in the process of losing them.
Wendell stared at the hole, dumbfounded, and finally called for Alice. No response, nothing but a new chill in the air causing gooseflesh to cover his arms. He shivered and, without thinking, was about to crawl into the hole himself when Alice's arm launched out from the void and she dragged herself to the surface. Disheveled and out of breath, she stood up for a moment before plopping back down at the side of the hole. In one of her hands, Wendell saw that she was clutching a fresh bottle of red wine.
"Sorry, lost the blanket and the basket. Couldn't get them back up. Got this, though," she said, giving Wendell a closer look at the bottle. The label wasn't a brand he knew and appeared to be written with an alphabet he had never seen before. He struggled to speak, to make sense of the moment. Alice wiped some sweat from her brow, smearing some dirt across her forehead as she did so. After a moment, Wendell silently pulled the wine key from his pocket, opened the new bottle, and poured.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Wichita Cafe
After over thirty minutes of driving around, searching for something special, Mark saw the sign. Wichita Cafe, it read, absent of any visible irony. Mark cocked his head and glanced at the car's GPS, just in case he had accidentally driven through a wormhole during his quest.
Still in Santa Rosa, which is - I'm pretty sure - nowhere near Wichita.
He smiled as he pulled into the tiny, poorly-lit parking lot. "I think this counts, Sandra," he said to the empty Honda Civic.
"You should get out of the car every once in a while, try to soak up some local color," Sandra had told him the night before he set off for the cross-country trip to Phoenix. "I did a similar trip back in college with some friends. We hit half a dozen diners and met some really cool people along the way."
"Oh, and are you still in touch with all of them?" Mark's dry delivery caught her off guard. Sandra began to speak, but he cut her off with, "How is Big Bertha from Little Rock these days?" She answered him with an arched eyebrow as he took a sip of the fruity cider she had offered to him in lieu of any real alcohol.
However, Sandra's advice had tapped him on his shoulder earlier that night as Paula, the gothy front desk clerk at the Villager Inn, offered him the easiest and most convenient options for dinner during his stop in Santa Rosa.
"There's a Frizzy Frog, a Topper's, and a Pyro-Burger this way," she said pointing a black fingernail to the left. "You could also go to Bistro Bonaventure down this way, if they're still open this late," she said pointing to the right.
One never-quite-desperate search later, Mark had found his place: the Wichita Cafe, which was (according to the GPS) a good eight hours outside of Wichita, Kansas.
Mark walked inside and was immediately glad for his choice. Valentine's Day decorations hung from ceiling fans, which would have been more appropriate in February. A older woman in jeans stood behind a host station and discussed marinara with a nearby bald man.
"If it's right for spaghetti, it's right for cheese sticks."
"I don't agree," the bald man said as he noticed Mark, offering then a weak smile as a greeting. The woman turned her attention to their new guest. Mark felt a moment of judgment and was about to ask if they were still open, but she welcomed him with a simple question.
"Just one?"
He nodded and she led Mark to a booth along the front of the diner. In a nearby booth, he noticed a youngish couple sitting side-by-side, both facing toward him. Mark had never really thought about it before, but it made sense that the proper seating tactic when dining alone would be to face away from them. After all, he figured, it would be awkward to face the couple as he ate. Plus, as judgmental as the assessment made him feel, these weren't the "really cool" people from Sandra's storied trip. They seemed sad and quiet for their years; their clothes were drab, as were the expressions on their faces.
Trying to seem natural about it, Mark quickly sat with his back to the couple and asked for a Coke. The jeans woman told him his waitress would be out in a minute before returning to Marinara Talk with the bald man.
Mark took out his phone and enabled data usage so that he could find something to read from the internet. As he searched his bookmarks, the guy behind him exploding into a fit of coughing and Mark could hear his girlfriend pat him on the back.
It might be his sister. Probably not, but maybe.
A little while later the waitress appeared and set a menu down in front of Mark.
"Hiya, how are ya?" she asked. She wore a dress that looked more like what a cleaning woman would wear, though Mark struggled to pinpoint the distinction.
"I'm good," he said. His mind struggled for the good opener that would lead to a bit of conversation. That was, after all, the entire reason why he'd come here to the Wichita Cafe rather than Pyro-Burger or Topper's, whatever a Topper's was. However nothing arrived and he was left with only, "Could I get a Coke?"
"We have Pepsi. That okay?"
Mark nodded and the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. He saw that the menu was generic and was disappointed that it didn't have the name of the diner on the front. He'd have to remember to use his phone to get a picture of the sign out front. With that thought, another wet storm of phlegm erupted from the drab fellow facing his back. Trying his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds, Mark opened the menu and checked out the dinner entrees.
The waitress reemerged from the kitchen and set a glass of Pepsi in front of Mark. He instantly noticed that there was only three or four ice cubes, slivers really, floating near the top of the glass. Mark had heard about this phenomenon before, that of withholding ice in favor of more beverage, but had never seen it in practice. In that moment, he was glad that he'd found the Wichita Cafe.
"Do you know what you want?"
Mark asked the waitress about a few items on the entree list, but settled on her recommendation of pot roast with mashed potatoes. She walked over to the couple behind him and Mark pretended to read an article he had pulled up on his phone.
"Did you decide on something?" she asked them.
"No, we're still looking," the drab girl replied. Mark could hear the waitress walk back into the kitchen.
"Chili would be nice," the guy told his girlfriend. His tone was low, but borderline whiny all the same.
"I don't feel like chili," she said, scolding.
Sharing a meal? I hope that's because they're not very hungry. If not...well, it's not like I can just offer to buy dinner for strangers unprovoked, can I?
The waitress returned from the kitchen and the girl called for her.
"Miss? I was wondering something. See, we're heading south, but it's getting late and, well, do you know where we could get a cheap place for the night? All we need is a warm room with a bed."
Mark felt like he knew what was coming next.
"Well, the Villager Inn, just off I-40 is probably what you're looking for," the waitress told them.
Bad call, Flo. First of all, the Drab Twins obviously want a mo-tel and the Villager is a ho-tel. Big price difference. Also, Gothy Paula made it sound like I snagged the last available room.
"Yeah, okay. Thanks." The guy exploded into another coughing fit.
"Sure thing, sweetie." The waitress then appeared next to Mark with his pot roast and mashed potatoes, no doubt likely covered in spittle and germs courtesy of the coughing dude.
Nice flight pattern, taking my food right by intensive care.
"Thanks! Could I get some extra napkins and a little more ice in my Coke?"
"It's Pepsi."
"Right."
Mark quietly ate his dinner and checked out a few more websites on his phone. The pot roast was chewy, but tasted fine. After a few minutes, the drab couple quietly left the diner. Despite their sullen demeanor, Mark felt bad for them and hoped they would find the warm bed they were looking for. He made a few attempts at small talk with the waitress, but she seemed uninterested in chatting so close to the end of an undoubtedly long shift at the Wichita.
When Mark returned to the Villager Inn, he saw the couple again as they stormed out of the front entrance. The girl's eyes were fiery from a recent argument, very likely with Gothy Paula. She turned her intense gaze toward Mark and he surprised himself.
"Hey, Wichita Cafe, right? I thought I heard that you were looking for a place to crash. I know it's not ideal, but I've got an extra bed in my room." The couple looked to each other and saw exhaustion mirrored on their faces. Mark hastily added, "No charge, of course. Just a little company would be nice."
Back in the hotel room, they sat on the queen-sized beds and chatted for a while. Mark offered them snacks from his travel bag, which the couple greedily accepted. The sullen pair perked up a bit with food in their stomachs, but Mark's concerns grew. Gaping holes appeared in their stories they told him, inconsistent in such aspects as where they were from and where they were going. Mark, hoping to not cause anger in point out such things, played it cool and didn't appear suspicious. They eventually took turns getting ready for bed. While the guy was in the bathroom, the girl made a sexual pass at Mark. It took effort, but Mark handled the situation perfectly and spared her of any residual embarrassment. As they lied down to sleep, the guy's coughing fits returned. Hours and hours passed before Mark could sleep, finally finding solace during the early hours of the morning. The next day, the couple sheepishly asked Mark if they could have another night in the room on his credit card, a gift. Mark quickly devised a lie, telling them that he was using his company's expense account to travel and could only put one single night on it. After he left the hotel, however, the couple managed to get back into the room and stayed another two full days. When Mark received the itemized bill two weeks later, it was clear that the couple had wrecked the place and had stolen several items from the room, including the TV and several pieces of furniture. Mark found himself truly angry for the first time in his life. He spent weeks trying to locate the couple, unrelenting obsession always tapping at his shoulder. The trail went cold from time to time, but then he'd suddenly find a trace again, getting close. And forever on this chase toward rightful justice, he was finding out things about them that he never wanted to know.
But they'd win in the end. Even if theirs was no sort of life to be lived, they'd win. Of course they would.
Mark was still lost in this elaborate story as the couple walked around him outside the Villager Inn. The girl either didn't recognize him from the diner or simply didn't care. Mark didn't turn back to watch them get in their car and drive away, though he did briefly wonder where "next" would be for them.
Soon after, he was in his room looking at the picture he had taken of the Wichita Cafe's sign. It looked smaller on his cellphone, as did the cafe itself. He decided he'd wait and send the picture to Sandra when he got to Phoenix, maybe with a few others he'd take along the way.
Still in Santa Rosa, which is - I'm pretty sure - nowhere near Wichita.
He smiled as he pulled into the tiny, poorly-lit parking lot. "I think this counts, Sandra," he said to the empty Honda Civic.
"You should get out of the car every once in a while, try to soak up some local color," Sandra had told him the night before he set off for the cross-country trip to Phoenix. "I did a similar trip back in college with some friends. We hit half a dozen diners and met some really cool people along the way."
"Oh, and are you still in touch with all of them?" Mark's dry delivery caught her off guard. Sandra began to speak, but he cut her off with, "How is Big Bertha from Little Rock these days?" She answered him with an arched eyebrow as he took a sip of the fruity cider she had offered to him in lieu of any real alcohol.
However, Sandra's advice had tapped him on his shoulder earlier that night as Paula, the gothy front desk clerk at the Villager Inn, offered him the easiest and most convenient options for dinner during his stop in Santa Rosa.
"There's a Frizzy Frog, a Topper's, and a Pyro-Burger this way," she said pointing a black fingernail to the left. "You could also go to Bistro Bonaventure down this way, if they're still open this late," she said pointing to the right.
One never-quite-desperate search later, Mark had found his place: the Wichita Cafe, which was (according to the GPS) a good eight hours outside of Wichita, Kansas.
Mark walked inside and was immediately glad for his choice. Valentine's Day decorations hung from ceiling fans, which would have been more appropriate in February. A older woman in jeans stood behind a host station and discussed marinara with a nearby bald man.
"If it's right for spaghetti, it's right for cheese sticks."
"I don't agree," the bald man said as he noticed Mark, offering then a weak smile as a greeting. The woman turned her attention to their new guest. Mark felt a moment of judgment and was about to ask if they were still open, but she welcomed him with a simple question.
"Just one?"
He nodded and she led Mark to a booth along the front of the diner. In a nearby booth, he noticed a youngish couple sitting side-by-side, both facing toward him. Mark had never really thought about it before, but it made sense that the proper seating tactic when dining alone would be to face away from them. After all, he figured, it would be awkward to face the couple as he ate. Plus, as judgmental as the assessment made him feel, these weren't the "really cool" people from Sandra's storied trip. They seemed sad and quiet for their years; their clothes were drab, as were the expressions on their faces.
Trying to seem natural about it, Mark quickly sat with his back to the couple and asked for a Coke. The jeans woman told him his waitress would be out in a minute before returning to Marinara Talk with the bald man.
Mark took out his phone and enabled data usage so that he could find something to read from the internet. As he searched his bookmarks, the guy behind him exploding into a fit of coughing and Mark could hear his girlfriend pat him on the back.
It might be his sister. Probably not, but maybe.
A little while later the waitress appeared and set a menu down in front of Mark.
"Hiya, how are ya?" she asked. She wore a dress that looked more like what a cleaning woman would wear, though Mark struggled to pinpoint the distinction.
"I'm good," he said. His mind struggled for the good opener that would lead to a bit of conversation. That was, after all, the entire reason why he'd come here to the Wichita Cafe rather than Pyro-Burger or Topper's, whatever a Topper's was. However nothing arrived and he was left with only, "Could I get a Coke?"
"We have Pepsi. That okay?"
Mark nodded and the waitress disappeared into the kitchen. He saw that the menu was generic and was disappointed that it didn't have the name of the diner on the front. He'd have to remember to use his phone to get a picture of the sign out front. With that thought, another wet storm of phlegm erupted from the drab fellow facing his back. Trying his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds, Mark opened the menu and checked out the dinner entrees.
The waitress reemerged from the kitchen and set a glass of Pepsi in front of Mark. He instantly noticed that there was only three or four ice cubes, slivers really, floating near the top of the glass. Mark had heard about this phenomenon before, that of withholding ice in favor of more beverage, but had never seen it in practice. In that moment, he was glad that he'd found the Wichita Cafe.
"Do you know what you want?"
Mark asked the waitress about a few items on the entree list, but settled on her recommendation of pot roast with mashed potatoes. She walked over to the couple behind him and Mark pretended to read an article he had pulled up on his phone.
"Did you decide on something?" she asked them.
"No, we're still looking," the drab girl replied. Mark could hear the waitress walk back into the kitchen.
"Chili would be nice," the guy told his girlfriend. His tone was low, but borderline whiny all the same.
"I don't feel like chili," she said, scolding.
Sharing a meal? I hope that's because they're not very hungry. If not...well, it's not like I can just offer to buy dinner for strangers unprovoked, can I?
The waitress returned from the kitchen and the girl called for her.
"Miss? I was wondering something. See, we're heading south, but it's getting late and, well, do you know where we could get a cheap place for the night? All we need is a warm room with a bed."
Mark felt like he knew what was coming next.
"Well, the Villager Inn, just off I-40 is probably what you're looking for," the waitress told them.
Bad call, Flo. First of all, the Drab Twins obviously want a mo-tel and the Villager is a ho-tel. Big price difference. Also, Gothy Paula made it sound like I snagged the last available room.
"Yeah, okay. Thanks." The guy exploded into another coughing fit.
"Sure thing, sweetie." The waitress then appeared next to Mark with his pot roast and mashed potatoes, no doubt likely covered in spittle and germs courtesy of the coughing dude.
Nice flight pattern, taking my food right by intensive care.
"Thanks! Could I get some extra napkins and a little more ice in my Coke?"
"It's Pepsi."
"Right."
Mark quietly ate his dinner and checked out a few more websites on his phone. The pot roast was chewy, but tasted fine. After a few minutes, the drab couple quietly left the diner. Despite their sullen demeanor, Mark felt bad for them and hoped they would find the warm bed they were looking for. He made a few attempts at small talk with the waitress, but she seemed uninterested in chatting so close to the end of an undoubtedly long shift at the Wichita.
When Mark returned to the Villager Inn, he saw the couple again as they stormed out of the front entrance. The girl's eyes were fiery from a recent argument, very likely with Gothy Paula. She turned her intense gaze toward Mark and he surprised himself.
"Hey, Wichita Cafe, right? I thought I heard that you were looking for a place to crash. I know it's not ideal, but I've got an extra bed in my room." The couple looked to each other and saw exhaustion mirrored on their faces. Mark hastily added, "No charge, of course. Just a little company would be nice."
Back in the hotel room, they sat on the queen-sized beds and chatted for a while. Mark offered them snacks from his travel bag, which the couple greedily accepted. The sullen pair perked up a bit with food in their stomachs, but Mark's concerns grew. Gaping holes appeared in their stories they told him, inconsistent in such aspects as where they were from and where they were going. Mark, hoping to not cause anger in point out such things, played it cool and didn't appear suspicious. They eventually took turns getting ready for bed. While the guy was in the bathroom, the girl made a sexual pass at Mark. It took effort, but Mark handled the situation perfectly and spared her of any residual embarrassment. As they lied down to sleep, the guy's coughing fits returned. Hours and hours passed before Mark could sleep, finally finding solace during the early hours of the morning. The next day, the couple sheepishly asked Mark if they could have another night in the room on his credit card, a gift. Mark quickly devised a lie, telling them that he was using his company's expense account to travel and could only put one single night on it. After he left the hotel, however, the couple managed to get back into the room and stayed another two full days. When Mark received the itemized bill two weeks later, it was clear that the couple had wrecked the place and had stolen several items from the room, including the TV and several pieces of furniture. Mark found himself truly angry for the first time in his life. He spent weeks trying to locate the couple, unrelenting obsession always tapping at his shoulder. The trail went cold from time to time, but then he'd suddenly find a trace again, getting close. And forever on this chase toward rightful justice, he was finding out things about them that he never wanted to know.
But they'd win in the end. Even if theirs was no sort of life to be lived, they'd win. Of course they would.
Mark was still lost in this elaborate story as the couple walked around him outside the Villager Inn. The girl either didn't recognize him from the diner or simply didn't care. Mark didn't turn back to watch them get in their car and drive away, though he did briefly wonder where "next" would be for them.
Soon after, he was in his room looking at the picture he had taken of the Wichita Cafe's sign. It looked smaller on his cellphone, as did the cafe itself. He decided he'd wait and send the picture to Sandra when he got to Phoenix, maybe with a few others he'd take along the way.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
The Award
I'm not sure if it still exists today, but my elementary and
middle schools (first Mountain Gap, then Challenger) had an
advanced academics program called SPACE*. The so-called gifted kids in the
program spent about a fifth of their class time with special teachers
doing fun and educational projects while learning at an accelerated
rate. In high school, these students would be automatic candidates for
advanced placement classes, earning college credit before even stepping
foot on a university campus.
I didn't actually know any of this stuff when my 2nd grade teacher recommended that I be tested to see if I qualified for SPACE. But like much of my adult life, I was eager to be accepted regardless of the consequences. There's something extremely attractive about exclusivity. However, the test proved to be too difficult and my teacher notified my mother that I wasn't right for the program. This was a huge disappointment at the time, though my mom consoled me with the fact that the recommendation itself was an intrinsic honor.
The next year, I was recommended by another teacher to take the 3rd grade version of the test. The ideas behind the questions and challenges were basically the same: spacial reasoning, problem solving, etc. Even though this was decades ago, I can still remember one puzzle from it now, and only because I'm certain that I got it wrong. I was asked to piece together silhouetted sections of a cardboard horse in a set amount of time, but I placed a part of its body where the horse's neck should have gone. Poor little pony. Regardless, I apparently did better than I had the first time and was given the SPACE seal of approval, which was a note to my teacher and a phone call to my mom. Soon after that, I was ushered into a gleaming world of magic and wonder.
Well, not exactly.
Twice a week, the other SPACE kids and I would go to a classroom with a special teacher and spend the full second part of the day there. The teacher, Mrs. K, was a fun and slightly eccentric woman in her thirties. She kept us busy for much of the time with logic problems, the kind where you have to figure out what fictional characters did and had based on given clues. For instance one of the clues might be "Bobby hates sledding and one of the girls brought a baseball glove." So, then we'd go to the grid and mark an X at the cross section of "Bobby" and "sledding", along with all of the boys and "baseball glove". You can imagine how quickly the charm of these little gems faded.
But there was one large, month-long project that I'll never forget. One day Mrs. K announced to the class that we'd be divided into teams and tasked with building model bridges out of toothpicks. Even the thought of it now fills me with an existential dread. Mrs. K told us that each team would present their model after four weeks and she would judge the results based on certain qualities, the most important naturally being how much weight the bridges could carry. But she hinted that other attributes like best design and most creative features would also be considered. It sounded like fun at the time and, more importantly, a long break from the world of stupid logic problems.
I was placed in a normal team (that qualifier, "normal", will make sense soon) and we began talking about ideas for structure and the benefits of glue over other binding agents, such as Scotch tape or bubble gum. I wasn't as much interested in these conversations as I was interested in doodling on graph paper and making jokes, which Mrs. K took notice of pretty quickly. This lack of focus continued and, at the end of the second week, I found myself heading up a new team. Mrs. K had rounded up all of the "dead weight kids" from each team, put us all in a group, and named me their leader.
I was a little offended to be singled out as a shiftless layabout at first, but I quickly embraced my role as king of the too-cool-for-bridges squad and announced to my lazy cohorts, Mrs. K, and all of the normal teams that we would continue goofing off. I reasoned that we'd only need a couple of days at most to build the toothpick bridges. After all, these weren't real bridges and no lives were at risk if our bridge was the worst. And yes, our team was destined to lose by the very nature of our origin story - this inherent limitation was not lost on me at the time.
As the following days and weeks went by, Mrs. K would occasionally check in on my group's progress. Having nothing to show in terms of actual work, I would shield from her whatever funny cartoon I was working on and report that we were still in the planning stage, but that everything was perfectly on schedule. Then she'd walk off and I would nervously look around the room to the normal teams, all of them hard at work on mostly-completed, perfect little toothpick bridges. Then I'd shrug and go back to my hilarious doodles.
Reality set in on the day before the competition. I'd practically trained the rest of my team to blow off any notion of work, so I found myself alone on an island of panic. I quickly learned that toothpicks are a tricky building material and my very rudimentary sketch of a bridge was a poor blueprint. I spent the last hours of class time in failure mode, but I held my brave smile anytime Mrs. K walked by with her left eyebrow arched. I told her that I'd be finishing the model myself at home that night.
I don't remember much from that evening. I probably begged my mom and sister for help, but I think I was left to go at it solo, one glue-drenched toothpick at a time. I stayed up past my bedtime constructing the world's worst model bridge. It was the kind of work that's both sloppy and slow, done neither fast nor correctly. At the end of the night, I sat back and marveled at the slight, precarious embodiment of procrastination that I had created. It couldn't support an ant. Right now you might be thinking two things: 1) that building a bridge out of toothpicks doesn't sound so hard (you're wrong and probably not a nine-year-old kid), and 2) that my bridge probably wasn't as bad as I'm describing it (you're right - it was much worse).
The next day's grand finale competition went about as well as anybody could have expected. Mrs. K elected my team to go first, just to get us out of the way, really. She added a series of floppy disks suspended by string to test the strength of the bridge and, surprisingly, my sad model didn't break or fall apart. It just kind of leaned in until it touched its cardboard base...and stayed leaned in once Mrs. K removed the weights. Regardless, I counted the weak demonstration as a major victory, though any bravado that I might have exhibited that day was there purely to mask embarrassment. I'll spare you the details of the awesome designs and constructions that the other teams presented, as their victory is not what this story is about.
After each of the bridges was tested and judged, Mrs. K began handing out awards. They were certificates that she had created and printed out herself, each with 1980's-era clip art and titles such as "Strongest Design" and "Best Teamwork". I clapped along with the others, occasionally pretending to be shocked when we failed to win a category. After all of the awards had been handed out, Mrs. K gave a short speech about the importance of leadership. I sunk in my chair, thinking that the hammer would surely fall my way once the moral of the story kicked in.
She looked at me and smiled; I cringed. Then Mrs. K surprised me. She told everyone that I had shown a special quality in leadership and that I deserved a special award for what I had done. Her smile grew as she handed me - not my group, but just me - a certificate with my name on it. The picture displayed a man treading water, so that only his head was visible. Surrounding him, fins peaked through the surface of the water, alluding to the deadly sharks circling him below. Atop the certificate read, "Coolness Under Pressure". It was my very own award, and believe me when I tell you that I earned it.
* For the life of me, I can't remember what the SPACE acronym stood for. I've tried searching for mentions of it online to no avail, which leads me to believe that it was a local program for Huntsville, AL. It makes perfect sense that the powers-that-were would choose a term to reflect our civic Rocket City, USA identity. However, the fact that I also couldn't remember what SPACE stood for when I was still in the program tells me that I probably wasn't the best candidate for it.
I didn't actually know any of this stuff when my 2nd grade teacher recommended that I be tested to see if I qualified for SPACE. But like much of my adult life, I was eager to be accepted regardless of the consequences. There's something extremely attractive about exclusivity. However, the test proved to be too difficult and my teacher notified my mother that I wasn't right for the program. This was a huge disappointment at the time, though my mom consoled me with the fact that the recommendation itself was an intrinsic honor.
The next year, I was recommended by another teacher to take the 3rd grade version of the test. The ideas behind the questions and challenges were basically the same: spacial reasoning, problem solving, etc. Even though this was decades ago, I can still remember one puzzle from it now, and only because I'm certain that I got it wrong. I was asked to piece together silhouetted sections of a cardboard horse in a set amount of time, but I placed a part of its body where the horse's neck should have gone. Poor little pony. Regardless, I apparently did better than I had the first time and was given the SPACE seal of approval, which was a note to my teacher and a phone call to my mom. Soon after that, I was ushered into a gleaming world of magic and wonder.
Well, not exactly.
Twice a week, the other SPACE kids and I would go to a classroom with a special teacher and spend the full second part of the day there. The teacher, Mrs. K, was a fun and slightly eccentric woman in her thirties. She kept us busy for much of the time with logic problems, the kind where you have to figure out what fictional characters did and had based on given clues. For instance one of the clues might be "Bobby hates sledding and one of the girls brought a baseball glove." So, then we'd go to the grid and mark an X at the cross section of "Bobby" and "sledding", along with all of the boys and "baseball glove". You can imagine how quickly the charm of these little gems faded.
But there was one large, month-long project that I'll never forget. One day Mrs. K announced to the class that we'd be divided into teams and tasked with building model bridges out of toothpicks. Even the thought of it now fills me with an existential dread. Mrs. K told us that each team would present their model after four weeks and she would judge the results based on certain qualities, the most important naturally being how much weight the bridges could carry. But she hinted that other attributes like best design and most creative features would also be considered. It sounded like fun at the time and, more importantly, a long break from the world of stupid logic problems.
I was placed in a normal team (that qualifier, "normal", will make sense soon) and we began talking about ideas for structure and the benefits of glue over other binding agents, such as Scotch tape or bubble gum. I wasn't as much interested in these conversations as I was interested in doodling on graph paper and making jokes, which Mrs. K took notice of pretty quickly. This lack of focus continued and, at the end of the second week, I found myself heading up a new team. Mrs. K had rounded up all of the "dead weight kids" from each team, put us all in a group, and named me their leader.
I was a little offended to be singled out as a shiftless layabout at first, but I quickly embraced my role as king of the too-cool-for-bridges squad and announced to my lazy cohorts, Mrs. K, and all of the normal teams that we would continue goofing off. I reasoned that we'd only need a couple of days at most to build the toothpick bridges. After all, these weren't real bridges and no lives were at risk if our bridge was the worst. And yes, our team was destined to lose by the very nature of our origin story - this inherent limitation was not lost on me at the time.
As the following days and weeks went by, Mrs. K would occasionally check in on my group's progress. Having nothing to show in terms of actual work, I would shield from her whatever funny cartoon I was working on and report that we were still in the planning stage, but that everything was perfectly on schedule. Then she'd walk off and I would nervously look around the room to the normal teams, all of them hard at work on mostly-completed, perfect little toothpick bridges. Then I'd shrug and go back to my hilarious doodles.
Reality set in on the day before the competition. I'd practically trained the rest of my team to blow off any notion of work, so I found myself alone on an island of panic. I quickly learned that toothpicks are a tricky building material and my very rudimentary sketch of a bridge was a poor blueprint. I spent the last hours of class time in failure mode, but I held my brave smile anytime Mrs. K walked by with her left eyebrow arched. I told her that I'd be finishing the model myself at home that night.
I don't remember much from that evening. I probably begged my mom and sister for help, but I think I was left to go at it solo, one glue-drenched toothpick at a time. I stayed up past my bedtime constructing the world's worst model bridge. It was the kind of work that's both sloppy and slow, done neither fast nor correctly. At the end of the night, I sat back and marveled at the slight, precarious embodiment of procrastination that I had created. It couldn't support an ant. Right now you might be thinking two things: 1) that building a bridge out of toothpicks doesn't sound so hard (you're wrong and probably not a nine-year-old kid), and 2) that my bridge probably wasn't as bad as I'm describing it (you're right - it was much worse).
The next day's grand finale competition went about as well as anybody could have expected. Mrs. K elected my team to go first, just to get us out of the way, really. She added a series of floppy disks suspended by string to test the strength of the bridge and, surprisingly, my sad model didn't break or fall apart. It just kind of leaned in until it touched its cardboard base...and stayed leaned in once Mrs. K removed the weights. Regardless, I counted the weak demonstration as a major victory, though any bravado that I might have exhibited that day was there purely to mask embarrassment. I'll spare you the details of the awesome designs and constructions that the other teams presented, as their victory is not what this story is about.
After each of the bridges was tested and judged, Mrs. K began handing out awards. They were certificates that she had created and printed out herself, each with 1980's-era clip art and titles such as "Strongest Design" and "Best Teamwork". I clapped along with the others, occasionally pretending to be shocked when we failed to win a category. After all of the awards had been handed out, Mrs. K gave a short speech about the importance of leadership. I sunk in my chair, thinking that the hammer would surely fall my way once the moral of the story kicked in.
She looked at me and smiled; I cringed. Then Mrs. K surprised me. She told everyone that I had shown a special quality in leadership and that I deserved a special award for what I had done. Her smile grew as she handed me - not my group, but just me - a certificate with my name on it. The picture displayed a man treading water, so that only his head was visible. Surrounding him, fins peaked through the surface of the water, alluding to the deadly sharks circling him below. Atop the certificate read, "Coolness Under Pressure". It was my very own award, and believe me when I tell you that I earned it.
* For the life of me, I can't remember what the SPACE acronym stood for. I've tried searching for mentions of it online to no avail, which leads me to believe that it was a local program for Huntsville, AL. It makes perfect sense that the powers-that-were would choose a term to reflect our civic Rocket City, USA identity. However, the fact that I also couldn't remember what SPACE stood for when I was still in the program tells me that I probably wasn't the best candidate for it.
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