Floyd reviewed the customer's order. Experience had taught him that it was worth the time it took to do a quick proofread before printing however many copies were ordered. Seeing an error in the headline, he grabbed his red pen and marked the copy: the customer had transposed a couple of words. Strangely, he noticed that the same error kept appearing throughout the document. Could it be that what Floyd assumed was an error was actually correct? Deciding to play it safe, he swiveled his chair around, picked up his desk phone, and dialed the client's number.
"Hello," the friendly voice on the other end of the line greeted, "this is Andrew."
"Hey, Andrew," Floyd replied. "This is Floyd over at Showalter Printing."
"Hi, Floyd," Andrew said warmly. "How're the brochures coming along?"
"That's actually what I’m calling about" Floyd said, happy to get to the point so quickly, "I was doing a quick review of the proof you submitted and I came across this weird error: every instance of your organization's name is listed as 'The Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention.' I think whoever made this up, their computer has a glitch in the autocorrect."
"There's no error," Andrew said, still warmly, though some weariness had entered his voice. "We are indeed the Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention. I know, most people expect it to be 'suicide prevention awareness,' but we're the other way 'round."
"Wait," Floyd said, confused, "you guys try to get be people to commit suicide?! That's horrible!"
"Not at all," Andrew said, the exhaustion in his voice belying the fact that this was not his first time having this conversation. "We work to prevent the public from being aware that suicide exists at all. When Mr. Bromberg passed away, he left instructions in his will that a sizable portion of his substantial wealth should go to establish this nonprofit. So, we do our best to fulfill his wishes.
"To be clear," Andrew added, "we don't lie to anyone or try to convince anyone that suicide doesn't happen. Instead, we target individuals who have never heard of suicide to begin with and work to keep it that way."
"Are you sure he didn't make a mistake when writing his will?" Floyd asked, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.
"That," Andrew said, as if by rote, "is almost certainly the case. After speaking with his widow and those who knew him, we are quite certain that Mr. Bromberg simply mistyped his wishes in his will. Unfortunately, our lawyers have made it very clear that we must uphold the wording as it appears in his last will and testament."
"That's awful," Floyd said, surprised by his own candidness. "I mean," he stumbled, trying to recover, "I'm surprised that your entire organization is founded on a mistake. Why is his family not fighting it?"
"Oh, they are," Andrew said, sounding a bit more cheerful. "Particularly his widow. I hope she succeeds and shuts us down. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prevent people from learning about suicide? It's basically impossible."
"Why not just shut down your organization on your own?" offered Floyd. "Why wait for Mrs. Bromberg to do it?"
"The founding of this society was a stipulation for other charities to receive funding," Andrew said, the weariness in voice growing again. "If we close our doors, several actually worthwhile groups will have to pay back their funds. At least, until Mary Ellen wins her case and is able to convince a judge that this organization exists against her late husband's wishes. I believe the next hearing is in about four months, so, fingers crossed!"
Floyd thought about what he'd been hearing, his initial shock replaced with sympathy. And by the sound in his voice, Andrew had had to explain this same story plenty of times already. Instead of being angry, he felt sorry for the guy.
"That sounds rough," he offered lamely. "Well, I guess I've got what I need. I'll print up these brochures and send them to the address we have on file. Sorry to bother you."
"It's fine," Andrew said, sighing slightly. "I'm used to it."
Showing posts with label farce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label farce. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2020
Monday, March 2, 2020
Summons
Brian returned the contents of his jeans' pockets as he walked away from the security detail at the entrance of the courthouse. Since this was his first time going to jury duty since moving to his new place, he wasn't sure where he needed to go. He pulled the summons from his jacket pocket to see if he could decipher the instructions now that he was physically in the building, but it was no use. Brian looked around for someone he could ask for help and saw a woman behind a desk a little ways away, just in front of the elevators. Brian walked towards her.
"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"
"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.
"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.
"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.
"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"
"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.
"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."
"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"
"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"
"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."
Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"
"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."
Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.
After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.
Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.
Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch s II, rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.
After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.
Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.
"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"
"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.
"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.
"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.
"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.
"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.
Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.
And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.
"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.
"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.
Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"
"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.
"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."
"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."
"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.
"It does," the woman said, nodding.
Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.
"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”
Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.
"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.
"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.
"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."
"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"
"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.
"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.
"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.
"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"
"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.
"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."
"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"
"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"
"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."
Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"
"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."
Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.
After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.
Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.
Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch s II, rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.
After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.
Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.
"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"
"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.
"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.
"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.
"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.
"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.
Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.
And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.
"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.
"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.
Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"
"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.
"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."
"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."
"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.
"It does," the woman said, nodding.
Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.
"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”
Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.
"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.
"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.
"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."
Monday, February 3, 2020
Lunchtime
"Hey, Charlie," Ralph said as his coworker took a seat next to him.
"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.
"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.
"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.
"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"
"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."
"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"
"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.
Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.
Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.
"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.
"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.
"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."
"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."
Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"
Charlie nodded as he took another bite.
"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"
"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."
Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.
Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"
"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.
"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.
"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.
"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"
"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."
"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"
"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.
Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.
Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.
"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.
"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.
"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."
"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."
Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"
Charlie nodded as he took another bite.
"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"
"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."
Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.
Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Support Group
Moore walked into the room and quietly found a seat. The metal folding chairs were arranged in a small circle, allowing the attendees to face each other. A couple of young women were at a small table in the back of the room, helping themselves to the coffee and donuts. Moore had heard about support groups like this one before, but had never attended one until today. Life was hard for him, made all the harder from the feeling that no one understood what he was going through. Still, he felt a little silly being there; after all, how many millions of people suffered fates much worse than him? He started having second thoughts and considered leaving.
As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.
"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."
"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."
"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"
"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."
Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."
"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."
"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."
Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.
"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.
Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.
"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"
Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.
"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."
With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.
"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."
"Hi, Justin," the group said together.
"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.
"Okay, who'd like to share next?"
"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."
"Hi, Candy," said the group.
"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.
"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.
"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"
The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.
With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.
"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."
"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.
"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.
"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.
"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.
"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."
Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.
"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.
"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."
As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.
"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."
"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."
"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"
"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."
Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."
"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."
"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."
Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.
"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.
Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.
"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"
Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.
"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."
With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.
"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."
"Hi, Justin," the group said together.
"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.
"Okay, who'd like to share next?"
"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."
"Hi, Candy," said the group.
"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.
"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.
"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."
"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"
The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.
With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.
"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."
"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.
"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.
"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.
"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.
"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."
Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.
"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.
"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
On Matters of Fashion
"Gentlemen," Worthington said, gently swirly the snifter of brandy in his hand, "thank you for meeting me here."
"Here" in this case being the local gentlemen's club to which the gathered members belonged. They were in the library, which meant they were surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books. Despite being a library, the books were for show and were rarely (if ever) read. No, the library was simply a place to gather and sit while indulging in tobacco or alcohol with other men of similar means and tastes.
While some men owned businesses or were retired, Worthington was the son of a textile magnate. He was college-educated, but many of those gathered with him saw him as little more than a child allowed to associate with the adults due to the insistence of his father. Still, Archibald Worthington was a respected man, so his son’s invitation was honored—or more likely, humored—albeit begrudgingly.
"There is time for pleasantries later," Dickson said lighting his pipe as he leaned on the mantle above the fireplace. "Get to the point of this gathering."
"Efficient as always, Reginald" Worthington said flatly. He put his drink down on an end table and walked to stand in front of a bookcase on the northern side of the room. "We are here because there is an untapped market that is begging to be exploited." At the word "market," the group groaned quietly.
"If you had told me this was a business matter," Hornsby said from his overstuffed armchair, his jowls trembling as he spoke, "I would have sent my steward, as he is responsible for such things."
"And that is why I concealed the nature of this meeting until now," Worthington replied, a smug grin creeping across his face. "And besides, while this may be about a potential business venture, I feel with certainty that you will want to hear this firsthand."
"Very well," Fitzpatrick said, cleaning his monocle with a silk handkerchief, "get on with it. The sooner you finish your proposal, the sooner we can tell you 'no' and be on our way."
"We shall see," Worthington said, his smug grin still firmly in place. "Now, what is the one item most difficult to purchase at a haberdashery?" Various responses came from the crowd:
"Genuine ivory tobacco pipes"
"Mollusk silk handkerchiefs"
"Peruvian mustache wax"
"Polar bear fur coats"
"Perhaps I should have phrased my question differently," Worthington said thoughtfully. "What I mean to ask is what is the most embarrassing item to purchase?" Again, various responses were offered:
"Leather softened by the toothless gumming of Indochinese women"
"Icelandic necropants"
"Opium"
Worthington became visibly uncomfortable by some of the items mentioned and tried to quickly regain control of the meeting.
"I am referring to undergarments," he said over the group, who had continued to reply to his earlier question. "Undergarments can be quite embarrassing to purchase, especially when other customers are in the shop with you."
"And what is your plan to solve this?" Dickson asked incredulously. "Underclothes are not meant to be discussed. They are meant to be purchased with subtle glances and hand gestures while the cost is added to the bill under 'accessories' or some such."
"But why is this so?" Worthington asked rhetorically. "It would be one thing if women were present, but the fairer sex cares little for clothes shopping, so the risk of that is nearly nonexistent. And the haberdasher already has intimate knowledge of our various measurements, so any discomfiture cannot be because of him. No, society has taught us to be ashamed of the male form. In ancient Greece, men regularly exercised nude, but today even a trip to the seashore requires extensive covering.
"I say no longer! I say that we embrace our masculinity and establish our own haberdashery dedicated exclusively to undergarments."
There was quite a bit of muttering from those gathered. Worthington, not wanting to lose his momentum, pressed forward.
"I am so confident in the need for a place where men are able to openly purchase the most intimate of apparel, that I will put my name on the business: Worthington's."
"To be clear," Fitzpatrick said, reaching in his waistcoat pocket for his snuff tin, "I think this concept is foolhardy. However, if the most personal of clothing is to be sold at this proposed shop, why not use your Christian name? Or are you hoping that customers will associate the business with your father?"
"And it should sound more mysterious," Hornsby added, playing with the curled end of his mustache. "Imagine if a man were expecting a traditional haberdashery and walks in to find only breeches on display."
"Very well," Worthington said. "Are we in agreement then? We shall establish as the first intimate apparel haberdashery and finally make shopping for undergarments not only a shameless experience, but an enjoyable one! Here’s to Victor’s Secret!"
"Here" in this case being the local gentlemen's club to which the gathered members belonged. They were in the library, which meant they were surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books. Despite being a library, the books were for show and were rarely (if ever) read. No, the library was simply a place to gather and sit while indulging in tobacco or alcohol with other men of similar means and tastes.
While some men owned businesses or were retired, Worthington was the son of a textile magnate. He was college-educated, but many of those gathered with him saw him as little more than a child allowed to associate with the adults due to the insistence of his father. Still, Archibald Worthington was a respected man, so his son’s invitation was honored—or more likely, humored—albeit begrudgingly.
"There is time for pleasantries later," Dickson said lighting his pipe as he leaned on the mantle above the fireplace. "Get to the point of this gathering."
"Efficient as always, Reginald" Worthington said flatly. He put his drink down on an end table and walked to stand in front of a bookcase on the northern side of the room. "We are here because there is an untapped market that is begging to be exploited." At the word "market," the group groaned quietly.
"If you had told me this was a business matter," Hornsby said from his overstuffed armchair, his jowls trembling as he spoke, "I would have sent my steward, as he is responsible for such things."
"And that is why I concealed the nature of this meeting until now," Worthington replied, a smug grin creeping across his face. "And besides, while this may be about a potential business venture, I feel with certainty that you will want to hear this firsthand."
"Very well," Fitzpatrick said, cleaning his monocle with a silk handkerchief, "get on with it. The sooner you finish your proposal, the sooner we can tell you 'no' and be on our way."
"We shall see," Worthington said, his smug grin still firmly in place. "Now, what is the one item most difficult to purchase at a haberdashery?" Various responses came from the crowd:
"Genuine ivory tobacco pipes"
"Mollusk silk handkerchiefs"
"Peruvian mustache wax"
"Polar bear fur coats"
"Perhaps I should have phrased my question differently," Worthington said thoughtfully. "What I mean to ask is what is the most embarrassing item to purchase?" Again, various responses were offered:
"Leather softened by the toothless gumming of Indochinese women"
"Icelandic necropants"
"Opium"
Worthington became visibly uncomfortable by some of the items mentioned and tried to quickly regain control of the meeting.
"I am referring to undergarments," he said over the group, who had continued to reply to his earlier question. "Undergarments can be quite embarrassing to purchase, especially when other customers are in the shop with you."
"And what is your plan to solve this?" Dickson asked incredulously. "Underclothes are not meant to be discussed. They are meant to be purchased with subtle glances and hand gestures while the cost is added to the bill under 'accessories' or some such."
"But why is this so?" Worthington asked rhetorically. "It would be one thing if women were present, but the fairer sex cares little for clothes shopping, so the risk of that is nearly nonexistent. And the haberdasher already has intimate knowledge of our various measurements, so any discomfiture cannot be because of him. No, society has taught us to be ashamed of the male form. In ancient Greece, men regularly exercised nude, but today even a trip to the seashore requires extensive covering.
"I say no longer! I say that we embrace our masculinity and establish our own haberdashery dedicated exclusively to undergarments."
There was quite a bit of muttering from those gathered. Worthington, not wanting to lose his momentum, pressed forward.
"I am so confident in the need for a place where men are able to openly purchase the most intimate of apparel, that I will put my name on the business: Worthington's."
"To be clear," Fitzpatrick said, reaching in his waistcoat pocket for his snuff tin, "I think this concept is foolhardy. However, if the most personal of clothing is to be sold at this proposed shop, why not use your Christian name? Or are you hoping that customers will associate the business with your father?"
"And it should sound more mysterious," Hornsby added, playing with the curled end of his mustache. "Imagine if a man were expecting a traditional haberdashery and walks in to find only breeches on display."
"Very well," Worthington said. "Are we in agreement then? We shall establish as the first intimate apparel haberdashery and finally make shopping for undergarments not only a shameless experience, but an enjoyable one! Here’s to Victor’s Secret!"
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
One Dark Night
Todd looked at the text message on the cell phone, confirming that he had the right address. All these warehouses look the same, he thought as he pocketed the phone and pulled off his backpack, walking around to the back of the building. He pulled out another phone, this one with a cable attached, though the cable had been cut, exposing bare wires. He wired the adapter into the alarm system, rerouting its signal—if he just cut the power line, the security company would know something was wrong and send the cops. With the alarm disabled, he pulled some small wire tools from his back pocket and began picking the lock on the door.
Todd was a low-level crook and this wasn't his first breaking and entering, but it was the first time he did it for someone else, a client. It felt weird, like he was working at an office job or something. Come to think of it, the whole thing felt weird.
He was at the gym last week and when he opened his locker to grab his stuff before going home, there was a brown paper bag with ten grand in cash and a prepaid cell phone. The phone had an unread text message waiting for him. It said that the money was a "retainer" payment and if Todd took it, he'd need to be willing to take a job. It didn't feel right, but with the cops sniffing around his pawn shop that he used as a front, he needed the cash. When he got a text a few days later with an address and instructions to "get inside and wait for text," it made about as much sense as anything else had so far.
With the lock picked, Todd walked inside. It was nearly too dark to see inside, but there were a few skylights scattered across the ceiling that let in moonlight, which allowed Todd to walk across the warehouse without bumping into anything. He nearly made it to an adjacent office on the far side of the warehouse when he heard someone speak.
"Decent work disabling the alarm," a slightly nasal baritone voice said. "Too bad 'decent' isn't good enough with me on the job."
"What the crap?" Todd said, turning to face the voice. All he saw was a blur of shiny fabric as the speaker leaped from off a large wooden crate below a skylight and into the darkness. Just then, the prepaid phone in his pocket vibrated, alerting him of a new text message. Instinctively, Todd pull out the phone and read the text.
Having fun?
"You set this up?" Todd shouted into the darkness. "That's entrapment!"
"Actually," the unseen voice said, "only government officials can entrap someone. Also, I didn't set up anything."
The phone vibrated in Todd's hand. He looked down.
He's right
"What's going on?!" Todd screamed, nearly at a panic. Weird he could handle, but everything was getting downright insane.
Suddenly, a man jumped into view. He wore a yellow and gold spandex body suit that covered everything but his eyes, ears, mouth, and chin. A cape hung from his back and he wore glasses over his mask. The man was thin but athletic looking, like a gymnast or diver. He stood in front of Todd in what looked like karate pose: slightly crouched with hands in "chopping" form held up in front of his face.
"Oh, great," Todd said sarcastically, "a friggin' superhero."
"Actually," the other man said, "I have no super powers, though I am a vigilante, operating outside the law."
"Look," Todd said wearily, "I don't want any trouble. I just needed the cash and they said to come here."
"Being destitute is no excuse for breaking the law," the spandex-clad man said condescendingly.
"Who are you supposed to be anyway?" Todd asked. "The Incredible Know-it-all?"
"I'm sure it's hard to see in this lighting," the masked hero said, "but I have a stylized capital letter P on my costume, for I am the Pedant!"
"What, like a pedophile?" Todd asked, backing away slightly.
"Why does everyone keep asking that?" the Pedant asked rhetorically. "A pedant is someone who is focused on details and righting wrongs."
"Or to put it another way," a different, though still nasally voice called out of the darkness, "he's anal retentive!"
"It can't be!" the Pedant said, turning around as he tried to find the new speaker.
"Now what?" Todd asked, his worry replaced with annoyed confusion.
"It sounds like my arch-rival," the Pedant said, continuing his frantic search in the darkness, "but that’s impossible! He's currently under house arrest with a tracking ankle monitor; if he left, it would incur the wrath of county judge Davis!"
"And what if I never left home?" the voice called out in a near laugh.
"But that would mean—" the Pedant started.
"Indeed!" the voice said as all of the lights in the warehouse turned on. Both Todd and the Pedant had to squint under the bright lights. Todd, shielding his eyes, looked around. The front of the crate that the Pedant had leapt off of earlier opened downward, drawbridge-style, revealing a large television screen inside. It turned on, revealing what looked like a man in front of a web camera wearing clown makeup.
"The Annoyer!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.
"The very same!" the man on the screen cackled. "I bet you weren't expecting such an elaborate ruse, now were you, Pee Dance?"
"You know that's not my name, Greg!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.
"You've got to be kidding me," Todd said to himself. "Was this job just to tick him off?" he asked the Annoyer, pointing at the Pedant.
"And you've performed admirably!" Greg exclaimed. "You'll find another ten thousand dollars in the top drawer of the desk in the office just behind you."
"I'm sure gramps would be so proud of how you're spending your inheritance," the Pedant sarcastically said as Todd walked towards the office.
"I'm not the one going around beating up people and saying that I'm making the world a better place," the Annoyer said, rolling his eyes. "And at least I picked a name that makes sense, Alan."
"I've explained my title to you," the Pedant said, annoyed (appropriately enough). "You know it makes sense."
"If it makes sense," Greg said, "then why do you need to constantly explain it to people?"
"That's just because people are undereducated," Alan replied.
As the two grown men wearing either a costume and makeup continued to bicker, Todd walked out of the warehouse, another stack of hundreds in his backpack. Once outside, he took the prepaid phone he had been contacted on—apparently by a guy named Greg who just wanted to annoy his brother or cousin or whatever—and chucked it as far as he could down the street. When he heard it crash a block or so away, he started walking back to his car in the opposite direction.
Lesson learned, Todd thought. There’s no such thing as "easy money."
Todd was a low-level crook and this wasn't his first breaking and entering, but it was the first time he did it for someone else, a client. It felt weird, like he was working at an office job or something. Come to think of it, the whole thing felt weird.
He was at the gym last week and when he opened his locker to grab his stuff before going home, there was a brown paper bag with ten grand in cash and a prepaid cell phone. The phone had an unread text message waiting for him. It said that the money was a "retainer" payment and if Todd took it, he'd need to be willing to take a job. It didn't feel right, but with the cops sniffing around his pawn shop that he used as a front, he needed the cash. When he got a text a few days later with an address and instructions to "get inside and wait for text," it made about as much sense as anything else had so far.
With the lock picked, Todd walked inside. It was nearly too dark to see inside, but there were a few skylights scattered across the ceiling that let in moonlight, which allowed Todd to walk across the warehouse without bumping into anything. He nearly made it to an adjacent office on the far side of the warehouse when he heard someone speak.
"Decent work disabling the alarm," a slightly nasal baritone voice said. "Too bad 'decent' isn't good enough with me on the job."
"What the crap?" Todd said, turning to face the voice. All he saw was a blur of shiny fabric as the speaker leaped from off a large wooden crate below a skylight and into the darkness. Just then, the prepaid phone in his pocket vibrated, alerting him of a new text message. Instinctively, Todd pull out the phone and read the text.
Having fun?
"You set this up?" Todd shouted into the darkness. "That's entrapment!"
"Actually," the unseen voice said, "only government officials can entrap someone. Also, I didn't set up anything."
The phone vibrated in Todd's hand. He looked down.
He's right
"What's going on?!" Todd screamed, nearly at a panic. Weird he could handle, but everything was getting downright insane.
Suddenly, a man jumped into view. He wore a yellow and gold spandex body suit that covered everything but his eyes, ears, mouth, and chin. A cape hung from his back and he wore glasses over his mask. The man was thin but athletic looking, like a gymnast or diver. He stood in front of Todd in what looked like karate pose: slightly crouched with hands in "chopping" form held up in front of his face.
"Oh, great," Todd said sarcastically, "a friggin' superhero."
"Actually," the other man said, "I have no super powers, though I am a vigilante, operating outside the law."
"Look," Todd said wearily, "I don't want any trouble. I just needed the cash and they said to come here."
"Being destitute is no excuse for breaking the law," the spandex-clad man said condescendingly.
"Who are you supposed to be anyway?" Todd asked. "The Incredible Know-it-all?"
"I'm sure it's hard to see in this lighting," the masked hero said, "but I have a stylized capital letter P on my costume, for I am the Pedant!"
"What, like a pedophile?" Todd asked, backing away slightly.
"Why does everyone keep asking that?" the Pedant asked rhetorically. "A pedant is someone who is focused on details and righting wrongs."
"Or to put it another way," a different, though still nasally voice called out of the darkness, "he's anal retentive!"
"It can't be!" the Pedant said, turning around as he tried to find the new speaker.
"Now what?" Todd asked, his worry replaced with annoyed confusion.
"It sounds like my arch-rival," the Pedant said, continuing his frantic search in the darkness, "but that’s impossible! He's currently under house arrest with a tracking ankle monitor; if he left, it would incur the wrath of county judge Davis!"
"And what if I never left home?" the voice called out in a near laugh.
"But that would mean—" the Pedant started.
"Indeed!" the voice said as all of the lights in the warehouse turned on. Both Todd and the Pedant had to squint under the bright lights. Todd, shielding his eyes, looked around. The front of the crate that the Pedant had leapt off of earlier opened downward, drawbridge-style, revealing a large television screen inside. It turned on, revealing what looked like a man in front of a web camera wearing clown makeup.
"The Annoyer!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.
"The very same!" the man on the screen cackled. "I bet you weren't expecting such an elaborate ruse, now were you, Pee Dance?"
"You know that's not my name, Greg!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.
"You've got to be kidding me," Todd said to himself. "Was this job just to tick him off?" he asked the Annoyer, pointing at the Pedant.
"And you've performed admirably!" Greg exclaimed. "You'll find another ten thousand dollars in the top drawer of the desk in the office just behind you."
"I'm sure gramps would be so proud of how you're spending your inheritance," the Pedant sarcastically said as Todd walked towards the office.
"I'm not the one going around beating up people and saying that I'm making the world a better place," the Annoyer said, rolling his eyes. "And at least I picked a name that makes sense, Alan."
"I've explained my title to you," the Pedant said, annoyed (appropriately enough). "You know it makes sense."
"If it makes sense," Greg said, "then why do you need to constantly explain it to people?"
"That's just because people are undereducated," Alan replied.
As the two grown men wearing either a costume and makeup continued to bicker, Todd walked out of the warehouse, another stack of hundreds in his backpack. Once outside, he took the prepaid phone he had been contacted on—apparently by a guy named Greg who just wanted to annoy his brother or cousin or whatever—and chucked it as far as he could down the street. When he heard it crash a block or so away, he started walking back to his car in the opposite direction.
Lesson learned, Todd thought. There’s no such thing as "easy money."
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Pecking Order
Chase looked at his phone. If he left now, he could make it to his first class just before the bell rung. He took a deep breath, got out his car, and headed for the entrance of Rutherford B. Hayes High School.
Once inside, Chase walked at medium speed: if he walked either too fast or too slow, he’d attract attention and he wanted to go at least one day without being hassled by anyone. Well, if he was being honest, the person he really wanted to avoid was Dexter. Dexter was relentless with his teasing and mocking. Chase knew that the word “bully” was really controversial now and he, along with the rest of the school, had been warned about throwing the word around frivolously, but he felt that it applied to Dexter. Why Dexter chose him over anyone else to torment, Chase didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Dexter made Chase’s time at school miserable.
As he walked at the most inconspicuous pace he could, he suddenly heard his name called.
“Hey, meathead!” It was Dexter.
Chase looked up as he walked. Dexter and his cronies had come out of nowhere and were now following behind him, matching his speed.
“Come on, Dexter,” Chase said without slowing down. “I need to get to class.”
“What?” Dexter asked, feigning shock. “Why we would never stop you from making it to Algebra One,” emphasizing the last words.
“Man, you know I’m in Geometry.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dexter said condescendingly, “I forgot that you’re a cheater.”
“I just studied,” Chase said, wanting to put the topic behind him.
“Yeah?” Dexter said, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “At this rate you’ll reach my level by the time you’re thirty.”
“Not everyone has to be good at that stuff,” Chase mumbled.
“That’s right,” Dexter said, mockingly, “because you’re going to just work at the local steel plant whereas I’m going to be designing robots to put you out of a job. Really astute observation, Chasey!”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Chase asked, getting fed up, though not raising his voice. Dexter stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Chase was nearly a foot taller than Dexter and almost a hundred pounds heavier, mostly in muscle. If Chase used his size in any way to get past Dexter, he could be expelled. The school had a zero tolerance policy when it came to physical intimidation and it was so strict that students who violated it were immediately expelled without any lesser punishment first, like detention or suspension. This had changed the power dynamic among students and nerds really took advantage of it: being weaker meant being control of any situation and few were weaker than Dexter.
“What’s the matter, jock?” Dexter said, spitting out the insult. “Can’t handle a little conversation? I guess that’s why I’m the captain of the debate team and you’re just on the football team.”
“You know that playing sports used to be cool,” Chase said, looking at his shoes.
“And smoking used to be cool, but now we know better and look how much better the world is.”
“Dexter,” Chase said, “I just want to get to class. Will you please move?”
“Of course!” Dexter said, arching his fingers, “but you know the rules: if we don’t get our payment, you must answer our riddles three.”
“I’ve told you before: I don’t have time after practice to pick up any comic books or Magic cards or whatever.”
“Do you at least have some Mountain Dew?” Herbert, one of Dexter’s cronies, asked.
“No,” Chase said.
“Riddle the first,” Dexter said ominously. “Gertrude, you’re up.” A chubby girl with turquoise colored hair and a septum ring hanging from her nose stepped forward. “Go easy on him—he’ll still get it wrong.”
“Finish this line from The Holy Grail: ‘None shall blank.’” Gertrude said.
“I said to go easy on him, not giftwrap it!” Dexter said, annoyed.
“I don’t know, ‘live’?” Chase offered lamely.
“’None shall pass!’” Gertrude said proudly.
“Ha!” Dexter laughed. “You just keep surprising me with how little you know. Riddle the second. Alvin, go.” A boy with dark hair, a wispy moustache, and thick glasses took a step forward.
“How hard should I make it?” Alvin asked his leader in a nasally voice.
“You know what?” Dexter said. “I’m feeling generous, so keep it at n00b level.”
Alvin cleared his throat. “Name at least two of the original Fantastic Four’s secret identities.”
Chase perked up. He actually knew this one!
“Jessica Alba and Chris Evans!” he said with confidence.
“Those are the actors who played them in that dumb movie,” Alvin said, shaking his head. “Reed Richards is Mr. Fantastic, Sue Storm is the Invisible Girl, Johnny Storm is the Human Torch, and Ben Grimm is the Ever Lovin’, Blue-eyed Thing.”
“Actually,” Herbert piped in, “Sue is the Invisible Woman and Johnny—“
“I said the original team,” Alvin said, cutting him off.
“Oh,” Herbert said, embarrassed.
“Riddle the third,” Dexter said. “I think I’ll handle this one myself. Tell me, Chase, who wrote the three laws of robotics?”
“Some scientist,” Chase said, just wanting this exercise in humiliation to be over.
“Yes, but can you be more specific? I’ll even give you a hint: his first name was Isaac.”
“N—“ Chase started, but stopped himself short. He thought remembered an Isaac being the answer to one of these trivia questions a few weeks ago. “Asimov?” he ventured.
Gertrude and Herbert looked shocked, but Dexter just looked annoyed. “Lucky guess,” he said.
“Great,” Chase said. “Can I go to class now?”
“I don’t know ‘can’ you?” Alvin asked, mockingly.
Dexter held up a hand, signaling Alvin to back down. “Fine,” he said, stepping back from his victim, allowing him to pass. Chase took only a few steps when the bell rang.
“I sure hope you have a hall pass,” Dexter said. Chase turned to look and saw everyone in the group hold up a laminated hall pass. He dropped his head and sadly walked to his algebra class. Making matters worse, his tormentors started humming some song (which, unbeknownst to him, was the ending music to the Incredible Hulk television series).
Once inside, Chase walked at medium speed: if he walked either too fast or too slow, he’d attract attention and he wanted to go at least one day without being hassled by anyone. Well, if he was being honest, the person he really wanted to avoid was Dexter. Dexter was relentless with his teasing and mocking. Chase knew that the word “bully” was really controversial now and he, along with the rest of the school, had been warned about throwing the word around frivolously, but he felt that it applied to Dexter. Why Dexter chose him over anyone else to torment, Chase didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Dexter made Chase’s time at school miserable.
As he walked at the most inconspicuous pace he could, he suddenly heard his name called.
“Hey, meathead!” It was Dexter.
Chase looked up as he walked. Dexter and his cronies had come out of nowhere and were now following behind him, matching his speed.
“Come on, Dexter,” Chase said without slowing down. “I need to get to class.”
“What?” Dexter asked, feigning shock. “Why we would never stop you from making it to Algebra One,” emphasizing the last words.
“Man, you know I’m in Geometry.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dexter said condescendingly, “I forgot that you’re a cheater.”
“I just studied,” Chase said, wanting to put the topic behind him.
“Yeah?” Dexter said, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “At this rate you’ll reach my level by the time you’re thirty.”
“Not everyone has to be good at that stuff,” Chase mumbled.
“That’s right,” Dexter said, mockingly, “because you’re going to just work at the local steel plant whereas I’m going to be designing robots to put you out of a job. Really astute observation, Chasey!”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Chase asked, getting fed up, though not raising his voice. Dexter stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Chase was nearly a foot taller than Dexter and almost a hundred pounds heavier, mostly in muscle. If Chase used his size in any way to get past Dexter, he could be expelled. The school had a zero tolerance policy when it came to physical intimidation and it was so strict that students who violated it were immediately expelled without any lesser punishment first, like detention or suspension. This had changed the power dynamic among students and nerds really took advantage of it: being weaker meant being control of any situation and few were weaker than Dexter.
“What’s the matter, jock?” Dexter said, spitting out the insult. “Can’t handle a little conversation? I guess that’s why I’m the captain of the debate team and you’re just on the football team.”
“You know that playing sports used to be cool,” Chase said, looking at his shoes.
“And smoking used to be cool, but now we know better and look how much better the world is.”
“Dexter,” Chase said, “I just want to get to class. Will you please move?”
“Of course!” Dexter said, arching his fingers, “but you know the rules: if we don’t get our payment, you must answer our riddles three.”
“I’ve told you before: I don’t have time after practice to pick up any comic books or Magic cards or whatever.”
“Do you at least have some Mountain Dew?” Herbert, one of Dexter’s cronies, asked.
“No,” Chase said.
“Riddle the first,” Dexter said ominously. “Gertrude, you’re up.” A chubby girl with turquoise colored hair and a septum ring hanging from her nose stepped forward. “Go easy on him—he’ll still get it wrong.”
“Finish this line from The Holy Grail: ‘None shall blank.’” Gertrude said.
“I said to go easy on him, not giftwrap it!” Dexter said, annoyed.
“I don’t know, ‘live’?” Chase offered lamely.
“’None shall pass!’” Gertrude said proudly.
“Ha!” Dexter laughed. “You just keep surprising me with how little you know. Riddle the second. Alvin, go.” A boy with dark hair, a wispy moustache, and thick glasses took a step forward.
“How hard should I make it?” Alvin asked his leader in a nasally voice.
“You know what?” Dexter said. “I’m feeling generous, so keep it at n00b level.”
Alvin cleared his throat. “Name at least two of the original Fantastic Four’s secret identities.”
Chase perked up. He actually knew this one!
“Jessica Alba and Chris Evans!” he said with confidence.
“Those are the actors who played them in that dumb movie,” Alvin said, shaking his head. “Reed Richards is Mr. Fantastic, Sue Storm is the Invisible Girl, Johnny Storm is the Human Torch, and Ben Grimm is the Ever Lovin’, Blue-eyed Thing.”
“Actually,” Herbert piped in, “Sue is the Invisible Woman and Johnny—“
“I said the original team,” Alvin said, cutting him off.
“Oh,” Herbert said, embarrassed.
“Riddle the third,” Dexter said. “I think I’ll handle this one myself. Tell me, Chase, who wrote the three laws of robotics?”
“Some scientist,” Chase said, just wanting this exercise in humiliation to be over.
“Yes, but can you be more specific? I’ll even give you a hint: his first name was Isaac.”
“N—“ Chase started, but stopped himself short. He thought remembered an Isaac being the answer to one of these trivia questions a few weeks ago. “Asimov?” he ventured.
Gertrude and Herbert looked shocked, but Dexter just looked annoyed. “Lucky guess,” he said.
“Great,” Chase said. “Can I go to class now?”
“I don’t know ‘can’ you?” Alvin asked, mockingly.
Dexter held up a hand, signaling Alvin to back down. “Fine,” he said, stepping back from his victim, allowing him to pass. Chase took only a few steps when the bell rang.
“I sure hope you have a hall pass,” Dexter said. Chase turned to look and saw everyone in the group hold up a laminated hall pass. He dropped his head and sadly walked to his algebra class. Making matters worse, his tormentors started humming some song (which, unbeknownst to him, was the ending music to the Incredible Hulk television series).
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Pasta
“Hey, Andre,” Gordy called from the door of his office. “Come over here; I need to talk to you.”
Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.
“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.
With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.
“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”
Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.
“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”
“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”
Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.
“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”
Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”
“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”
“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”
Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”
“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”
“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”
Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”
“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”
Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”
“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”
“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”
“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”
“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”
Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”
“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”
“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.
“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”
Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”
“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.
Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”
“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.
“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”
Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”
“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.
“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”
“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.
Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”
Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”
“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”
“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.
“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.
“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).
“Believe me now?” Andre asked.
“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”
Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.
Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.
“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.
With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.
“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”
Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.
“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”
“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”
Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.
“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”
Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”
“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”
“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”
Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”
“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”
“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”
Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”
“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”
Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”
“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”
“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”
“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”
“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”
Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”
“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”
“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.
“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”
Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”
“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.
Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”
“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.
“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”
Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”
“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.
“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”
“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.
Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”
Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”
“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”
“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.
“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.
“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).
“Believe me now?” Andre asked.
“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”
Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Humilia
INT. OF AN APARTMENT. A man in his mid-twenties is primping in front of a mirror in a bathroom. He’s wearing artificially distressed jeans and an Ed Hardy t-shirt beneath an unbuttoned dress shirt with the collar “popped.” He sprays himself with an excessive amount of body spray before putting on a trilby (a short-brimmed fedora).
MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!
The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.
MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.
CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.
MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.
CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.
MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.
CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.
ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.
CUT to the man in a bar.
MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?
CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.
ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.
END
MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!
The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.
MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.
CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.
MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.
CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.
MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.
CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.
ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.
CUT to the man in a bar.
MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?
CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.
ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.
END
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Not in My House
Scene 1
INT. Kitchen
A husband and wife are finishing up their dinner preparations. What they are making is unimportant. The wife (MOM) places something on the table (like a bowl of salad or a roast).
MOM: You should tell Michael that dinner’s ready.
The husband (DAD) nods and walks out of the kitchen.
INT. Hallway, viewed from inside a bedroom, the door not quite closed
DAD is about to knock on the door, but pauses and looks in. Without saying a word, DAD’s eyes go big and he backs away with a look of horror on his face, bumping softly into the bathroom door behind him, pushing it open. DAD walks back to the kitchen.
INT. Kitchen
MOM: What’s going on? Where’s Michael?
DAD: [to himself] I just can’t believe it. You try to raise your kids right, but it all just falls apart on you.
MOM: What are you talking about?
DAD: [to MOM] I caught Michael using Coke.
MOM: [loud, but not quite a shout] Are you serious?! [quickly looks back towards the bedroom and changes to speaking in a loud whisper] Did you take it away?!
DAD: Why bother? I’m sure he’ll just get more.
MOM: Do you know where he got it?
DAD: No, but I’d guess that friend of his, Johnny, is involved. I never liked that kid.
MOM: Is that what Michael said?
DAD: No, once I saw what he was doing, I left. [ashamed] I just can’t look at him right now.
MOM: Hang on. Let’s find out what’s going on. I just can’t believe he’s using coke! [walks out of kitchen]
INT. Hallway.
We see MOM walking down the hall. This time, MIKE’s bedroom door is completely open, but the bathroom door across the hall is closed. The sound of a toilet flushing is heard. The door opens and MIKE, a teenager, comes out, a strong look of worry and fear is on his face.
MOM: Michael! What is this I hear about you using coke!?
MIKE: I just wanted to try it, that’s all!
MOM: Just TRY it?! You don’t just try something like that.
MIKE: Mom, it’s really not that big a deal. Most of my friends have it all the time.
MOM: And that makes it okay? Your friends don’t know what’s best for you, your father and I do.
MIKE: Okay, I’m sorry.
MOM: Sorry doesn’t cut it. Where’s the rest of it.
MIKE: I got scared, so I flushed it down the toilet. It’s gone.
MOM: [sighs] Where did you even get it?
MIKE: On the way home from school, there’s a corner store.
MOM: And they sell drugs there?!
MIKE: What?! No, I bought a Coke!
MOM: You don’t think that counts as drugs?
[DAD walks into the hall.]
DAD: You should know better, son. In this house, we drink Pepsi! [very dramatically, he opens a can of Pepsi and takes a sip] Ahh!
MOM: [not believing the ridiculousness of the situation] You caught him with Coca-cola?
DAD: Yeah, I did. You know that ever since I took the Pepsi Challenge all those years ago that this has been a Pepsi house.
MOM: [rolls eyes] I can’t believe this [throws hands in the air and walks away].
MIKE: Dad, there are other colas out there.
DAD: Not as far as I’m concerned!
MIKE: Stop telling me how to live my life! [walks into bedroom and slams door behind him]
A black screen appears with white letters:
Everyone has the right to choose for themselves. Talk to your kids about which cola is right for them.
END
Friday, June 28, 2013
Eloise and Thaddeus
Eloise had forgotten her parasol when she walked to the store one afternoon to purchase a new hatbox. Because of this, poor Eloise was exposed to dangerous ultraviolet radiation and her skin was tanned. Poor Eloise! What a dreadful thing to happen to such a fair girl and with so many young men that she passed on her way. You would think that at least one of them would offer to shade her beneath his newspaper, but you would be mistaken. When Eloise got back home (with her lovely new hatbox), one would almost think that she had grown up on a farm. Heaven forbid that any man should see her in such a state: he might think her lowly and common. Most assuredly she would have to seclude herself from the public until her skin had a chance to heal and return to its normal shade.
Thaddeus slipped his white gloves on as he was leaving the bank where he worked and entered the waiting carriage. He was a well-educated banking accountant and worked hard for Price & Sons Bank. Well, he certainly did not work hard, but he was industrious. Perhaps overly so, because he now had an embarrassing blemish that he was nervously concealing: a blister on his right thumb from gripping his ink-pen for too long. A paper cut was easy enough to explain, but a blister? If anyone were to see such a pustule on him they might think that he was nothing but a common laborer. He might as well stop doing anything civilized like waxing his mustache or taking his weekly bath.
Eloise looked out of the window from her bedroom where she had exiled herself. She could see that the carriage her father had sent out was returning. Who had he sent for this time? Likely some business associate that he wanted to impress by showing him around the grounds of the family estate. It was just as well that she was not leaving her room because she hated to have to introduce herself and pretend that she knew who the businessman was. But who was this? This did not look like any of her father’s normal associates. This was a younger man, whose lean frame was proof that he had never done any physical labor in his life, and his mustache was so thick and majestic that one would be forgiven to confuse it for pair of stray cats that had attached themselves to his face. Well, perhaps a brief visit from her room was in order today.
Thaddeus was uncomfortable with home visits like the one he was in the middle of, but Mister Cheddar was an important investor with Price & Sons Bank and Thaddeus’ father liked to keep a close eye on men with their proverbial fingers in his proverbial pie. As Thaddeus was feigning interest in the tour he was receiving, his attention was caught by someone exiting the house and walking towards them. Not just someone, but a lovely young woman with soft features and practically no chin at all. Thaddeus seemed to recall that Mister Cheddar had a daughter that was healing from an unfortunate run-in with the harsh light of day. This radiant creature must be her, with her long blonde hair that was tightly wrapped in a bun and a plump lower frame that was clearly used to sitting comfortably. Oh, he is to introduce himself? Of course!
Eloise was by his side when Thaddeus awoke in the hospital bed. When had he been brought here? What had befallen him? A doctor was fetched who explained that Thaddeus’ heart was far too weak from a lack of physical exercise and that he had had a minor moment of arrest, the cause of which the doctor did not know. He further explained that Thaddeus should be sure to strengthen his heart by joining a cricket club or coming to the hospital for regular electrical shocks that would increase his vigor significantly. His diagnosis rendered, the doctor removed himself to another patient’s bed, leaving the two young people alone.
How truly amazing! This lovely young man with the slight frame and voluminous mustache had a weak heart and simply looking upon Eloise, even in her ruddied state, sent him reeling—to the point of needing attention from a medical practitioner. Clearly, she had found herself a desirable gentleman. If only she could say what she thought of Thaddeus, but it was common knowledge that nothing was as unbecoming as a woman speaking her mind. Even to subtly intimate that she had opinions would be too much. The best that Eloise could hope for was that Thaddeus would show a fancy to her.
What a shame. She would be such a lovely young woman, if not for her dark skin. Thaddeus was no fool; he knew that just as he was expected to keep himself emaciated and well employed, young women were to keep themselves ample-bosomed and pale. Eloise had maintained the first criterion without issue, but when looking upon her visage he had to remind himself that she was not from the Indian subcontinent. Even so, had knew that she had spent too much time in the sunlight unprotected, so perhaps she would recover to a paleness that was not so much milky as translucent. And how could he be one to judge so harshly when he himself was hiding an abscess on his dominant thumb? Thaddeus decided that once he had had a chance to be invigorated with a few electrocutions that he would call upon Eloise to see if her skin’s tone had not been recovered.
Thaddeus slipped his white gloves on as he was leaving the bank where he worked and entered the waiting carriage. He was a well-educated banking accountant and worked hard for Price & Sons Bank. Well, he certainly did not work hard, but he was industrious. Perhaps overly so, because he now had an embarrassing blemish that he was nervously concealing: a blister on his right thumb from gripping his ink-pen for too long. A paper cut was easy enough to explain, but a blister? If anyone were to see such a pustule on him they might think that he was nothing but a common laborer. He might as well stop doing anything civilized like waxing his mustache or taking his weekly bath.
Eloise looked out of the window from her bedroom where she had exiled herself. She could see that the carriage her father had sent out was returning. Who had he sent for this time? Likely some business associate that he wanted to impress by showing him around the grounds of the family estate. It was just as well that she was not leaving her room because she hated to have to introduce herself and pretend that she knew who the businessman was. But who was this? This did not look like any of her father’s normal associates. This was a younger man, whose lean frame was proof that he had never done any physical labor in his life, and his mustache was so thick and majestic that one would be forgiven to confuse it for pair of stray cats that had attached themselves to his face. Well, perhaps a brief visit from her room was in order today.
Thaddeus was uncomfortable with home visits like the one he was in the middle of, but Mister Cheddar was an important investor with Price & Sons Bank and Thaddeus’ father liked to keep a close eye on men with their proverbial fingers in his proverbial pie. As Thaddeus was feigning interest in the tour he was receiving, his attention was caught by someone exiting the house and walking towards them. Not just someone, but a lovely young woman with soft features and practically no chin at all. Thaddeus seemed to recall that Mister Cheddar had a daughter that was healing from an unfortunate run-in with the harsh light of day. This radiant creature must be her, with her long blonde hair that was tightly wrapped in a bun and a plump lower frame that was clearly used to sitting comfortably. Oh, he is to introduce himself? Of course!
Eloise was by his side when Thaddeus awoke in the hospital bed. When had he been brought here? What had befallen him? A doctor was fetched who explained that Thaddeus’ heart was far too weak from a lack of physical exercise and that he had had a minor moment of arrest, the cause of which the doctor did not know. He further explained that Thaddeus should be sure to strengthen his heart by joining a cricket club or coming to the hospital for regular electrical shocks that would increase his vigor significantly. His diagnosis rendered, the doctor removed himself to another patient’s bed, leaving the two young people alone.
How truly amazing! This lovely young man with the slight frame and voluminous mustache had a weak heart and simply looking upon Eloise, even in her ruddied state, sent him reeling—to the point of needing attention from a medical practitioner. Clearly, she had found herself a desirable gentleman. If only she could say what she thought of Thaddeus, but it was common knowledge that nothing was as unbecoming as a woman speaking her mind. Even to subtly intimate that she had opinions would be too much. The best that Eloise could hope for was that Thaddeus would show a fancy to her.
What a shame. She would be such a lovely young woman, if not for her dark skin. Thaddeus was no fool; he knew that just as he was expected to keep himself emaciated and well employed, young women were to keep themselves ample-bosomed and pale. Eloise had maintained the first criterion without issue, but when looking upon her visage he had to remind himself that she was not from the Indian subcontinent. Even so, had knew that she had spent too much time in the sunlight unprotected, so perhaps she would recover to a paleness that was not so much milky as translucent. And how could he be one to judge so harshly when he himself was hiding an abscess on his dominant thumb? Thaddeus decided that once he had had a chance to be invigorated with a few electrocutions that he would call upon Eloise to see if her skin’s tone had not been recovered.
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