#33 - Emperor Norton

The boy woke them very early. He had pulled open the blackout curtains covering their bedroom windows and was bouncing at the foot of their bed.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” He shouted, clapping his hands.

Sarah rolled over, and shielding her eyes from the morning sunlight, said. “Joshua, what in the world?”

Her husband, John, kicked the bed sheets off. His eyes were still closed. “Birthday.” He said.

Sarah immediately perked up. “That’s right! Happy birthday buddy!”

Joshua was still bouncing. He started singing loudly. “Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday dear me-eee! Happy birthday to me!” By the end of the song, Sarah and John had joined in, substituting Joshua’s name in the appropriate spots. They sang with groggy morning voices.

John pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at his son. “Josh, I know you’re excited, but you’re not supposed to be jumping on the bed. You know that.” He said.

The boy stopped, but his expression remained defiant. “Hey! You can’t tell me what to do. Remember? Yesterday you guys said that today I’m the king!”

“That’s right. Today he’s the birthday boy. Today he’s the king.” Sarah said, rolling out of the bed.

John sat up. “Ok, but after today – after your reign has ended – no more jumping on the bed.”

Though they usually slept-in on Saturdays, they decided, at Joshua’s request, to have breakfast at a fast food restaurant that offered both an indoor playground and free paper crowns for children. John and Sarah sat at a small table inside the play area, eating sausage biscuits and circular hash browns while Joshua climbed on the brightly colored playground equipment.

“Josh, come and eat your biscuit.” John called to him.

“I’m finished.” Joshua said.

“You asked for it.” Sarah said. She picked up partially crumbled biscuit. “Look, you’ve barely touched it.”

“I’m not hungry!” Joshua shouted.

John and Sarah looked at one another. “It’s not worth starting a fight. I’ll wrap it up for him and he can eat it later.” She said.

“It’s his birthday.” John said, agreeing with her.

With the biscuit in Sarah’s purse, the three of them climbed into the car and drove downtown to the Red Leaf City Zoo. Joshua had always loved the zoo, and Sarah and John thought it might make a great surprise for his birthday.

“Where are we going now?” He asked from his child’s safety seat in the rear of their minivan.

“It’s a surprise for your birthday.” John said, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

Joshua seemed satisfied with the answer. He was still wearing the king’s crown from the restaurant, looking out the window like royalty, surveying the vast breadth of his kingdom. When they pulled into the zoo parking lot, it was as if he had awakened from a daze.

“This is the zoo, right?” He asked.

“Yes it is!” Sarah said, turning in her seat to face him.

“Surprise!” John said.

Joshua’s face remained blank. They parked, and as they were walking toward the front entrance, Sarah said, “You don’t look very happy. Don’t you want to see all the animals?”

“Yeah, you love the zoo, buddy.” John said.

Joshua looked like he was thinking, and then he said, “I love the zoo, but today, I want to ride. Not walk.”

“You wanna ride?” John said.

“Yeah, on the thing with the wheels.” Joshua said, skipping ahead of them. They were nearing the entrance.

“Like a stroller?” Sarah asked.

“Strollers are for babies.” John said, catching up with him. “You’re seven years old! You’re a king. Kings don’t ride strollers.”

“I want to.” Joshua said.

They paid ten dollars to rent one of the zoo’s antique strollers for the day. Though Joshua was small for his age, he still looked oversized squeezed into its brown metal seat. John and Sarah took turns pushing him along the paved and winding pathways of the zoo. They visited the monkey house, the aviary, the aquarium, and the petting zoo, where a black spotted goat tried to eat Joshua’s crown. John pushed him all the way to the north end of the zoo to see the giraffes. Joshua sat in the stroller gazing through the wrought iron fence at the enormous creature.

“He’s a giant, right?” Joshua said.

“He’s pretty big.” John said. He knelt down beside the stroller and said, “Buddy, are you ready to walk for a while?”

“No. I want to ride still.” Joshua said, staring up at the giraffe.

They moved on from the giraffes, and as they passed a large public map of the zoo, Sarah said, “Hey, look.” She pointed to a yellow square on the map labeled The Kingdom of the Cats. “You want to go see some lions and tigers?”

“Yeah!” Joshua said. “Let’s go see the lions and the tigers!”

The Kingdom of the Cats was a very large pit, designed to look like a jungle, and sectioned by tall dividers meant to look like the rocky face of a cliff. Each section contained a different species of large feline; spotted leopards, Bengal tigers, a cheetah. In the very last section, a very tired looking lion slept in the shade of a faux plaster banyan tree.

“Look there, Josh. That’s a lion, the King of the Jungle!” John said, pointing over the guardrail.

From his sitting position in the stroller, Joshua couldn’t see. He stretched his body and neck, but finally gave up and said, “I wanna see! Get me out!”

John lifted him out of the seat and put him on his shoulders. Joshua adjusted himself, straddling John’s neck. “Where is it?” He asked. 

John pointed to the sleeping lion. As soon as Joshua located it, he began to roar. “Raaawwww! Raaawwww!” But the lion didn’t stir.

“He’s not the king, I’m the king!” Joshua said. He raised his hands to his mouth, curving his fingers to form a tiny megaphone. Again, he roared, “Raaaawwww! Raaawww!”

“Let’s go look at some other animals.” Sarah said, trying to quiet him.

“No!” Joshua shouted. “I want to see him move!”

“Yep, let’s go.” John said, reaching up to take the boy from his shoulders.

Joshua began to squirm, flailing his legs. “You have to do what I say. I’m the king!”

In his effort to remain perched on John’s shoulders, the paper crown on his head toppled off and dropped over the guardrail, into the deep ravine separating them from the lion’s pit. “My king hat!” He cried. “Get it!”

Sarah saw an opportunity. “Nope, it’s gone. Too bad.”

“I need a new one.” Joshua said.

“That’s against the rules, Josh. You only get one crown, and once it’s gone, you’re not the king anymore.” Sarah said.

Joshua was sitting in the stroller again, pouting. His face was getting red.

“Yep, that’s right.” John confirmed. “You’re still the birthday boy, so you still get cake and ice cream later. But you’re not the king anymore. You can’t tell mommy and daddy what to do anymore.”

Joshua was silent, his face scrunched in anger.

“The short reign of King Joshua has come to an end.” Sarah said.

As they walked away from The Kingdom of the Cats, she leaned in close to John and whispered, “Thank God.” 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the incredible life of the real Joshua Norton, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#34 - Fabergé Egg

The day before the party, Peter called to ask if he could bring anything for the barbecue. He had stopped by Deering’s to fill up his gas tank and had decided to grab a bag of chips or something to contribute to the meal the next day. He paced the short aisles a while, examining overpriced bags of Chili ‘N’ Cheese Fritos and Chipotle and Cheddar flavored Kettle Chips. Finally, he dialed Alex’s number.

“Don’t worry about it.” Alex said. “We’re just happy you can come.”

“I feel like I should bring something.” Peter said.

He strolled away from the snack aisle and walked aimlessly toward a double glass-door refrigerator containing dairy products, lunch meat, and a few other items. On the lowest shelf were cartons of AA grade eggs.

“Hey,” Peter said, opening the refrigerator door and removing a carton. “Do you guys like deviled eggs? They go well with barbecue, right?”

“Sure, if you want to bring some.” Alex said.

“How about Maria? It’s her birthday, after all.” Peter said. He was carrying the eggs to the cash register at the front of the store.

“Yeah, she likes ‘em. But don’t worry about it – really – we’ll have plenty of food.”

Peter laid the eggs on the counter and handed a few bucks to the guy standing at the register.

“I think I’ll bring some – it’ll be fun to try my hand at it. All I ask is that, if they suck, you guys lie and say they’re awesome.” Peter said.

“They’ll be great, I’m sure.” Alex said.

At home, Peter boiled the eggs and let them cool on the countertop while he watched TV. Once they were close to room temperature, he cracked and peeled each one, and sliced them lengthwise to remove the yolks. He laid the empty halves out on a paper plate, like porcelain spoons without handles. The yolks he dropped into a clear glass mixing bowl and they stared at him like twelve foggy-yellow eyeballs. He added what he thought he should: mayonnaise, grainy brown mustard, a few spoonfuls of sweet pickle relish, salt, pepper, finely chopped onion. He mixed these together until the contents of the bowl looked like a mess of pastel mud. It wasn’t until he went to return the mayonnaise to the fridge that he saw the opened package of bacon, and it occurred to him that, though he couldn’t remember ever having eaten deviled eggs with bacon in the filling, it sounded pretty good. Eggs and bacon, how can you go wrong? He fried up a few strips, broke them into tiny pieces, and added them to the bowl of yellow yolk-mush.

After filling the egg whites with the mixture, Peter dusted them lightly with red paprika, the way his mother had when he was growing up. He covered them with a sheet of cellophane and stuck them in the refrigerator.

The following day at Alex and Maria’s, Peter carried the plate of eggs out to the backyard and placed it on the picnic table between a bowl of fruit salad and an array of condiments. Alex and Maria’s daughter had made a banner that had been taped to the edge of the table; in giant block letters it read HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY. Everyone hovered at the fringe of the patio, maybe twenty-five or so. Some of the faces were unfamiliar, but most of the guests were from the office at Stu-Co, where Peter and Alex had met. They all stood around in the grass making small talk and drinking from red plastic cups.

Peter wandered around, making sure to acknowledge the people he knew from work. He introduced himself to some of the unfamiliar faces, but quickly moved on before any real conversations formed. He filled a cup with lemonade, found an empty lawn chair near the grill, and plopped down in it. Alex was flipping burgers in a cloud of smoke.

“Looking good there.” Peter said.

“Yep. What a beautiful day, right?” Alex said.

Maria walked over with a plate of uncooked hotdogs.

“There’s the birthday girl!” Peter said, raising his cup of lemonade. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks!” Maria said. She darted off again, towards the house.

Alex loaded up a cake pan with a pile of brown, puck-like burgers. “Burgers are done!” He shouted out as he placed them on the picnic table beside a massive bag of buns. The guests casually wandered over to the table, continuing to talk as they filled their plates. Peter watched from his seat near the grill.

“You’d better get over there and get some food!” Alex said when he returned.

“Just waiting for the crowd to die down a bit.” Peter said.

When he finally did make it to the table a few minutes later, his plate of deviled eggs was empty. He glanced around and spotted one of his eggs balanced at the edge of a woman’s paper plate. Just as he was looking at her, she picked it up between two fingers and took a bite. She looked at the remaining half, nodded enthusiastically, and said something he couldn’t hear from his position near the table.

With his plate filled, he returned to his seat near the grill. “Looks like my eggs were a hit. They’re gone!” He said with a chuckle.

Alex looked at him with surprise. “I forgot you made those! I tried one right after we pulled the plastic off. Those are fantastic! I’ve never had deviled eggs with bacon before.”

“They were good?” Peter said, smiling.

“They were great!” Alex said.

The rest of the afternoon, people continued to comment on the deviled eggs. Several asked for the recipe. One woman said, “Come on, what’s the secret?”

“I guess just bacon.” Peter said, shrugging.

“The bacon’s good – but it has to be more than that.” The woman said, skeptically.

By the time he left Alex and Maria’s that afternoon, Peter had given out the recipe – as best as he could remember – to five women and two men. As he collected his empty plate, he said, “Jeez, I should have started charging people.”

“I’m surprised no one asked for your autograph.” Alex joked.

On the drive home, Peter’s thoughts were focused on deviled eggs. He reconsidered every step he had taken in the creation process: boiling and slicing, the amount of mayonnaise, the brand name of the spicy mustard, the size of the diced onion bits, the crispiness of the bacon, the paprika topping. It all seemed significant. And though he hadn’t tasted the finished product, he knew there were ways to improve upon what he had done with the first batch.

A week later, he was given the opportunity to perfect the recipe. This time, it was a family meal held at his mother’s home.

“I’ll bring some deviled eggs.” He said over the phone.

“Deviled eggs?” His mother said. “I’m not sure that goes well with lasagna, honey.”

“Trust me, Mom. You’ll love ‘em.” Peter said.

In preparation, he made a special trip to the market, and there purchased the ingredients that he believed would transform his great deviled eggs into the greatest deviled eggs anyone in his family had ever tasted. Larger eggs from free-range chickens. Hellmann’s mayonnaise (which, he noted, claimed to be the ‘best’). Thick-cut, applewood-smoked bacon. Scallions instead of onions. Artisan crafted Bread and Butter pickles for a homemade relish. And to top it all off, smoked paprika.  

Upon tasting Peter’s eggs, his family members unanimously agreed that he had successfully created a batch of deviled eggs unlike any they had tasted before.

His mother said, “These are too good to be called deviled eggs.”

His sister-in-law said, “I’d order these at a restaurant.”

Everyone ate happily, with plates of lasagna crisscrossing the table from hand to hand, an egg or two balanced on the side. Peter was able to taste his creation for the first time, and he agreed with his family’s consensus. Still, though he was glad to hear how much everyone loved the eggs, he couldn’t help but consider - before the meal was even finished - areas for improvement. And when his family members asked for the recipe, he remained vague in response.

“Oh, it’s just a basic deviled eggs recipe. Plus the bacon. But that’s the only difference.” He said.

In the weeks and months that followed, Peter pursued his recipe with diligence. He accepted every social invitation - dinner parties, company lunches, family get-togethers, house warming celebrations, wedding showers, sporting events, and office meetings – arriving with a rectangular Tupperware container in his hands, packed full of deviled eggs, the recipe always having been recently adjusted, tweaked, slightly enhanced in some surprising way.

Added to his original yolk-based filling, he tried variations with salmon, prawn, andouille sausage, capers, smoked eel, candied ham, lobster, sharp cheddar, pickled asparagus, dried apricots, sevillano olives, and roasted garlic. He surpassed the smoked paprika by topping the eggs with caviar, sliced almonds, toasted Asiago cheese, panko bread crumbs, or finely crumbled nori. His eggs became esthetically elaborate, and Peter concerned himself with not only flavor, but composition. He wanted his deviled eggs to be as beautiful as they were delicious.

For a very long time, his friends and family encouraged his passion, but they saw that it was taking its toll. Peter's online ordering of the finest ingredients had resulted in credit card debt. He wasn’t sleeping well. His work at Stu-Co was suffering. His kitchen was in shambles.

One day at work, while Peter had stepped away to make photocopies, Alex walked over and placed a small plate of deviled eggs on his desk. Maria had made them that morning. They were plain looking; very much like the eggs Peter had brought to the birthday party months before, minus the bacon. Alex waited for him there, and when Peter returned to his desk, Alex said, “Could you please taste one of Maria’s eggs?”

Peter looked at the plate on his desk. He laughed. “Why?”

“Because she made them for you. And because I want you to taste something.” Alex said.

“Okay.” Peter said. He picked up one of the eggs and popped the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed for a while, swallowed and smiled. “That’s pretty good.”

“Simple, right?” Alex said.

"Yeah, but good." Peter said.  

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Fabergé Eggs, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#36 - Joseph Jagger

The rear service gate of the Red Leaf City Zoo opened twice each day; once at eight o’clock in the morning, when the three member structural maintenance crew arrived, and again at four o’clock in the afternoon, when the crew had finished their work and exited the zoo. Josephine had observed their comings and goings from her bedroom window on the fourth floor of the Monte Carlo apartments on Bethel road, a complex of clay-colored brick buildings built across from City Park, overlooking the northern end of the zoo.

It was summer, school was out, and for the first time, Josephine’s parents had decided she was old enough to care for herself while they were away at work each day. She would be fourteen before school started again in the fall, and though the freedom of staying at home alone began as a thrill, by the end of the first month, she was incredibly bored. She couldn’t leave the apartment. She couldn’t answer the door (unless it was Mrs. Liao from across the hall). Daytime TV was monotonous (she had memorized the constantly recurring law firm advertisements). And her mother had been adamant that friends were not allowed.

Josephine was compliant with her parents’ rules for the entire month of June, but on the fifth of July, with smoky red bits of firecracker paper still littering sidewalks and streets, Josephine made the decision to leave the apartment. After having watched the zoo’s rear gate swing open and swallow up the three khaki-uniformed maintenance men so many times, a compulsion to slip through that gate had begun growing in her until, on that Tuesday morning following Independence Day, she felt as if she might go mad unless she gave it a try.

When her parents poked their heads into her room that morning to say goodbye, Josephine played her usual role. It was a few minutes past seven o’clock, and she was waiting for them, eyes closed, her body balled up beneath her neon-striped psychedelic bed sheets.

“Josephine.” Her mother called to her in a low voice.

Josephine grunted softly, shifting one of her legs, but keeping her eyes closed. It wasn’t the first time she had pretended to be asleep. Her performance was believable. She heard her father and mother walk across the room to her bed. They took turns kissing her forehead. Her mother said, “We’re taking off. Be good today. Call us if you need anything.”

Josephine opened her eyes slowly, trying to strike an expression of sleepy-confusion. She looked up at her parents, rubbing her eyes dramatically, and mid-yawn said, “Okay. I will.”

“Don’t just stay in bed forever.” Her dad said.

Josephine rolled over, away from them. “I won’t.” She said.

She stayed in bed, perfectly still and listening, until she was sure they were gone. As soon as she heard the front door shut, she tossed the sheets off and jumped out of bed. It took only a moment to change out of her pajamas and into a pair of cut-off shorts and her favorite tie-dyed Bob Marley t-shirt. The night before, Josephine had packed her school book bag with two cans of Diet Coke and a package of chocolate Ho Hos she had taken from the Fourth of July picnic she and her parents had attended, along with a paperback copy of Ender’s Game. She slid the straps over her shoulders and walked to the front door where she slipped a pair of pink flip-flops onto her feet. She quietly opened the door and peeked out into the hall to be sure Mrs. Liao wasn’t around. The hallway was empty. In the elevator, she pressed the lobby button and descended nervously, feeling as if her disobedience was something visible that everyone might recognize on her face. But the lobby was as empty as the hallway and elevator had been, and she slipped out the front entrance without seeing anyone.

Just before eight, Josephine crossed Bethel road and walked to a spot only a few yards from the zoo’s rear gate. With her back to the zoo’s tall stone wall, she slid down into a crouched position and removed Ender’s Game from her book bag and pretended to read it. From the corner of her eye, she watched the gate, waiting for the three men to arrive. It was sunny out, and Bethel road was busy with morning traffic; BMWs buzzed by, their drivers talking on cell phones or sipping lattes. There was also foot-traffic on the sidewalk where Josephine sat. Women in high heels click-clacked past, completely oblivious to her.

For Josephine, time seemed to pass very slowly. Though it had been only ten minutes, by the time the three zoo employees arrived, she had started to worry she might be stuck waiting by the gate all morning. As soon as she saw them, she stood quickly, still staring blindly at a page in the book, and began to move casually toward them. The tallest of the three, a man with a giant, bushy mustache, removed a key from his pocket and inserted it into the gate’s lock. He turned the key and swung the gate wide enough for his fellow khaki-clad coworkers to enter ahead of him. Once they were through, the bushy-mustached man entered, allowing the gate to close behind him.

Except, it didn’t close. At least not fully. Josephine had arrived at the gate just in time to wedge her paperback between the steel frame and the latch, keeping the lock from fastening. She had done this instinctively, and hadn’t considered that the bushy-mustached man might turn to check that the gate had locked behind him. Thankfully, he didn’t. Josephine sighed with relief and very quietly eased it open and slid inside, her heart pounding fiercely. Once on the opposite side of the gate, she stuffed the book back into her bag and glanced through the bars at the pedestrians strolling past. No one had noticed her.

At first, Josephine was disoriented, not sure which direction to head. She found herself in a confined area; still outside, but behind a wall that separated the service area from the rest of the zoo. She remained quiet, listening for the three men. They were gone, or seemed to be. Josephine moved away from the gate, toward a gap in the inner wall. As she moved further from the gate, the noise from the street, the whoosh of cars, faded and gave way to the sound of – what she imagined to be – the calls of tropical birds; parrots, jungle fowl, cuckoos, and tiny yellow birds hopping between tree limbs. She rounded the wall. Before her was a gravel path that led across a small lawn and to a narrow paved road.

Josephine followed the path around a small grove of acacia trees and out to the paved road. Upon reaching the road, she suddenly froze stiff. Directly in front of her, behind a decorative wrought iron fence, a seventeen-foot tall giraffe stood chewing a mouthful of green leaves. She had seen this giraffe before on earlier visits to the zoo with her parents, but never before had it struck her as such an intimidating creature. It stared at her with its wide-set, bulging eyes, chomping sternly on its breakfast.

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice said. “Are you supposed to be here?”

Josephine turned to find a blonde woman wearing an olive green ranger uniform. She was standing a few yards from Josephine, on the gravel path that led from the service area just inside the gate.

“Uh. Sorry.” Josephine managed to say.

“Did you come in with someone?” The woman said.

Josephine shook her head, her chin sinking.

“How did you get in here? We don’t open for two hours.”

Briefly, Josephine considered running. But the woman stood between her and the service gate. A lie came to her.

“The gate was open. I just wanted to look around, but I’ll leave.” She said. She started in the direction of her apartment, stepping toward the woman on the gravel path.

The woman’s expression softened.

“We can’t have people sneaking in like that.” She said. She stepped aside to let Josephine pass, but then said, “Hey, let me take you out the main exit, at the front.”

Josephine stopped. “Okay.” She said.

“It won’t hurt for me to show you around a bit on the way.” The woman said.

“That’s cool.” Josephine said, smiling.

*     *     *     *     *

To learn about Joseph Jagger, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#37 - Traumatic Insemination

He had been scratching himself unconsciously most of the morning, slipping his fingers in at the waistband of his blue jeans and digging in with his fingernails. But the busyness of his morning routine – rotating sheets of baguettes in and out of the giant commercial oven, slicing tomatoes and onions, filling the sauce dispensers, and dealing with the slow trickle of breakfast customers – had distracted Mike from considering the cause of the itch. Megan, the college student recently hired by the shop’s owner, was the first to draw attention to it. She was cleaning tables in Sub Zone’s cramped dining area, spraying the tabletops and chairs with a fine mist of pink antibacterial cleaner and wiping them dry with a gray towel. She stopped and looked at Mike until he finally became uncomfortable and said, “What?”

“Do you have a rash or something?” She said.

Mike had been restocking the rack of potato chips that stood next to the cash register. He bent and grabbed a handful of Baked Lays bags. “What?” He said. He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“You keep scratching.” She said, pretending to claw at her own waistline.

Mike suddenly realized that he had been scratching. In fact, he now noticed a warm, slight tingle, just below his naval. And at his hip. He felt the impulse to reach for it, but caught himself.

“It’s these pants, maybe. They're just rubbing my skin wrong or something.” He said. Feeling his face flush with embarrassment, he began quickly emptying the large cardboard box of potato chips at his feet.

She walked over to him. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her standing close.

“Do you ever worry about bedbugs?” She said. “My mom said there’s been a resurgence of bedbugs. In cities mostly. I guess they travel in people’s luggage and stuff.” Megan had hooked the spray bottle filled with pink cleaner on the front pocket of her blue jeans. She was twirling the rag thoughtlessly.

Mike tossed the last bag of chips on the rack and picked up the empty box. He made brief eye contact with Megan, brushing past her on his way to the small storage room at the back of the shop. When he returned, she was crouching low, cleaning the legs of a chair. 

She made him nervous. She was flirtatious with him; or else, he had considered, her beauty caused him to interpret her actions as flirtatious. He had enjoyed it in the beginning, when he still thought there was some potential between them. But now the casual, familiar way she treated him made him uncomfortable. She didn’t seem to care that he was several years older and technically her superior.

“Bedbug bites cause an itchy rash.” She said, standing up. “Didn’t your parents ever sing that song ‘goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite’?”

“I’ve heard it.” Mike said in a serious tone. “But I don’t have bedbugs, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. I’m pretty O-C-D about keeping my apartment clean.”  

“It doesn’t matter.” She said. She was finished cleaning, standing behind the counter now, her hands propped on the sneeze-guard over the sandwich assembly table. She leaned toward him emphatically. “If a bedbug gets carried in on your pants, in your backpack – whatever – they can live anywhere. It doesn’t matter how much you clean.” Megan said.

Two women walked through the front door. Mike and Megan greeted the customers and waited while they examined the handwritten menu on a blackboard that hung on the wall behind the counter.

“Have you been here before?” Mike asked.

One of the women nodded.

“Let us know if we can help with anything.” He said.

The women ordered two turkey sandwiches and sat, waiting, at a table beneath a large poster that categorized different varieties of cheese.

As Mike and Megan stood side-by-side assembling the sandwiches, Megan whispered, “Do you want to hear something gross?”

“No.” Mike said.

“You realize, right, that bedbugs feed off of human blood?” She said, gleefully. “That’s why they’re biting you. They’re eating your flesh and drinking your blood.”

Mike picked up the mayonnaise squirt bottle and gave her a stern look. “Could you not talk about this with customers here?”

The two women were chatting away, oblivious to Megan and Mike.

“They can’t hear me.” She said.

They finished up, and while Megan brought the sandwiches out to the women, Mike escaped to the restroom. He guessed it was only psychological, but ever since Megan had started talking about bedbugs, the itchiness at his waistline had intensified. He locked the door behind him and standing in front of the mirror, pulled up his shirt. There were red, raised lines across the pale flesh just above the top of his blue jeans where he had been scratching. He unbuckled his belt, opened the fly on his jeans, and dropped them a few inches. A loose pattern of pink bumps wrapped around him like a broad belt of acne. He scratched at it a bit, but then realized that might be a bad idea and quit. He stared at the reflection of his somewhat pudgy mid-section, twisting left and right to get the fullest view possible.

There was a knock on the restroom door.

“Mike, are you in there?” Megan whispered.

Mike’s first instinct was to remain quiet, to ignore her with the hopes that she might wander off. He yanked his pants up.

“What do you want?” He said.

“Do you have any bites?” She asked. She was only inches away, with only the plywood door separating them.

“Um, could you go away? Please.” He said.

“I can look.” She said, giggling “I’ve seen pictures online. I know what they look like.”

He opened the door a crack and peeked out at her. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you so obsessed with bedbugs?”

She pushed in on the door, smiling.

“This is inappropriate.” He said, backing away.

Megan slipped into the restroom and closed the door behind her. “Don’t freak out.” She said. “I’m just interested in this stuff. I’m thinking of changing my major to medicine or something.”

“Really?” Mike said, his voice weak.

“It’s right above your belt, right? That’s where you were really scratching hard.” She crouched down, her face a few inches from his stomach. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and said, “I hope it’s not really gross.”

“This is stupid.” Mike said, but he slowly lifted his shirt. They both became very quiet. The only sounds were the restroom’s exhaust fan, and out in the shop, the indistinct murmur of the two women talking with one another.

Mike looked at the door, trying not to focus on the awkwardness of the situation. Megan remained quiet a few seconds longer. Then, using her index finger, she jabbed once at a pink spot on Mike’s stomach.

“I don’t know, man.” She finally said. “Could be bites. Could be zits.” She stood upright and shrugged. “If I were you, I’d check online when you get home.”

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about Traumatic Insemination, read the original Wikipedia article HERE (if you dare). 

#38 - James Joseph Dresnok

The absolute worst thing about the Daltreys was their refusal to acknowledge the kindness Suzie (and Jimmy, for that matter) had shown them in the beginning. Even the very first day, when she and Jimmy should have been shampooing the carpets in their own home, they had instead spent the entire miserable afternoon hauling dusty furniture and burdensome crates filled with issues of National Geographic from the back of the U-Haul into the Daltrey’s new home. Between the dust and the moldy magazines, Suzie felt like someone had shoved fuzzy pink insulation up her nose. It had nearly caused an asthma attack, which, up till that day, she had never previously suffered. Jimmy had worked until the front of his shirt was soaked through with sweat and his face was the color of cooked ham.

Carl Daltrey had said thank you that day, but in an unconvincing manner. His wife, Meg, seemed pleased to let him do all the talking. By the time they were all moved in, it was far too late for Suzie and Jimmy to get anything useful done around their own home, and so they instead drove to Dillons and did their grocery shopping for the week. Suzie was doing her best to reserve judgment on their new neighbors, trying to maintain a neutral attitude toward them, but even then, she had an intuition that the Daltreys might be trouble. Years later, after their mutual enmity had been firmly established, she reminded Jimmy of what she had said that day. “Remember, Jimmy? I said, ‘those new neighbors, I just don’t know about them.”

The Daltreys racked up several offenses in just the first few weeks in their new house. Crimes against the neighborhood included not watering their lawn enough. It mostly turned yellow, except for a few patches where it thrived, creating green islands of tall grass that they refused to mow. They assembled a portable basketball hoop and placed it at the side of the driveway for their gangly teenage daughter to use. It was blown over during a storm and the impact twisted the rim, making the whole thing useless. For weeks is remained toppled over at the side of their house, a complete eyesore. But it was their mounds of garbage that most of the neighbors hated. The amount of trash the Daltreys produced led many neighbors to speculate that they might be running some type of illegal manufacturing operation out of their home. By garbage day each week, their pile of overstuffed black trash bags spilled out of the container provided by the sanitation company and onto the road in front of their house. How in the world can one family create so much waste? People wondered.

The impression the Daltreys had made on the neighborhood was bad enough, but their crimes against Suzie and Jimmy were far more personal and substantial. Suzie kept a list of offenses, which she was always careful to point out was only partial. There was no way to keep track of all the ways the Daltreys had abused their next-door neighbors. On many occasions, Suzie had witnessed the Daltrey’s spotted mutt, Lady, cross the yard to poop on her property. The Daltreys were smokers, and on nice days, when Suzie would have liked to open the windows for some fresh air, she was forced to keep them closed due to the second-hand pollution that would inevitably waft into her home. The Daltreys argued constantly, and loud enough to be heard through closed doors and walls. The Daltreys possibly stole newspapers. The Daltreys never apologized. The Daltrey’s cooking smelled bad. The Daltreys didn’t decorate for Christmas. The Daltreys borrowed a socket wrench and never returned it. The Daltreys never said ‘thank you’. The Daltreys, as far as Suzie and Jimmy could tell, truly hated Suzie and Jimmy.

The animosity Suzie felt toward the Daltreys was intensified one summer when her nephew, Topher, who was supposed to spend the months of July and August with her and Jimmy, began showing interests in the Daltrey’s daughter after only two weeks. She wasn’t even aware that the two had any knowledge of one another until she arrived home from her women’s group one Tuesday afternoon and found Topher and the Daltrey girl huddled together on the side of the house. They were sitting side-by-side on a railroad tie used to frame Suzie’s flower garden. When she saw them there, she hopped out of her Ford Explorer and walked right up to them.

“Excuse me.” She said to the Daltrey girl, giving her a polite smile. “I need to have a little talk with Topher.” Suzie had hoped that the Daltrey girl would hop up and head home, but when she didn’t, Suzie said, “Topher, could you follow me inside?”

Sitting there side-by-side, Topher and the Daltrey girl looked like they could’ve been siblings. They were both terribly thin and lanky, with bare knees and elbows pointing everywhere at sharp angles. Their hair, too, shared a similar waxy, unwashed appearance, and it hung straight and limp down to the shoulder.

Topher must have sensed tension in Suzie’s tone. “Is there something wrong, Aunt Suzie?” He looked up at her with big, innocent eyes.

“I’d prefer to discuss it inside, if that’s okay?” Suzie replied, presenting the softest expression she could muster.

Topher stood up. Though he was only fifteen, he was already a few inches taller than his aunt.

“Uh, I guess I’ll see you later.” He said to the Daltrey girl.

“See ya.” The girl said. She stood, and when she did, Suzie caught a whiff of something. She sniffed the air.

Her eyebrows shot up and she said, “Has one of you been smoking?”

“No.” Topher said, sharply.

Suzie stepped toward the girl and breathed in deeply. She made an affected expression of disgust, and shaking her head, said, “Topher, I was trying to save this girl some face and say this to you in private, but looks like I don’t have a choice. This girl is trouble – her whole family is trouble – and I won’t allow you to talk with her again. Trust me, you’d be better off if you’d never met her.”

She grabbed Topher by the arm and pulled him toward the house.

“She wasn’t smoking – “ He said, and then, “Sorry, Dona.”

Dona rolled her eyes at Suzie and said, “She hates us. Nothing we can do about it.”

Suzie stopped in her tracks. “I hate you?” She walked back to the girl and stared her in the face. “Since the day you and your family moved in, I have done nothing but try and show you kindness. And what do I get in return? Dog do-do in my yard! Your parents shouting matches till midnight! Garbage piled up on the road!” She grabbed Topher’s arm again and pulled him behind her toward the front door. “I’ve got nothing against you, young lady, but it’s your parents who hate me. You’re a little confused.” She said.

Inside, Topher pulled his arm free and headed toward the guestroom where he was staying. Suzie followed behind him at a close distance. He flopped down on the bed with his face in a pillow, his long, skinny legs, dangling off the side.

“Topher, I’m going to give you this warning once. Stay away from that girl. She and her family are not good people.” Suzie said.

“Her name’s Dona.” Topher said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Now, if you don’t obey me, I’ll have to give your parents a call. And it isn’t going to be easy getting hold of them over there in Asia.” She said from the doorway.

She left him there on the bed and went to the kitchen to start dinner. Later, as they gathered around the table eating pork steaks and roasted potatoes, Topher remained silent and avoided eye contact with her.

“I bought an apple pie today. You like apple pie, Topher?” She said, hoping to end the stand-off.

He didn’t respond.

“I know you’re upset with me, but listen, we still have several weeks to go here, and I don’t think I can handle the hostility I’m feeling from you right now. Can we call a truce, Topher?” She said.

Again, he didn’t react to her question. He stared down at his plate.

“Well, looks like you’ve decided to make me your enemy tonight.” She said, stabbing a potato with her fork.

At the sound of her fork hitting her plate, Topher jumped up from his seat and rushed out of the kitchen.

Jimmy glanced up from his food and asked, “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know.” Suzie said. She laid her utensils down and followed after him. She watched as he rushed out the front door.

“Topher!” She shouted. But he was already headed across the lawn to the Daltrey’s home. When he reached their front door, he pressed the doorbell button and knocked three times.

Suzie was making her way across the yard when the Daltrey’s front door opened. Their girl, Dona, was there in the doorway briefly, and then, before Suzie could shout his name again, the girl grabbed Topher and yanked him into the house. The door closed behind them, and as Suzie approached, she heard the lock being turned. 

For several minutes Suzie stood and pounded on the door. But though she could hear voices inside, no one answered. 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about James Joseph Dresnok, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#39 - Ivy League Nude Posture Photos

“All the presidents have been over six feet tall.” Scott said. He was flipping the pages of a Sports illustrated, looking at the pictures and reading the captions.

“That can’t be true.” Chris said. He was playing Medal of Honor and didn’t look away from the TV.  

“It is. I read it.” Scott said.

“In there?” Chris said, motioning with his chin toward the magazine in Scott’s hands.

“No. I don’t remember where. But think about it. Obama’s tall, right? And Bush was a pilot, and you have to be tall for that.” Scott said. He dropped the magazine and stretched out with his head hanging upside down over the back of the bean bag chair, so he was looking at the wall behind them. “Abraham Lincoln.” He said conclusively.

Chris continued staring at the screen.

“Name one job – one good job – that doesn’t require you to be more than six feet tall.” Scott said.

He didn’t think Chris was listening, but Chris said, “Doctor, lawyer, zoo keeper, movie star, rock star, porn star. I can't think of any job that does require you to be more than six feet tall.”

“The NBA.” Scott said. “And, I think, astronauts.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. Space shuttles are tiny – there’s no way they require people to be more than six feet tall. And the NBA doesn’t require players to be over six feet tall – it just helps if you are.” Chris said. He slid off the edge of the bed and sat cross-legged on the floor, resting his back against the box springs. His eyes were still focused on the video game, the controller in his hands.

Scott stood up. “Can I have a Coke?” He asked.

Chris nodded. “Just don’t drink the Mountain Dew, that’s my sister’s.”

Scott wandered down the hallway, past Chris’ sister’s room. The door was open a few inches. He glanced in as he passed, but could only see the edge of her bed and part of the corkboard on her wall, where she pinned snapshots and notes from her friends.

In the kitchen, Scott opened the refrigerator. It was mostly empty, except for the shelves inside the door, which were crammed with half-filled bottles of condiments. Ranch dressing. Heinz Ketchup. Honey mustard. There was a drawer at the bottom where they kept soft drinks. He pulled out a Cherry Coke and closed the fridge.

Scott opened the can, took a drink, and then went to the cupboard, hoping to find something to eat. He found a bag of baked potato chips, but they had been opened. Only a bunch of crumbs remained. He closed the cupboard and was about to leave the kitchen when he spotted an old, duct-taped shoebox sitting on the table. The lid was off, and it was filled with black and white photos. Scott walked over and picked up a stack of the photos and shuffled through them. Most of them were in rough shape; creases, frayed edges, water marks, some had been torn or had corners missing. They looked very old. The majority were portraits, with the subjects posed stiffly for the camera. None of the faces were familiar.

Back in Chris’ room, Scott asked, “What are those pictures in the kitchen?”

Chris’s eyes darted to the doorway, where Scott stood, and said, “The old pictures?” He returned his attention to the TV.

“Yeah. They’re cool.”

“My mom bought ‘em at a flea market. I have no idea why, but whatever.” He said. Suddenly his avatar on the TV shouted in pain and the screen turned red. He hit the continue button.

Scott took a drink of his Coke. “Can I look at them?”

Chris shrugged. “I guess so.”

Scott disappeared down the hallway and then returned to the room a minute later with the shoebox under his arm. He plopped down on the bean bag chair with the pictures in his lap. He tossed the ragged lid onto the floor and pulled a handful of photos out.

“Does your mom know who these people are?” He said.

Chris grunted, no.

“It’s weird she bought a bunch of pictures of people she doesn’t know, right?” Scott said.

“I hate that guy. Such a piece of –“ Chris was talking to the TV. The screen was red again.

Scott was looking at a family portrait. The dad was wearing a military uniform, his hair buzzed short. The wife was blonde and wearing a dress that went to her knees. She was wearing lipstick, and in the photo her lips were such a dark shade of gray they almost looked black. They had a little boy, and he was straddling a tricycle, wearing a collared white shirt under a pair of overalls. They were all standing on the lawn with a home in the background. Scott flipped the photograph over and found 1954 written on the back in blue ink.

He did the math in his head and said, “This one’s fifty-eight years old.”

“Wow.” Chris said. He had tried to make it sound sincere, but Scott could tell he wasn’t very interested.

For some reason though, Scott was interested. Something about the photo made him curious about this family he had never met. He didn’t know their names, but he suddenly found himself wondering which of the family members, if any, were still alive. The father in the picture looked to be about thirty, maybe. The wife was possibly a bit younger, but still, he imagined both of them were nearly ninety years old by now. He set the photograph of the family to the side.

The next picture in the stack could have been a yearbook photo. It was a teenage girl with thick-rimmed glasses and long dark hair that was parted perfectly in the middle of her head. Scott immediately considered that she might have been his age when the photo was taken. He turned it over, hoping for a name or date, but the back of the photo was blank. He was about to return it to the box, but he halted, and instead placed it with the photo of the family. There was something about the girl’s smile that he liked. He guessed that she had not been one of the popular kids – her glasses were bulky and her complexion wasn’t great - but there was something pretty about her.

He moved steadily through the photos, and as he did, the small stack that had begun with the picture of the family and the teenage girl, grew. He added to it a wedding photo, husband and wife at the front of a church holding hands, a minister looking very serious in the background. More yearbook photos, mostly girls, their hairstyles reflecting the era they belonged to. There was a young guy in a tight white t-shirt, looking very James Dean-ish, posing in front of a giant old Chevy sports car. And other women, children, families, soldiers, pets, grandparents, teenage girls, men sleeping in chairs, kids playing in the sprinkler, couples on the beach, and more, until his separate stack of photos was nearly an inch thick.

The more photos he looked at, the more the shoebox troubled Scott. There were no repeats in the whole box. Not a single face appeared in more than one photo. This wasn’t one particular family’s collection of old photos that had somehow ended up in a flea market; this was a collection of hundreds of photos that, over the years, had been discarded, abandoned, tossed out, ignored, lost, forgotten.

But they were worth more. He knew, as he looked at the faces in each photo, that these people deserved better than to be stuffed into a shoebox and sold alongside broken lamps and stained furniture. He thought of the photos of his own family hanging on the walls at home, and envisioned a future in which they might find their way into a shoebox somewhere.

Scott scooped up the pile of photos he had separated from the collection. Holding them in his hand, he stood up, slid the lid back onto the shoebox, and walked out of the room. At the end of the hallway, he stuffed the small stack of his selected photographs into the front pocket of his blue jeans, and then continued to the kitchen where he placed the box on the table.

When he returned to Chris’ room, he dropped down into the bean bag chair again. He rested his hand on the pocket containing the photos. There was a slight bulge, but nothing noticeable.

“Are you looking for a job or something?” Chris said.

Scott was confused. “What? Why?”

“Just wondering why you’re worried about not being six feet tall.” Chris said. He paused the game long enough to move from the floor to the bed, where he sat on the edge again.

“It just sucks being short.” Scott said.

“It just sucks being you.” Chris said. He kicked the side of the bean bag chair and laughed.

“Sometimes, it does.” Scott said.

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the Ivy League Nude Posture Photos, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#40 - Jim Corbett (Hunter)

She was dying already.  The two cubs, dependent on her for all things, did not know. Though the pain from her wounds was oppressive, she fought it, refusing to let them see weakness in her posture as she led them silently through the tangled jungle along the Nepalese border. When the cubs slept, she cleaned herself, licking the oozing holes in her flesh, desperate for relief. Even the gentle pressure of her tongue brought intolerable pain. The scabs would not seal, and the odor and bitterness of the yellowish exudation warned her of something slowly attacking her body.

The cubs were growing quickly, but still unable to hunt for themselves. They needed meat, and this fact plagued her, always.  Though she had successfully hidden her weakness from their eyes, she was ever conscious of the lead fragments lodged and festering in her body, and the new limitations this injury imposed upon her. The tigress was reduced, her strength and speed sapped. The wild prey they had come upon in recent days sprang forth from the thickset undergrowth with acceleration she could not match. This compelled her to search for meat in more treacherous parts of the jungle, ever closer to the low villages of the Thakkhola Valley.

The tigress understood the danger. She carried on her body the marks of her most recent encounter with humans. But the cubs needed to eat. They also needed to learn. It wouldn’t be long before they would hunt for themselves. When she led the cubs to the edge of the jungle, to the hills overlooking the village of Thak, it was a calculated decision. Humans represented danger, but they also offered opportunity.

For days, the tigress positioned herself and her cubs at a safe distance. There, she was able to observe life in the village. Women setting out beetroot to dry, children playing chanting games, chasing one another through the tall grass, and the men, traveling in small groups along the worn trails that connected Thak with the nearby villages of Sem and Chuka. The cubs slept the greater portion of each day, stretched out lazily, hidden by leaves and vines. The tigress dozed, but not restfully. She remained alert, waiting.

One morning, she woke the cubs and led them along a very narrow, sloping path, through dense foliage that, at the bottom, gave way to an expanse of high bajra millet. She moved haltingly, cautiously, the cubs instinctively mimicking her, their white-furred bellies close to the ground. She left the path, pressing blindly into the grass, glancing back to check that the cubs were still following. They came to a place where the millet stalks had been trampled. It was less than a trail, but someone had used it not long before to pass through the field.  The tigress followed this vein of bent and displaced stalks until she stopped sharply and turned her broad head to make eye contact with the larger of the two cubs. Some silent message passed between them, and the cub moved swiftly past her, the smaller sibling following in step. 

Before them, in a very small clearing, the body of a thin and dark young man was opened up upon the ground, his skin torn in various places, pink inner flesh exposed and mangled with his shredded clothing. His blood speckled the grass and dampened the soil beneath his body. His throat had been slashed by the tigress’ claw and then crushed between her carnassials. She had killed him efficiently, surprising him as he crouched to defecate in the cover of the high grass. Leaving the cubs to hunt had been a risk, but it had paid off. The two cubs attacked the body, furiously biting and pulling at the meat, their white muzzles turning red. The tigress watched in the direction of the path they had followed, her ears perked. She nudged one of the cubs aside and began to consume the man at his midsection, never dropping her guard.

When they had finished, the clothes that had covered the man had been ripped apart, and most of the muscle tissue and fat had been eaten. The body was small, it hadn’t taken long. The tigress knew that the nourishment provided was temporary. But her cubs were satisfied, and that afternoon they slept soundly. After the sun was down, they woke and played fiercely together, wrestling in the moonlit chaparral high above the village.

The tigress and her cubs remained on the outskirts of Thak for weeks, and then months, feeding on the Thakali villagers. As she became weak, the cubs became strong. She continued teaching them to hunt, and together they prowled the edges of the village after sunset. Under the cover of darkness, they killed indiscriminately. The first victims were male. Men were more often found alone at night, when the tigress preferred to hunt. But once the villagers knew that a man-eater was lurking nearby, no one wandered far after the sun had dropped behind the hills encircling Thak.

That’s when the tigress’ hunting became even more jeopardous, and she and the cubs began slipping into the bajra fields in the morning, waiting for children to wander close. They snatched two small girls in one morning, leaving behind only the small weed-doll the girls had been playing with. Such an audacious attack changed life in Thak, and for days, the tigress and her cubs saw no one on the paths leading in and out of the village. The Thakalis stayed indoors. When it was necessary to visit a neighbor, they ran from the door of their home to their neighbor’s door. During the day, the men patrolled the edges of the village carrying muzzle-loaded rifles. At night, everyone disappeared behind walls.

Again, the tigress and her cubs were without food. With time, they retreated into the hills, hunting further and further from Thak. They prowled the trail leading from Thak to Chuka, needing desperately to find travelers making the journey alone. But they remained hungry.

The tigress’ blood was filling daily with the slow poison of her rotting wounds. She could barely keep up with the cubs. Every step sent a shock of pain through her muscles and joints. One day, she fell asleep beside the twisted roots of a banyan tree, the cubs lying nearby. When she woke, they were gone, and she knew that they had gone for food, and that they would not be back. She waited by the tree for many hours, and then wandered a familiar path that ran parallel to the trail used by the humans. She moved toward the village in a senseless haze of pain and hunger and loneliness. Along the way, she collapsed. She slept where she fell, and then hours later, in the dark, she woke, startled by a sense that somewhere in the jungle, in the darkness, something was closing in on her. With agonizing effort, she stood and moved again, silently, in the direction of the village.

Occasionally, she paused to listen. It became evident that something was tracking her. She felt an instinctive urge to find cover, to hide deep in the contorted and intertwined brush of the jungle floor. But instead, perhaps because she had some animal-sense of her own inevitable end, she turned on the trail, and approached her hunter.

A long way up the trail, she caught a brief glimpse of him, just before two bullets from his gun caught her in the chest and side. He was unlike any of the men she and her cubs had hunted and killed in the weeks prior. He was pale faced, and his broad shoulders were squared. His hands were unflinching.

The tigress’ body slumped to the ground. Her chest expanded once, a deep, final gasp of air. She died on the trail. 

*     *     *      *     * 

To learn more about Jim Corbett, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#41 - Just-World Hypothesis

Mr. Deering called very early, while it was still dark. He was with his wife at St. John’s hospital and needed Andrew to open the store.

“I considered closing up for the day, but I think you’ll be alright on your own” He said.

Andrew was still in bed, his eyes closed, the phone to his ear. “Is she OK?” He asked.

“She’ll be fine. They’re taking care of her.” 

“Are you coming in later?” Andrew said. He turned on the reading lamp next to his bed and rubbed his eyes.

Mr. Deering sounded tired. “We’ll just have to see how it goes here.”

They ended the call and Andrew stared at the ceiling for a moment before kicking off his bed sheets. He sat up and yawned and then dressed in the clothes he had worn the day before. Khaki pants and a blue Deering’s Gas and Grocery polo shirt. They were wrinkled from being tossed in the floor, but looking into the bathroom mirror, he smoothed the crease with his hands.

He arrived at Deering’s a few minutes after it was officially supposed to open, but there were no customers yet. He unlocked the double doors opposite the gas pumps and then slipped inside and disarmed the alarm system.  For security reasons, the interior lights of the store remained on twenty-four hours a day, but the soda fountains needed to be turned on. He made his rounds; filling the coffee brewers, adding bags of syrupy mix to the slush machine, opening a package of jumbo hotdogs and laying them out on the rotating grill. He microwaved a batch of sausage biscuits and then stacked them in the heated glass display. These were all familiar tasks, though it was his first time to perform them without Mr. Deering there, watching from behind the cash register.

The place became busy just before eight o’clock. People on their way to work stopped by for coffee and breakfast. At the front counter, Andrew made aimless morning small talk with customers, swiping their credit cards and wishing them a nice day. Nearly an hour had passed before he noticed an odd quietness in the store and realized he had forgotten to turn on the radio that sat on top of a file cabinet behind the register. Mr. Deering usually had it going by the time Andrew arrived. And always set to 92.5 The Beat, a station that played a very limited rotation of music from the nineteen-fifties and sixties.

Andrew flipped the power switch and heard The Byrds singing ‘To everything, turn, turn, turn! There is a season, turn, turn, turn! And a time to every purpose, under heaven.’ He stepped toward the register, paused, and then returned to the radio and twisted the bulky knob on the side, searching for a different station. He decided on 102.7, where the morning DJ was in the middle of call-in trivia.

“Where’s Murray this morning?” The customer at the register asked. Andrew recognized him; a bloated-looking guy who always wore a suit and tie and smelled like Aqua Velva. He stopped in at Deering’s almost every morning, usually leaving with a big coffee and a package of snack cakes.

“He’s with Mrs. Deering at the hospital.” Andrew said. “She has some serious pneumonia, I guess. They had to go over there in the middle of the night.” He scanned the barcodes on the side of the man’s coffee and a package of little chocolate donuts. 

“Aw, that’s too bad.” The fat man said, handing him a folded ten dollar bill. “Tell ‘em our prayers are with them both.”

“I’ll do that.” Andrew said. He made change for the man and handed it across the counter. “Have a great day.”

By mid-morning, business had slowed. A few customers had asked about Mr. Deering, but most just paid for their gas or soft drink and went on their way. Just after eleven, the store emptied completely. Andrew was hungry, so he walked back to the hotdog grill and fixed himself two with mustard, relish, and onions. He returned to the front counter and sat on Mr. Deering’s stool and ate the hotdogs quickly. When finished, he tossed the disposable containers away and pulled out a clipboard and ledger from beneath the counter. When Mr. Deering had hired him two years earlier, the agreement was that Andrew would receive a twenty-percent discount on any food he consumed while on the clock. Andrew tracked his purchases on the ledger, and the total was deducted from his paycheck every two weeks. With only one employee, Mr. Deering had depended on the honor system, but there wasn’t much honor involved; never in two years had there been an opportunity for Andrew to neglect the ledger. Mr. Deering was always watching.

Andrew recorded his hotdogs on the ledger and returned the clipboard to its place below the counter. For several minutes he watched out the window as traffic passed on Melvin Street. As the lunch hour approached, more customers arrived and he was busy at the register again. A teenage boy wearing a faded black White Sox t-shirt stepped up and placed a giant blue slushy on the counter.

“Can I get one of those jerkies, too?” He said. He pointed to a large glass canister at the edge of the countertop filled with tree bark colored sticks of beef jerky.

“No problem.” Andrew said. He entered the total into the register and then grabbed a pair of metal tongs and dipped into the canister to retrieve one of the sticks. Just before it cleared the lip of the canister, the jerky slipped from the tongs and fell onto the countertop.

“Ah, I’ll get you another one.” Andrew said. He pulled out another piece, inserted it into a small paper bag and handed it to the teen.

“You could just give me that one, too.” The kid said.

Andrew laughed politely. “That one’s gotta go in the trash. Sorry. It’s just policy.”

The kid rolled his eyes and left the store. Once gone, Andrew picked up the jerky and slipped it into a paper bag and placed it under the counter to eat later. He decided to consider it a loss. He wouldn’t mark it on the ledger.

It seemed only fair to Andrew, actually, that on a day when he was running Deering’s entirely on his own, he shouldn’t be required to abide by the ledger policy. He had done a big favor for Mr. Deering by coming in so early and opening the store on his own. He was doing the work of two people, and earning Mr. Deering a lot of money by keeping the store open. He imagined Mr. Deering would have wanted him to help himself to a few snacks on the house, just as a way of saying thank you.

After the lunch rush, he helped himself to a large Dr. Pepper. He ate the beef jerky from earlier and then microwaved a green chili burrito. In the late afternoon he ate a king size Snickers bar and opened a bag of ranch flavored Doritos. He listed these items on the back of a napkin, but didn’t write them in the ledger. The napkin was a precaution.

He kept expecting Mr. Deering to show up at some point. Though he had tried to convince himself that there was no reason to feel guilty, he couldn’t help keeping an eye on the parking spaces just outside the entrance, waiting for Mr. Deering’s pickup to pull in. He had even hidden the evidence, tossing the various food wrappers directly into the dumpster outside, afraid that Mr. Deering might find them later in the garbage bin behind the counter and check the ledger to see if it all matched up.

But Mr. Deering never showed up. He never even called. At ten o’clock that night, Andrew reset the alarm, locked the door, and headed home.

He fell asleep on the couch during the Late Show. Sometime close to midnight, his phone rang. He scrambled off the couch and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” He said.

“Andrew? This is Murray – Mr. Deering.”

Hearing his boss’ voice caused Andrew to stiffen. His first thought was that Mr. Deering somehow knew about the food he had eaten.

“Mr. Deering. Hi. How’s your wife?”

“That’s why I’m calling.” Mr. Deering said. He stopped.

“Hello?” Andrew said.

“I’m here. I’m sorry I’m calling so late, but I need to ask you to cover the store again tomorrow. Can you do that?” His voice was weak.

“Sure.” Andrew said.

“Everything go okay today?” Mr. Deering asked.

“Yeah, yeah. It was fine.” Andrew said.

“Good.”

“You don’t need to worry about the store.” Andrew said. The TV remote had slipped down between the cushions on the sofa. He dug it out and pressed the power button. The screen went black.

“I know. I appreciate that, Andrew.”

“I hope your wife is doing better.” He said, walking toward his bedroom, turning lights off along the way.

“Thank you. But she’s not doing well. She’s really struggling.” There was a sound from Mr. Deering’s throat; a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.” Andrew said.

“No, no, no. I appreciate what you’re doing for me at the store.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry it’s so late.” Mr. Deering said again.

“I was just watching TV. It’s no problem, really.” Andrew said.

They wished one another goodnight and hung up. Andrew took a shower, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed. Before falling asleep, he grabbed his laptop off the nightstand, and with it resting on his stomach, did a web search for the word pneumonia. He read the Wikipedia entry, an article on WebMD, and followed a link to a discussion forum with the topic pneumonia complications. He read until the words began to blur, and then closed the laptop and returned it to the nightstand.

The next morning, he arrived at Deering’s Gas and Grocery a few minutes early. He unlocked the doors and quickly disarmed the alarm. Before repeating his routine from the previous morning, he stepped behind the register and pulled out the clipboard with the ledger. He slipped his hand into the front pocket of his khakis and removed the crumpled napkin with the list of foods he had eaten the day before. He took a pen from the cup beside the cash register and used it to transfer the list on the napkin to the ledger. When he was finished, he returned it to its place.

A few minutes later, as he was filling the coffee dispensers, the first customer arrived.

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the Just-World Hypothesis, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#42 - Nicolas Boubaki

“I need a new jacket.” Karen said, swerving suddenly to her left, cutting across the foot traffic heading in the opposite direction down the long main corridor of the Cedar Pines Mall. She smiled apologetically, dodging two oncoming moms pushing strollers. Effie trailed behind her, offering her own apologetic nod.

“This dude spilled beer all over me at the Wilco show last week. I’ve been exhausted - I didn’t wash it in time and now it smells…” She motioned for Effie to follow her into a small boutique called Bourbaki. “Awful.” She finished.

The shop contained thirty circular racks, each packed tight with clothing. The racks were spaced evenly, allowing a very narrow pathway between each, creating a maze for shoppers to maneuver through. Karen led the way, with Effie following close behind. As they squeezed through, Karen paused occasionally, touching the edge of an item, pulling it free from the rack, examining the fabric, testing the seams, looking to Effie for approval, and then moving on. Though she had stated she needed a jacket, Effie noted that she had paused to look at a pair of ragged blue jeans with slashes cut across the legs, a t-shirt with a silkscreened image of an angel brandishing a machine gun, and a pair of cut-offs that Karen could pull off but that Effie would never dare wearing. At the rear of the store were two racks loaded with jackets. Effie found most of them ridiculous, but after only thirty seconds, Karen had chosen one she liked. She held it up, modeling for Effie.

“What do you think?” Karen said.

“I like it.” Effie said. She meant relatively speaking, I like it.

Karen pulled the wooden hanger free from the jacket and returned it to the rack. She slid one hand into the right sleeve and then paused and looked at the label stitched at the back, between the shoulders. “Made in Vietnam.” She read.

“Probably by child slaves in some sweatshop.” Effie said, almost under her breath.

Karen heard her and frowned. “Really?”

“I’m joking, I’m joking.” Effie said.

Karen removed her arm from the sleeve and took the hanger from the rack and began to hang the jacket up again.

“You don’t want it?” Effie asked.

“I’m not buying something that some slave kids made. I don’t want to be a part of that.”

“I was joking, seriously.” Effie said. She grabbed the jacket off the rack and handed it back to Karen. “Try it on. I really like it.” She said.

“But how do we know? You know what I mean? Like, child-slaves could have made this.” Karen said.

“Um, it’s possible. But I doubt it.” Effie laughed. “When did you become so socially conscious?”

Karen ignored her. With the jacket in hand, she pushed through the racks toward the front. A college-aged guy with sculpted hair and a thin scarf around his neck was working the cash register. As they approached, he asked, “Did you ladies find everything?”

“Actually, I have a question.” Karen said. She tossed the jacket onto the countertop. “I’m thinking about buying this jacket, but before I do, I want to be sure that it wasn’t made by slave kids in Vietnam.”

He picked up the jacket and turned it over. He opened it wide near the collar and looked at the label inside. Glancing around nervously, he finally said, “It was made in Vietnam.” He motioned for Karen to come closer. She pressed up against the counter, with Effie close behind.

“To be honest, it’s possible that this was made by, like, slaves, or mentally handicapped teenagers, or, I don’t know, even old people or something.” He whispered. “My boss would kill me for saying this. But there’s no way we can really know, right? I mean, have you heard about all this ‘fair trade’ stuff? It’s all seriously messed up. We’re like killing people over there – all around the world – just by buying this cheap junk. Most people don’t even know it.” He was shaking his head. Effie admired his sincerity. And she thought he was cute.

“It’s so sad.” Karen said. She was biting her lower lip, leaning over the counter. Effie liked the guy even more for not seeming to notice Karen’s flirtatious posture.

“I’m guessing you don’t want this now?” He asked, holding up the jacket.

“No.” Karen said.

“Listen,” He said. “Are you guys going to be around here – like, at the mall – for a while?”

Karen didn’t check with Effie, even though Effie had been the one to drive. She answered, “Yeah.”

“Good. I get off in about thirty minutes. Want to meet in the food court? We can talk about this stuff some more – and there’s something else I want to tell you about.”

“Sure.” Karen said. She turned to Effie, remembering her. “That’s cool, right?” Effie nodded.

“Cool.” He said. “Hey, let me give you my number. I’ll text you so we know where to meet.”

He recited his number and Karen saved it in the address book of her phone. After, he said, “By the way, my name’s Nick.”

“Nice to meet you, Nick. I’m Karen.” She said, and then pointed to Effie. “She’s Effie.”

Effie smiled, her chin dropping bashfully.

An hour later, the three of them were sitting around a small table in the food court. They were directly across from a Chinese place called Wok of Ages. A few feet away, an employee wearing a chef’s uniform was handing out free samples of Shanghai Spicy Chicken on toothpicks.

The two girls sat on one side of the table, huddled over giant cups of Diet Coke. Nick was sitting opposite them, his arm draped over an empty chair.

“Let me just ask you something.” He said, scanning the area around their table suspiciously. “Have either of you heard of Nick.”

Karen stared at him blankly. “Uh… That’s your name, right?”

“It is.” He said. “But it’s something more, too. Nick is – this is hard to explain – Nick is me, but it’s also us.”

Karen glanced at Effie. “Is he making sense to you?”

“Listen, so, we don’t invite many people to join, but I don’t know, I guess I like you two. You seem real or something.” He could see that Karen was lost. Effie took a sip of her Coke, avoiding eye contact with him. He continued, “My name’s Nick, but I’m also part of Nick. Like a member, sort of. Nick is this thing – a group of people. And…”

He looked past the two girls, thinking, and then said, “Remember earlier when you were trying to decide if you should buy the jacket?”

“Yeah.” Karen said.

“You decided not to, right? But it wasn’t only you. In a way, the three of us decided together.”

“OK.” Karen said. Effie had a feeling that if Nick wasn’t cute, Karen would have given up on him already.

“So, Nick – not me, the group – is based on this idea – a theory, really – that people make better decisions together. Of course, Nick isn’t the first to think of this, but we’re doing it in a different way. It’s cool.” He said.

“Like Democracy.” Effie finally chimed in. “Like choosing a president.” She said to Karen.

“Exactly!” Nick said. “Except, choosing a president is this massive decision on a very big scale. Nick makes smaller decisions. I mean, important stuff, but not on such a giant scale.”

Karen laughed. “It’s so weird that you keep saying ‘Nick’ over and over again. And that’s your name.” She stood up. “I’m getting one of those chicken samples. You guys want one?”

Effie and Nick both shook their heads. Karen turned and walked over to Wok of Ages. Effie moved in, subtly leaning in Nick’s direction.

“So, how do people join Nick?” She asked, quickly following her question with a sip of her drink.

“You have to be invited.” He said.

“And so… You’re inviting us?” She asked.

Karen returned to the table. She had talked the Chinese chef into giving her several samples on a small paper plate, each one speared with a wooden toothpick.

“Yeah, so, I guess I’m inviting you to join.” Nick said. “Both of you, if you want. I’m sorry if I’m being confusing. This is my first time to invite people.”

“If we join,” Karen said, still chewing, “What do we have to do? And, like, what are the benefits?”

Nick stared past them again, scrunching his face as he considered what to say next.

“If you become Nick, you have to help Nick make decisions. It’s pretty simple. And the benefits? You get to stop making decisions as Karen and-“

“Effie.” Effie said.

“Right, sorry. So, you get to stop making tough decisions as Karen and Effie, and you get to start making decisions as Nick. And because Nick is us – I mean, since many people are Nick – the decisions you make will be much better than they are now, when you’re by yourself.” He said.

“This is too weird.” Karen said, pushing back from the table. She touched Effie’s shoulder. “I think I’m going to go get that jacket.”

Effie didn’t say anything.

“If you want to stay here and keep talking, that’s fine with me. I’ll come find you.” Karen said.

Effie glanced at Nick. “Are you staying here?” She asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Nick said.

Karen left, leaving them sitting quietly.

“Can I ask you something?” Effie said. She tapped the edge of her cup nervously against the tabletop.

“Sure.”

“I’m wondering if I can ask Nick to help me decide whether I should join Nick?” She said, smiling.

“By asking that question, you just joined!” Nick said, slapping his palm on the table. “Welcome!”

Effie laughed. “Wow, that was easy.”

“There are only three rules.” Nick said. “First, you make decisions as Nick from now on.”

Effie nodded. “OK.”

“Second, you’ve gotta call yourself Nick when you introduce yourself to people.”

“Really?” Effie said.

“Yep.” 

“OK.”

Nick reached across the table and took the Diet Coke from her hands. He took a long sip and then said, “The last rule is that you must be under fifty years old.”

Effie giggled. “I’m eighteen.”

“Good.” He said. “You’re in.” 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Nicolas Bourbaki, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.