#27 - Fan Death

“Going to Chiang Mai?” The kid asked.

 Phil heard him, despite the shuffling-drone of the train and the music playing through his earphones. It was tempting to pretend as if he hadn’t; to not respond, to continue staring out his widow at the densely green mountains, the sapphire sky, the scrap-wood shacks, the ethereal vines of smoke rising from jungle. But instead, Phil turned toward the kid and said, “Yep. And you?”

“Yeah. Last stop before heading up to Laos.” He said.

Phil didn’t offer that he and Amy were also going to Laos. He didn’t feel like making conversation. Ever since the kid had plopped down on the wooden bench across the aisle, Phil had tried hard not to acknowledge him in any way. Since arriving in Thailand, he and Amy had developed a cynicism toward other white tourists they encountered. Running into other tourists at a restaurant, market, or on a train, felt like a corruption of their experience.

“Cool.” Phil said, nodding. “Have a great time.” He reinserted his earphones and turned back toward the window, feeling slightly shameful for ending the conversation so sharply.

“Where’re you guys from?” The kid shouted over the noise of the train, seemingly unaware of Phil’s snub. He was tall, and looked awkward and uncomfortable on the straight-backed wooden bench. The car wasn’t particularly full, so he had placed his giant olive drab backpack in the seat beside him and was leaning against it. He looked like a college dropout, Phil thought. Like someone on a journey of self-discovery.

“America.” Phil said loudly, this time not removing his earphones.

“I guessed that.” The kid said, smiling. “What state?”

“Colorado.” Phil responded. He hit the pause button on his iPod.

“Cool.” The kid said. He bobbed his head a few times. “I love Colorado.”

“Yeah. We do too.” Phil said. Despite his resistance, he was being sucked into a conversation. He knew the only polite thing to do was ask the kid where he was from. He looked at Amy. She was sleeping, her head against the train’s windowsill.

“How about you? Where’re you from?” He said, removing his earphones.

“Kind of all over the place.” The kid said. “But for the past couple years I’ve been teaching English in South Korea.”

This wasn’t what Phil had expected to hear. “Really?” He said. “How’s that?”

The kid leaned forward, into the aisle, his elbows on his knees. “It’s great. I’m having a good time, you know? The money’s just so-so, but, whatever, it’s temporary.”

“You’re young.” Phil said. He tried to think of something witty to follow-up with, but nothing came to him.

“So, we’re on break now.” The kid said. “Chinese new year. We get a month vacation, which is cool. Sort of a perk of the job. I was ready to get out of there for a while. It’s freezing in Seoul right now.”

Phil nodded, as if he was already aware of the weather in Korea.

“What’re you guys doing in Chiang Mai?” The kid asked.

Phil hesitated to respond. “My wife wants to take a cooking class.” He finally said. “Other than that, I don't know. Just figure it out as we go, I suppose.”

“Where you staying?” The kid said.

“I’m not sure.” Phil lied. “She’s in charge of all that.” He gestured toward Amy, still sleeping.

Actually, though Amy had been the one to find the hotel in Chiang Mai, Phil had been the one to call and make the reservation. It was called Centara something-or-other; it was downtown. Phil wasn’t exactly suspicious of the kid; he lied because he didn’t want to feel obligated. Once they were off this train, Phil hoped not to run into him again.  

“I’m staying at the Y.” The kid said. “I got a fan room for ten bucks a night.”

A woman passed between them in the aisle. She was selling small meals wrapped in cellophane; sticky rice, vegetables, sliced pink sausage. The meals were stacked inside a five-gallon bucket that she dragged behind her. As she passed, she paused briefly and said, “Teh-wanty baht. You want?” The kid waived her off with a smile. “No thanks.” He said. She continued down the aisle.

“What’s a fan room?” Phil asked, watching the woman accept a few coins from one of the Thai passengers a few seats away.

“No A.C.” The kid said. “I’m picturing a tiny, windowless room with one of those old rotating fans.” He laughed.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound fun.” Phil said.

The train was slowing, the rhythmic clang on the tracks dropping in tempo. They were approaching a station. Outside, the train had entered something like a valley, though the foliage was still dense. Phil looked out his window and could see a few cinderblock buildings rising from the green growth, as well as a gold-trimmed Buddhist temple in a clearing ahead of them. Wherever they were, it felt incredibly remote and exotic. Phil hated that Amy was missing it, but she needed the rest after having battled food poisoning back in Bangkok.  

The kid laughed to himself, and then said, “There’re no fan rooms in Korea, that’s for sure.”

Phil continued staring out the window, but said, “Yeah?”

“There’s this thing in Korea where, for some reason, everyone thinks that if you sleep with a fan on, it’ll kill you.” The kid said.  “It’s something to do with losing body heat. One of my students said his uncle tried to kill himself with a fan once.”

The kid leaned forward, craning his neck to see out Phil’s side of the train. As they came to a stop, Amy opened her eyes and stared out the window, her expression blank and sleepy. She shifted her body, tucking her feet up beneath her on the bench. She closed her eyes again and said, “Do you know where we are?”

“Nope.” Phil said. “But it’s beautiful.”

There was a shuffling of passengers. A few people getting off, a few more coming on, wandering the aisle, looking for open seats.

“Killed himself with a fan?” Phil asked, suddenly processing what the kid had said a minute earlier.

“He tried.” The kid said. “But it didn’t work, so he bought another fan. His theory, I guess, was that if one fan wouldn’t kill him, maybe a bunch would. He, like, filled up a whole room with all these oscillating fans.” The kid chuckled, thinking about it.

“Did your student say why his uncle wanted to kill himself?” Phil said.

“Um, I think it was because he had a bunch of debt or something. Maybe his wife cheated on him?” The kid said. He stood up and stretched, grabbing the luggage rack above Phil’s head and using it to steady himself as the train lurched forward. They were leaving the station.

“I’m gonna go check out the toilet on this thing. You mind watching my seat?” The kid asked.

“No problem.” Phil said.

The kid wandered off down the aisle, toward the end of the car, where two Thai teenage boys with spiked hair were standing and smoking. As the kid passed between them, he nodded at the two boys in a casual, friendly way.

“He likes to talk, huh?” Amy said, her eyes still closed, her head against the train’s window.

“Yeah.” Phil said. “He seems okay though, right?”

“I guess.” Amy said. She shifted in her seat again, allowing her feet to slide back down into the floor.

“It must be strange traveling alone like that. I bet he’s relieved to have someone to talk with.” Phil said.

“You’re nicer than me.” Amy said.

No one took the kid’s seat while he was away. When he returned he saw it was empty and said, “Thanks, man.”

“Sure. My name’s Phil, by the way.”

The kid extended his hand. “I’m Luke.” He said. The two of them shook hands.

As the train picked up speed, Phil turned toward the window. “What a beautiful place.” He said.

“Yeah, totally.” Luke said. 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Fan Death, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. Or, for a another opinion, read the article HERE. 

#28 - Outlawries Bill

Gracie discovered the object on her walk home from school, abandoned at the edge of the sidewalk, where the grass and dandelions had grown tall. Though she knew no name for the object, nor where it came from, nor what its purpose or use might be, she felt strongly that it was broken.  Or perhaps that it had once belonged to, or had been attached to, something larger and more complex. The impression of brokenness was not due to any jagged edges or evidence of trauma, but rather because, looking at the thing, she couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be useful on its own. It looks sort of worthless, she thought. This was no doubt the reason it had been abandoned. However, kneeling down on the asphalt, she picked it up and placed it into her book bag.

When she arrived home, Gracie emptied the contents of her bag onto her bed; a lunch box, a chapter book titled The Yellow House Mystery, her pencil case, a nearly empty water bottle, and the object. She carried the object to the bathroom, washed it in the sink, and dried it with a towel her mother said was for guests only. Once finished, she returned to her bedroom and placed the object in a prominent position – at eye level – on the wooden bookshelf next to the door.

In the kitchen, she found her mother peeling carrots. For a moment, she stood at the counter and watched the paper-thin slips of carrot curl up from the peeler’s edge and drop to the cutting board.

“Mom,” Gracie said, “Do you want to see the thingy I found?”

Her mother looked at her. “What is it?” She asked, before continuing with her work.

“I don’t know what it’s called. It’s just a thing.” Gracie said. “It’s in my bedroom.”

“After I finish I’ll come look.” Her mother said.

Gracie waited on her bed. When she heard her mother’s footsteps, she went to stand near the bookshelf.

“What’d you find?” Her mother said from the doorway.

Gracie gestured toward the object on the bookshelf, like a tour guide at a museum. Her mother stepped into the room to see.

“This thing, here?” Her mother said, picking up the object.

Gracie nodded. “What’s it called?”

Her mother looked at the object from every angle, turning it in her hands. “I think,” She said, “It’s a tool of some sort. But I’m not sure what for – or what to call it.”

“Do you think it’s broken?” Gracie asked.

“I’m not sure.” Her mother said. “But look at this.” She pointed to one end of the object’s narrow metal body, where it tapered off and became thinner. “It looks like it might slide into something. Maybe it’s supposed to connect right here to another thing.”

Gracie reached up and took the object from her mother and began studying the tapered end. “Do you think Dad will know?” She asked her mother.

“He might.” Her mother said. “He probably will.”

Her mother returned to the kitchen, and Gracie sat on her bed with the object on her lap. She stared at it for a long time until she noticed something new. On the side of the object, stamped into the metal, was a small symbol. It wasn’t a letter of the alphabet, she was certain of that. She took it to the kitchen to show her mother, but it meant nothing to her, either. “Wait for Dad to get home.” She said.

Gracie went to her room and read The Yellow House Mystery on her bed until her dad came home from work. She met him in the living room with the object in her hand.

“Do you know what this is?” She said, holding it high for him to see.

He was talking on his cell phone with someone. He glanced down at her and then raised his finger to his lips, hushing her.

“That’s just Brian.” He said into the phone. “I guess I’m used to him by now. I’d take it with a grain of salt, really.”

Her father thoughtlessly reached down and took the object from her. His eyes were focused on it, but she could tell he wasn't really looking at it.

“Sure, sure.” He said. “Yeah, you too.”

Finally, he hung up the phone and looked at Gracie and then at the object he was holding. “What’s this?” He asked.

“It’s the thing I found today. Mom doesn’t know what it is.” She said.

“Let me see…” He said, looking at it closely. “You know what I think it is?”

“What?”

“This is a conversation starter.” He said, handing it back to her. “It’s something people keep around their house so that when friends visit they’ll ask, ‘oh, what’s this?’ and then a conversation is started.”

“What does it do, though?” She said, standing squarely in his path, blocking him from going to the kitchen to see her mother.

“It doesn’t really do anything. It used to, maybe.” He put his hands on top of her shoulders and gently moved her out of his way.

She caught up with him in the kitchen. Her mother was setting the table. Her father gave her mother a kiss and said, “Did you get my message?”

Gracie dropped the object on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. “So, if this doesn’t do anything, it’s sort of trash, right?” She said, sighing.

“Not necessarily.” Her mother said.

Suddenly, Gracie remembered the symbol imbedded on the side of the object. She snatched it from the counter and said, “Dad, look at this!”

He took it and examined the symbol. “That might be Chinese.” He said.

“Really?” Gracie said, pulling his arm down so she could look with him.

“This might be some sort of old relic – some ancient Chinese weapon or something.” His eyes were wide.

“Really?” Gracie said again.

“You never know.” He said. “If I were you, I’d keep it around.”

The object rested beside Gracie’s plate during dinner. She kept touching it, turning it over. She couldn’t stop looking at it. “Do you think it’s worth a lot of money?” She asked. Her father only said, “You never know.”

After they finished, she returned the object to its place on the bookshelf. Over time, it became a part of the landscape of her room, collecting dust, and becoming visibly-invisible. Weeks and months later, the only time Gracie thought of it was when a friend came to visit, and noticing it, asked, “What’s this?” 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about the Outlawries Bill (though it's a bit dry if you ask me), read the original Wikipedia article HERE.

#29 - Raymond Robinson (Green Man)

It was Saturday morning. Judy left the house early with the classifieds section of the newspaper tucked beneath her arm. She had poured over the listings the night before and had vigorously circled the most promising garage sales, simultaneously plotting a driving route in her head. She also brought along a yellow thermos filled with weak coffee, and a pocketbook containing nearly fifty dollars in small denominations. Her plan was to target the garage sales early, while the best deals could be found, and to finish at the flea market later in the day, when the sellers were primed to unload their unsold goods, too exhausted to haggle.

This was Judy’s weekend routine, at least during the warmer months. She sometimes returned home empty handed. When she found something she liked, she would decide on a fair price (regardless of the amount set by the seller) and stubbornly refuse to pay even a few cents more. If a seller was unwilling to come down, she would walk away.

In years past, her children, Chris and Effie, had usually joined her. Now, as teens, they only wanted to sleep-in on weekends. Occasionally, she still popped her head into their rooms before leaving the house. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” She would ask, speaking to a bedclothes-covered mound. If either of them acknowledged her at all, it was only with a mumbled, negative reply. She missed having them along, but had found that she enjoyed the time alone, as well.

At a one story brick home on Walnut Street, Judy purchased an antique-looking flower vase. The seller, a plump woman smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of Diet Coke, didn’t know how old it was. In the sunlight, Judy could see that the glaze covering the off-white paint was veined with age. The vase’s pink handle had been broken and reattached with glue.

“Do you remember when this handle broke off?” Judy said. She didn’t care, really, but wanted the woman to know that she had noticed the flaw.

The woman took a long drag on her cigarette, squinting thoughtfully at the vase. She blew the smoke out the corner of her mouth and said, “I’m not real sure, honey. A-while back.”

“It’s marked at a dollar fifty.” Judy said, turning the vase in her hands, pretending to be undecided about it. “Would you take a dollar?”

The woman’s chuckled. “How’s a dollar twenty-five?”

Judy clucked her disapproval and returned the vase to the table.

“You drive a hard bargain.” The woman said. “A dollar’s fine.”

At a very large home on Torchwood Road, Judy purchased a set of stoneware casserole dishes and cake pans. When she picked one of the pans up for a closer look, a teenage girl wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top said, “My mom told me to say those are really good and we’re selling them for really cheap.”

“Oh yeah?” Judy said.

The girl looked to be about the same age as Effie. “I guess they’re a special kind. I don’t know.” She said.

Judy turned the pan over and saw that they were Pampered Chef. She returned it to the pile.

“If you have questions or whatever, my mom’s coming back out in a minute. She’s in the bathroom.” The girl said.

Picking up the whole stack, Judy said. “Three dollars each?”

“Yep.” 

“Sounds fair to me.” She said, balancing the dishes in one arm and reaching for her pocketbook.

By eleven o’clock, Judy still hadn’t spent even half of her money. She picked up a set of four White Castle coffee mugs for a quarter. She paid fifty cents for a plastic contraption that was supposed to perfectly boil eggs in the microwave. At one sale, she pulled a musty copy of The Red Pony out of a box of free books.

Judy arrived at the flea market earlier than she’d anticipated. The place was still bustling with sellers and customers. Years earlier – too far back for Judy to recall offhand – the large lot had belonged to a farm supply and feed store. When it closed its doors, no one purchased the property. Eventually, the owners sold to the city, and the city began collecting revenue by selling vendor licenses and lot fees. The idea grew into the flea market, which, on Saturdays during the summer, became the center of life in town.

After parking at the west end of the lot, Judy stopped and bought a bag of kettle corn from a vendor in a red tent. She opened it up and ate slowly as she strolled along the main walkway leading through a maze of temporary booths and tents. She synched her pace with the flow of foot traffic, giving herself time to look at what interested her; collectible knickknacks, kitchenware, handicrafts, antique tools, books, a towering stack of used flower pots, and at one booth, an assortment of old postcards with handwritten messages, many bearing postmark dates from long before Judy was even born.

“Those are fascinating, aren’t they?” The Seller said. He was an elderly man, stooped, with shoulders that looked like they might collapse into his torso. His hair was the color of a raincloud. Though he was clean shaven, curly threads sprouted wildly from his nose and ears.

“They are.” Judy said, smiling. “You’ve collected all these?”

The man picked up one of the postcards. The scene on the front was tropical; palm trees and hula dancers. 

“No, no.” He said. “I picked these up at an estate auction a few years back.” He flipped the postcard over and studied the back. He looked at Judy. “Bought ‘em in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.” He said, as if Judy might have some connection with the place.

Judy shuffled through a stack of the postcards, flipping them over to read the messages they had carried across oceans and continents decades earlier. Some of the writing was difficult to read due to fading or poor penmanship. Those she was able to read clearly were fairly uniform in content. We’re doing well here - enjoying our time - hope everything is fine back home - we miss you - wish you were here – say ‘hello’ to so-and-so.

“I’m asking a quarter each.” The Seller said.

“They’re very interesting.” Judy said. She wasn’t considering buying any of them, but she continued looking.

The man turned and shuffled away. When he returned, he was carrying an old shoebox held together at the corners with silver duct tape. “If you like those, you might wanna look at these, too.” He placed the shoebox on the table, next to the postcards, and lifted the lid. It was filled with old black and white photographs.

“These came from the same auction. The guy was a collector, I suppose.” The man said. “Take a look.” He slid the box toward Judy.

She scooped up a handful of the photos and began leafing through them. There were a few portraits, but most were family photos; non-professional, poorly framed, intimate. Fathers with crew-cuts, mothers wearing housedresses, and children - so many beautiful children. It was strange, Judy thought, that they were old now; older than she was, even.

“Lots of memories in that shoebox.” The Seller said.

“That’s right.” Judy said, nodding her head. “Sort of lost memories, I guess.”

She returned the photos to the box and stared into it for a moment. “How much are you asking for these?” She asked. The question was out before she even realized she wanted the photos.

“Hm.” The man said, thinking.

“Five bucks?” Judy said. The offer felt inadequate once she had said it aloud.

The Seller reached into the box and moved the photos around a bit, examining them. “Well…” He said. “These might be hard to sell. You really want ‘em?”

“I think they’re interesting.” Judy said, flatly.

“If you want ‘em, they’re yours.” The man said.

After paying the man, she carried the shoebox to her car and placed it on the passenger seat. She lowered the car’s windows and sat in the driver’s seat, looking through the photos. At first, each photo seemed to have a story to tell. She studied the subjects’ faces, their posture, the clothing they were wearing. But as she dug deeper into the box, the images began to blur together, to lose their individual distinctiveness. The photos as a collection were far less interesting than any one particular photograph considered on its own.

She was nearing the end of the box. Picking up one last handful of photos, Judy paused when she saw the image at the top of the stack, held in place beneath her thumb. It was different than most of the others. It was taken outdoors, at night. There were three men in the photo, standing side by side. Not much could be seen in the background, only darkness, and just behind them, a few blades of tall grass, as if they were standing at the edge of an open field. The two men standing at each side of the photo were young and smiling. But the face of the man standing between them was obscured, as if he were wearing some blank mask. Initially, Judy thought that the photo had been damaged; perhaps a watermark had blotted out the face of the third man. Or, she thought, the man’s face may have been rubbed away, erased by an ex-lover or a betrayed friend.

The longer she looked at the image, however, the less likely either of these possibilities seemed. She touched the surface, just over the spot where the man’s face should be. It was smooth; no different than the rest of the photo. Could it have been a smudge on the camera lens? She wondered.

It was unsettling, whatever the case may be. Even if it was simply some fault of the camera, some trick of light; she didn’t like the photograph. She folded it in half, stepped out of her car, and walked to the red tent, where she had bought the kettle corn earlier. There, she tossed the folded photo into a large barrel serving as a garbage can, and returned to her car. As she pulled out of the flea market, she caught sight of the old man who had sold her the shoebox. He was walking toward the portable toilets at the edge of the parking lot. He looked in her direction at just the right moment, and Judy was able to wave to him as she drove away. 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about Raymond Robinson (Green Man), read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#30 - Scoville Scale

We were standing at the intersection of Broadway and 47^th Street, in front of a GAP store, when Mindy said, “Oh, I know a place you might like.”

It was the last day of our weekend trip to Kansas City. We had come to see the Christmas lights at Country Club Plaza, to shop, and to eat at Arthur Bryant’s. By Sunday morning we’d accomplished all three goals, and over a continental breakfast at the hotel that morning, had tried to drum up enthusiasm about spending another day away from home. In the end, we decided to head back to the Plaza, with hopes that after wandering around a bit, we might stumble upon something interesting.

Mindy put a hand out in front of me, gesturing for me to stop walking. Checking the street signs, she rubbed her chin theatrically, thinking. “I wonder…” She said.

I pulled out my iPhone. “What are we looking for?” I asked.

She grabbed my wrist and began dragging me south along Broadway. “It’s a surprise. If it’s still there, I mean.” She said.

A decade earlier, Mindy had graduated from dental school at UMKC, and her fond memories of the city at Christmas had been a motive for our weekend getaway. Over the years, we’d driven through Kansas City many times – always on our way to other places. It had become a running joke between us. “We really ought to stop and explore sometime. Maybe visit your old stomping grounds.” I had said again and again. She would roll her eyes. “Sure.”

But we had finally made it happen, and I could tell she was enjoying showing me around. Much had changed, but there was enough of the familiar to trigger lots of old memories for her. In just the first two days she’d told me a number of stories about her college days that I’d never heard. It was helping to round out my image of who she was before I met her.

“All right – “ I said, “I’m following you.”

We walked south for a block. She stopped abruptly, sighed, and said, “No, no, no.” Taking me by the hand again, she reversed our course and headed north. “Sorry.” She said.

“We can look it up on my phone.” I offered.

“I think I’ve got it now.” She said, confidently.

It was a nice day for early December; sunny and calm. Cool, but not cold. We continued north for several blocks. I kept track of the street numbers as we passed; 47^th again, then 46^th and 44^th.

At 43^rd street she paused, rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand, and then, like a psychic having just received a message from the mysterious beyond, she darted to her right, dragging me behind her.

“Mindy?” I said. “I’m not complaining – but, are you still sure about where we're going?”

She didn’t slow down. “Yep.” She said.

I followed in silence, a few paces behind her. Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder to give me a wink, a nod, or some other small encouragement. “We’re getting closer!” She assured me.

I had lost track of which street we were on, but the scenery was changing. Instead of the tall hotels and tidy shops of the Plaza area, we were now surrounded by older looking structures. The sidewalks were narrower and the trees were getting taller, aged and leafless. Mindy stopped in her tracks. She turned and smiled.

“I see it.” She said.

At the end of the block, an A-frame stood with a roof painted in bold red and white stripes; a garish, retro-transplant from the 1950s. On the steep slant of its roof, chipped blue lettering advertised the name of the place: Sweet Jim’s Spicy KC BBQ.

“Sweet Jim’s?” I said, catching up to her.

“You bet!” Mindy said. “Can’t get too much B-B-Q while you’re in K-C. This place is legendary.”

Dinner the night before had also been barbecue. I wasn’t really in the mood again, but I didn’t want to spoil her excitement. As we approached the entrance, she became very animated.

“I don’t want to hype it too much – but back in college, this place was awesome. They’ve got a bunch of different sauces to choose from, including – “ She lowered her chin and gave me a very evil look, like a werewolf about to pounce on its prey. “Ghost Sauce.”

“Sounds scary.” I said.

Jim’s was a dive. The floors looked like they hadn’t been swept since Mindy was in college. We were a bit early for lunch, but there were already customers filling most of the dozen or so tables in the place. The clientele was diverse; lots of white guys wearing jackets and ties, a Hispanic family, a few white-haired folks catching an early meal, and at one table, eating alone, sat one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. Even sitting down he was nearly as tall as Mindy.

We ordered Jim’s Sampler Platter from a handwritten menu above the cash register. Ribs, brisket, pulled pork, and a sausage link to share. The black woman at the register acknowledged our order with an “Mmm-hm.”

“I think that’s the same woman that worked here ten years ago!” Mindy whispered as we sat down at an empty table.

At the center of each table was a small wooden holder with a handle – similar to a tool box – but with six compartments to hold squeeze bottles filled with different flavors of barbecue sauce. Mindy excitedly pulled the holder close to her and said, “Here you go – this is what I love about this place.” She began pulling out each bottle and reading the labels. “Sweet molasses. KC Classic. Mustard-based.”

She pulled one of the bottles out and held it up for me to see.

“Jim’s Devil Sauce.” I read from the label.

“And this one’s not even the hottest.” She said, returning the bottle to the holder.

“Which one do you like?” I asked. And then I said, “Wait, let me guess.”

“It’s easy.” She said, leaning in with her elbows on the table.

“The molasses one.” I guessed. I knew she liked anything sweet.

“Yeah. You know me well.” She said. “But Kyle liked the Devil Sauce. He even tried the Ghost Sauce once.”

Kyle had been Mindy’s college boyfriend. They had even been engaged briefly, until he broke it off a few months before I met her. The only time it really bothered me to hear about him was when she brought him up randomly, referencing him for no particular reason, as if he inhabited some area of her consciousness very near the surface.

There was a short but noticeable break in the conversation. Her gaze dropped to the table for a half-beat, and then she looked into my eyes. “Which one do you want to try?” She asked.

I pulled the holder away from her, examining the squeeze bottles. “I suppose I have to try the ‘Devil Sauce’.” I turned each bottle, reading the labels. “Where’s the ‘Ghost Sauce’?” I asked.

“I think…” Mindy said, looking over her shoulder toward the menu on the wall. “You have ask for it.” She laughed, “It’s super hot – like, people have had go to the hospital.”

“No way.” I said.

“No, that’s an exaggeration. But – “ She stopped herself from saying something. “People during college told me it’s pretty unbearable.” She finished.

I had a good idea who these ‘people’ were. Kyle, of course. It annoyed me when she brought him up in conversation, but it annoyed me even more when she purposefully refrained from saying his name, as if my fragile ego needed protecting.

When the waitress arrived with the platter and two empty plates, I asked her to bring over some Ghost Sauce. She nodded and walked away. When she returned, she brought a small cup of very dark – almost black – sauce, as well as a ballpoint pen, and what appeared to be a legal document.

“Sign the form, sir.” She said, flatly.

The document was a waiver, releasing Sweet Jim’s of any legal responsibility in the event that a customer suffered ill effects from consuming the Ghost Sauce.

“Oh, gosh.” Mindy said, her eyes widening. “I don’t remember that.”

I signed the form and handed it to the waitress. As she shuffled away, the two of us stared down at the small cup of black barbecue sauce.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Mindy said, shaking her head in disbelief.

I didn’t respond. I pulled a thin slice of brisket from the platter between us and dipped the edge into the cup. Lifting it to my nose, I took a sniff. It was difficult to distinguish the sauce from the meat. All I got was a whiff of smokiness that smelled quite delicious.

“They wouldn’t serve this stuff if it was really dangerous.” I said. “Right?”

“My question, though, is why would you even want to take the chance?” Mindy said. She had also picked up a slice of brisket with her fingers. She popped it into her mouth.

“Hey, if Kyle could handle it, I can.” I said, trying to sound light-hearted, but not completely succeeding. I put the brisket in my mouth and began chewing.

Mindy slid her hand across the table and touched my forearm.

“I know it sort of bothers you when I mention past boyfriends. I’ll try not to do that.” She said.

I couldn’t respond. There was a sharp, chemical-burn sensation at the back of my throat. Without warning, I sneezed, and the sensation exploded into my sinuses. I started coughing – and almost instantly, felt sweat forming on my face.

“Charlie, are you okay?” Mindy asked.

“I…I’m – “ I tried to speak, but my voice came out as a rasp. Another round of coughing started. The burning had spread throughout my whole mouth. I grabbed my glass of iced tea and began chugging it. But this wasn’t helpful – the cool liquid felt like fuel to the fire. Not knowing what else to do, I kept drinking. Tears formed in my eyes.

Suddenly the waitress was standing beside me. She dropped a plate of sliced white bread on the table.

“Sweetheart, eat you a piece a-this.” She said.

I grabbed a slice of bread and stuffed the whole thing in my mouth. The waitress picked up the cup of Ghost Sauce and said, “Think you’ve had enough.”

The bread was starting to work. As long as it was in my mouth, the burning was minimized. I started alternating; sip of tea, bite of bread, sip of tea, bite of bread. Finally, I was able to speak again.

“Wow. That’s hot.” I said. “That’s hellish.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped the sweat from my face.

Mindy was laughing. She had started on the ribs, gripping one in front of her mouth, two-handed, like an ear of corn.

“And thanks.” I said. “Thanks for not talking about your old boyfriends.” 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn more about the Scoville Scale, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#31 - Kardashev Scale

On the night the group arrived in El Paso, wilted and unkempt from spending twelve hours in a rented touring bus, Pastor Dave had stood next to the large bonfire they’d built at the center of the Friends of Texas Campground, and lit by its flickering yellow light, had admonished the group, instructing them to not lose sight of the reason they had each paid four hundred dollars to spend their spring break doing hard labor in a Mexican border town.

“Tomorrow, when we cross that border and you see the conditions these people live in every day of their lives, I promise you – you’re gonna have a whole new perspective on how blessed you are.” He was wearing a grungy Colorado Rockies baseball cap, and beneath its bill, his eyes peered out at the teenagers gathered around him. “Some of you are gonna struggle down here. You’re gonna get tired. You’re gonna be sore. You’re gonna miss your beds back home. But I’ll tell you what.” He paused, making eye contact with two girls huddling near the fire, bracing against the cool night air. “If you put yourself in God’s hands,” He continued, “If you trust him, if you keep your eyes on the work you’ve been called to this week - you’ll leave Juarez a different person. God wants to do something in your heart this week that you don’t expect.”

The teenagers formed a quiet circle around him, their solemn expressions glowing in the firelight. There were thirty-two of them, plus a handful of adult chaperones. The drive from Denver had worn them all ragged, and weariness showed in their faces.

“Listen, you’ve all done great so far.” Pastor Dave said. “But there’s something we’ve gotta do that you guys aren’t gonna like. If you read the information packet I gave you last week, you probably saw the rule about bringing gadgets and other technology on the trip. On the bus, it was fine. No problem. But as of tonight, iPods, iPhones - or anything like that - is off limits.” He glanced around, scanning the group for signs of dissent.

“I’m not being a party-pooper. I want you to have a powerful week down here, and I don’t want you distracted by checking your facebook every five minutes. Does that make sense? I don’t want you texting your friends back home – you know – complaining about the sand in your teeth or whatever.” He said. A few in the group chuckled.

“To make things easier on you, Missy’s gonna collect all your gadgets tonight.” He motioned toward an adult woman standing just outside the circle of light created by the camp fire. She smiled shyly. Pastor Dave continued, “She’ll take your phone or your iPod and keep it safe this week. You don’t need to worry about it. She’ll give ‘em back to you on Friday before we head back to Colorado.”

He rotated in a circle, examining the group. “Any questions?” He asked.

“What about emergencies?” A girl’s voice said from the darkness.

Without looking for the specific source of the voice, Pastor Dave answered, “The adult leaders all have cell phones that they’ll use in the case of an emergency. Any other questions?”

No one else spoke up. They all looked like they might topple over at any time, one after another, like human dominoes.

“Let’s pray, and then you guys need to get to bed. Big day tomorrow.” He said.

The group formed a large circle around the fire. They held hands, and then a few of the teens volunteered to say prayers. Afterward, they scattered to their gender-segregated tents. Using a flashlight to navigate her way through the dark, Missy carried an empty pillowcase, Ziploc baggies, and a permanent marker from tent to tent, collecting the teens’ tech gadgets. She had each of them seal their gadgets in a baggie, which she then labeled with the marker and dropped into the pillowcase.

She tried to encourage the teens, saying “I know it’s tough, but I don’t think you’ll miss ‘em.”

The next morning, as the sun was just coming up, the group shuffled out of their tents and climbed back onto the bus. They were all groggy-faced and a bit cranky. Pastor Dave, Missy, and a few of the other adult chaperones passed out packages of Pop-Tarts and juice boxes. The teens ate on the way to the border.

Pastor Dave had already given the teens careful instructions regarding crossing the border. No photos. No joking around. Answer the border patrol officers’ questions politely. Always know where your passport is located. Don’t make negative remarks about Mexico.

Once everyone was back on the bus and they were slowly maneuvering through the narrow streets of Juarez, Pastor Dave stood up and used the bus’ intercom to address the group.

“Good job, guys. Real smooth. You all need to say a little prayer and thank God for how easy that was.” He said.

As they continued deeper into the city, the atmosphere inside the bus became energetic, almost giddy. The teens stared out the bus’ large windows, gawking at the street markets and food vendors they passed. For many of them, it was their first trip outside the United States. They read aloud the signs and advertisements on the buildings as they passed, with a few of the more studious in the group taking it upon themselves to demonstrate correct Spanish pronunciation.

The bus arrived at the Iglesia de Cristo just after eleven in the morning. Pastor Garza, a short, slightly overweight man, with a large moustache and dark rings beneath his eyes, met them at the front gate. He stepped onto the bus and, in broken English, welcomed Pastor Dave and the rest of the group. He walked up the center aisle, shaking hands with the teens. “You hungry?” He asked them, smiling enthusiastically. Some women from the church had spent the morning preparing lunch for the group. The teens didn’t know this, but they grinned and nodded. One fourteen year old boy said, “Tengo hambre!”

Pastor Garza gave the bus driver directions to an empty lot a block from the church, where he had arranged for the bus to be parked. The group shambled off the bus, and as it pulled away, they followed Pastor Garza through the gate and into the church’s front yard.

After a quick tour of the grounds – the large cinderblock sanctuary, a few open-air classrooms, outhouses, and kitchen – the group was served a hot meal of stewed chicken with onions, fresh corn tortillas, beans, fideo, and green table salsa that was too spicy for most of them to enjoy. There were no tables to sit at, so they plopped down wherever shade was available, eating from paper plates, each with a glass bottle of cold Manzana Lift at their side.

“If any of you can’t finish your food, you know where to bring it!” Pastor Dave announced, scooping up some chicken with a flimsy tortilla.

They all ate greedily, as if they’d done a full day’s work. Ecstatic about their first meal in Mexico, many of the teens were being overly complimentary, poking their heads into the kitchen and practically shouting, “Delicioso! Delicioso!”

In the afternoon, Pastor Dave split the group into three teams and assigned each team to a project around the church grounds. Missy led a group made up of mostly girls. They cleaned up trash around the inside of the tall wall that surrounded the church. One girl in her group, a redhead named Tiffany, asked, “Why do they put broken glass bottles at the top of all the walls?”

“Security.” Missy answered. “To keep people out.”

A girl named Kara, who had been on the same trip a year earlier, gazed up at the shards of glass embedded into the cement. “Crime is very high in Juarez. The drug cartels run this place.” She said, squinting at Tiffany.

Inside the church, Pastor Dave had a group painting the walls. They had covered the floors in newspapers to protect the tiles from splattered paint. In front of the church, a chaperone named Chris was leading a group in scraping and painting an ornate wrought iron fence that stood at each side of the main gate.

They worked hard through the afternoon. By the time the Mexican ladies were ready to serve another hearty meal for supper, the teens were plastered with sweat and flecks of paint. Wanting to cross back into El Paso before sundown, Pastor Dave said, “Suck it down quick, guys. Real quick.”

When they had finished, many of the teens poked their heads into the kitchen again. They waved to the women who had cooked for them. “Hasta mañana!”

The teens were waiting at the front gate when the bus came rumbling up, spewing a cloud of diesel fumes. They gasped when they caught sight of it. One of the large windows on the side, near the back, had been broken out. A gaping hole had been left with razor sharp glass hanging at the edges, like nightmarish fangs. 

“What the…” Pastor Dave said.

He told the teens to remain outside the bus. He and Pastor Garza climbed onboard. They were inside, moving around for what felt like to the teenagers waiting outside a very long time. Finally, Pastor Dave stuck his head out of the hole in the window. He located Missy in the group of those looking on. He said her name, “Missy," and jerked his chin upward, motioning for her to board the bus. She nervously stepped through the door at the front. For several minutes, everyone was quiet, with only the faintest murmur of voices coming from inside.

Finally, Pastor Dave stepped off the bus, his eyes fixed on the ground. Pastor Garza and Missy followed close behind, both of them looking utterly solemn.

“I’m not sure how to tell you all this.” Pastor Dave said. “I truly hope we can keep things in perspective here and remember why we came to Juarez in the first place.” He shuffled his feet a bit, not making eye contact with anyone in the group.

“The bag of phones – the iPods, iPhones – all that stuff. It was on the bus.” He said. “While we were working this afternoon, someone broke in. All that stuff is gone.”

One of the girls said, “Are you being serious right now?”

Pastor Dave managed to look up at her. “Yep. I am. All your gadgets are gone. I’m really sorry.” 

*     *     *     *     * 

To learn about the Kardashev Scale, read the original Wikipedia article HERE. 

#32 - Larry Walters

They had eaten lunch at a McDonald’s in Colby. Over double cheeseburgers and limp yellow French fries they had discussed their impressions of western Kansas; it’s vast, open, immutableness. This was the first time for the two of them to make the drive together, their first road trip as an official couple. Although the journey had started in Denver with energy - with a real spirit of adventure - the monotony of the eastern Colorado plains had lulled them into an almost meditative quiet. By the time I-70 delivered them into the flat, rectangular expanse at the center of America, Megan had fallen asleep, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard, and Luke had slipped into a fuzzy, AM-radio-induced trance.

After their meal, Megan had made a dispassionate offer to drive for a while. Luke insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“Good.” Megan said, as they walked across the hot blacktop parking lot to the car. “I sorta hate driving.”

“Yep, I know.” Luke said.

Back on the interstate, Megan reclined the passenger seat and closed her eyes. She let out a satisfied sigh and said, “Why am I so tired?” When Luke didn’t respond, she answered her own question. “Actually I don’t think I’m tired – just totally relaxed, you know? No class, no homework, no finals to worry about. Love it.”

“Yep. Me too.” Luke said.

“If you wanna talk, just wake me up.” She said, returning her feet to the dashboard. The red paint on her toenails was flaking off.

“Okay.” Luke said.

She sat up in her seat and began digging through the JanSport bag in the floor. She retrieved a pair of sunglasses with giant round lenses, slipped them on, and returned to her reclined position. A few minutes later, she was asleep, her breathing heavy.

There was nothing good on the radio. Luke had hit the radio’s scan button on both FM and AM frequencies. Preaching, country music, preaching, farm report, preaching, country music, preaching. He wished he had brought an audio book.

To help pass time, he tallied the license plates he saw. Most were from Kansas, but there were many from Colorado, as well. He’d seen a few from South Dakota. Lots of Midwestern states; Nebraska, Oklahoma, Missouri, Illinois. He saw one from as far as Rhode Island.

Luke read the large billboards on each side of the highway. They were familiar and uninteresting. He’d made the drive across Kansas at least a few times each year of college. He knew the names of all the small towns that lined I-70, and which offered the best fast-food options. Colby and Hays and Salina. Once, on his drive home for Christmas break, he’d spent the night in Wakeeney at the Kansas Kountry Inn during an ice storm. It was his first time to stay in a hotel alone. Sitting on his bed that night, he’d eaten a bag of Doritos and microwaved burritos from the gas station next door. The experience had felt vaguely momentous. He had fallen asleep watching the Cartoon Network. The next morning, after the roads had been cleared and salted, he continued east toward home.

When they passed Wakeeney, Luke considered waking Megan to tell her the story of the ice storm and his night at the hotel, but decided against it. She was really asleep; jaw slack, mouth open, and a slightly audible vibration in her throat, like the sound of sucking the last drops of milkshake through a straw. Very quietly, he slipped his cell phone from the front pocket of his blue jeans and snapped a photo of her. He loved how comfortable she was.

She slept for another hour, and then very suddenly sat straight up and used the back of her hand to wipe a line of drool from the corner of her mouth. She pulled the sunglasses off and squinted out the windshield at the interstate stretching ahead of them.

“Sorry.” She said.

“For what?” Luke said.

“Making you drive while I sleep.” She looked into the rearview mirror and used her index fingers to pat at flesh just below her eyes.

“I like driving.” He said. He cocked his head from side-to-side, stretching his neck. “But wow, you were really going after it there for a while. Felt like I had a bear sleeping next to me.” He tossed his head back, mouth open, eyes closed, mock-snoring.

She hit him on the arm. “Shut up. And watch the road.”

He was still laughing, but her attention was fixed on the horizon ahead of them.

“What’s that?” She asked, pointing through the windshield at a distant point in the sky.

Luke leaned forward in his seat, his eyes following the trajectory of her finger.

“Hot air balloon.” He said.

“Oh.” She said, but then added, “It’s all warped looking or something.”

She was right. The outline of the balloon was, from their distance, jagged looking. Not the smooth, upside-down gourd shape of a hot air balloon. He shrugged. “Hmm. It is sort of funny looking.”

Megan continued to watch the object. They were gaining on it; the shape becoming more distinct.

“It’s lots of little balloons.” She said. “I think.”

Their east-bound lane of the interstate was subtly climbing the side of a broad, prairie-grass covered hill. As they came to the top, their view expanded in all directions, Kansas writ large. 

Megan gasped. 

It was sort of beautiful, Luke thought. But then Megan said, “Dude, do you see the guy up there?”

She had never before called him Dude. He laughed, pulled off his sunglasses, and squinted in the direction of the object. It was obvious now that the floating object was - as Megan had suggested - many small gray balloons bound together. Suspended beneath, where the passengers’ basket might be on a hot air balloon, was something that looked like a chair. The chair was holding a man. The man was holding a gun.

I-70 divided the landscape in front them, and the giant bouquet of balloons had carried the man into the southern portion. Their car caught up with him and for a brief time they were parallel with one another. The man was ascending quickly. It was getting more difficult for Luke to follow his trajectory while driving. His eyes darted dangerously from the sky to the road and back to the sky.

“That…” Luke said. “Is crazy.”

“It’s so awesome.” Megan said.

They were both quiet for a moment and then Megan said. “What in the world?” She shook her head.

Luke pressed on the gas and the car jumped forward. He was well over the speed limit.

“I’m pulling off at the next exit.” He said.

Megan was twisted in her seat, still watching the balloon-man behind them. “Why?” She said.

“We’re gonna follow him.” Luke said, clutching tighter to the steering wheel. He was leaning forward in his seat, his expression intense.

“Really?” Megan said. She smiled.

“Oooh yeah.” Luke said, biting his lower lip. “I need you to keep an eye on him. You’re my navigator, OK?”

“Sure.” Megan said.

Luke spotted an overpass bridge ahead, and to the right of it, an exit. He whipped the car around the front of a Mayflower moving truck, flipped his blinker on, and headed up the exit ramp. “Cool.” He said.

Megan was rolling down the window. Once it was low enough, she stuck her head out, followed by her shoulders and arms. “I can still see him.” She said.

“Good. Don’t lose him.” Luke said.

The two of them briefly made eye contact over the tops of their sunglasses. “Cool.” Megan said. 

*     *     *     *     *

To learn more about Larry Walters, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.