Janet Goes To Dinner

“I’ll have a squid and seconal salad please,” Janet told the waiter.
“I’m sorry maam, we no longer serve barbiturates and we are out of squid, but there is a smoking area in the alley.”
A slight pout rolled down Janet’s face as she picked up the menu. “That doesn’t fit well with my plans,” she said.
The waiter, whose friends called him Butter but whose real name was Roman, stood mute, awaiting Janet’s second selection.
“Hmm,” mused Janet, “you don’t seem to have any other cephalopods, and I’ve heard bad things about the penguin-on-stick.”
Roman-Butter bristled inwardly at the penguin put-down, but he smiled politely and waited, which, after all, was his job.
“Does the beaver spleen come with seasonal berries?” Janet inquired.
“No maam, it is served with Swiss peaches soaked in a raisin liqueur. They are topped with a mild, soft cheese made from Shetland pony milk and churned by virgin stenographers working evenings at the dairy.”
Janet’s pout sagged further as she said, “Oh dear, I am horse-fluid intolerant. That just won’t do.”
Roman-Butter waited some more.
“I know,” Janet beamed, “I’ll have the salmon pancreas and lentils on a bed of odorless rice with a side of sautéed owl tongue.”
“Very good maam,” said Roman-Butter, relieved to exit Janet’s presence.
Before he could extract himself, Janet said, “I’d like a glass of wine with that. What do you recommend?”
“We have an excellent Argentine chardonnay, a 2001 vintage. The grapes came from a small vineyard halfway up Mt. Chacon. The harvest only takes place once a year at twilight when the temperature hovers around 53 degrees Fahrenheit and a fine mist is in the air. They are then transported to the pressing room by indigenous curanderos where stout village women lovingly squeeze every bit of fluid from the skins. The juice is then stored in barrels of French Oak for no less than two years before pouring. The skins are donated to the United Nations for it’s ongoing research into fruit-skin benefits in the cure for leprosy.”
“On second thought,” said Janet, “I think I’ll have a Coke.”
At this point, Roman-Butter picked up a sterling-silver fork off the linen draped table and shoved it into Janet’s ear.

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The Philosophical Squat

He was outfitted in a Joseph Aboud, pinstriped, grey suit; his shirt was azure blue, and a matching striped tie was neatly wrapped around his neck. Highly polished Barrington wing tips and black socks adorned his feet, and a well-trimmed, slightly grey head of hair crowned his six-foot frame. He appeared to be the very model of a successful businessman, a stockbroker perhaps or maybe an attorney. He gave off a confident air, and his blues eyes seemed determined, resolute.
I sat on an uncomfortable bench, killing time and people watching waiting for my wife to finish her shopping in a mall department store, when the man passed in front of me. He carried no bags and didn’t seem interested in the window displays he passed. As he passed Abercrombie & Fitch, he slowed, and before he reached The Fantabulous Cookie Company, he halted, backed up to the wall, and squatted.
I’ve been in many third-world countries were squatting is considered a perfectly acceptable form of resting, but in the United States, you rarely see people squat unless they are relieving themselves in the woods or building a campfire. I don’t recall observing much squatting in retail malls. But there he was, this well-dressed man, squatting, staring straight ahead, and seemingly unaware of his surroundings.
Most shoppers passing by took no notice of the man; those that did acted surprised and a little befuddled, but no one stopped. The man continued to squat, knees spread, hands resting on his them. I thought he might have a leg cramp that needed stretching or just needed a moment to himself, but he continued to squat. Ten minutes passed, and curiosity got the better of me, so I walked over to the man and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“Are you Ok?”
“More or less.”
“I’ve noticed you’ve been squatting here for a while and wondered if you were Ok, if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Can you do a puppet dance?” he asked without a trace of a smile.
“Probably, but I don’t think I want to.”
“I understand. Do you think people condense or expand as they receive more information?”
“Hmmm, that’s a tough one. I guess I’d have to agree with Saperstein and Lao Tzu, that there comes a point when too much information hinders growth.”
“Interesting. Well, I guess I ought to be getting back to the newsroom. Could you help me up, I think my knees are locked?”
“Sure,” I said and grabbed his arm and pulled him into a standing position.
“Nice talking to you,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.”
He turned to walk away, but hesitated and turned around. “Say, how tall was Saperstein?”
“He was five feet.”
“I thought so,” he said, and then walked across the mall to Victoria’s Secret.

(c) 2007

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Bunny In The Woods

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we'll have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her 13-year-old daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to the hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment, we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

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An Umlaut Spurned

She wants Belgium waffles and a Bob Marley joint. “You won’t find them here,” the nose-studded shopkeeper said. Her face rose to the next octave of color, and she danced with an alpaca’s tooth in her hand until dizzy. “Polly Sumatra just doesn’t understand me,” she complained loudly as she fled from the shop. I followed. She floated up the boulevard, black hair trailing in the slipstream, finally stopping in front of The Word Store. I approached cautiously as she peered through the display window. Standing next to her, I coughed, and she turned to look at me. Her electric blue eyes were almost painful to observe. I cleared my throat again and asked, “Do you need a word?”
“I need a whole sentence,” she replied in a cherry-colored voice with a half-smile on her lips.
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, and I stared too long at her cleavage while thinking of something to say. “Uh…I….”
“Are you a vulgarian?” she interrupted my stammering.
“Why yes, I am,” I said, regaining some composure.
“Oh,” she whispered, “cool. Do you have an umlaut I can borrow for a few days?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’ve got several extras, I’ll be happy to give you one.” I pawed around in my shoulder bag, and my hand emerged with a shiny, mint-condition umlaut which I handed her.
“Wow, thanks. That’s a very nice umlaut. Now, I’d like to offer you something in return.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “It was my pleasure.”
“I insist,” she said. “You name it, anything you want.”
I thought for a bit then said, “I’d like peace on Earth.”
She handed me the umlaut back and walked on up the boulevard.

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Crystal's Lizards

Forty-two small, green lizards lined up to lick the big toe on Crystal’s left foot. She hated to disappoint them so she asked Roger to wait until the procession of reptiles had each had their turn before they left for the airport. Roger, of course, complained in that whiny, nasal voice that Crystal had come to despise ever since she had agreed to accompany him on this trip to The Barbados.
“Fuck off Roger,” said Crystal with a look of disdain on her freckled face, “Go take a cab by yourself. If I miss the plane, at least I’ll be spared sitting next to you on the fight home.”
Roger pouted. He pouted a lot over the past four days. Crystal hadn’t lived up to his expectations. She was not pliable enough; she was too…independent. “Fine, I’m going. You can stay here with those damn lizards, they’re cold blooded, just like you.”
“You’re a dick, Roger,” spat Crystal, “a real small dick. Now get the fuck out of here before I turn you into lizard chow.”
As Roger stormed away, Crystal turned her attention back to the lizards. They were so cute, each one waiting its turn in the grass, just off the patio. When one would finish its licking, the next would waddle up and take its place. She found their ministrations to be more calming than valium. Crystal leaned back in the deck chair, closed her eyes, and realized her toe had an erection.

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