Black Pajama Pants by Rob Lichter, inspired by a story by Chris Stabler



“Mr. Bowers, your 1:30 is here,” came the voice through the speakerphone on his desk.
“Thanks, Sheila, send him in, please,” Mr. Bowers replied and placed the paperwork he was working on into a manila envelope and stuck the envelope in a drawer in his desk.
“Mr. Bowers?” the speakerphone asked again. It was Sheila and she was whispering into her handset. “I just want to warn you that your interview is a bit…odd. Just a heads-up.”
“Thank you, Sheila,” said Mr. Bowers and he hung up the phone. He took out the applicant’s resumé and began to scan it when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Bowers.

It was then that a pair of black pajama pants entered the room and took a seat in the chair opposite Mr. Bowers’ desk. To his credit, Mr. Bowers simply followed the pajama pants with his eyes and then looked down to re-scan the resumé.
“Mr.- Bauer, is it?” he asked the pajama pants.
“No, I CAME from Eddie Bauer. Bellevue, Washington state,” the pants corrected.
“I see,” said Mr. Bowers, looking back at the resumé. “I’ll be honest, Mr., um…Mr….?” The pants did not pick up on Mr. Bowers’ questioning tone and Mr. Bowers let the words hang in the air, not knowing how to proceed. This kind of thing was not covered in his sensitivity training.
“I mean to say, I simply don’t know if you’ll fit in at this company…at this…particular…ahem…at this particular time,” he explained delicately.
“What? Oh, because I’m black??” the pants said indignantly.
“Wait, what? No!” Mr. Bowers said, quickly. He was clearly in over his head here. “He scanned the resumé again, searching for something to talk about; something familiar. He found virtually nothing.
“Um, according to your resumé, you’ve never worked in research before, is that right?” he asked tentatively.
“That’s right,” said the pants simply.
“Well, we’re really looking for someone with experience in the field of research,” said Mr. Bowers with some confidence. Dismissing potential biosystems researchers on the grounds of insufficient experience was nothing new to him. He was back in charge of the conversation.
“I see,” said the pants. “So you’re telling me that even though your company has no pajamas whatsoever on staff, you’re going to turn me away?”
“You’re unqualified!” said Mr. Bowers loudly, shaking the resumé in his hand. “You’re not even a complete pair of pajamas! Where's the top!?” Mr. Bowers had the pants dead to rights.
“You’re not allowed to ask me that!” replied the pants. “You can’t ask me about my personal life at all. You’re treading on dangerous territory, sir. I’d hate to have to contact your human resources department before I’m even hired!
“You’re not even human!” exclaimed Bowers. The pants chuckled softly.
“That’s a good one,” said the pants. “I’ll have to remember that. But seriously, Mr. Bowers, we both know that this company has had a…let’s say ‘imperfect’ history regarding discrimination.”
“If you’re referring to the harassment case last year, that was a simple case of misunderstanding. We’d hired a deaf woman in the legal department. One of her coworkers tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention and she claimed inappropriate contact. That has no bearing on the matter in front of us at this moment! If anything, I should bring charges against you for using your…position…to…to try to bully your way into this company.”
“Mr. Bowers, the plain fact is that if I go to the media with my story, my alleged inexperience in the field of biosystemic research will go unnoticed. What the public will hear will be ‘major company is biased.’ If that kind of publicity is something you think you can handle, then by all means send me packing,” the pants said evenly.
Mr. Bowers eyed the pants with loathing. They sat in a standoff for several minutes. Without taking his eyes off of the pants, Mr. Bowers reached over to his phone.
“Sheila,” he said, “would you come in here, please?” A few seconds later the office door opened and a notch collar piped jacket with matching skirt entered.
“Sheila,” said Mr. Bowers through a clenched jaw, “would you please escort this…gentleman to personnel and get him set up with an I.D. card? He’ll be joining us in the research department.”
The pants rose from the chair and joined the jacket and skirt at the doorway.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. B. You won’t regret it,” said the pants and winked at Mr. Bowers before closing the door behind him.
Mr. Bowers leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned himself. He mentally counted the days until retirement and sighed softly.

Paradise by the Heineken Light by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Brian Alleva

On his way home from work, Yves normally drove an extra half-mile out of his way just to get something from 7-11. It wasn’t always the same thing; it could be a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk. It could be an air freshener. It could be a pack of batteries. Tonight it would be a package of those shaped rubber bands that kids wear around their wrists. He would tell the girl behind the counter that it was for his nephews. The girl behind the counter. Yves wondered if she knew that he made the trip every night after work just to see her. Of course she knew; she was a chick. Chicks always know this kind of thing, but Yves was a dude and dudes are clueless. Ask any chick.
Yves parked the car and walked up to the register. The girl was texting. Her fingers flew in a flurry before snapping the phone shut and looking up at Yves.
“Help you?” she asked.
“Hey, yeah, do you have those rubber band things the kids like?” he asked, “I-i-it’s for my nephews.” She pointed to the open bowl of colorful packages next to the register.
“Yeah, great! Ok, let’s see, oh there’s different kinds, huh? Like themes or something ha ha. Hey, sports, huh? Yeah, my nephews are into sports. I should get them this one for when I go visit them. Yeah, I don’t have kids. Maybe someday. You never know what’s going to happen in the future, right? Haha,” He picked out a small package from the bowl a little too hard and it flew out of his hand and behind the counter. The girl shook her head, picked it up and rang it up.
“Anything else?” she asked, clearly not amused. Yves got the distinct feeling that he should leave now. He paid for his things and left. He got in his car and looked at the girl though the window (and his own windshield, so basically through two layers of glass. That’s not important, I’m just clarifying). She was texting again. Who was she texting? Who was the important person in her life? He looked at the worthless fruit of his surreptitious romantic excursion. He imagined himself going home and throwing it out, like he did most of his purchases. He suddenly wanted a drink.
“But if I go back in and buy a beer,” he said to himself, “she’ll get even more annoyed with me.” As he thought this, three men roughly Yves’ age walked into the 7-11, laughing. He watched through the window(s) as they picked up a six pack and brought it to the register. She was talking to them as she rang them up. They were all laughing. The guys left and Yves had had all he could stand. He left his car and burst through the door. The girl looked up, surprised.
“Look,” he said, breathing hard, “I like you. A lot. I come here almost every day just to see you. I’ve spent I don’t know how much here and it’s never on anything I want. I don’t shop at 7-11! I come here to see you for like 5 minutes before I go home. Plus, I don’t even know your name! So who are you texting anyway, your boyfriend?”
The only other person in the store was a man pouring coffee into a paper cup. He turned to watch the excitement.
The girl wrinkled her brow at Yves and said, “Dude, people come in here all the time. I don’t remember who they are as soon as they walk out that door. I hate this place. If I couldn’t text, I’d go crazy. And it’s none of your damn business who I’m texting!”
They regarded each other silently across the counter.
Suddenly, a deep rumble shook the store. A flash of purple light tore through them. The light quickly died down. Yves stole a look through squinted, watering eyes and saw a mushroom cloud slowly rising in the distance.
“Holy shit!” shouted Yves.
“Yeah, “ said the girl.
The rumbling continued. They watched, transfixed, as the trees in front of the store caught fire and the mushroom cloud continued rising into the blindingly bright night sky.
The man with the coffee dropped his cup and ran for the door. The girl behind the counter yelled to him to stop. He opened the door, shouting, “Olivia!” The moment he opened the door, he was vaporized. The door slammed closed, sending his ash up in a cloud.
“Holy SHIT!” shouted the girl.
“Yeah!” said Yves. The girl looked at him, rolled her eyes and walked to the register. Yves watched as she emptied all the cash and stuffed it into her pockets.
“What are you doing?!?” he shouted.
“Hey, numbnuts, the world just ended. My boss isn’t likely to ask where the money went,” she spat.
“What are you going to do with all that money when we can’t even go outside?!” Yves shouted. The girl thought about this for a moment. “Whatever,” she said and continued to empty the register, “there’s no downside to having a little extra money.” Yves remained quiet and continued to stare outside.
“Hey,” he said eventually, “How are we alive? I mean, that guy burned right up and we’re OK. How is that possible?”
“Polarized glass,” answered the girl, “The sun shines through the window all day so the people working the register would normally get sunburned, but they put this special polarizing stuff on it or whatever and it protects from harmful UV rays. I guess it protects against atomic radiation, too,” she shrugged.
“Jesus,” Yves whispered.
“I need a drink,” she said and came out from behind the counter. She walked past Yves to the beer case, opened the door, pulled out a sixpack and came back to the counter. She pulled off a can from the plastic ring and tossed it to Yves. She then hopped up onto the counter and pulled off another one. Yves stared at the can. The girl snapped hers open and took a gulp. Yves opened his can and hopped up onto the counter with the girl. They drank in silence and watched the earth die.
“So…DO you have a boyfriend?” asked Yves, looking down at the can in his hand. He was feeling bolder. After watching the world end, the question that he’d been too afraid to ask seemed pretty insignificant now. The girl didn’t answer right away.
“Even if I did, he’d probably be dead now anyway. But no, I didn’t. Don’t.” she said.
After Yves had a couple of beers in him, he began to fear the girl less. They talked about TV shows and music they liked. They flipped through the gossip rags and made fun of the celebrities and their ridiculous lives. The sixpack finished, Yves hopped down from the desk and went to get more beer, bumping into the donut case as he did so. He returned with another sixpack. He pulled one off the ring and threw it to the girl, missing her by three feet. It smashed into the cigarettes against the back wall and send dozens of packs tumbling to the floor. He looked wide-eyed at her, who looked back at him and they both howled with laughter. The beer cans piled up and they talked through the night before finally falling asleep.
Yves awoke the next morning to the beeping of the microwave.
“Hey. I made you breakfast,” she said, pulling out a breakfast burrito and handing it to him. He opened the paper and the smell of sausage made his stomach turn. “Thanks,” he said, “Maybe later.” Yves poured himself a cup of black coffee and took an apple from the fruit bin.
“You know what? I still don’t even know your name,” Yves said and bit into his apple. The girl was eating her own breakfast burrito, drinking a Red Bull, and staring out the window.
“Adamina,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Adamina,” said Yves and they both looked quietly out the window. Adamina put out her hand and Yves took it in his.

HERCAMORE B. SMITH AND THE UNOPENABLE BOOK
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Ed Garrison III


Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith was the chair of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his son, Hercamore. Hercamore was unlike his father in almost every way. He was slovenly, watched loads of reality television and rarely, if ever, used his mind for anything worthwhile and derided those who did. His father, the professor, had been known to shrug and say, “Sometimes it skips a generation,” and pick up another hors d’oeuvre.
Hercamore felt that the Professor went out of his way to make him feel stupid. Besides feeling that his father was a condescending snob, Hercamore also resented his parents for naming him the name they named him. His mother was no longer alive so Herc rarely ever thought of her. His umbrage was focused on his father.
One beautiful, sunny afternoon, Herc was watching the game on TV. It was a close one, and Herc held partly-chewed Doritos in his mouth. He had stopped chewing at the snap of the ball and he’d yet to feel the need to resume. As the touchdown was made, Herc came to realize two things; the phone was ringing and he was in the middle of eating Doritos. He went back to chewing and picked up the phone.
“Myeah?” he managed.
“Mr. Smith, this is Professor Hardin at the University. I work with…worked with your father,” said the voice on the phone.
“What happened, he get you fired?” Herc replied.
“What? No! He’s, I mean, I was his colleague until his death...” Hardin finished weakly. Herc swallowed and muted the TV.
“Dead?” Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” asked Herc.
“Professor Rudolph Smith, yes. Is this…Hercamore? His son?” asked hardin, sounding unsure.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Wow, really? The old man’s dead, huh?” said Herc.
“Why, yes,” continued Hardin, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I’d assumed you’d been told.”
“The old man never tells me anything. Or if he does, I don’t understand it,” explained Herc.
“Well…well, this is a bit awkward, Mr. Smith. Your father’s remains were donated, per his wishes, to the biology department. He left a will and wanted the University to have everything. I-I didn’t know how you’d take this and felt I should speak with you, personally.”
“Mr. Hardin, if my dad left you his stuff, then go ahead and take it and leave me alone,” snapped Herc.
“It’s Professor Hardin, Mr. Smith, and I’m happy to hear you won’t be any trouble. Oh, he did leave you one thing. A book.”
“A book? What a joke! It’s probably some ancient Sumatran math poetry or something, right? Condescending prick!”
“No, actually I don’t know what sort of text it is. The book has no markings on it whatever. In any case, Mr. Smith, it belongs to you now. I can have it shipped to you if you like…”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” said Herc, his eyes drifting toward the aftershave commercial. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t have to pay for shipping or anything, do I?” he asked, testily.
“No, Mr. Smith. I will make sure it’s taken care of. Good day to you and…I’m sorry for your lo-.” Herc hung up before Hardin could finish.
Several days later, a package arrived at Hercamore’s house. He signed for it and brought it inside. Herc opened the brown wrapping paper and sliced the box open with a blade. Opening the box, he saw, nestled in the shredded newspaper, a dark blue velvet bag with a drawstring. Herc reached in and removed the bag. It was heavy. He pulled the drawstring, opening the bag, and pulled out a leatherbound book. Hardin was right; there was no writing on it anywhere, just a plain brown cover. He tried to open it but it wouldn’t open. He looked for a clasp of some kind but found nothing. The book simply didn’t open. He looked in the box for something else, but saw nothing. Then he noticed a small slip of paper inside the velvet bag. He picked it up and held it to his eyes. It had writing on it, like a fortune cookie fortune, but in his father’s handwriting:
“For Hercules, Sometimes it skips a generation.”
“What a dick,” thought Herc and tossed the book and the bag into the shredded paper and went to go watch some TV.
When the game was over, Herc got up to throw out the empty chip bag and he passed the table the package was on. As he walked past, he glanced inside. The book and the bag were there, resting on a newspaper inside the box. Herc stopped and stared. He was sure it had been shredded paper, not a full newspaper in which the book had been packed. He chalked his confusion up to not really caring all that much and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc came downstairs and walked past the package on the table again. Curious, he looked inside and saw the book, the bag, and a whole bunch of shredded paper. He reached in and tried to open the book again, but to no avail. He picked up the note and read it again.
“Hercules,” he said to himself, “My name is Hercules?” In a burst of hopefulness, he went down to the cellar, to the file cabinet. Herc pawed though the files until he found it: his birth certificate. He opened the manila envelope it was it and scanned it until he found his name.
“Hercamore Benoit Smith,” he read softly. Why did his father call him Hercules? It sure was cooler than Hercamore! Hercules was a cool-ass name! Was his father trying to be nice to him by giving him a cool nickname? In no universe did that make sense. Hercamore filed the certificate away and settled on the fact that he never understood his father and vice versa. He went back upstairs and picked up the book. Again, he tried to pull it, pry it, bend it, but it still didn’t open. Frustrated, he brought it with him into the living room and sat down in his chair. He put he book on the side table and realized he didn’t have a beer. Rectifying this, he returned to the living room, grabbed the remote and sat down. He took a sip from his beer and rested the bottle on the book. After flipping the channels for a bit, he found a reality show about a midget baker who had 8 kids.
“Bingo,” he said and picked up his beer. He took one swig and almost spit it out. The beer had gone completely flat. He forced himself to swallow and stared at the bottle in utter confusion. He picked up the book and the bottle. He walked to the entertainment center in which the TV rested and slid the book onto a shelf between a potted cactus and an autographed baseball on a little stand. The ball read “Reggie Jackson” in ballpoint pen. Herc went to the kitchen and swapped out his beers. He tested the new one. It was fine. He took another taste of the old one. It was flat. He took the new one back to the living room and rested it on the table next to the chair. He was tentative at first, but the new beer was just fine.
Herc woke up in his chair. It was dark out. The TV was broadcasting an infomercial for a CD set of Super Soft Hits from the 90s. Herc turned off the TV and stood. In the semi-dark of the room, he saw something strange above the TV. He flipped the wall light on and took a look at the small, potted cactus on the shelf. It was black and shriveled. Then he saw his beloved Reggie Jackson baseball. It was completely blank. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Nothing. The book caught his eye. Angrily, he picked it up and brought it back to the box it arrived in. He placed it back into the pouch and went upstairs to bed. As he climbed into bed, his phone rang, startling him.
“Yeah, what?” he barked.
“Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry to disturb you so late, but…may I ask…did you receive that book your father left you?”
“Mr. Haldin? That you?”
“Hardin, yes,” said the voice on the phone. He didn’t bother to correct him on the whole ‘professor’ thing. You’ve got to choose your battles.
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You must bring me that book immediately. Can you get to the University tomorrow? I promise I will make it worth your while.”
“Five hunnerd,” said Herc.
“What?” replied Professor Hardin, genuinely perplexed.
“Gimme five hunnerd dollars and I’ll be there before lunch,” said Herc. There was a pause on the other end.
“That will be fine. Please be here by twelve tomorrow, Mr. Smith,” said Hardin. Hercamore hung up and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc was driving and drinking a hot cardboard cup of coffee. The velvet bag was in the seat next to him. He arrived at the University at eleven o’clock and found the Physics Department. He walked down the hall until he found a door with his father’s name on it:
Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith, Department Chair
He knocked on the door. Professor Hardin opened it from the inside. He looked at Herc and then at the bag in his arm.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Smith. Thank you so much for coming. Please sit down. So sorry about the door, they haven’t gotten around to changing the uh…the name,” stammered Professor Hardin.
“So you’re the boss here, now, huh? Man. My dad leaved everything he owned to the school, you get a big promotion and I get a doorstop! Ain’t that a bitch!”
“Mr. Smith, if you’re implying that I receive one bit of pleasure from your father’s passing…well, I…I…” Hardin continued to stammer.
“Alright, alright, calm down, jeez! Anyway, I brought the book. You bring my fee?” said Herc, slapping the bag unceremoniously on the desk.
“Yes, yes, of course, here you are,” said Hardin, pulling a check from his pocket and handing it to Hercamore. Herc stared at the check and then to Hardin.
“Why are you so quick to pay me for this thing?” Herc picked up the book and put it in his lap, his brow furrowed. “What’s it really worth?”
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid this isn’t about monetary value. This book is invaluable to the future of physics! This book is the internet! It is the internal combustion engine! Mr. Smith, no offense to you, but this book belongs in the hands of those who can comprehend it.” He reached for the book. Herc pulled it to his chest.
“So explain it. I have nowhere to be all day. Try me,” said Herc.
Hardin sighed and slumped into his seat. “This book, “ he began slowly, “is the Anachronisticon. It is the book of time displacement. Your father was working on temporal causality and quantum mechanics and through his work, he came into possession of the book.”
“So, you know what’s in it?” asked Herc, getting interested.
Hardin laughed softly. “Inside are the result of years of work. Inside are the calculations and results of innumerable experiments proving not only that time travel is possible, but exactly how to achieve it!”
“So why can’t you open it?” asked Herc.
“Because it hasn’t been written yet,” Hardin replied with excitement. “The Anachronisticon should not be in this time, yet it is. As it has not been written yet, it cannot reveal what has been written. Do you understand?”
Herc shook his head. “No, not really.”
“I told you,” muttered Hardin. “The book was written in an unknown plot in the timecurve grid. Whoever was working on it, let it slip backwards in time. This…future scientist…has lost his entire life’s work. We must keep it safe and return it to him once he shows himself. It may be a dozen years, it may be a hundred. But we MUST return it to him. If we do not, it will never be written and we will create a paradox. If this happens, a chain reaction will occur and time as we recognize it will cease to exist!” Hardin was standing now and breathing heavily. “Do you see now? If this book is not returned to its rightful plot on the timecurve grid-“ Herc stood up suddenly.
“You know what?” he said, smirking, “I think I’ll hold on to this thing. He began to walk to the door. Keep your check. I’ll keep the arachnophobia safe. If things get tough and I ever need to hock it, I’ll know where to go. Seeya!” and he was gone.
Hercamore kept the anachronisticon in the cellar, next to the file cabinet. In time, he forgot about it. In time, he changed. He met a woman, Charlotte Benoit. They fell in love. She moved in with him. They got married. In time, Charlotte became pregnant.
In the hospital, after she gave birth to their son, they were asked to name the child. Hercamore knew the power of a name. He remembered how happy he was when he thought, if only for a few minutes, his name was not Hercamore.
“His name is Hercules,” he told the nurse, “Hercules Smith.”



FIFTY YEARS LATER



Professor Hercules Smith was head of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his father, Hercamore. Hercules was unlike his father in almost every way. He was an asthete, an art collector, a philosopher and an intellectual. Professor Hercules took after his mother, but she passed years ago. He was currently working on a theory of temporal manipulation and he was getting close to the answer. He was scribbling frantically in his brown, leatherbound journal, when he got a phone call. His father was dead and he had left everything to his son.

The Milksop from the Rio Grande
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Matt Talbot

Clifford Wappinger was a dolt. He had been walking for a few days now, nobody knew exactly how long, least of all Clifford himself. He was following the river, the Rio Grande, and walking along its bank. He had tried to reach in and snatch a fish once or twice, but the fish wriggled and that scared him enough to stop trying. Some tourists had tried to stop him and ask for directions, but Clifford ignored them or just shrugged and kept walking.
One night, as he was making camp, a strange sound caught his attention. He looked around but didn’t see anything. He looked up and saw a real life flying saucer! He watched as it landed not 50 feet from him. Even a dolt like Cliff knew this was unusual. A door opened and a furry man walked out. “That’s funny,” thought Clifford, “I was under the impression that aliens were scaly and lizard-like, or at the very least, not covered in hair!” See? Even dolts can have moments of clarity However clear this thought was, the fact remained that this alien was, in fact, hairy.
“Excuse me!” called the hairy alien, walking to Clifford. The alien was holding a cylinder. Clifford was shocked by the alien’s ability to speak English even more than its complexion. “Excuse me!” the alien repeated. “I know you can’t understand me,” he continued, speaking slowly, “but I was hoping you…” he pointed at Clifford, “could help…me…” he pointed at himself, “get this...” he went on, pointing at the spacecraft behind him, "...to Farley's?" The alien had the look of someone who knew his desperate actions were not going to be successful.
Clifford shook his head, “No, sorry.”
“Oh thank Gawd!” gasped the alien, “You speak Õïïôish! Is this the Pecos River?” he said, pointing.
“N-no, it’s the Rio Grande,” mumbled Clifford.
The alien looked down at his cylinder and rotated it slightly in his hand. “Oh, I got it now. Stupid! Listen, I could really use a navigator down here. What’ll you charge me?” Clifford shrugged and looked at his feet, kicking the dust.
“Fine, whatever. I’m not gonna negotiate. They reimburse me when I get back anyway. Just come with me and then name whatever price you want when we’re done, alright?” The alien said quickly and began walking back to the shaceship. “Come on, let’s Bløln!”
But Clifford just stood there. The alien sensed his rigidity and stopped walking. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
“I just. I just don’t know um, what…bleulin…means,” he said softly. The alien laughed.
“HA! Nice accent, buddy! Sorry, no, you know…bløln? You know, like this?” he gestured with both arms the sweeping motion of going.
Clifford understood. “Oh,” he said, “you mean go!” The alien looked taken aback.
“Go?” the alien repeated, “Listen, I still need you to navigate, but I’ll warn you right now, I’m not into that stuff,” and he turned and continued walking. Clifford decided to follow him.
They boarded the craft and entered a small chamber with no seats and a round panel on the floor. The alien sat down and poked at the panel. Lights lit and sounds sounded. Clifford looked around.
“Do you have a chair…or something?” he asked, not knowing if it was rude to do so.
“A what?” answered the alien, looking up at him.
“A chair. You know…” and he made the universal sign of sitting which I won’t bother to describe here.
“You mean a…” the alien searched for the word. “Toilet?” he guessed.
“No, not that. What do you sit down on?”
“The floor?”
“Oh. Well, on Earth we have these things…like…I guess like toilets, but you sit on them all the time. Like when you eat, you sit on a chair. Most people sit on chairs all the time.”
The alien shrugged. “I guess it’s just one of those things. It would appear that Õïïôish and your language are really close, but there are a few words that just don’t n∂≈’tle.”
Clifford decided to just remain silent. He pointed out the Rio Grande in relation to the alien’s intended destination and they finally touched down in Roswell a few minutes later. Clifford was a native New Mexican, so he knew all about the science fiction nuts who believed that there was a top secret base in Roswell that housed a crashed spacecraft and possibly alien remains as well. He was beginning to question his own beliefs.
“Are we going to Area 51?” he asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, dude,” the alien answered, still fiddling with the panel. “I just need to turn the invisibility cloak on here.”
“Wow, you can make your ship invisible?” marveled Clifford. The alien made a sound that Clifford took to be a raucous laugh and pointed at Clifford. “Man, you’re gullible! When we get back home, I’ve got a d’¥ÿ I want to sell you!”
Clifford was beginning to like the alien less and less.
The exited the ship. Clifford saw that they were on a roof, overlooking a bustling street, with people mingling outside restaurants and talking in the parking lot. The alien took out the cylinder and fiddled with it.
“Now, I can’t go down there because I’ll get noticed. And even if I was able to pass myself off as a native, your planet’s Õïïôish is just different enough that I’d give myself away pretty quickly.” Clifford thought the alien’s English was better than most Earthlings’, at least locally, but he didn’t bring it up.
“Which one of these looks right?” the alien said, showing Clifford the cylinder. The cylinder had a small screen that showed a pound note, then a ruble, then a yen note, then a Canadian dollar, then an American dollar.
“That one,” said Clifford and the alien pressed hard on both sides of the cylinder. When he let go of it, it had opened along a seam. Inside were dozens of bills in American currency. He took a handful out and gave it to Clifford.
“I need you to take this and go across the street to that place over there; Farley’s Food and Fun. Go inside, ask the guy at the door to speak with Mark Linner. He’ll let you go to the back of the place. Knock on the door marked Employees Only. Mark will invite you in. Hand him the money and tell him ‘Stop the procedure,’ and walk out. Don’t let him negotiate or ask you anything, got it?”
Clifford’s head was swimming. What the hell was all this? What was he getting himself into? The alien made it sound so simple, but Clifford was not good at lying and he told the alien as much.
“Hey, I’m not asking you to lie. Just don’t let them ask you anything and you won’t have to answer. Just ask for Mark Linner and do what I told you. Can you do that? Or have I come here and let you tag a long for nothing?” The alien was getting testy. Clifford was getting more and more nervous, but he was afraid of what powers the alien might have, so he agreed. He climbed the fire escape down to the street and jogged on over to Farley’s Food and Fun. He passed an Applebee’s and wondered what would happen if he were to just go in there instead and call a cab to take him away. But in the end, he went into Farley’s. The man inside the door was checking IDs and charging a five dollar cover because a local band was playing. Clifford peeled off a five dollar bill and flashed his ID. The bouncer noticed how nervous Clifford was and he checked the ID long and hard before finally letting him in. Clifford’s hands were shaking as he walked past the band and all the way to the back of the bar. He saw the sign and got ready to knock. Just then he realized he forgot to tell the bouncer he was here to see Mark Linner. Shit! He’d gone off script. What would happen? Should he go back and ask or just knock. He lifted his hand to knock, but he just couldn’t muster the chutzpah to do it. He went back to the bouncer and tried to interrupt him talking to another guy. He kept opening his mouth when there was a pause in their conversation, but he was never able to get the bouncer’s attention. He finally gave up and decided to just go knock. He walked back to the Employees Only door and before he could think too much, he knocked.
“Mark Linner?” he called to the door. It was loud; he had to shout a little. He heard a voice inside, but it was hard to tell if it had said to enter or not. He risked it and opened the door.
A small man with slicked back hair sat behind a desk. He was wearing a gold chain and a turtleneck shirt with a sport jacket. The door swung closed behind him. Clifford knew what to say and what to do. It was simple. He took out the money, slapped it on the table and said, “Stop the procedure,” and turned to leave.
“You’re five dollars short,” the man at the desk said evenly. Clifford hesitated and then walked to the door. It made a slight buzzing sound and then a click. He reached for the knob, but it was no use; it was locked. He turned around and faced the man at the desk.
“Look, mister, just take this and stop the procedure or whatever it is, don’t stop, I don’t really care. Just let me out, OK?” pleaded Clifford.
The man stood up and came around to Clifford. He came up to his chest.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into here, do you?” the small man asked.
Clifford looked around the room. He assessed the situation. He was being threatened by a man he didn’t know over a situation he didn’t understand by a goddamn alien from outer space. A strange, new feeling creeped up his spine. He straightened up and looked down at the man. He grabbed the lapels of his sport coat and pulled him up to eye level.
“Listen to me, you little shit,” Clifford spat through clenched teeth. “You are going to stop the motherfucking procedure or I will snap your neck and bury you in the desert. Do. You. Understand. Me.”
The little man’s eyes were wide as saucers. This made Clifford think of the alien and the rage took over. He threw the man against the wall and strode over to the desk. He felt under the desk, found the button and pressed it. The door clicked open and he strode out, past the band, past the bouncer and back into the street. The cool air caressed his face. Clifford walked into Applebee’s and asked the bartender if he could make a toll-free call. The bartender handed him the phone. Clifford called the operator and got the number for the NSA.
He returned to the roof twenty minutes later and found the alien leaning against the ship, chewing on what appeared to be a pigeon.
“How’d it go?” the alien asked with a mouthful of feathers.
Clifford hauled off and punched him in the face. Sirens wailed in the distance. From up here, Clifford could see them coming. He picked up the cylinder and put it in his jacket pocket, calmly climbed down the fire escape and started to walk home.

FIVE JARS OF TAFFY
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Amy Stabler



Taffy’s jars resided in a handmade wooden box that was built into the wall. The box was more like a cabinet, really. It had two, wide doors with glass panes so the four jars were visible inside, two through each door. The doors were locked with a large, metal padlock. The jars looked identical, but Taffy would tell you that each one was unique as a soul.
“They may look the same, but I can see what’s inside,” she used to tell me. She told me how she built the cabinet with her own hands when she was younger. She bought the wood herself and put it together, just like that. She’d never taken any woodworking classes or anything. She just knew this cabinet needed to be made, so she just got down and made it. The jars themselves were made of some sort of porcelain or baked clay.
The cabinet was high up on the wall, almost touching the ceiling. Nobody could possibly reach it without standing on a ladder. Once, when she wasn’t looking, I got right underneath it and stretched myself out and jumped real high, but I didn’t even touch the bottom of it with my fingertip.
Everyone had a different idea about what was in the jars. The most common theory was some variation of the same thing: dead people. Some folks said it was her babies that all died when they were born. I also heard a lot of people claim that it was her family’s ashes and it weren’t no big deal. I believed it was something much more special than the lifeless remains of previous human beings. I couldn’t quite make it out in my mind, though. It was like seeing something through a shower curtain; I could almost make it out but not quite. I just knew they were special and one day she’d tell me. When I was grown up, maybe.

I used to go to Taffy’s after school most days. It was pretty much on my way home and I liked it there. A lot of kids I knew didn’t like the smell of the place. I admit, it was kind of musty or smokey or something, but it made me think of another place; another time. All the stuff she sold was old and most of it was from across the ocean. There was this one giant wooden Indian that she kept behind the counter. He was from America, but I don’t think anything else was. Whenever I came to the shop, the first thing I said was, “Howdy, Chief.” I meant it as a greeting to the giant Indian, but at some point I got to thinking Taffy thought I was calling HER Chief. By then I’d been doing it so long that it would’ve been awkward to bring it up, so I just kept it up and didn’t worry about it. In fact, it made me giggle to think of calling Taffy “Chief.” Sometimes I aimed the greeting at Taffy in my mind just to make myself laugh.
We had a strange relationship, Taffy and I. She was older than my parents, but she never asked about my parents and I never asked if she had kids. I guess that’s what I liked about the place. It was insulated from the world. I told her things about boys in my class that I never told anyone else. She was never shocked or judgmental. I could tell her anything and she took it in stride. She never yelled at me, but she wasn’t afraid to tell me the truth about anything. If I heard a rumor at school, I always ran it by Taffy. I was the one to tell the school that you don’t get pregnant from kissing. Course, Taffy was the one to tell me. She treated me like an adult; an equal, even when I was real little. By the time I was twelve, Taffy had helped me through my first period and plenty of other intimate, puberty-related moments. I felt special because of her. I felt like I had an inside wealth of knowledge that my peers did not. I also felt that I had an outlet. If I was mad at my parents, I knew I could call them horrible names to Taffy and she wouldn’t care. Cussing wasn’t a sin in Taffy’s place. Not with me, anyway. Funny thing, though. She almost always made me see my parents’ point of view. I usually left her place feeling like I understood them just a little bit more. When me and my friends were in high school, they were always fighting with their parents. I rarely did. I tried to talk to my friends about how their parents were only human, and they did what they did for a reason. This rarely made any difference to my friends. I didn’t have Taffy’s gifts. Not yet.
Once, when I was getting ready to graduate high school, I went to Taffy’s with a strange sense of power. I was getting read to graduate, as I said, and I felt like a real grown up. I felt entitled. I felt powerful. I strode into the place, said Hi to the Chief. I told Taffy all my plans for after graduation. I talked about traveling, starting my own little place in France, maybe a café or a flower shop. I talked about all the wonderful things coming my way. She listened in silence and then proceeded to pop every one of my dreams. She pointed out my parents’ lack of money, my failure to know another language, my lack of knowledge and experience running a business. She wasn’t being mean, mind you, just honest. I couldn’t hear that part of it. All I knew was I was mad. I yelled at her. I belittled her. I mocked her store. I mocked her solitude and I mocked her stupid jars. She took it all without a sound, until I mentioned the jars. She just said, “If you got a problem with my jars then we got nothing to talk about.” and she turned around and went into the back room. I was alone and impotent. I wanted to smash something, but I really didn’t. I couldn’t. I left and went home, thinking about what I had said to Taffy, the truest, best friend I ever had. The truest, best friend ANYONE ever had.
The next day, I went back in. I was trying to decide if I should just act like nothing had happened the day before or open with an apology. I thought about it. If I ignored it, it would be the same as saying I was comfortable with what I’d done. I couldn’t have Taffy thinking I was proud of the way I acted. I walked in. “Howdy, Chief.” Taffy was at the counter. She looked up at me, silent. “I’m sorry, Taffy,” I said, “You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I got angry and I tried to hurt you. I feel terrible and I want to keep coming here. Is that OK?” Taffy stared at me as if looking for something. I looked back, hoping she’d forgive me. Finally, she smiled and invited me to sit down with her. She asked me about my day and we were back to our routine.
The years went by and I grew up and moved away. I wrote to Taffy a few times, but it wasn’t the same as being with her. Eventually we lost contact with each other. I ended up falling in love on my trip to France. He name was Maurice. Still is, in fact. I had no problem relocating to Europe. We both come home to visit on holidays, and when we do, I make sure I stop in to see Taffy. I told her about Maurice, but I never introduced the two of them. Taffy was like an imaginary friend to me. A secret. I never shared her.
One morning, a few months after Maurice and I got married, I received a phone call. It was a lawyer. He told me Taffy had died. It felt very strange. It was as if someone told me the Atlantic Ocean had just vanished. I suppose I really did feel like she was imaginary. The lawyer told me that I was the sole heir named in her will. I had never heard Taffy mention her family by name, but I assumed she still had one. Apparently I was wrong. I flew back home the next day and met with the executor of Taffy’s will. She left me her shop and everything in it. That was it. That was everything she owned. I asked about a house. Not because I wanted a house, but it seemed odd. There was no mention of one. Taffy’s will stated that she would be cremated and put into my possession. There was no funeral.
I went to the shop for the last time. The door was unlocked. I went inside. “Howdy, Chief.” The Chief stood there, motionless as always. I looked around the place. It was silent as a tomb. I went up to the counter where I’d sat a million times, running my fingers along the edge. I was a grown up, Taffy was dead, the shop was mine, yet I was scared to go behind the counter. But I did. On a shelf hidden from customers (what costumers?) there was an envelope with my name on it. I picked it up and walked into the back room, which I had never seen before, either. It consisted of a bathroom, a refrigerator and a bed with a nightstand. I guess that answered the house question. Still holding the envelope, I went back up front. “This is mine,” I thought. I didn’t care. This place was nothing without Taffy. I had no emotional or nostalgic attachment to the building or the stuff inside it. It was the life that it held that I desperately missed.
That’s not entirely true. I didn’t want to admit it then, but I didn’t miss her in the traditional sense. I was used to her. But I had…not outgrown her, but not needed her anymore. Because she had taught me everything I needed to know to live my life and, armed with that knowledge, I lived.
The letter was short and unemotional. It was written some time ago, I can’t be sure how long. She reiterated the instructions regarding her cremation and the fate of the shop. The only other content of the envelope was a small, brass key.
I sold the shop and everything in it at an auction. I don’t know how much it went for; I instructed the auction house to give the money to the orphanage. The only thing I took back home with me from the shop was Taffy’s jars. I had the four from her shop and the one with her ashes. When I get home I’m going to build a cabinet for them.

Adolf Sanchez: The Teriyaki Bandit
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Russ Lichter


“Another one, detective,” said the beat cop to Detective Elwood Yunk. Yunk surveyed the scene. The sticky dollops on the floor, the sweet smell permeating his every nostril…oh yeah, this was another Teriyaki Bandit job. The crime spree had been going on for weeks, now. Every time it was the same: valuables missing and the crime scene coated in thick, delicious teriyaki sauce. It was baffling, not mention just plain nutso.
Detective Yunk pulled a rubber glove out of his pocket and squatted down. He lowered his gloved finger into the dark goo and pulled it out. Still warm, he though to himself. He held the glob up and touched it with the tip of his tongue. He closed his eyes and rolled the taste around in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it out. He stood up again, taking control of the room.
“Eddie, Halifax, Warsh, go back to the station and wait for my instructions,” Yunk ordered. The three men marched out of the room. He pointed a teriyaki-smeared finger at the two remaining officers.
“You two, you’re with me. Meet me in my car. It’s the black one in front of the building, “ said Yunk, getting his car key out of his coat pocket. He threw the keys in a graceful arc across the room. Officer Brighton caught it and the two men left the room.
“Ms. Barbara,” said the detective, turning his attention to the victim, a matronly older woman with white, curly hair and a string of pearls around her neck. She interrupted him.
“Please, call me Hannah,” she said sweetly.
“Yes, Ma’am. Hannah, did you hear anything before you noticed the jewelry was missing?”
“No,” she replied, “It’s like I told the other officer. I was home all afternoon until I went to the fruit market downstairs to get some plums. When I came back to the apartment, the window was open and there was…” she began sobbing, “teriyaki sauce everywhere!”
“It’s OK, Ms. Barba- I mean, Hannah, we’ll get this guy. I’ve got my best men on thi-“ Officer Brighton appeared at the door. He was out of breath.
“Chief…” He held up the car key, “this key don’t fit!”
Yunk fished in his pocket and pulled out another key.
“That one’s my wife’s. Here, give it back.”
They tossed their keys to each other and Brighton was gone again.
“Anyway, Ms…Hannah, we’ll get this guy,” said Yunk, buttoning his coat. He tipped his hat at Hannah and swept out of the room.

Mr. Yomishi was whipping that chicken in that wok so fast you’d think it was oiled up. Which it was. But that didn’t stop the customers from gasping with delight at the culinary pyrotechnics of Japanese deliciousness that Yomishi put on display each and every day at his restaurant, Yomishi’s.
Yunk watched through the window for a few seconds, then strode in, took a seat against the wall, and put his feet up. Mr. Yomishi saluted him with a graceful flip of his knife. Yunk returned the salute and waited.
When all the customers had left and the busboys were vacuuming the floors and upturning the chairs, Yomishi appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on his stained apron.
“Detective! What bring you here? Why don’t you eat? You scare my customers away!” Mr. Yomishi said, taking a seat across from the detective.
“Missing any teriyaki, Yomishi?” asked Yunk, not blinking.
Yomishi’s eyes darted around the room. “What? Hahah, you joking, right? I keep all my sauce locked up, you know that!” babbled Yomishi.
Yunk pulled out a small, plastic bag. The rubber glove from Mrs. Bar- I mean, Hannah’s apartment was in it. He opened it up, pulled out the glove and pushed into Mr. Yomishi’s face.
“Where did it come from, Mr. Yomishi?” Yunk yelled, “Where’s he getting it from?!” Yomishi swatted the glove away.
“Alright! Alright! Leave me alone already! Man! Some Hispanic kid comes by once a week and buys my extra sauce jugs that I usually recycle. He pays me only if I don’t clean them. So I don’t have to clean them and I don’t have to recycle them? Win, win, am I right? So what, you gonna arrest me now cause I don’t recycle? Here,” Mr. Yomishi put his wrists out. “Go ahead, arrest me for environmental crime against nature! Put me in tree-hugger jail!”
Yunk tucked the glove back in the bag and the bag back in his pocket and his pocket back into his jacket. His jacket stayed where it was.
“Where can I find this…Hispanic kid?” he growled.
“He come around on Tuesday nights. That’s tomorrow. He come tomorrow night at 10:00, right when I’m closing,” said Yomishi.
Yunk stood up and walked to the exit. “Then I’ll be here tomorrow. At ten.” He reached the door and opened it. The little bell dinged. “I’ll be here…with bells on!” and he strode out into the night. As soon as he did this, he regretted saying the whole “with bells on” thing. It made sense in his mind, but saying it, it sounded kinda fruity.

Nevertheless, the following evening, Yunk was hunkered down next to a dumpster in the alley behind Mr. Yomishi’s. He checked his watch. It was 9:59. Just then, someone came down the alley. He was looking around nervously. He was also pushing an empty shopping cart. Which was weird. He stopped at the back door to the restaurant and knocked once, then three times, then five more times. The door finally swung open and the mystery man spoke to Mr. Yomishi, but Yunk couldn’t hear them. Mr. Yomishi disappeared and the reappeared with a 10 gallon tub. El Mysterioso put the tub in the cart. They repeated this illicit, yet non-sexual dance three more times until the cart was full. The door closed and the cart-wielding weirdo headed back to the street. Yunk made his move.
“Freeze, scuzzbag! Detective Yunk, NYPD!”
“¡Caray!” the mystery muchacho grunted and put his hands up in the air. Yunk cuffed the man and called for some black and whites. Not the cookies, police cars. Detective Yunk was not fond of sweets. Not at all. One car came and took away the suspect and a police van took the tubs as evidence.

In the interrogation room, the man in the alley revealed himself to be none other than Paco Sanchez, brother of shadowy suspected gang leader, Adolf Sanchez.
“What’s with the salsa, Paco? Gonna make some Japanese burritos?” Questioned Yunk, circling Paco.
“That's racist, man," whined Paco, "I don’t have to tell you nothing. I want to see my lawyer.” Detective Yunk deflated. Why did they always DO that? He groaned and pulled out his cell phone.
“Fine. What’s his number?” Yunk asked, poised to dial.
“I don’t know, my brother Adolf has it. I call him, OK?” asked Paco.
“Fine, what’s his number?” asked Yunk. Paco told him the number and the detective dialed.
“Hola?” answered a voice on the other line.
“Yeah, uh..hola. Mr. Sanchez, this is Detective Yunk at the po-“ and then the line went dead. Yunk looked it the phone uncomprehendingly. Then his years of detective training kicked in.
“That was Adolf Sanchez! I have his number on the phone!” He hit an intercom button on the wall.
“Billingsly! Get in here!” he yelled into the speaker. Ten seconds later, Officer Billingsly entered the room. Yunk gingerly put the phone into Billingsly’s hand. “Get this to forensics right away and find out what the last number dialed on this phone was. Then find the address it’s attached to! Go!”
Billingsly left the room, waited for the door to close behind him and then sat down at his desk. He opened the phone, hit REDIAL and copied the number down. Then he opened Google on his computer and searched the phone number and copied that down, too. He gathered the paper and the phone and walked back into the interrogation room. Yunk was threatening Paco.
“…by tomorrow, we’ll know EXACTLY how to call your brother and a week after that, well have his address! You’d better squeal, little man! You're brother's dirty. In my book that makes YOU dirty.”
Billingsly tapped Yunk on the shoulder, which made him jump and make a little “YIP!” sound. “Don’t DO that, Billingsly! What do you want?” barked Yunk. Billingsly held out the phone and paper.
“Outstanding! Let Freihoffer in forensics know I’m recommending him for a promotion!”

The cruisers pulled up in front of the little house. It was small, but kept up. You could tell the owner took pride in the place. Its lawn was well-manicured and there was a small vegetable garden on the side.
“Come out, Adolf,” called Yunk from his megaphone from behind his crusier. We know you’re in there. Plus, we think you might be the Teriyaki Bandit!” The other officers nodded to each other, knowingly.
The front door opened slowly. The sound of cocking guns filled the still, afternoon air. A man with a Hitler moustache opened the door. The sweet smell of soy permeated the area. The officers used their sleeves to filter the air. Adolf walked out slowly, his arms raised. Two officers ran in and tackled him. Adolf put up no fight. He was brought in and arraigned.
Yunk went to his cell. It was the first time he’d ever seen Adolf Sanchez up close. His moustache was painted on.
“What’s with the ‘stache, Adolf?” Yunk asked.
“Que?” answered Sanchez.
“The face, Sanchez. This thing,” Yunk pointed to his philtrum (look it up). Sanchez wiped his lip, looked at his finger and seemed genuinely surprised and amused. He sucked his finger, wiped the rest of the moustache off and sucked that, too.
“Eez Teriyaki, Detectivo,” explained Sanchez. “I joos love it so much, sometime I get it on my face and I don’t notice!”
“So…” fumfered Yunk, “Why are you called Adolf?”
“My parents. They had issues,” answered Sanchez.
"Why, Sanchez? Why the burglaries? Gang warfare not enough for you?" taunted Yunk.
"Gang warfare? Que demonios! Ok, I did the robbing, but I never did no gang stuff, man!" said Sanchez, defiantly.
Back in the squad room, Yunk sat at his desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a small flask. He unscrewed it and was about take a drink when Billingsly poked his head out from behind his computer monitor.
"Detective, nice work on the teriyaki bandit collar! Funny thing though. I was poking around here and found something funny." He spun the monitor around so Yunk could see it. "I have two listings for Adolf Sanchez here. One is the place we raided and the other is the middle of New Little Gangville. You think maybe there's two fellas names Adolf Sanchez and this other fella might be the notorious shadowy gang leader and we just, by sheer coincidence caught the teriyaki bandit who happens to have the same name as this other guy?"
Yunk let this sink in. The room was quiet for an uncomfortably long time. Yunk put the flask down, stood up and walked over to Billingsly's desk. He leaned down, his face near the monitor. His hand reached down and pulled the plug out of the wall and the monitor went black instantly. Yunk snatched his flask off his desk and swept out of the room.
Sanchez was found guilty of 13 robberies and sentenced to six months minimum security prison. He was not found guilty of buying the teriyaki tubs because apparently, that’s not illegal.
The other Adolf Sanchez is still at large.

There’s Crabs Everywhere and I’m Out Of Lightbulbs
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Ed Garrison III



I love Christmas. Yeah, I know. You’re thinking, “Who doesn’t?” You don’t get it. I freakin’ LOVE Christmas. You get me? I grew up in New Jersey, near the shore. Betcha couldn’t tell just from listenin’ to me talk, could ya? Naw, I’m just kiddin, I know what I sound like, it’s cool. Some guys are like, “Hello, glad to meet you.” Me? I’m like “Hey,” you know what I’m sayin’? Jeez, what WAS I sayin’?
Oh yeah, Christmas. So my parents didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but one year I got the whole freakin’ Millennium Flacon playset for Christmas. That thing was YOOGE! I had the soundstrack to that movie. You know, the disco version? And I would play that thing over and over until I knew where all the skips and scratches were, and I would play those goddamn Star Wars toys up and down that thing. Every time I looked at it, it made me think of Christmas. Even when I got older and all that shit ended up in the basement, I’d see it sometimes and I’d be like, “Hey, how long til Christmas, anyways?” Ok, you get the picture.
When I finished high school, my old man was like, “Hey, Scoots, you know we ain’t got no money to send you to no fancy college, right?” I felt bad, so I was like, “I ain’t got no brains, anyway, Pop. Who’d take a guy like me? I’m a workin’ man…just like you.” That last part wasn’t true but I think it made him happy to hear me say that.
So I got a job loading crates on the boats and sometimes I took em off the boats, too. It wasn’t so bad. I liked the fellas I was working with and I had enough money for a little place not too far from my parents. My Ma would make me these big frozen lasagnas and shit and leave em in my freezer for me so I could heat it up when I got home. That was nice.
The first time I had to work on Christmas I was kinda bummed. But since I didn’t have no family to spend it with, I figured, hey, I’ll get the overtime and buy myself something nice, you know? So I’m out there in the freezing cold, loading, unloading, whatever. We had this boombox we used to listen to music with. When the foreman wasn’t around we used to put Howard on, but he didn’t like that so usually it was just the classic rock station or whatever. But around Christmas, some of the light, pop, faggy channels change over to ALL Christmas music ALL the time! One of the other guys liked that, I was like whatever. But you know, you listen to that shit long enough and deep down inside, even though you didn’t know it in your head, your body loves those songs. The only one nobody likes is that grandma one. I don’t even want to talk about that one. I caught myself singing along once and I realized I’d been singing along to like every song for the last, I dunno, hour? I kinda made peace with myself that, yeah, I like Christmas music. Call me half a fairy and I’ll punch your goddamn teeth out.

But my point is, one time I heard a song that I ain’t never heard before. It was these women singing and it went like this:
How'd ya like to spend Christmas
On Christmas Island?
How'd ya like to spend the holiday
Away across the sea?
How'd ya like to spend Christmas
On Christmas Island?
How'd ya like to hang a stocking
On a great big coconut tree?

Holy shit, that one hit me hard. I stopped working and leaned on a crate for a whole coupla minutes while these ladies was singing. “Christmas Island.” That’s what it was called. Can you imagine anything so beautiful? I eventually found out it was by the Andrews Sisters. That made me laugh cause I went to school with this guy called Andrew and he had these stacked sisters and all of us would talk about them in not-so-gentlemanly tones, you know what I mean? Nah, it was all just talk, but anyway it made me think of that, that’s all I’m sayin’,
Anyways, I went to the library on my next day off. I know, right? I didn’t have a card, but they let me look at the books inside, I just couldn’t take none of them out. That was fine with me. I looked it up and not for nothing, but there WAS a Christmas Island. No shit. It’s near Australia, or part of Australia, or something like that, I wasn’t too sure. But anyway, it’s real, that’s what I took from the library. I didn’t have no card and I didn’t take out no books, but I took one thing: I knew I was getting out of Jersey and I was going to live on Christmas Island.
Here was my plan: I was gonna work all the overtime I could. Hey, I didn’t have no regular girlfriend or nothing, so that was cool. Kept me busy, you know? I saved as much as I could for a whole year. I actually bought myself the record of the Andrews Sisters singing that song and I played it for myself when I was feeling down. Turns out a buncha other people did that song, too, but they weren’t no good. Not like the Sisters, anyway.
The next Christmas, I worked the overtime again went home to bed. Only I couldn’t sleep. I put that song on over and over again, finished a few beers and fell asleep around dawn. I spent Boxing Day putting all my shit in boxes. Ain’t that funny? I left all the stuff I couldn’t take, like my record player and the table and just took what I could fit into a bunch of suitcases. I didn’t even tell anyone I was leaving. I told the guy at work to send my last check to my parents but that was it. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about anybody at home; it was just that this was bigger than all of that. I don’t know, I can’t really explain it.
The next day, the 27th, I went to the bank and closed out my account in cash. I had a few thousand dollars in my pocket and my favorite clothes, some pictures and that Andrews Sisters record. I figured I could probably get a new record of it on Christmas Island, but I wasn’t taking a chance. Shoulda got it on cassette, though, cause when I opened up my suitcase after I landed, I saw the record was all busted up. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I went to LaGuardia, abandoned the car and waited for one of those wait-and-see-if-have-room-at-the-last-minute flights. I could wait. I had my stuff, plenty of cash, and nowhere else I needed to be. This was before cell phones and emails and shit, so I was off the grid. Only they didn’t call it that then. They just called it, “Hey, where is that guy? I ain’t seen im in a long time.”
I ended up staying the night there, but tell you the truth? I kinda liked it. It was exciting, you know? Trying to wait up and hope you don’t miss your chance. Heh, now that I think about it…it was kinda like Christmas. Whew. That’s pretty wild. But even though I slept, I didn’t miss Santa, cause there was no flights until the morning, anyway.
At 8:15 they called out that they had some room on the flight, so I grabbed my stuff, peeled off some bills and got on. I hadn’t showered in a day and I slept in my clothes, so I felt bad for the guy I was sitting next to, but he didn’t say nothing. I don’t know if he was being polite or he was just scared of me. I’m kind of a big guy. So I’m going along in the airplane, everything’s cool. We watched a movie, I got something to eat, I napped. I woke up and looked at my watch. I asked the stewardess how long till we land. She laughed like I was joking, but I was like, “No, seriously. How much longer?” She goes to me, she goes, “In a bout 12 hours sir.” Just like that. I was like, “Whoa. Twelve hours? From NOW?” She goes, “Yeah, it takes like eighteen hours to get to Australia.”
Hoe-Lee SHIT! I mean, like I said, I ain’t got nowhere better to be, but I bet I stink not a little bit and man, I was bored 5 hours in and I got another 12. Christ!
Like anything you don’t think you can get through, I got through it. We landed at like 3 in the afternoon THE NEXT DAY. I lost a whole goddamn day on that plane. Time zones, they told me. Whatever.
I got my stuff from customs and converted all my money to Australia dollars. I talked to some people who directed me to Christmas Island. I had to take another plane ride to get to the island. So I waited another hour and got on a little puddle jumper. That second plane ride was like Christmas again. I could see the island coming closer and I just had to get to it and open it up to see what was inside her.
We landed and I took my stuff and stepped out of the airport, looking around. I guess I didn’t expect it to look like the North Pole or nothing, not really, but Jesus, what a dump! I met this Chinese guy in the airport who told me about getting a hotel room for now. I took a cab through the streets and saw how not-like-Christmas this place really was. I thought about the song and how it was about an island with coconuts and shit. I didn’t see no coconuts. Just shit. I got to the hotel and paid for my room. The guy there was Chinese, too. They must all know each other and get kickbacks or something. I went to my room. It didn’t help my mood at all. I put down my bags and took a shower, the first one I’d had in days…or hours, or whatever. The twilight zone, time warp thing got me all out of whack. Anyway, the shower helped me focus and anyway the hotel room had a TV. I turned it on and unpacked my things. That’s when I noticed my record was all jacked up. I held it in my hands and just looked at it. It was like I got lied to. Like I just found out there was no Santa Claus. But this was worse because now I knew the worst part: There wasn’t no Christmas at all.
I fell into a pretty hard depression. I got to drinking pretty heavy, even for me. There wasn’t much on this island, but there was booze and plenty of people to share it with. I got pretty chummy with this guy Xiao. I think that’s how you spell it. Chinese guy. Lots of Chinese guys here. Go figure. I don’t give a shit; I ain’t a bigot like some guys I know. Tony? Back at the dock in Jersey? That guy’s a real douchebag.
I ended up getting a job doing security. Like I said, I’m a big guy. I met a bunch of really good guys and they hooked me up. There’s all these abandoned mines and shit all over the place and they gotta guard them for some reason, I don’t know. I work at the bars, sometimes, too. So I fell into a groove, quit drinking so much and made myself a little life here on Christmas Island. I never got that record replaced or bought a cassette or nothing. I figure I’m done with all that. The Bible says something about putting away your toys and be a man… or something like that.
About 10 months later, I was a real Australian. I had to get my citizenship changed for some work thing. I didn’t understand it, but whatever, it was easy. I started seeing a girl. Her name was Lola. I sang her that Kinks song; “Lo lo lo Lola” but she didn’t know it. I played it for her and it was our little joke for a few weeks. Then she got annoyed and I don’t do it no more. Anyway, Lola lives with me now and things were going pretty good.
Now, you hear people talk about the crabs here. I don’t mean to eat, I mean like the kind that live here. You also hear people talk about boobies a lot. At first I was like “Yeah!” but then I found out that a Booby is a kind of bird they have here. It still makes me laugh sometimes. Anyway, the crabs. So I keep hearing that the crabs are coming, the crabs are coming. I asked the guys at work one day, “Ay! What’s all this nonsense about the crabs?” They told me that every year around this time, there’s this massive migration of Christmas Crabs and they take over the island. I was like, “Yeah, right. Haze the new guy, right?” and I ignored them.
Then, one day, I’m driving to work. I’m not really paying attention, just kind of zoning out, listening to the radio. All of a sudden I hear PAP! PAP! PAP! I slammed on the brakes and ducked down cause I thought I was being shot at. But the noise stopped. I slowly got up and saw the freakiest fucking thing I ever saw in my life. When I was a kid, I read this comic book version of War of the Worlds, and the aliens took over Earth with this red plant that grew over everything. What I was looking at looked exactly like that, but it was moving. I am so glad I was alone in the car that day cause I screamed like a little girl, I swear to God.
These red crabs were everywhere. Everywhere. They were in the road, the sidewalk, the forest trees, the beach, everywhere. I realized what that sound had been and I didn’t know what to do. Do I go to work and squish more? Do I shoo them out of the way? Should I put it in reverse and call in to work? I put the car in park, took the keys and tiptoed through the crabs, kicking them aside, all the way home. I called in to work; Lola was out. I told them about the crabs and they were all like, “We tell you so!” and they called me a pussy for not coming in. They told me to watch out cause sometimes the power goes out from all the crabs getting into the lines and everything. I hung up and watched some TV. Nothing was on but game shows and soap operas. I watched a little Wheel of Fortune until the power went out. The TV crackled with static electricity for a few seconds and then the room was silent. I spent the rest of the day by the window, looking out at the thousands of crabs choking the roads, making the landscape ripple like a red, velvet cape. I began to sing to myself without realizing it.
How'd ya like to spend Christmas
On Christmas Island…



Author's Note:
When I finished writing this, I realized I didn't do the title justice. I like my story and I love the title, but the story took itself in a direction that didn't quite fit the title. But since this project was intended to be a catylist for me, it did that quite well.

The Strange Tale of the Refrigerator on the Beach
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Amy Stabler

The ship was sinking; there was no denying that now. John Gorrie, a middle aged man of Scottish decent, was not panicking. He had spent his life telling the people of South Carolina and Florida that the warm air was killing them. They had run him out of town. He sold all his patents and possessions and bought a ticket on the first voyage back to chilly, health-filled Scotland. Now, that voyage was coming to a premature end and he was fine with it. They were in the North Atlantic Ocean and the water was close to freezing temperatures. Believing fully in his theory that heat kills and cold heals, Gorrie prepared for a dip into the healthiest part of the world he could imagine. He sat on his bunk and straightened his tie. His cufflinks were buttoned and his shoelaces were tied. His hands were folded in his lap. Beyond his closed bunk door, he could hear the whoop of alarms, the screams and stampeding feet of the other passengers.
Finally, he stood up and calmly pushed past the masses to the bow of the ship. He calmly slipped into the freezing water and paddled away from the boat. He knew that if he could just keep drawing breath, the cold water would infuse him with the strength of ten men. Ten BIG men. He gently trod water as he watched the ship go down. He waited until some of the more buoyant furniture bobbed up to the surface. He paddled over to a large wooden table that presented itself and boarded it. He sat shivering on the floating table and watched the half dozen other survivors find their own furniture and bits of floating detritus. After an hour, the survivors all regarded each other from afar. The currents kept them from nearing one another so they regarded each other in silence, occasionally waving at each other or shrugging and rolling their eyes to each other as if to say, “whaddya gonna do, right?”
After the second night at sea, the survivor awoke to see land. The current was pulling them all in to it. The survivors all landed on the beach and pulled the various pieces of furniture up, creating a surreal showroom landscape. After a few hours of repositioning of the pieces into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, the survivors decided to introduce themselves and work on a plan for rescue.
“My name is Nikola Tesla,” said the first man. “I believe we can harness the power of the lightning to our advantage. We can create a signal using electricity.”
“My name is Thomas Alva Edison and I think Tesla should shut the hell up!” said the second man.
The third man stood up, began to speak, and then plucked a small crab from his beard. He considered it for a second, and then tossed it aside.
“My name is Bell. Alexander Graham Bell,” said the third man. “Perhaps we should mate the strongest swimmers amongst us and create a race of super-swimmers who could brave the waters and find rescue for us all!”
Elisha Gray stood up next and shouted, “I was just going to say that!” He looked pleadingly at the others and sat down.
John Gorrie stood up next. “This warm climate will mean death for us all. Surely this is the devil’s work! We were in the North Atlantic not three days ago!”
The last man spoke, “My name is Frederick Tudor. Gentlemen, this man before you, “he pointed at Gorrie, “is nothing but a low-down dirty rat! I would sooner believe the contents of my chamber pot than the ramblings of this fool!”
Soon, the beach was a din of shouts. As the sun went down, the yelling went down as well. Ce’st la vie. The group of survivors, cranky from the whole boat-sinking thing as well as being stranded with their arch-enemies, divided into two groups. They called themselves “The Smart Inventors” and “The Geniuses.” The Geniuses made camp on the beach while the Smart Inventors went round to the other side of the island, for that was what they were on, and made camp on the East side.
It was not long before the two camps had developed crude fishing gear and even cruder shelters. They ate meagerly, but it was enough to sustain them. When a week had passed, it became clear that the absence of laboratories and assistants severely reduced the collective inventors’ technical abilities. They had produced fishing sticks and fern huts and that seemed to be the limit to their innovational abilities.
One clear morning, Gorrie woke to find another miserably warm day. He stretched and went for a walk. About halfway round the island, he saw something shining in the distance. Keeping his on this faraway object, he approached slowly. As he got closer, he could tell it was some sort of box, but none like he’d ever seen before. Eventually he came right up to it. It was a white box, about 6 feet tall, 4 feet wide and 5 feet deep. As he rounded it, he saw that it had a handle on it, like a door. Looking around suspiciously, he called out, “I know it’s you, Tudor!” but there was no response. He was alone. He was sweating now. Was it the heat? Probably. He reached out a hand and risked a quick touch and pulled back quickly in case it was hot. It was not. He lightly stroked the surface of the monolithic box. It was vibrating. He watched as his own hand involuntarily reached for the handle. He gripped it and, summoning all his courage, pulled.
Gorrie was immediately enveloped in the coldest, sweetest air he had ever felt. He looked inside the box and could see no source of the arctic air.
“’Tis magic!” he ejaculated.
Gorrie went back to his beach and called the rest of the Smart Inventors together. He told them what he had seen and felt and beckoned them to examine it with him. They dutifully followed him around the shoreline to the box. Only, this time they were not alone. The Geniuses were huddled around it, apparently too afraid to touch it. The Smart Inventors renewed their determination and strode onward, determined to claim the box as their own.
“Get away from the icebox!” ordered Gorrie. He had just come up with the word. It seemed appropriate.
Tudor stood up. Speaking for the Geniuses, he said, “Ice box? Puh-LEEZ! We’re in some sort of tropical island in the North Atlantic. There’s no ice here, bub! This thing’s ours, whatever it is.”
“What?” called Alexander Graham Bell from the back.
Gorrie stepped forward. He and Tudor had the entire colony’s attention.
“This box was sent by God himself. I have devoted my life to the promotion of cold for the well being of his children and he has rewarded me with this, “ he glowered at Tudor and pronounced his next word very distinctly, “Ice. BOX!”
Edison stood up behind Tudor.
“No way. We must create our own way of life here. God has forsaken us. That is why I have spend the last week developing….THIS!” Edison whipped out a coconut from behind his back. It was glowing.
“I have harnessed the power of the lightning into this small, portable container!” he crowed.
“It’s upside down, you dolt!” called out Tesla from the other side. They were soon at each other’s throats again. The beach erupted into chaos.
Tudor spoke up again, “Think about it, fellows. We are on the beach. There is no escape from the constant heat. We are in constant risk of dehydration and sun exposure. How could this possibly be what the Scotsman says? It makes no sense. Plus, if there IS ice in there, it’s probably sour. Let’s go boys. Let the losers have their box!”
Laughing, the Geniuses walked back to their beach, deriding the Smart Inventors over their shoulders all the way.
Gorrie turned to his fellows, who were all looking around sheepishly.
“Alright, lads! It’s ours alone! God’s divine gift is ours to do with as we see fit! This device could change the world. We are the brightest minds of the late 1800s! Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“Er…um…” the other Smart Inventors were visibly uncomfortable, looking down, rubbing the backs of their necks and so on.
“Yeah, look, John, “ started Tesla, “It’s not hat we don’t believe you…because we do! Don’t we boys?” The others murmured their agreement that yes, they sure as shootin’ did believe him.
“What are ye talking about?” shouted Gorrie. He opened the icebox door. “Look! Feel that cold air! Touch it!”
“That’s great, John,” patronized Bell, “But I gotta go get back to the beach. I’m waiting for a call…or …something…”
The others quickly followed Bell down the coast back to the camp, mumbling to each other and catching backwards glances at Gorrie.
“But…But…” Gorrie stammered. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
He stood there alone with the opened box on the beach. He sat down and cried. He sat on the beach all afternoon, looking out to sea. He had no home. Neither group of inventors wanted him and, truth be told, he didn’t want them. As dusk came and the sky grew dark, Gorrie noticed a faint glow to his right. He looked and saw Edison’s glowing lightnut. He had forgotten it. Gorrie picked it up and stared into its hypnotizing glow. It suddenly became clear. He tied the lightnut to a long stick and slung it over his shoulder.
Fifteen minutes later, John Gorrie had pushed the box onto its side, slid it into the water and gotten inside it, the lightnut guiding his way. It was in this way that John Gorrie was able to sail back to civilization.

The Turtle Who Had No Shell
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Alexandra Poveda

An Irish family, the O’Shonsteins, were walking down the plank, off the ship. They had been at sea for three and a half months and they were stinky. Seamus and his wife, Shannon had three children. Their names were Declan, Conor and Michelle. Michelle was a beautiful dark haired teenager. Her little brothers and her parents were all stereotypical redheads.
“Here we are, my boyos!” Seamus said loudly to his brood, “The land of milk and honey! The land where gold grows in the sidewalks and potatoes are plentiful as the shamrocks of Dublin!”
Conor didn’t even look up from his iPod, where he was watching Saw V. “Whatever, Dad. Why didn’t we take an airplane like normal people?” Declan was texting. Seamus turned to his wife.
“We did it, me love. We made it to America!” he said lovingly.
“I don’t know,” she said, looking around at the shops and street vendors.
“Whadya mean you don’t know?! Look around! We can start our new life here! A little hard work and we’ll be welcomed with open arms!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, but I don’t see any,” Shannon said, calmly.
“Well, I didn’t mean right away, you understand,” replied Seamus. He was starting to feel disappointed. His family clearly didn’t share his excitement.
“Yes, “ said Shannon apropos of nothing.
“Eh?” said a confused Seamus.
“Tuesday, I suppose, but you can upload the stats before then,” continued Shannon.
Seamus gloomily realized she was speaking to her co-workers on her Bluetooth headset. He looked at Conor, searching his Google maps for a Starbucks. Declan was typing “WTF” on his phone, whatever that meant. Michelle was…staring around in awe.
“Do you like America, child?” asked Seamus as he approached Michelle.
“Oh Da, it’s the most wonderful place in the whole world! Can we stay here? Can we?!” Michelle blurted.
Seamus laughed, “Aye, lass, aye.”
Twenty years later, Michelle and her father, Seamus, were watching America’s Funniest Home Videos and eating their dinner; take-out Chinese.
“Da,” began Michelle when the commercials started.
“Aye,” replied her father, taking another bite of fried dumpling.
“Do ye regret…you know? What we did?” continued Michelle, not looking at her father.
“Leaving the others at the dock and starting a new life, just the two of us? Not for a moment!” he laughed, ruffling her hair.
Twenty years after that conversation, Seamus lay in a hospital bed, connected to several beeping machines. His breathing was labored and slow. Michelle was seated in the corner, sleeping. She had been by her father’s side ever since the heart attack. Seamus awoke with a start. His Fairy Godmother was standing by the foot of the bed. She glowed a brilliant gold and smiled a smile that made him feel at peace at once.
“Faith and Begorrah!” erupted Seamus, because he wasn’t expecting this, not by a long shot.
“Hello, Seamus. I am your Fairy Godmother and I am here to give you peace.” Said the Fairy Godmother.
“Are ye here to…take me away?” whispered Seamus. He was excited and calm at the same time.
“No, Seamus. I am here to remove you from your Earthly cocoon. You will live out the remainder of your life as any creature you wish, though it may not be human.”
Seamus thought about this. What animal would he like to be? What animal form would keep him safe and happy? His mind went immediately to his childhood. He was eight years old. Seamus was whiling away the afternoon, throwing rocks into the loch. He picked up a stone and was shocked to see that it was, in fact, a turtle. He named it Shelly, after his Aunt Shelly. He loved that turtle. He kept it in a small, wooden box by his window. One day, after coming home from school, little Seamus came into his bedroom to discover a Natterer’s bat clawing at Shelly (the turtle, not his aunt). Before he could get to them, the bat took off with Shelly. Seamus was heartbroken. But eventually he got over it, got married, had kids and moved to America, where Natterer’s bats are not indigenous.
As if reading his mind, the Fairy Godmother spoke.
“A turtle you shall be. But I must also insist you make one sacrifice.”
“A sacrifice? Have I not suffered enough in this life?” asked Seamus.
“You abandoned your family forty years ago. Their lives have not been easy because of it,” said the golden fairy.
“Heh, oh yeah..that,” said an embarrassed Seamus.
“So what will you sacrifice for your sins?” The fairy prodded.
Unfortunately, at that moment, Seamus’ daughter began to wake up.
“MICHELLE!” Seamus reflexively called out.
“So it shall be,” the fairy responded and with a wave of her hand, Seamus the Irish immigrant became small, wrinkly, soft lump of green flesh; a shell-less turtle. The fairy disappeared instantly, before Michelle ever saw her. Michelle looked around, checked the bathroom, and then looked in the bed.
“Da?” she called out. It was then that she saw the hideous form her father had taken. Unable to communicate in spoken language, he was unable to tell his daughter who he was.
“UGH!” cried Michelle in disgust and she never saw her father again.

JONATHAN LIPNICKI AND THE PIFFLE WIFFLE BIFFLE
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title from Russ Lichter



Jonathan Lipnicki was in the produce aisle. His cart was about half full and he was holding a cantaloupe. Being a vegetarian, Jonathan’s cart was full of vegetables and tofu. He was wearing a hat and sunglasses and holding the melon close to his body so no one could see. A woman slid up next to him and began to leaf through the kale. Jonathan tensed. “Here it comes,” he thought.
“Did you know the human head weighs eighteen pounds?” The woman said quietly, without looking away from her greens.
Jonathan froze. His head drooped and he put down the melon with a sigh. “First of all, it’s EIGHT pounds, and second of all, Cameron Crowe wrote that, not me. I was a fucking SIX year old when I made that movie! Get a life!” He stormed off with his cart, leaving the woman alone in the produce aisle, aghast.
Fuming, he waited in line of register 6. He looked at the tabloid covers as his frozen dinners began to sweat in the warm California supermarket air. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes stared back at him as if on the other side of a dimensional portal. Finally, he found himself putting the last of his items on the moving belt. The cashier hit the last key on the register.
“Seventy Three Ninety Two. Show me the money,” the hipster dude in the green smock said, suppressing a smile.
Jonathan looked up, hatred in his eyes. “Fuck you,” he said and left the supermarket, leaving his groceries to be reshelved at some later time by some unknown clerk.
Lipnicki walked back home, his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast downward. It had been like this for the last fifteen years. Jonathan Lipnicki was in desperate need of a drink. He looked up and saw a restaurant across the street with an outdoor café. He made his away across the street and got himself a booth, inside. This is nice, he thought. It was dark and he was alone and he was getting hammered. And nobody quoted Jerry Maguire to him.
After a few hours, Jonathan stumbled home to find his girlfriend waiting for him with a rolling pin in her hand. She was gently smacking one hand with it.
“What? What the fuck did I do, now?” he slurred.
Geraldine pointed at the garbage can. Right on top was a half of a bologna sandwich.
“You had meat! Hello!” she roared. Geraldine was a vegetarian, too. In fact, it was Geraldine who had turned Jonathan vegetarian in the first place.
“What, you thought I wouldn’t find out? How long have you been eating meat, you little, flesh eater? You little…VAMPIRE!??!”
Jonathan closed his eyes. He had totally forgotten about the sandwich. In a moment of dispair after a particularly harsh audition yesterday, he had stopped at a Subway and gotten a bologna sandwich. The years of not eating meat had played with his body, though and he couldn’t finish it.
“I guess on some level, I wanted you to find it,” Jonathan shrugged. “I guess I don’t care if you know.” He turned on his heels and flopped into the couch at flipped on the TV. Geraldine’s faces scrunched up like Renée Zellwegger and she stormed out of the house. Jonathan smiled and fell asleep on the couch.
The next morning, Jonathan was outside, mowing his lawn, enjoying the freedom of an empty house and the warm California sun. At the edge of his peripheral vision, he caught the motion of his next door neighbor, Butch Patrick. Butch was waving at him with one hand, a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. Jonathan turned off the mower and walked over to the fence dividing their properties.
“Heeeeeeeey, man!” Butch yelled. His shirt was stained and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in a few days.
“What’s up, Butch?” Jonathan politely asked.
“Listen, man, my grandson’s got a game today and I ain’t in NO shape to drive, you know what I’m sayin?” laughed Butch.
“I hear ya,” Jonathan replied, looking at his half-mown lawn.
“Listen, I need a favor, Nicky. I need you drive me to the game or my son’s gonna KILL me, ya know what I mean?”
Jonathan looked at Butch. He suddenly saw himself. Is this what he wanted to become? A drunk, former child actor, scared of his own kids? No! Jonathan made up his mind right then and there to help Butch Patrick.
“Butch, you listen to me.” Jonathan barked with authority, “You are going to go back into that house and take a hot shower. You are going to get dressed and we are going to that…what kind of game is it?”
“Whiffleball or some shit,” croaked Butch.
“We are going to that Wiffle Ball game. Let’s go!”
While Butch was in the shower, singing show tunes at the top of his lungs, badly, Jonathan was searching Butch’s house for bottles and pouring them in the sink. When Butch came out of the shower and saw what Jonathan had done, he broke down and cried.
“Thank you,” he cried.
“It’s OK, Butch,” said Jonathan as he patted him on his naked, wet shoulder.
Twenty minutes later the two of them were in the car, pulling into the parking spot at the Middle School. All the other spots were filled. They were late. Butch led the way and Jonathan followed, making sure he didn’t fall into someone’s lap or worse. They finally found the Patrick family and after a brief hello, Jonathan sat down with them. The game was a good one. The Wildcats vs. the Astros and the Wildcats were up 10-2. Apparently little Max Patrick was on the Wildcats because the three generations of Patricks hooted and hollered every time the Wildcats scored.
At the change of the inning, Mr. Patrick, Butch’s son, turned to Jonathan.
“I want to thank you for bringing my dad here today. Couldn’t have been easy. He’s a drunk, if you hadn’t figured it out already.” He glared at Butch as he said this.
“It was nothing. A piffle,” replied Jonathan. “Butch is getting his act together. Aren’t you, Butch?”
“Yeah, Nicky. Yeah, I am,” Butch replied, his back straightening. “I ain’t gonna miss no more of Max’s games again. In fact, I’m going into rehab!”
“Yeah, right,” said his son. “When?”
“Right away. I’m gonna be sober by Thanksgiving!” crowed Butch.
Jonathan looked at Butch. Butch’s eyes were moist.
“Thanks, Jonny boy. You’re my best friend.” Said Butch, his voice cracking.
“Best friends for life,” replied Jonathan and the two of them hugged.
Then a woman from the back row yelled out, “Hey, Lipsmacky! The HUMAN-“ and Jonathan chucked a can of soda at her, hitting her in her eight pound head.

http://www.popeater.com/2010/09/28/sister-wives-bigamy-investigation/

So there's a new show called Sister Wives, which is a reality show that follows the lives of a polygamist family. Polygamy is illegal. And yet, this family is going on national TV, using their real names, flaunting their illegal behavior. Surprise, surprise, they're being investigated for felonious bigamy. Now you know as well as I do that Felonious Bigamy is the best rap name ever, but it still doesn't change the fact that polygamy is illegal.

Now, the obvious meat of the story is that the polygamists are brazen and should've expected nothing less than to be investigated, if not arrested. We can only conclude that either A) they're stupid as meatloaf, or B) they're making a stand and raising awareness for their cause. I'll assume B for no good reason other than it seems more noble. I think it's a dangerous decision, as there are children involved, and they'll probably end up in some kind of foster home situation, which may or may not be better for them. But to take a step back, why is polygamy even illegal? If you want to take on more than one wife, pff, more power to you. Seems to me that the more parents, the better (nothing against single parent families). But seriously, another grown-up to help around the house, more supervision for the kids, contribute to the work force and bring home another paycheck? I mean, where's the down side? But no, it's illegal. But Kate is allowed to have all 8 kids and she's single! Parenting laws are weird.
It's legal for that insane couple on that TV show to have 19 children (all with names beginning with J!). 19 children with two parents is totally fine, but 2 children with 19 parents is not? 2 kids growing up under the watchful, loving care of 19 adults, while bizarre, seems to me to be an environment in which a kid would thrive. Conversely, I would imagine that being one of 19 kids with 2 parents would leave you struggling for attention and identity. The one flaw in this theory is that, from what I've seen, these 19 kids whose names all begin with "J" appear to be relatively grounded. OK, yeah, they're religious nuts, but they don't appear to be neglected, psychotic or dangerous. This all goes to prove the point: I have no idea what I'm talking about.

WOODSTOCK
I've been fascinated with the Woodstock festival of 1969 since I think Middle School, but maybe it was High School. I remember babysitting for someone who had both soundtracks on LP and the enormity of the first one (3 LPs in a gatefold sleeve) was literally awesome to me. PBS used to show the movie sometimes and I have a memory of watching it in my parents' den on Thanksgiving. I remember being hypnotized by the epic scope of the whole thing and the naive idealism of the whole thing. Eventually I got the record and the VHS 2-tape set of the movie. I memorized all the songs, all the drum solos and even all the stage patter ("Bugsy to the pink and white tent"). And that Jimi Hendrix jam at the end? Sublime.
I got used to the tape and then finally saw the widescreen version which is an entirely different experience. I never realized there were 3 images on the screen almost all the time! Eventually, years later, I got the CD of the soundtrack and it was great to have it, but it was the same old thing.
1989 rolled around and all the Woodstock 20th anniversary nostalgia hit and I saw the movie again, listened to the music again and wished I'd been there again. Of course, the 1994 and 1999 sequels were disgusting and a stain on the name of Woodstock. I even started to write a song about it: "Woodstock 94/What did they do it for?/Did Crosby Stills and Nash/Really need the cash?" Yeah, rhyming four and for. Genius.
Anyway, Flash forward to the internet age. I found online a bootleg download of the COMPLETE Woodstock concert. TWENTY CDs worth of material. Luckily I had an iPod at that point and spent a summer listening to that entire 3 days of peace and music in the car. Yeah, some of it was terribly audio quality and some of it was hippie-dippy folksy crap, but there was a ton of fantastic stuff in there I'd never heard. For example, Santana's Soul Sacrifice is mind-blowing on the orginal album, but it's like 4 minutes longer in the original recording; Abbie Hoffman crashing the Who's performance; Canned Heat's Woodstock Boogie and innumerable other bits. It was a bit overwhelming, but it gave a real sense of what it was like to be there. The romanticism was stripped away and the sublime rode shotgun to the mundane. That made it somehow even better.
Last year the super-elongated Director's Cut of the film came out and watching that was just as amazing as listening to the entire thing on audio was. The whole vibe was just groovy. Somebody jumped on stage during Canned Heat's performance and took a cigarette from the singer's pocket. No biggie. Everyone was, to put it bluntly, being nice to each other. There were huge problems and lousy weather, but they made the most of it and, as a whole, enjoyed themselves and each other. Beautiful.
An official 6 disc set of the concert came out last year. It's got tons of great performances, edited for sound quality and tightness and it's fantastic. I'm in the middle of listening to that again. Something about the summer makes me want to listen to that stuff again. Coincidentally, the film Taking Woodstock is on cable this month so I DVRd it and I just finished it. It wasn't a GREAT film, but it was certainly enjoyable. I particularly loved the way they spun certain things about the original documentary film from a new perspective. Again, it showed the mundane and the human side along with the epic scale of the whole thing. Eugene Levy was perfect as Max Yasgur.
I am sure that I've got a romanticized vision of the whole thing and if I was there, and of age, I would have been aching to go home by the time CCR took the stage at 2:00am or whatever. But the more I see and hear about it, the more I am awed by the event itself as well as the performances.
Santana's Soul Sacrifice, Ten Years After's I'm Going Home and Jimi Hendrix's Star Spangled Banner/Purple Haze/Improvisation are some of the most amazing performances ever recorded, in my book.
So, what's my point? I don't know, I was just all enmeshed in the appreciation and thought I'd share it with you. Beautiful.