At The Hors d'oeuvre Convention

“Look, Peasy Lou...look at that tiny man in the peculiar jockstrap!”

Sure enough, Elsa Mae Grabbethorn was gesticulating wildly at a short Greek man wearing a codpiece that had been crafted from what appeared to be chrome and lunchmeat. This trip to the big city was turning out to be more exciting than she had expected, and this was only the first day. Tuesday's side trip to the lard rendering plant was sure to top even a peculiar jockstrap.

Peasy Lou sauntered over to the tiny man and tried to be subtle about inspecting his codpiece. To be certain, it was made of chrome and something that looked like it might be braunschweiger. The braunschweiger was molded into small peaks and tufts, giving the appearance of studded armor.

“Cracker?” asked the tiny man, proferring a crispy wheat round and a plastic knife. Peasy Lou blanched and was unable to respond.

“Cat got your tongue, Peasy Lou?” asked Elsa Mae, smiling and looking hungrily at the braunschweiger. “Cause if you haven't got the gumption to dig into that scrumptious luncheon meat, I believe I will myself.”

The tiny Greek man offered the plastic knife and cracker to Elsa Mae, who readily accepted both and dove in greedily. The tiny Greek man struggled to remain upright as the plastic knife was plunged deeply into the braunschweiger.

“I remember a luncheon spread like this that I had one summer at the Minnesota State Fair...I think that it was made from veal, and it was displayed for consumption upon a pair of velvet spats. This is much heartier, though...it has much more body to it. Doesn't it, Peasy Lou? Oh here, you must try some.” Elsa tried handing the plasctic knife to Peasy Lou, who remained silent and immobile.

“Another cracker?” asked the small Greek man.

“Oh, don't mind if I do,” replied Elsa Mae, “they are ever so light and crispy. Thank you.”

Elsa Mae sliced off an entire mound of braunschweiger and piled it on to an already overloaded crispy wheat round. She looked intently at the man, glancing up and down. Raising an eyebrow she inquired, “did you go to Pitherington High School, class of '69?”

“Yes, indeed I did.” The tiny Greek man raised an eyebrow in return.

“Gregory Snoffaloppalous? The president of the theater club and captain of the debate team?” Elsa Mae was wide-eyed with disbelief and excitement.

“No,” replied the tiny Greek man, “Niko Pazalatalas...I just spent a lot of time in the industrial arts wing.”

“Oh,” said a deflated Elsa Mae Grabbethorn, clearly let down, “I am terribly sorry.”

“Not a problem,” answered Niko, “Greg is down by the next set of tables – you'll see him. He's wearing a seaweed vest.”

Elsa Mae grew radiant once more. “Come on, Peasy Lou, let's go get us some Futomaki.”


(Appeared in Red Fez #34, May 2011)

My Kingdom for a Flint...

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaell, Mr. Andrews, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaI can't say that I understand why a man can't looooooooooove chemistry,” said the crew-cut Mr. Flannery, a severe man who had dropped out of med school and into high school chemistry-teacher school, and now was nearing retirement. Mr. Flannery was meeting with my father and me, so that we might discuss how it was that I might be drawing a "D" in his beloved chemisrty class. I could tell them – quite simply I hated chemistry and found the class boring. I really did not care to be there, and I did not put any energy into it. Mrrrmmmph.

“Naaaaaaaaaaaaow, what is it that you want to find yourself doing after caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaollege, Thomas?” asked Mr. Flannery. I think he wanted me to say something about using the chemistry skills I was learning.

“I was thinking I might be a writer...a journalist maybe. I like to write,” I responded. I would like to have said that I just wanted to win the lottery, live on an island and drink Tanqueray and tonics for the rest of my life. I had a discerning palate, even at age 17.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaell, now aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI have never had much use for journalists, Thomas, and aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI just know one thing about journalism.”

I wondered, almost aloud, why he drew out certain vowels and not others.

“I know that if aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI ever find myself out of a jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaob, I know that aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI can always cook over this traaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaausty Bunsen burner.”

I had absolutely no idea where Mr. Flannery was going with this one. I glanced at my father, who had an uncomfortable look on his face, as though he was trying to pass a whole turnip.

But aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI don't think that if I put a can of soooooooooooooup over a naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaewspaper, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI don't think I could get it to baaaaaaaaaaaaaaoil. Could I?”

Dad just fidgeted a bit. He was not one to normally fidget, so I figured that turnip must be well on its way out, or something else was making him uncomfortable. He glanced at me and gave me one of his trademark “eye lifts.” God, how I miss my dad and how he used to do that.

Mr. Flannery chuckled to himself quite a long while about the thought of trying to boil a can of soup over a newspaper. I never got around to asking how an unemployed chemist would ever pay for the natural gas to make his Bunsen burner work any better than a newspaper for cooking. Nor did I suggest the word “matches” to him. Dad just thanked Mr. Flannery for his time, and we got up and headed out of the sciences wing of the high school.

Dad waited until the doors had closed behind us before he just said “well, just buckle down on that chemistry homework a bit harder, OK?” I agreed and we went out to hit a bucket of golf balls. On the drive home, Dad asked more than the usual number of questions about what I was writing for the school paper that semester.