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That’s Crisco!

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Jake kicked his heels into the dirt at the base of the tree and leaned deeper into the shade. Biscuit sprawled out on his back across the grass and pulled his ball cap over his eyes to keep out the glaring summer sun. It was another glorious summer day, but after hitting the ice cream truck, riding their bikes through Mrs. McCatanney’s sprinklers and then all the way across Montgomery Field, they found it was a good time for a break.

“We should invent our own language for stuff,” Biscuit said

“What do you mean? Like a code?”

“Kind of, sort of, not really. A code is something that only we would use. Like when we came up with ‘Sparlez.’ We had Charles, who is a spaz, and we mixed them up to make Sparlez. That’s a code. If we made up a language, everybody could use it.”

Jake squinted up the sun then clamped his eyes shut. He traced the remnant aura back and forth under his eyelids. “Oh, you mean like how people say, ‘cool.’”

“Yeah.”

“That’s dumb. Why would we do that? Who would use our language?”

Biscuit rolled over onto his elbow letting his hat drop to the ground. “If it was good enough, everybody would use it. We’d be famous!”

“You’re a dork.”

“Shut up. And you just proved my point. Who do you think came up with dork?”

“I don’t know. Some dork. He’s certainly not famous.”

“Just because we don’t know him, doesn’t mean he’s not famous for coming up with the word. That could be us.”

“You want to be a dork? No, a ‘dork-maker’?”

“No, I want to make cool names for stuff that other people will use liiike…Crisco!”

“You are now a super-dork!” Jake said laughing and resetting his feet. “Crisco is already a word.”

“Yeah – but we can use Crisco to mean something is slick. ‘That’s pretty Crisco!’ That’s pretty slick. See?”

Biscuit rolled over onto his back again and reset his hat.

“How about, gelatinous?” Jake said.

“Hm…gelatinous,” said Biscuit. “Good word, but what’s it mean in our language? Use it in a sentence.”

“Ok.” Jake paused in thought. “The plan to get Jerry Brigg’s Jonathan Tyler rookie card was gelatinous. It means, the plan is good, almost super solid and can work, but it might be a little shaky.”

“That’s not bad,” Biscuit said. “How about, needs soap? Like, you know how Chester Ding always smells like armpit? We could just say, ‘needs soap’ and leave it just like that.”

“That’s like code.”

“I guess, a little,” said Biscuit. “At least until it catches on.”

“I don’t know,” said Jake. “It all sounds pretty paper to me.”

Biscuit sat up. “Paper?”

“Yeah, paper, super thin. Probably not going to work. See what I did there?”

“I see. That’s Crisco!” Biscuit said pulling himself up. “Let’s go write these down. It’s too hot out here.”

“You mean it’s…solar!”

“I guess. Let’s go.”

“Don’t you mean let’s…zoom?

Biscuit straddled his bike. “I think I created a monster.”

“Do you mean you created a…jumpdog?”

“Shut up already!”

“Are you telling me to…pop mouth?”

“Come on! Shut up! Let’s go…let’s Zoom!”

 

Eulogy

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Calvert Jennings gripped the edge of the lectern. He looked up into the moderate crowd of mostly strangers, strangers to him anyway. He supposed that, while still on the younger side, in his mind, this sort of thing would start happening more often, but he hoped the opportunity to play this role would be rare.

“Friends and family of Cranston Bink, thank you for being here today and thank you for this opportunity to speak on Cranston’s behalf.”

He paused, needing a deeper breath due to the weight of the moment.

“I’ve known Bink most of my life. Although our paths moved us near and far and near again, we kept in touch loosely over the years and when we were able to get together, we usually picked right up where we left off, as if I had just seen him the day before.”

A slight smile came to him.

“Bink would probably hate this. Those of you who knew him well, knew that he didn’t stand on ceremony. He liked things to happen organically. He thought if people really wanted to celebrate, or react to something, they should be able to drop everything and do so. He would say that celebrations rarely happen organically because there is always someone somewhere who feels the need to organize. They would want to make it an event and it would be something bigger than it needed to be. Organization takes time and planning, and time and planning tend to kill genuine impulse, genuine joy. Celebrations should not be events, he would say. Events become more about the planner than the occurrence.

While tragic for us, Bink is probably happy that his passing came at a time where people who really knew him could gather and reflect upon the joys of his existence. He told me once that he feared getting too old, because when you’re too old and you die, there is nobody left to speak for you…the real you. Rather, if you get someone to stand up for you, it’s generally a canned speech from someone who sees you as an assignment, something on a to-do list before they wash their hands and go home for dinner, or get a drink, or to take their kid to soccer practice.

Being properly represented was important to him. You know that in talking to him, he worked to make himself clear and that there was a rationale that drove him, and a sense of self-image he felt comfortable working with.

As I look at you, I sense some of you may still be a little tender about some of the things he said about God, about religion. One of the last things he said to me was that he hoped you understood where he was coming from. It’s not an apology. It’s just more reflective of who he was. However, since he was likely going away, he didn’t want to leave on ill terms. His words.

You see, not being religious himself, an offer of prayer, while heartfelt and genuine for you, was for him a failure in his ability to communicate with you his feelings and needs without trampling on yours.

He knew that a sense of faith is something deep inside people. He knew he could no more ask someone, or expect someone, to turn off his or her prayer mindset, than he could not tell a joke. But he felt that if you really knew him and respected who he was as a person, there would never be a prayer between you. For him, that was OK. While he would take all the good energy and good thoughts you might throw his way, he had very little use for someone’s prayers.

It might be semantics. Maybe prayers are just another way of sharing good energy, but he liked to say that reaching out to some far great beyond for assistance is like bringing a mediator into your negotiations for buying a new car. Why do you need the middleman? You’ll get to where you need to be eventually, and you’ll be stronger for the journey. He thought it diminished the direct link between you and I know he got a lot from you all directly in those last few weeks. It was your being there, your energy that helped him through to the end.

Bink was a moral man. He was a smart man. He had a nearly unshakable faith in himself, a confidence that many of us might envy.

I don’t know where you go after this. Bink and I had many long discussions on the matter. We got no closer to a final resolution than we are today. We thought once the best heaven was where you got to go be your favorite character from your favorite movie, so it’s quite possible that there is a new Han Solo galloping around the galaxy, fighting the good fight.

To close, one of the last things Bink and I talked about before he faded into sleep was how much he enjoyed the ride. That even the dull, drudgery of the day-to-day, held within it glorious sunsets and magical full moons, flowers and laughter and snow and handshakes, fresh fruit and hugs. The world is magic if you know where to look. And it can be depressing and hard, but it can also be made easier just by saying so.

He does not want you to leave here in tears. He wants you to leave here with hope and a smile. And when we’re done here, he wanted me to tell you to all go out and get a sandwich and enjoy being together.”

Fourth Date

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Corvis suspected the date could have gone better.

It was their fourth official date overall. They had done things with groups of people and there were several events where they both showed up and did the “hanging out” thing, so his association with Melody had some time behind it. Up until now, he felt there might even be some roots here from which they could grow a strong relationship.

That thought made him pause. He wondered why, when he thought of relationships, his analogies always involved farming. Being a middle manager at Allus-Smith made him pretty much the farthest thing from a farmer, and the very pathetic looking “lucky bamboo” on his desk sealed the notion should there be any lingering doubt.

Mulling over the evening, he was hard pressed to put a finger on where things took a turn. Dates one through three went nicely. They built on each other as one might prep a field for planting. (There it was again.)

The fourth date seemed polluted with missteps and awkward moments. Maybe they were both off their game a little bit. The conversation seemed forced, the jokes – stale. They ate a quiet dinner and the evening capped with his grand statement about the suffering souls in third world countries and how things wouldn’t be so bad for them if…

He couldn’t recall the exact remark now, but once it left his lips he knew it was bad. Like stepping in something unfortunate, he knew it was not where he wanted to be, but his foot was right in it.

Her recoil to the remark, which he was sure he meant as a joke, was contained, yet her face let slip a certain amount of hurt or discomfort, he couldn’t say which, as if he said something pointed and hurtful at her directly. He learned in date two that she was born and raised, like her entire family, in Muncie and lived there until almost recently. This stint in Chicago was the farthest she had ever been away from home, much less a third-world country.

Dates one through three ended with shy smiles, and “let’s do this again…soon,” sort of phrases. This date ended with thank you, I’m tired, drive safe.

As he pulled away from her building, making a mental note that third-world country jokes were straight off the table, he feared he was being immortalized in her diary as another example of what she did not want her future mister to be. That her impressions of him, certainly unfair at this point, would be added to however many men she made notes about, that when considered collectively would guide how she moved forward into future relationships. That’s what women do right?

If date five happens, if by some miracle he figures out what triggered the chill and she is able to resolve his callous thoughts in her own mind, he resolved to step more carefully. If he can figure out what the error was, he will apologize. Unless bringing it up re-stirs the pot, then he would let it go. Then of course, he runs the risk of not acknowledging the error, cementing the notion that he is an uncaring clod and being definitively and officially marked in her diary as Mr. Wrong.

Storm clouds seemed to come from nowhere and while the promise of rain is good for the seeds of a new relationship, a torrent, a flood will only destroy them.

A scowl crossed his face. What was with the farming thing?

The List

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Percy Collins had a list a mile and a half long filled with things he had to do. He wasn’t sure how many items actually fit on a list a mile and a half long. Of course, it was theoretical. If there were an actual list, the font size used to create it would be critical in determining the number. It was easier to just say, a million.

Of that million, missing amongst the stare at the moons, the climb the mountains, the take exotic trips to Canada, was ‘become a successful businessman.’  

He didn’t care much about becoming a successful businessman, and by much he meant, not at all. That said, he seemed to spend most of his time working toward just that. He joined his father’s business shortly after college. After his father got sick, he took on the whole of the business full-time. He worked hard. He worked long hours. He was good with people, and he supposed to some degree, he was good at business.

Still, when he rolled out of bed in the morning he was about as excited to get to work as one might be excited to go to the doctor, a doctor who kept trying to find the elusive cause to a dull and nagging pain or a spreading rash. There never seemed to be a cure or resolution. It never ended. It just led to another series of appointments, pokes, prods and tests.

A younger Percy fancied himself an artisan. He was good with his hands. He liked the notion of looking back and seeing something stand for a day’s work. He liked tile. He liked baking. They were simple concepts and honest trades, but often seen by some, mostly in the business world, as ‘less than” because they rarely garnered the potential of huge deals, huge payoffs, and a businessperson’s warped sense of professionalism.

He went to work. He did his job. He was honest, and dedicated and worked to improve himself. Then he would go home, eat dinner, have a nightcap and nod off in front of the evening news thinking of his list. Canada…

Evan

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Evan Caulder started writing about unsolved crimes when he was young. His boyhood dreams of becoming a police officer where initially dashed by his poor eyesight and profound asthma. After “life” happened a few times, his hopes of his becoming any kind of investigator faded into the background, waiting for a chance to shine like the odd man out at a high school prom.

The writing stuck though, it was a good solid habit, like smoking he supposed. He could give it up, but why? He trolled through magazines, newspapers and endless Internet pages seeking out and cataloguing the various details of various crimes. He’d developed quite a collection of well documented cold case files that some small part of him still hoped he might have a hand in solving one day. His records were meticulous, in his mind.

He probably had what the police had overall, but what set his information apart, he felt, was the way he organized his documentation. Every page was built off a basic three column template. Dates and titled evidence to the left, details and descriptions in the middle and his unique ‘patented’ brand of insight and supposition related to the details, in his special form of short hand, on the left.

He had no special education, or measured mental agility that would help him solve these crimes. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or anything. He didn’t pretend to be. He did have a good brain and was convinced that his way of looking at, and interpreting case facts and circumstances would make him competitive and an asset to any crime team. When he matched his information against that of many closed cases he followed, his interpretations and predictions led him to the primary suspect about 92 percent faster than the authorities.

Few people knew of his ‘hobby.’ He kept mostly to himself in a small apartment in Kensington. He had yet to share any of his information with authorities because he felt if he ever did, he would have one shot at it, and it had to be a good one. It would be way too easy to brush him off and keep him at bay. He never even really considered the possibility until he started following the A case.

The A Case, as the media called it, was unique in that it was happening in his own backyard. Kensington was a medium-sized city emerging from the deeper woods of Western Virginia. Someone was killing people in and around town at about one every one or two weeks. Tensions were high and the tasty morsel the media decided release as a possible motive is that the killer wrote a letter A on the forehead of each victim. It was an odd clue to leave behind, until someone surmised that the victims, six in total so far, were mostly unsavory characters. They surmised that the A stood for absolved and that the murders where the work of some vigilante.

The A Case killer was a hero to those wronged by the victims and a menace to the rest who found the theory weak. Evan followed the case closely from the moment it broke. There was some validity to the vigilante theory, but there was something missing. A bigger piece of the puzzle yet to be realized was out there. He felt it tugging at him a bit, gut it was still too far for him to fully embrace.

Amber

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Edna Mae McSworley flipped slowly through the pages of Fashionista Bravo! magazine, smirking at the photos of airbrushed girls with impossible figures wearing impossible clothes.

Anorexic.

Anorexic.

Clearly unhappy.

Anorexic.

The sky outside held the promise of a very full day of rain. Even though it was still dry now, the churning clouds above were just looking for the precise time and place to release the deluge. This made for a very slow day at the Epic City Bike-O-Rama where Edna Mae worked. It seemed few people thought of bicycles and fine accessories when such a promise of profound rain lingered in the air.

“Amber” looked up at her from the next page. Tanned and taut, she sat, perched precariously on a large rock by a waterfall wearing a Scott Trumane tube skirt, a light linen button down from Kale Fa­­shion, shoes by Colby Adams and accessories from Any Girl Unlimited.

“Amber, honey, who put you up on that rock wearing those shoes,” Edna Mae muttered. “And would it kill you to eat a cheeseburger once in a while?” She looked closer at the image, at the shoes. She was convinced that if Colby Adams himself had to climb up that waterfall in those shoes, poor Amber would be wearing an entirely different ensemble.

Before she could officially label Amber as anorexic to move on to the next pixie, the bell over the door jangled drawing her attention. A woman entered, relatively tall and slender with her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She began to walk the line of bikes to the left of the door.

“Hello and welcome to Epic City. Can I help you?” Edna Mae said as she was trained to do.

The woman turned quickly flashing a smile, “Not yet, I’m just looking.”

There was something familiar about that smile, the eyes. Edna Mae looked down at the magazine and then back up to the woman. Then down again. Then up.

That woman was tube skirt Amber.