Category: Woodruff and Bob

Brauts Away

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“Walruses really don’t like tomatoes,” Bob said.

“I tried to tell you,” Woodruff replied.

“That was one grumpy walrus.”

“Who knew they could throw so far?”

Woodruff and Bob walked along the icy coast.  Bob pulled up the fury hood of his parka, to cover his bald head from the chilling winds.  Several brightly colored houses dotted the distant hilltop.

“I thought Greenland would be greener,” Bob said.

“Me too,” Woodruff agreed.  “Makes you wonder, if Iceland is even icy?”

“Yeah, or is the wholly land even wholly?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m freezing.”

“Why did you wear shorts?”

“You know I don’t own pants.”

“But you have a parka?”

“I traded a Sherpa twelve yaks for it.”

“Where did you get twelve yaks?”

“It’s a long story,” Bob said.  “But I started with just a paper clip and a half eaten baguette.”

“Epic,” Woodruff nodded.  A strong wind blew in their faces and whipped Bob’s hood off.  “This fresh air is invigorating.”

“It’s invigorating my nose hairs,” Bob said.  “Let’s fine some place out of the cold.”

“How about in there?” Woodruff said.  He pointed to a metal hatch, sticking up out of the sea at the end of a rickety old pier.

“Works for me.”

They jogged down the shoreline and skipped across the wooden planks of the old pier.  Woodruff stepped down off the pier onto the steel hatch and Bob hopped down beside him.

“Should we knock?” Woodruff asked.

“It’s good manners,” Bob said.

Woodruff banged on the lid to the hatch with a plastic penguin foot.

“Ahoy down there,” Woodruff called.

The only sound to be heard was the howling winds and the waves lapping up against the steel hull.

“Maybe no one’s home,” Bob said.

Woodruff shrugged and turned the round wheel on top the lid.  There was a whooshing noise, as air released from the hatch and Woodruff and Bob pulled the lid open.

“Whoah,” Woodruff’s voice echoed as he peered down the shaft.  There was a metal ladder that led down into the darkness.

“Cool!” Bob shouted so his voice would echo.

“Caca!” Woodruff yelled as they both chuckled from the echoes.

“Whooty Who!” Bob called.

“Wer is da?” a voice shouted up from the hole.

“Ich bin Woodruff un das ist Bob,” Woodruff replied.

“What did he say?” Bob asked.

“He asked who we are.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him who were are.”

“Was willst du?” the voice asked.

“Nach aus der Kälte kommen,” Woodruff replied.

“Kommen runter,” the voice replied.

“He says we can come down,” Woodruff told Bob.

“Good deal,” Bob said as he hopped over the side and slid down the metal ladder.

Woodruff climbed down into the hatch and secured the lid to block the freezing winds.  They found themselves standing in a cramped passage with an old bald man with a crooked nose and a thick wool jacket.

“Guten morgen,” Woodruff greeted the old man.

“Guten morgen,” the old man replied.  “Ich bin Friedrich.”

“Ich freue mich, sie kennen zu lernen,” Woodruff said.

“Does he speak English, ‘cause this is all German to me,” Bob said.

“Yes, I speak English,” Friedrich said.

“Awesome,” Bob said.  “This is a cool underwater fort.”

“Das ist ein u-boot,” Friedrich said.

“A submarine?” Woodruff replied.  “So cool.  Could we have a ride?”

“Ja,” Friedrich said.

Woodruff and Bob followed Friedrich deeper into the hull.

“Have you ever had to fight a giant squid?  What’s tougher, a great white shark or a killer whale?  Do you know where Godzilla sleeps?  Is Jacque Cousteau nice?  Have you ever met James Cameron?” Bob barraged Friedrich with questions.

“Ist dein freund verrückt?” Friedrich asked Woodruff.

“Wahrscheinlich,” Woodruff replied.

“What did he say?” Bob asked.

“He said Jacque Cousteau is a total prima donna,” Woodruff lied.

“I knew it,” Bob said.

On the bridge, Friedrich pressed several buttons and the hum of the engines reverberated through the ship.  He pulled some levers and cranked some knobs while Woodruff and Bob gawked at all of the little blinking lights.  They grabbed on to the sides as the submarine lurched forward and cruised through the water.

Friedrich busied himself reading instruments and adjusting levers while Woodruff lowered the periscope.  Bob helped himself to some bread from a heaping plate full of meat on top of a small stool.

“What do you think this does?” Woodruff asked.  He looked down from the periscope and pointed to a round red button.

“I don’t know,” Bob said.  “Push it and find out.”

“Should we?” Woodruff asked.

Bob reached up and pushed the button.  There was a whooshing noise as the air pressure was released from somewhere deeper in the hull.

“Nein!” Friedrich shouted.

Woodruff and Bob pointed fingers at each other.

“Was hast du getan?” Friedrich asked.

“Du solltest keinen Knopf haben, den du nicht gedrückt hast.,” Woodruff said.

“What did you say?” Bob asked.

“I said he shouldn’t have a button he doesn’t want pushed,” Woodruff answered.

“What did the button do?” Bob asked.

“It launched a torpedo,” Friedrich grumbled.

There was the sound of a distance crash and crumbling outside the ship.  Bob’s eyes widened.

“That’s amazing,” Bob said to Woodruff.  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“We should launch these bratwursts out the torpedo bay,” Woodruff said.

“Yes!” Woodruff and Bob shouted together.

“Verrücktes,” Friedrich said.

Bob grabbed the plate of meat and led Woodruff to the torpedo bay with Friedrich limping along behind them.  Woodruff and Bob were disappointed to find that the shaft was much larger than the individual tubes of meat.

“This won’t work,” Bob complained.

“Friedrich,” Woodruff said.  “Hast du ein großes Rettungsfloß?”

“Ja,” Friedrich said and he hobbled off through a tiny metal doorway.

Woodruff and Bob searched through the submarine and gathered up all the food they could find.  They met Friedrich back in the torpedo bay and rolled all the food into the deflated life raft.  Before they could load it all the way into the port and close the door, there was a grinding sound above and beneath them.  The three of them were thrown to the floor as the ship came to an abrupt halt.  Welds and seams began to burst as something squeezed the ship from the outside.

“Was ist das?” Friedrich asked.

“Giant squid,” Woodruff and Bob whisper together as they looked at the ceiling above them.

“You think it talked with the walrus?” Woodruff asked.

“If it did, we’re in trouble,” Bob replied.

“Ich werde mit diesen Verrückten sterben,” Friedrich said.

“Yeah,” Bob replied, still eyeballing the crunching hull.  “What he said.”

“Quick, let’s fire this meat and appease the beast,” Woodruff said.

“Great idea!” Bob said.  They pushed the meat raft into the port and Woodruff pulled the cord to inflate as Bob closed the bay door and tightened the crank.

“Come on Friedrich,” Woodruff said.  “Push the button.  Schnell!”

Friedrich ran over to the red round button and slammed his fist down on it.  There was a whoosh and a pop, followed by a shriek beyond the metal tube.  The hull creaked and grinded as the pressure released and the submarine scuttled through the water once more.

“We did it!” Bob shouted.

Woodruff hugged Friedrich, who did not look happy about it and Bob danced around in a circle.

“That was close,” Woodruff said.

“That was the fourth time brautwurst has saved my life,” Bob said.

They ducked through the metal doorway and gathered back on the bridge.

“So where are we headed from here, Friedrich?” Woodruff asked.

“Das Mutterland,” Friedrich replied.

“Do you think Mutterland is even Mutter?” Bob asked.

Jell-o Ono

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“There’s good, and then there’s perfect,” Woodruff said.

“That was perfect,” Bob said.

“Better than perfect.”

“Perfect plus.”

“Perfect to the max.”

“Perfectsaurus Rex.”

“Booya!” Woodruff said as he held his hand high in the air.  Bob jumped up and chest bumped Woodruff, knocking him backwards into a tambourine stand.

“How’d that sound in there, Jethro?” Bob asked the man with the long scraggily beard in the glass booth.

Jethro leaned forward into the microphone, wiped his greasy hand on his flannel shirt and pressed a button.

“I’ve, honestly, never heard anybody sound like that,” Jethro’s raspy voice answered through the speaker in the wall.

“There ya go,” Woodruff said.  “We’ve got a unique sound.”

“I knew it,” Bob said.  “I knew we had something special.”

“Can I make one suggestion?” Jethro asked.

“Anything, Maestro,” Bob said.

“You might want to ditch the seagull.”

“What?” Woodruff asked.  “We can’t get rid of Ruth.”

“Yeah,” Bob said.  “Mo’ Mormons Mo’ Harmony needs a seagull and Ruth is the best in the business.”

“Look man, you booked the studio, so it’s your time and your money,” Jethro said.  “I’m just saying that it’s distracting when the bird squeaks in the middle of the chorus.”

“That’s our edge,” Woodruff explained.  “Ruth is like our Sebastian.”

“Sebastian?” Jethro asked.

“The crab from Little Mermaid,” Bob said.

“Look J-dawg, we’re out to revolutionize the music industry,” Woodruff said.  “You said it yourself, you’ve never heard anything like us.”

“Yeah, about that,” Jethro said.  “I don’t think a pan flute really fits with a hip hop song.”

Woodruff gasped and covered his mouth.  Bob put an arm around him and patted him on the back.

“You leave Sylvia out of this,” Bob said.

“Whatever, bro,” Jethro said.  “You’ve got a bird, a pan flute, and two dudes jumping around like Bell Biv Devoe.  It’s wild.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t even get what we’re doing here,” Woodruff said.

“I don’t,” Jethro said.  “I mean, green jell-o and carrots?  What’s that about?”

“That’s gonna be the title track for our debut album,” Bob said.

“Actually, I think we should just call it Green Jell-o,” Woodruff said.  “You know, keep it classy.”

“What are you talking about?” Bob said.  “The song is about green jell-o and carrots.  Anybody can sing about green jell-o.  We’re Mo’ Mormons Mo’ Harmony.”

“I get it, but is the audience going to connect with it?” Woodruff said.

“The audience is going to connect with the music,” Bob said.  “I don’t want to be all mainstream, singing about green jell-o.  We’re not Justin Timberlake, we’re Mo’Mo Mo’Ha.”

“I wrote the song, Bob,” Woodruff said.  “I am the music.”

Woodruff walked over to the pedestal and snatched the sheet music on top.

“Bounced into the cultural hall, we ready to have a ball,” Woodruff began to read aloud.  “What’s that on the table, my heart seems unstable.  Green jell-o and carrots, my mouth couldn’t bear it.  Them ‘freshments have merit, I ain’t gonna share it.  Green jell-o and carrot.”

“See, those lyrics are sick,” Bob said.  “So why not showcase them in the title?”

“Because you gotta let them find it in the music,” Woodruff said.  “You don’t just throw it at them.  It’s a delightful surprise, like the carrots in the jell-o.  Tell him Jethro.”

The bearded sound engineer looked up from his iPhone.  He adjusted his trucker hat and leaned into the microphone.

“Uh, sorry,” Jethro said.  “Wasn’t listening.”

“Which sounds better, green jell-o or green jell-o and carrots?” Bob asked.

“Honestly, I’m more of a pudding guy,” Jethro said.

“Chocolate or banana?” Woodruff asked.

“Chocolate,” Jethro replied.

“Correct answer,” Bob declared.

“Listen, I’ve got a mariachi band coming in here in like two minutes,” Jethro said.  “So can you guys, like, take this outside?”

“No problem, J-dawg,” Woodruff said.

“Please don’t call me that,” Jethro asked, before he released the microphone button and turned his attention back to his iPhone.

“Come on, Ruth,” Bob said.  “It’s time to go.”

The seagull pecked twice at the microphone and flew through the open door.  Woodruff and Bob stepped into the hallway, where five men in black bedazzled jackets and matching sombreros waited with their instruments.

“Hola amigos,” Woodruff said with a bow and a sweeping gesture to the recording studio.  “El estudio es toda tuya.”

“You speak Spanish?” Bob asked.

“I’m fractionally fluent,” Woodruff said.

“Fractionally fluent?” Bob asked.

“I can speak at least 3/3000th of over twenty-seven different languages.”

“Impressive.”

“Jugar buena muchachos,” Woodruff said as the mariachi’s filed into the studio.

“Yeah, hugo bueno my nachos,” Bob said.

The door closed and Ruth let out a tiny squeak.

“I know,” Woodruff said.  “Now I want nachos too.”

“The nachos are going to have to wait,” Bob said.  “We’re in the middle of a full blown crisis.”

“The song title?”

“Yes.”

“It’s really not that important to me, name it what you like.”

“Not important to you?” Bob shouted.  “Then what are we doing here?  Not important?  This better get important to you.”

“Fine,” Woodruff said.  “It’s important.  I think it should be Green Jell-o.”

“Unacceptable!” Bob yelled.  He stormed off down the hall and loosened his tie.  “It’s Green Jell-o and Carrots, or nothing!”

Ruth flapped her wings and flutter down the hall in the opposite direction.

“Bob, wait,” Woodruff said, dogging Ruth’s flight.  He jogged down the hall after Bob.  “We can name it Green Jell-o and Carrots.”

Bob stopped in front of the big metal door, beneath the red EXIT sign.  He turned back to Woodruff and put his hand on his hip.

“You’re giving in?”

“Yes, I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Well I could never work with a musician who isn’t as passionate as I am,” Bob said as he pulled off his tie, pushed open the door, and exited the building.

Woodruff followed him outside as Ruth returned and swooped in to perch on his shoulder.

“Musician?” Woodruff questioned.  “You’re my backup dancer and you play the air guitar.”

“Like a boss,” Bob said.  “Without me you’d just be out there by yourself with a step-bounce-spin and no shimmy-shake-twirl-jiggy-jiggy.  You’d look like an idiot.”

“An idiot who can, and I quote, sing like a young Al Yankovic,” Woodruff said.

“Enjoying singing without this action,” Bob said as he shuffled side to side and flapped his arms in a wavy motion.  Then he spun around, removed his black name tag from his pocket and flung it into the street with his tie.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s over.  Mo’Mo Mo’Ha is dead.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

They walked up the street in silence for several blocks.  Ruth squeaked and fluttered her wings as they crossed the road, to get to the other side.  Woodruff looked over and noticed Bob smiling.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Well, you  had Start a Boy-Band on your bucket list,” Bob began.

“Yeah,” Woodruff eyed his friend skeptically.

“And I’ve always wanted to break up a boy band,” Bob said.  “So this was a win-win.”

“You did this on purpose?”

“Yep.”

“Genius!”

“You’re not mad?”

“Nope,” Woodruff said.  “In ten years we can have a reunion tour.  We’ll make millions!”

“Yes!” Bob said.  “Then we can release the never before released lost single, Green Jell-o and Carrots.”

“Green Jell-o,” Woodruff corrected.

Bob looked over at Woodruff with a furrowed brow and squinted his eyes.

“And Carrots.”

“Here we go again,” Ruth squawked.

You Can’t Get Mad From A Turnip

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“It really is a versatile vegetable,” Bob said.

“You can say that again,” Woodruff mumbled with a mouth full of salad.

“But I didn’t say that,” Bob replied, as he shoved another fork full into his mouth.

Woodruff eyed his friend and shook his head.

“You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it,” Bob continued as a half-eaten turnip rolled around in his pie hole.  “Pan fried, deep fried, stir-fried, flayed, cabbaged. There’s turnip-kabobs, turnip gumbo, turnip tacos, pineapple turnips, lemon turnips, coconut turnips, bacon turnips, turnip soup, turnip stew, turnip salad, turnip and potatoes, turnip burger, turnip sandwich, turnip pie…”

Bob swallowed his thoroughly chewed turnip remains and raised an eyebrow as he searched the deepest recesses of his turnip culinary database.

“That’s about it,” he concluded.

“Plus, it’s fun to say,” Woodruff added.

“Totally,” Bob agreed.  “Turnip, Turn up, Turniiiip.”

“Tuuuuuurnip,” Woodruff chimed in.  “TurNIP, turnip-turnip-turnip.”

They laughed hysterically and Bob wiped at a piece of turnip shrapnel that escaped from Woodruff’s mouth and landed on his cheek.  A short stocky bald man, with a scowl on his face, emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron and carrying a tray.  The man tossed two plates of turnip tacos in front of them and began to pick up the tower of plates collecting at the center of the table.

“No, wait,” Bob said.  “We’re stacking those so we can see how many platefuls we’ve eaten.”

The man grunted and set the stack back down on the table.  He turned and stomped back toward the swinging kitchen door.

“Thank you, my good man,” Woodruff called to the back of the man’s head.  “I think we’ll try the bacon wrapped turnips next.”

There was a crash on the other side of the swinging door as the man in the apron kicked it open and marched into the kitchen.

“I think he’s mad,” Bob said.  They paused and admired their tower of empty plates that nearly reached the ceiling.

“Hey, don’t hang up a sign if you don’t mean it,” Woodruff said, and pointed to the All-You-Can-Eat Turnips sign in the front window.

“What’s my credo, Woodruff?”

“Omne omnes vos-potest manducare signum est provocatione te dignum est.”

“That’s right,” Bob said.  “Every all-you-can-eat sign is a challenge to meet it.”

“Credo’s also fun to say.”

“You gotta have a credo.”

“That’s actually my credo.”

“Great credo.”

“Mm,” Woodruff said.  “These turnip tacos are amazing.”

“You said it.”

“No I didn’t.”

Woodruff and Bob furrowed their brows and surveyed one another for a moment.  When Bob consumed the last turnip taco Woodruff turned around and looked back toward the kitchen door.

“How long do you think it takes to wrap a turnip with bacon?”

“Dunno,” Bob said, after he swallowed his last bite.  “Hey Woodruff?”

“Yeah Bob?”

“I’m toying with the idea of going by Robbie.”

“But then we’d have to change our logo.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The scowling man in the apron returned from the kitchen and laid a pair of bacon wrapped skewers on the table.  The bacon was still sizzling when Bob scooped up the skewer nearest him and popped it in his mouth.

“Oh!” Bob yelped.  “Hot!”

“That’s it,” the man said with a frown.

“What’s it?” Woodruff asked.

“The turnips,” the man said.  “They’re finished.”

“Geez,” Bob moaned.  “I t’ink I burn’d my to’gue.”

“They seem nice and finished,” Woodruff said.  “Might we get some turnip ice cream for my friend’s tongue.”

“We’re out!” shouted the man.  “It’s done, gone, caput, no more turnips!”

“No more turnips?” Woodruff asked.

“What’s the matter with you two?” the man demanded.  “Nobody eats that many turnips.  It’s a gimmick.  It’s supposed to bring people in.  They think, ‘Oh, All-You-Can-Eat’ so they come in and pay seven fifty and then remember after the first plate that they don’t like turnips.  That sign has worked for twenty-eight years, until you two came along!”

He stormed off to the kitchen and briefly got his apron caught in the swinging door.  Bob gulped down the glass of chocolate goat milk next to his plate.

“What’s his deal?” Woodruff asked.

“Dunno,” Bob said.  “So, was that a no on the turnip ice cream?”

“I think so.”

“Well then, this goat’s milk is a life saver.”

“It’s a good thing we brought old Delilah.”

“And Mr. Scowling Face threw such a fit when we milked her,” Bob said and patted the black and white goat on the head.

“I bet he feels foolish now.”

“He should,” Bob said.  “No turnip ice cream when you’re serving scolding hot bacon.  That’s irresponsible.

“So, why Robbie?” Woodruff asked.

“It makes me sound younger,” Bob replied.

“But you are young.”

“Yeah, but if I sounded younger I could get into the movies at the kid’s rate.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Sure it does,” Bob said.  “Hello, sir, welcome to the cinema.  Then I say, ‘The name’s Robbie.’ and then he says, ‘Oh, pardon me, I thought you were older.  That’ll be a dollar twenty-five.’  Boom, kid’s rate.”

“I don’t know, Bob,” Woodruff said as he shook his head.  “What movie are you going to see?”

“The youth are all about period piece docudramas,” Bob said.  “Maybe something with Steve Buscemi or Elizabeth McGovern.  You know, on fleece.”

“Fleek,” Woodruff corrected.

“Like spitting?” Bob asked.  He stood up and pushed his chair back under the table.

“No, that’s gleek.”

“I thought that was a Glee fan.”

“Oh right,” Woodruff said.  He pushed his chair in and took hold of Delilah’s leash.  “What were we talking about?”

“No idea.”

“We should leave a nice tip.”

“Good idea,” Bob said.  He took a marker from his pocket and wrote on a napkin.  “Keep bananas fresher by wrapping the stems in plastic wrap.”

“That’s a good tip,” Woodruff said.

The man in the apron stepped out from behind the swinging door with a Polaroid camera.  He walked up to Woodruff and Bob, who were standing next to the leaning tower of plates while Delilah chewed on the tablecloth.  The man growled as he raised the camera and a blindly light flashed in their eyes.  A card printed out the bottom and the man angrily shook it as he moved behind the counter.  With a thumbtack, he pinned the picture next to a red sign above the cash register that said ‘We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone’.

“Sweet!” Woodruff and Bob cheered in unison.

“We got our picture on the wall,” Bob said.

“We’re gonna be famous,” Woodruff replied.

Bob pulled open the front door and they stepped out onto the sidewalk with Delilah trailing behind them.

“You wanna see a movie or something?” Woodruff said.

“Can I be Robbie?”

“Robbie doesn’t make you sound younger, it makes you sound unemployable.”

“Jeff Weiner once called me unemployable at a charity auction for A Cappella without Borders.”

“What movie should we see?”

“Sun Valley 10 is playing She’s Having a Baby for Totally 80’s Thursdays,” Bob said.

“Done and done.”

“Meh eheheh eh,” Delilah bleated.

A Wob by the Tail

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“If you sat on a voodoo doll of yourself, would you be able to stand back up?” Woodruff asked.

“Dude, you’re blowing my mind right now,” Bob said.

“Think about it,” Woodruff said.  “You’d be stuck there forever.”

“I’d totally come and push you off of it.”

“That’s if you’re not stuck on top of your own voodoo doll.”

“Stop, Woodruff, you’re scaring me,” Bob said.

They stepped onto a broad wooden bridge that stretched across a large moat.  On the far side of the bridge were several ticketing booths, with a gated entrance beyond.  Bob ran his hand along the metal railing and looked over the edge, down at the giant coy fish swimming in the moat and the ducks congregated on top of the green water.  Woodruff stayed near the center of the bridge and shuffled alongside of Bob, as he counted the bolts that bound the planks to the frame.

“There they are,” Bob said, as he pointed down to the banks of the moat.  “You ready for this?”

“There are two types of people in this world,” Woodruff said.  “Those who cut the tags off blue jeans before they even try them on, and those who use changing rooms.  Half the pants I own don’t even fit, so yeah, I’m ready.”

“This is really your biggest fear?” Bob said.

“Bob, these are the most fearsome creatures to ever walk the earth,” Woodruff said.  “They’ve outlasted the dinosaur.  They can live anywhere from the depth of the ocean to the harsh Saharan desert.  They have vice-like beaks with legs like an elephant and talons like a hawk.  They can retract their skull into their rock hard exterior.  If they had wings, no place on this planet would be safe.”

“Wings?” Bob questioned.

“They’d be the top of the food chain,” Woodruff said, pantomiming a flapping motion.

“Don’t they eat, like, grass and lettuce?”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Woodruff said.  “Just look into their black calculating eyes.”

“So what’re you gonna do, wrestle it?” Bob asked.

“I’m going to stare straight into the flat face of death,” Woodruff said.  “I’m going to stand directly in harm’s way and show that monster what I’m made of.  I’m going to stretch forth my unwavering hand and place it at the peak of peril and laugh at the reaper.”

“You’re gonna touch its shell and run?”

“Yeah, that.”

Woodruff drew in a deep breath and hopped over the railing.  He made his way tenuously down the steep slope toward the muddy bank of the moat.  Bob watched from above as Woodruff approached what looked like a tire sized rock.

“Turn and face me,” Woodruff said to the dark mound that hugged the shoreline.  “Your reign of terror ends today.”

The large dome moved and Woodruff fell backwards into the reeds and mud.

“Sweet Oogway!” Woodruff shouted.  “It’s charging!”

The giant turtle slowly rotated around in Woodruff’s direction.

“Quick, touch it,” Bob yelled down from the bridge.

“It’s too late,” Woodruff said.  “I’m done for.”

“You can do it, Woodruff.”

“Bob, I want you to have my pan flute when I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Bob said.  “You’re gonna make it.”

Bob jumped over the rail and tumbled down the slope toward Woodruff and the turtle.  By the time he reached the murky waters of the moat, the terrifying tortoise had almost finished turning itself toward Woodruff.

“Tell Thelma she was right,” Woodruff cried.  “Those cream cheese and chive Hot Pockets were a mistake.”

“Just hang on, Woodruff,” Bob said.  “I’m almost there.”

Bob trudged through the ankle deep mud as the turtle took its first step toward the fallen Woodruff.

“Merciful Morla!” Woodruff yelped.  “This is the end.”

“Get up,” Bob said, as he reached down and pulled Woodruff to his feet.  “Now, do what you came here to do.”

The turtle extended its long neck from its shell and looked up at Woodruff.  He closed his eyes tight and reached out his long arm.  When his hand was directly over the turtle’s back, Bob pushed down on his arm and Woodruff’s fingers touched the cold hard dome.

“I did it!” Woodruff declared.  “I touched it!”

“You faced your fear,” Bob smiled.

“Now let’s get out of here before its web-footed minions come for us,” Woodruff said.

“Are you talking about the ducks?”

“And the frogs too.”

They raced along the muddy banks away from the lethargic leviathan.  Just around the bend they came to a thick chain link fence that stretched out over the moat.  Woodruff squeezed through a small gap between the fence and the trunk of a massive mesquite tree.  After several minutes of struggling and failing to get around or over the fence, Bob fell into the murky moat and swam under it.

“That water looks nasty,” Woodruff said as Bob crawled out of the moat to join him on the other side of the fence.

“It’s not bad,” Bob said.  “Kind of a limey coconut flavor.”

They followed the water down a deep canal, banked on both sides but a concrete wall.

“Give me a boost,” Woodruff said.  Bob lifted him over the concrete wall into a meticulously landscaped island.  They were hemmed in by the canal on one side and a 20-foot high fence on the other.  Woodruff reached back down and helped Bob up onto the grassy lawn in the corner of the island.

“Sir, sir,” a woman called from behind the higher concrete wall on the opposite side of the canal.  “Suriya appears to be in distress.”

“She called you sir,” Bob chuckled.

“Please, come quick,” the woman said.  Woodruff and Bob jogged in parallel with the woman, from the other side of the wall, to the far end of the island.

“Is that a…,” Bob gasped.

“Yep,” Woodruff confirmed.  “That’s a tiger.”

A large orange and black striped cat lay on a bed of straw, with one leg high in the air.  The tiger turned to look at Woodruff with her golden eyes.

“I know what this is,” Woodruff said.  “She’s in labor.”

“How do you know?” Bob asked.

“Spent a summer in Sumatra building miniature jabu villages for underprivileged ants,” Woodruff said.  “You see things.”

The woman from the other side of the wall joined a gathering of boys and girls, huddled together behind a thick pane of glass in a large observation area.  Bob waved at the children and gave them an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“What’re we gonna do?” he asked Woodruff out of the side of his mouth, while smiling at the woman and children.  “Miss Bliss and her merry band of kindergartens, over there, are watching.”

“Nature’s gonna do her thing,” Woodruff said.  “We just gotta sit back and catch a kitten.”

“Disgusting,” Bob said.

There was a loud tap on the glass that startled Suriya, Woodruff and Bob.  A scrawny man in a khaki jumpsuit held onto a broom with one hand and shook a dustpan at them with the other.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked.

“I need 12 pickles,” Woodruff spoke loudly toward the scrawny zookeeper behind the glass.

“Pickles?” the zookeeper asked.

“This tiger is about to give birth,” Woodruff said.  “I need 12 pickles and I need them now!”

The zookeeper dropped the broom and dustpan, and hurried off with a worried look on his face.

“What do you need 12 pickles for?” Bob asked.

“I’m hungry,” Woodruff replied.  “Look, here it comes.”

A small balloon-like bubble with a tiger cub inside slid onto the straw and Suriya began to lick her baby clean.

“Aw, look at that,” Bob said.  “It’s super gross and yet beautiful at the same time.  Like a librarian who wears her hair up in a bun.”

“Totally,” Woodruff agreed.  “What are we going to name him?”

“We get to name him?” Bob asked.

“It’s zoo law,” Woodruff said.  “He who delivers it dubs it.”

“Let’s name it Wob,” Bob said.  “Like a mix of Woodruff and Bob.”

“That’s stupid,” Woodruff said.  “We should pick proper tiger name like Tony or Shere Khan.”

“What’s the tiger’s name from Kung Fu Panda?”

“Tigress, but this is a boy cub.”

“How can you tell?”

“Go ask your mom or dad.”

“Fine.”

“What about Sparky?”

“Sparky?”

“Yeah, after Sparky Anderson,” Woodruff said.  “Detroit Tigers Hall of Fame Manager.”

“I like it,” Bob said.  “Uh, Woodruff?”

“Yeah Bob.”

“Another bubble baby is in the hay,” Bob pointed to a second little tiger cub, as Suriya went to work cleaning the new arrival with her long pink tongue.

“Twins,” Woodruff said.  “This one’s all yours.  Zoo law.”

“Wob,” Bob declared.

“Bob, you can’t name her after us,” Woodruff said.  “This cub is a girl.”

“How can you tell?” Bob demanded.

“Ask your parents,” Woodruff said.

Bob pulled out his cell and tapped the screen several times.  He put it to his ear and waited.

“Mom, it’s me, Sugar Bear,” Bob said.  “How can you tell a girl tiger cub from a boy tiger cub?”

Woodruff knelt down next to Suriya and gently scratch her behind the ear.

“No, this isn’t a joke,” Bob continued talking to his phone.  “I’m really asking.”

“Good girl,” Woodruff whispered to the momma tiger.  “Don’t worry, those pickles are on the way.”

“Oh,” Bob said.  He lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the class in the observation room.  “Tigger should really be wearing pants.”

Bromeo and Dueliet

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“I dost not see why thou art so upset,” Bob spoke in melodic fashion.

“Are you kidding me?” Woodruff replied.

“This wast on thy list.”

“Not exactly.”

“Ay, tis exactly what thou wrote,” Bob argued.  He walked over to a wooden crate, beneath rack of knobs with several rope pulleys tied to them.  Bob beckoned Woodruff to him as he pulled up his floor-length gown and removed a rolled up rabbits pelt from the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

“Take me not at my word,” Bob said as he unfurled the rabbits pelt and pointed to the first line that had not yet been marked off.  “Thou didst desire to partake in a Shakespearean production.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But’ist what?” Bob interrupted.  “Did not Shakespeare pen Romeo and Juliet?”

“Bob, listen…”

“And ist this not a production,” Bob blew the wispy hairs of his wig from his face and turned with a grand gesture to the stage and curtains to his right.

“Granted, this is a Shakespearean production, but it’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Woodruff said.

“Come on, Woodruff,” Bob said as he pulled off his wig.  “You need to get in character.  We go on in, like, two minutes.”

“About that,” Woodruff said.  “I don’t think I can do it.”

“What?” Bob exclaimed.  “This is an exclusive theatre troupe.”

“A little too exclusive.”

“This audition is a big deal,” Bob said.  “There is only one orthodox Shakespearean company in the country.”

“Maybe we should have gone with an unorthodox company,” Woodruff said tugging at the high frilly neck of his costume.

“Woodruff and Bob,” a portly man in a cravat shouted back stage.  “You’re on.”

“Bob I don’t want to do this,” Woodruff whisper-yelled after Bob, who quickly fixed his wig, hiked up his gown and hurried to center stage.  The curtains rolled open and a spotlight fell on Bob.  He laid down dramatically on the stage floor.

“Wilt thou be gone?” Bob projected out at the three men in the front row of a nearly empty theater.  “It is not yet near day.  It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.  Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree.  Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.”

Woodruff reluctantly shuffled onto the stage and knelt down next to Bob.

“It was the lark, the herald of the morn…Bob I can’t do this.”

He stood up and began to exit stage left.  Bob scrambled and caught him by the leg.

“Yon light is not day-light, I know it,” Bob shouted as he clung to Woodruff’s pant leg.  “Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.”

“Let go, Bob,” Woodruff said.  He fought to free himself from Bob’s grip.

Bob released Woodruff and stood up, gracefully straightening his dress.

“The lark sings so out of tune,” Bob said with a bashful chuckle to the unamused judges in the front row.

Woodruff hurried off the stage and Bob followed sheepishly after him.

“Some say the lark makes sweet division,” he said before he passed behind the curtain.  As soon as he was out of view of the judges, he pushed aside the hair from his wig that had fallen in front of his face and found Woodruff taking off his costume.  “You are embarrassing me.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Woodruff said, pulling his frilly shirt over his head.

“Is this because I’m a dude?”

“Yes!”

“They’re all dudes.”

“I know, that’s my problem.”

“In Shakespeare’s day all the actors were men,” Bob argued.  “These guys are old school.  This is legit Shakespeare.”

“It’s a little too legit.”

“This is all because you don’t want kiss me, isn’t it?”

“I so don’t.”

“Is it because I didn’t shave?”

“No!” Woodruff shouted.  “I mean, that didn’t help but I just don’t want to do a romantic play with a bunch of men.”

“That’s sexist.”

“It’s really not.”

“Fine,” Bob said.  “So no Romeo and Juliet.”

Bob sulked over to the corner and sat on a stool with his arms folded.  Woodruff took a deep breath and joined him in the backstage nook.  He leaned against the wall and sighed.  Bob sighed louder and Woodruff forced another sigh in return.  Bob looked up at him and sighed again.  Woodruff took another deep breath and sighed aggressively.  Bob stood up from the stool to face his friend and sighed back at him.  The two of them stood almost nose to nose and traded earnest sighs.

“Hey!” the man in the cravat shouted.  “Take it outside!”

Woodruff pushed open the metal door beneath the red exit sign and they both scurried outside.  Bob looked up the alley to the busy street in front of the theater.  A large raccoon crawled out from behind a dumpster and stood up on its hind legs.  It hissed threateningly at Bob, and Woodruff quickly jumped in between them.

“Back!” Woodruff yelled as he spread his arms to shield Bob.  “Back, foul creature!”

The raccoon hissed again and swiped at the air menacingly.

“Wilt thou provoke me?” Woodruff said.  He picked up a trash can lid and lunged at the raccoon.  “Have at thee!”

“O Lord, they fight,” Bob said.  “I will go call the watch.”

On one knee Woodruff fended off the attacking raccoon while Bob crouched behind him.

“Lunge, parry,” Bob coached Woodruff from a safe distance.  “Strike.”

Woodruff threw the lid at the raccoon and missed badly, hitting the dumpster.  The loud bang from the impact sent the frightened raccoon fleeing down the alley.

“Go,” Bob yelled at the raccoon.  “Get thee hence.”

Woodruff and Bob turned and smiled at each other, quite satisfied with their victory.

“You hungry?” Woodruff asked.

“I could eat,” Bob said.

“I saw a pottage stand around the corner.”

“Can I wear the dress?”

“Ay, if thou wilt forsake the wig.”

“Never!”

“Then wilt thou walk a measure behind me?”

“Forsooth, and onward to pottage,” Bob declared.

Woodruff led the way out of the alley with Bob sauntering beside him, trying to keep his blue silky skirt from draping in the gutter.

“What do raccoons have against you?” Woodruff asked.

“It’s an old grudge from back in my dumpster driving days,” Bob said.

“You mean dumpster diving,” Woodruff corrected as they left the alley and started up the street.

“Nope, dumpster driving,” Bob clarified.

Bacon Rhubarb Meringue Pie

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Every storyteller knows that a great story is one-part truth and two-parts lie.  But I once knew an unlikely pair that needed no such recipe.  Their adventures and antics were far from believable and, therefore, would’ve made for terrible fiction.  However, a study of their tales and troubles as a work of non-fiction would’ve also proved unfruitful as rhyme and reason rarely came to play.  So I’m left with no choice but to lay their deeds before you with no expectation of meaning or moral, only the promise of a great story.

Woodruff and Bob met in a way that would’ve been considered by most to be very out of the ordinary, but for them it was just Friday.

Bob dangled his feet out of the open boxcar door and let the crisp mountain air blow in his face.

“How long are you going to hide back there?” Bob asked the shadows behind him, with his eyes out on the horizon.

Woodruff stepped out from a fortress of crates and steadied himself against the rickety wooden wall.

“I’m not hiding,” Woodruff said, as he straightened his shirt.  “The center of the car offers the smoothest ride.  Everybody knows that.”

“Not much of a view behind those boxes though,” Bob replied, looking down at his tennis shoes and watching his feet float around on the breeze.

“Maybe I didn’t come for the view,” Woodruff said.

“Your loss.” He twisted around and held out his hand.  “Name’s Bob.”

Woodruff stepped out of the shadows, extended his long arm and shook Bob’s hand.  Bob scooted over and patted the dusty floor next to him.  Without a decent excuse to refuse, Woodruff accepted the invitation and sat down next to his new traveling companion.

“And you are?”

“My name is Woodruff.”

“So where’re ya headed, Woodruff?”

“Santa Fe.”

“Me too!”

They both smiled at the happy coincidence that two men, on a train bound for Santa Fe, shared an intended destination.  In their day, Woodruff and Bob had been accused of many things, stealing the free samples at Panera Bread, illegally impersonating an Ostrich wrangler, gambling on elevator races, and at least one incident of public plumbery and scribblement, but one thing they’d rarely been accused of was overthinking.

“What’s your business in Santa Fe?” Woodruff asked.

“Pie.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not.”

“I’m going to Santa Fe for pie!”

Bob lifted one leg back into the boxcar and turned around to face Woodruff more fully.

“On the count of three, say what kind of pie,” Bob said.  “One, two…”

“Wait!” Woodruff interrupted.  “Say it on three or three and then say it?”

“Three and then say it,” Bob clarified.  “One.  Two.  Three.”

“Bacon Rhubarb Meringue,” they shouted in unison.

“Outstanding,” Bob said.

“Are you going to Raul’s Bakeshop?” Woodruff asked.

“I am!  How do you know about Raul’s?”

“I met a hobo in Flagstaff.”

“Kenny?” Bob asked.

“You know him?”

“Sure do,” Bob said.  “Kenny and I go way back.  He once saved me from a raccoon stampede.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It was.”

“So, are you a hobo?” Woodruff asked.

“They prefer Vagabond American,” Bob said.  “But no, we just seem interested in the same things.”

“Makes sense.”

Woodruff gripped the rusty iron door frame as the boxcar rocked hard from side to side.  Bob pushed up with his hands and lifted his read end off the floor as he swayed with the motion of the train.

“There are two types of people in this world, Woodruff,” Bob began.  “Those who cling tighter when life gets bumpy, most times getting the pudding knocked out of them, and those who just close their eyes and groove with what life’s putting down.”

“People like that are why we have to have warning labels on everything,” Woodruff argued.

“I’m starting to understand this whole business casual look you’ve got going on.”

Bob gestured with circular hand motions from Woodruff’s long sleeve bottom up shirt, to his slacks, and brown Doc Martens.

“Grown-ups wear pants.”

“Not this grown-up.  Too restricting,” Bob said.  “Plus, I have fifty percent more pockets that you.  So who’s more sophisticated now?”

He pulled at the side pockets of his khaki cargo shorts, with a synchronized eyebrow raise.

“Classy,” Woodruff said with a pronounced eye roll.

“Thanks.”

Woodruff shook his head at the oblivious satisfied look on Bob’s face.  They road in silence, except for Bob’s occasional humming of the Growing Pains theme song, for the next hundred miles or so.  Woodruff twice stood up to throw himself from the train but didn’t want to chance landing on an innocent prairie dog or an orphaned coyote, so he sat back down and counted potential chupacabra dens in the high desert landscape.

“So why are you riding the rails anyway?” Bob finally asked.  “Don’t you have a car or a high horse to ride on?”

“I have a Karmann Ghia, for your information,” Woodruff said indignantly.  “But Kenny could only give directions from the rail yard.  They were fairly specific and involved an inordinate amount of detail about rat burrows and the number of decapitated doll heads you’d pass before making a left turn.”

“Classic Kenny.”

“Plus, now I can cross ‘hopping a train’ off my bucket list.”

“You have a bucket list?” Bob laughed.  “How old are you?”

“You don’t have to be old to have a bucket list,” Woodruff said.  “You don’t have anything you want to do before you go?”

“Everything.”

“What?”

“I want to do everything.”

“That’s your list?” Woodruff asked.  “Everything?”

“Yep.”

“Well you’d better get after it then.”

“Oh I intend to, right after a try a slice of Raul’s Bacon Rhubarb Meringue Pie.”

Bob winked at his lanky boxcar mate as the train lurched forward and began to slow.  Woodruff jumped up and headed back behind the crates as they rolled into the rail yard.

“I knew you were hiding!”

“No,” Woodruff shouted from behind the boxes.  “I’m just getting Sylvia.”

He emerged from behind the crates holding several small wooden tubes bound together with a brass strip.  They were all different sizes and lined up from tallest to shortest.  Bob swung his legs into the boxcar, stood up and walked over to Woodruff.

“Is that a pan flute?”

“Sure is,” Woodruff said.  “I never go anywhere without her.”

“You mean we could have been making sweet music this whole time?”

“Do you play?”

“No, but I’ve been told I sing like a goose,” Bob said proudly.

Woodruff furrowed his brow and his mouth fell open as the train came to a stop.  Bob hopped down into the gravelly rail yard and led the way over the tracks.  They passed a giant rat burrow, ducked through the opening in the chain link fence and headed between the red brick buildings with the first decapitated doll head in the alley.

“Like a goose?” Woodruff asked.

“Oh yeah,” Bob nodded vigorously.

“But…”

“The second doll head!” Bob said excitedly.  “We’re almost there.”

Across the street and through another alley they found the third doll head with brown curly hair, just as Kenny had described.  Directly to their left they saw a sign that read Raul’s Brake Shop.

“I thought he said Bakeshop, not Brake Shop,” Woodruff said.

“Does it matter?” asked Bob.

“Doesn’t it?” Woodruff replied with widened eyes.

Bob shrugged his shoulders and pulled on the grimy handle of the glass front door.  Inside was a dirty little lobby with two worn chairs, and a small end table littered with magazines.  Behind the counter stood a dark haired man with a scraggly beard and a collared shirt, with Raul stitched just above the pocket.

“Raul, we’ve come for two pieces of your Bacon Rhubarb Meringue Pie,” Bob declared.

Raul looked back and forth between Woodruff and Bob as he wiped his greasy hands on an old rag.

“Bob, I don’t think…”

“Coming right up,” Raul mumbled, unenthusiastically, as he disappeared around the corner.

Bob turned around to Woodruff, leaned on the counter and winked.  In moments, Raul returned with two large pieces of heaping meringue-topped pie.  Bob handed the first plate to Woodruff and pulled a banana money clip from the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

“I got this,” Bob said.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You can get the next one.”

“Thanks,” Woodruff said.  “Oh, wait.  I have a coupon.”

Woodruff pulled an old chewing gum wrapper from his shirt pocket.  He unfolded it and showed it to Bob.  In crayon the words BOGO Raul’s Pie were scribbled above an illegible signature.  Bob gave an approving nod and Woodruff handed it to the burly man behind the counter.

“Kenny said you’d honor this,” Woodruff declared hopefully.

Raul barely examined the wrapper and placed it under the register.

“All right, two dollars,” Raul said.

“Sweet!” Bob exclaimed.

They sat on the tattered old chairs in the lobby and consumed their pie.

“Mmmm,” Woodruff hummed.

“So good,” Bob agreed.

“Worth every mile.”  Woodruff stood up, took Bob’s empty plate from him and stacked both their plates on the counter.  “Raul, my good man, my compliments to your baker.”

“Thanks,” Raul said, as he removed the plates from the counter.  “You get a 10% discount on brake pads with every piece you purchase.”

“I’ll remember that,” Woodruff said.  “For next time.”

“Later days, Raul,” Bob said with a double finger point and a twirl as he backed out the front door.

A right turn at the decapitated doll head and they were headed back to the rail yard.

“So what’s next?” Bob asked.

“Next?”

“On your ‘before I kick the bucket’ list,” Bob clarified.

“I don’t know,” Woodruff said.  “There’s lots of stuff.”

“Well if I’m going to do everything, we might as well start with your stuff,” Bob said.  “So whatcha got?”

Woodruff ducked through the opening in the chain link fence and stepped carefully around the giant rat burrow.  Bob skipped over the rails and tracks toward the waiting trains.

“I’ve always wanted to go flamingo dancing,” Woodruff said.

“You mean flamenco dancing?”

“Nope,” Woodruff said as he hopped up into the boxcar.  He reached back down to Bob and extended his hand with a wry smile.  “I mean FLAMINGO dancing.”

“Outstanding!” Bob grinned and grabbed Woodruff’s hand as he stepped up onto the train.

And so began the many adventures of Woodruff and Bob.