Tag: author

Back to the Drawing Board

Red and blue lights cycled in and out, changing the lighting of the darkened room with every turn.  A large, stern-faced man with a bush mustache stood next to a short woman with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.  The red and blue lights danced across the notepad of the stern-faced man. 

“How many times we been here, O’Hare?” the stern-faced man said.

“Too many times,” O’Hare replied, pulling on blue rubber gloves and gently adjusting her long blonde ponytail.

“What’s your take?” the stern-faced man asked.  He clicked on the cap on his pen and prepared to take notes.

“Two Caucasian males, mid-to-late 30’s,” O’Hare studied the bodies that lay within the white chalk outlines on the linoleum floor.  “No signs of forced entry.  No signs of struggle.  Wounds indicate close proximity, meaning they probably knew each other.  Looks like the taller male struck first and his husky friend got in a retaliatory blow before they both succumb to their wounds.”

“Motive?” he asked.

“Who knows,” O’Hare replied.  “Crime of passion, crime of convenience, crime of curiosity, crime of wheat.  This is a twisted world.  Nobody knows that better than we do.”

O’Hare and her stern-faced partner knelt down next to the bodies.  With her blue rubber gloves, she reached into the front pocket of the victim’s cargo shorts and pulled out his wallet.

“Cut!” the director yelled from the corner of the room.  A bell rang overhead and there was a collective groan from the cast and crew.  Woodruff and Bob sat up from the chalk outlines around their bodies.

“Did we get the shot?” Woodruff asked.

“No,” the director replied.  “Your friend was smiling, again.”

“Those gloves tickle,” Bob said.

“Bob, you can’t smile,” Woodruff said.  “We’re supposed to be dead.”

“I know, but it tickled,” Bob replied.  “I think she’s doing it on purpose.”

“I’m not tickling you,” the indignant actor replied.

“Well then you’re just naturally tickly then,” Bob argued.

“Steve, this is ridiculous,” she pled to the director.

“It’s not my call,” the director replied.

“He’s right,” Woodruff said.  “Judge Goodman sentenced us to community service here on the lot.”

“Turns out if you kick in a door dressed as superheroes, grab hold of a woman, jump out a window, and run from security, it’s a crime,” Bob added.

“Who knew?”

“Who knew.”

“I won’t work with a couple of amateurs,” the actor replied.

“Katee, please,” Steve said.

“No, either they go, or I go.”

“Well, we are here at the mandate of the courts,” Woodruff began, with an awkward pause.  “So, if one of us are leaving, it’s probably gonna be you.”

“It’s been a pleasure working with you,” Bob said.  “I’m a big fan.”

The actor threw her head back, rolled her eyes, and stormed off in a huff.

“Katee, come on,” Steve pled.  The door slammed shut behind her.

“Steve, if I may, I’ve got a few notes,” Woodruff said.  “The script says two Caucasian males, well I’m of European descent for sure, but Bob here is 1/32nd Cherokee and 2/92nd Choctaw.”

“My baby, she’s a Chippewa,” Bob added.

“She’s a one of a kind,” Woodruff said.  “So, I don’t know that your description gives full sway to the nuanced background of the bodies we’re portraying.”

The director stood with his back to Woodruff and Bob, still facing the recently slammed door.

“Also,” Woodruff continued.  “No one’s gonna believe that these sweet shrines to humanity are in their mid-to-late 30’s.”

“And while we’re on the subject,” Bob said.  “Which one of us is the tall one and which one is the husky one?”

“Bob, I mean, clearly I’m the tall one,” Woodruff said.

“So that makes me the husky one?”

“Yeah.”

“How dare you, sir!”

“Enough!” Steve shouted.  He turned around to face Woodruff and Bob.  “You two have completely ruined this entire shoot.”

“I think the descriptive inaccuracies of our physical traits were already doing that,” Bob said.

“Not too mention the casting,” Woodruff said.  “I mean Office Angry Brow over here would be more convincing as a disgruntled bus driver than a detective.”

“I want you two out,” Steve said.

“Knocked out or passed out,” Woodruff said.  “Because I was thinking if we just fell down on the floor and then you chalked our outline it would look more natural than trying to contort our bodies in a pre-drawn form.”

“Especially a husky pre-drawn form,” Bob said.  “Which is clearly too big for my non-husky form.”

“Get out!” the director ordered.

“But the court,” Woodruff said.  He pulled the court order from his pocket and held it up in front of the director.  “We’ve got to return this to the judge with your signature after we’ve completed a hundred hours.  It’s only been four.”

“Give me that,” Steve grabbed the paper from his hand.  “Pen!”

An intern ran over from the craft services table and handed the director a pen.  Steve took Bob by the arm and turned him around.  He placed the court order on Bob’s back and signed it.

“There,” Steve said, handing the paper back to Woodruff.  “You’re all done.  Now leave this set, immediately.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Bob said.  “You’re all right.”

“Do you want the rest of our notes before we go?” Woodruff asked.  “I’ve got some thoughts on our backstories that could really spice things up.”

“Security!” Steve called.

Two muscular men in black t-shirts stepped out from behind a façade.

“See that these two are thrown off the lot and banned for life,” Steve said.

The burly security duo nodded and took Woodruff and Bob by the arms.

“Benny, Leon,” Woodruff greeted them.  “How are the kids?”

“They’re good,” Leon said.  “Molly just made first chair in orchestra.”

“Greg took fourth at state,” Benny said.

“That’s terrific,” Bob said.  “Top five.”

Benny and Leon escorted Woodruff and Bob to the main gate.

“Sorry about this,” Benny said.  “But you guys are banned from the premises.”

“No worries,” Woodruff said.  “We’ve got what we came for.”

“We’ll see you guys at canasta on Friday?” Bob asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Leon said.

Leon pushed Woodruff and Bob out onto the street and Benny closed the gate.

“Great guys,” Bob said.

“The best,” Woodruff agreed.

“Should we go drop that off with the judge?”

“We should probably at least wait until its been a hundred hours.”

“Good point,” Bob said.  “I don’t know why judges keep giving us community service.  It always ends the same way.”

“It’s a mystery,” Woodruff said.  “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“What sounds good?”

“I don’t know why, but I’m craving cream of wheat.”

“Me too!”

Uno es el Numero mas Solitango

“Cinco empanadas, por favor,” Woodruff said.  He reached for the first meat pastry.  “How many do you want?”

He turned around to see only unfamiliar faces, of friends yet to be made, filling the marketplace.

“Bob?” he turned his raised eyebrow away from the sea of swarthy consumers and back to the business at hand.  The street vendor placed four additional empanadas in a brown paper sack and handed it over the pushcart.

“Gracias,” Woodruff said.  He exchanged several bills for the greasy paper sack.

Woodruff weaved through the crowded alleyway, munching on his flaky meat pastry.  He looked up and down the cobblestone street as he reached the intersection.  Just before the bend, he spotted Bob strutting back and forth across the narrow roadway.  The music from the horns and drums of a lively quartet echoed off the two-story buildings that lined the street. 

After observing Bob saunter around for a moment, Woodruff popped the rest of the fried pastry in his mouth and made his way casually up the street.

“Hey Bob,” Woodruff said.  “Whatcha doing?”

“Dancing,” Bob replied.  His melancholy moves were out of step with the upbeat rhythm of the local musicians.  Both Woodruff and the band eyed the hoofer wearily.

“Uh huh,” Woodruff said.  “But why?”

“I’m working on a new dance.”

“I thought we came here to eat empanadas.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong,” Bob said, he shook his hips back and forth before taking long strides away from the band.

“I kinda think something might be wrong,” Woodruff said.

“Why do you say that?” Bob asked.  He crisscrossed his arms wrapping himself in a hug and spun around into more long strides back across the street.

“Well, for one thing, I have a greasy bag of fried meat pastries and you haven’t even looked at them,” Woodruff said.  “And for another, you are meandering around by yourself in the middle of the street.”

“I’m not meandering, I’m dancing,” Bob said.  “And I told you, I’m not hungry.”

“As long as I’ve known you that’s never been true,” Woodruff replied.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he snapped his head, twirled, and slowly high-stepped back toward the band.

“You look like a flamingo,” Woodruff said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bob said, spinning back to Woodruff and crossing his steps overtop each other.  “Flamingos are beautiful and graceful.”

“This is painful to watch,” Woodruff replied.

“You know the saying, if it’s not painful it’s not dancing,” Bob said.  He sunk his hips, squatting low to the ground, and slid sideways.

“That’s not a saying,” Woodruff said.

“It is now,” Bob replied.

“I asked where you wanted to go for lunch, you said Buenos Aires” Woodruff said.  “So now we’re in Buenos Aires and you don’t want to eat?”

“What can I say,” Bob added two aggressive hip shakes.  “Gloria Estefan was right, the rhythm has gone and got me.”

The drummer rolled his eyes and Woodruff shook his head.  Onlooker wandered over from the marketplace and began to gather around the contorting and prancing foreigner.

“It doesn’t look like the rhythm’s got you, it looks like it’s trying to get away from you,” Woodruff said.

“If you’re worried about what it looks like, you haven’t surrendered to the music,” Bob said.  Another head snap and he spun again and strode around the crowd.

“I think we’re all ready to surrender, to the music or whatever it is you’re doing,” Woodruff said, holding his hands in the air.  “We surrender.”

“It’s all part of the process,” Bob said, with a twist and a lunge.  “To make an omelet you’ve got to break a few eggs.”

“Is that what you call this?” Woodruff asked.  “The omelet?  The broken egg?  Cause it’s a mess.”

“If you must know, I call it the solitango,” Bob said.  He stood up straight and looked back at Woodruff.  “It’s the seductive dance of the perpetually alone.”

The band stopped playing and turned to Woodruff as well.

“Perpetually alone?” Woodruff said.  “What are you talking ab…oh.  Of course.”

Bob hung his head.  The crowd awkwardly looked away and slowly began to disperse.  Woodruff walked over to the band.

“Por qué no se toman un descanso,” Woodruff said.  He handed over the bag of empanadas, and the bandleader happily dispersed them to his bandmates.

Woodruff walked over and put an arm around Bob.  “It’s Thursday.”

Bob nodded.

“And she didn’t write,” Woodruff said.

Bob shook his head.

“You can’t go into the dumper every time your pen pal doesn’t write you back,” Woodruff said.

“She’s not my pen pal, she’s my soulmate,” Bob said.  “And she did write me back.”

“What did she say?” Woodruff asked.

“She’s getting married,” Bob said.  He wiped at a tear forming on his cheek and sniffed.

“To Orlando?” Woodruff asked.

“Stupid stunningly perfect pirate elf,” Bob muttered.

“You knew this was a possibility,” Woodruff replied.  “It’s like Beyonce said, if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

“She’s knows I’m a wild stallion,” Bob said.  “I can’t be housebroken.”

“I don’t think that’s what you meant,” Woodruff said.  “At least I hope it’s not.”

“Wild hearts can’t be housebroken!” Bob cried.

“Okay, alright buddy,” Woodruff said.  “You’re a wild heart.  You pee wherever you like.”

“Thank you,” Bob said.  He sniffed and wiped his nose.

The band members watched quietly from their stools, having finished their empanadas.

“So, the solitango, huh,” Woodruff said.

“Now it only takes uno to tango,” Bob said.

“You wanna show me how that goes again?” Woodruff asked.

Bob turned to the bandleader and nodded.  The drummer centered himself and the trumpeters raised their instruments.

“It’s all about confidence and passion,” Bob said.  “But like the kind of passion you have reading a good book all by yourself, and the kind of confidence it takes to go to the post office on your own for the first time.”

“Got it,” Woodruff said.  “I’m ready.”

“Cinco, Seis, Siete, Ocho,” Bob said, and clapped his hand over his head.  The band began to play in rhythmic harmony.  “Hands in the air, Woodruff.  Now sink your hips like they were just hit by an iceberg of loneliness.  That’s right, you’re the Titanic, but you’re going down dancing.  Now strut, left, two, three, right, two, three.”

“Like this?” Woodruff asked, crouching like a catcher with his hands in the air.

“Not bad, but you’ve got to feel it,” Bob said.  “That feeling when you check into a hotel and ask for a single twin bed or tell the hostess you’d like a table for one.  Feel it!”

“Like this?” Woodruff sank to his knees and hung his head to one side.

“That’s it!” Bob said.  “Now imagine you’re dancing for a room full of cats!”

Woodruff jumped to his feet and twirled around, before high stepping his way across the street.

“You got it!” Bob shouted.  “That’s the solitango!”

The band stopped playing and several onlookers began to clap from down by the marketplace.

Woodruff and Bob took a bow and gestured to the band.  They all gave a little wave to the audience.  The applause subsided and Bob sighed.

“You feel better?” Woodruff asked.

“I feel hungry,” Bob said.

“I knew it!” Woodruff yelled.

“Those empanadas looked delicious,” Bob replied.

Two young ladies sat by a doorway on the near side of the street.

“Buenos movimientos,” the girl with brown-eyes said.

“Me?” Bob asked.

She nodded and her friend giggled.

“Gracias,” Bob said.  “Would you like to get some empanadas?”

“Si,” she replied.

“Bueno,” Bob said.

The two young ladies joined their new foreign friends, as they walked down the cobblestone street toward the smell of fried meat pastries.  Behind them the band began to play, and everyone started dancing together, all by themselves.

Foot In Big Mouth

The wind hollered across the serenely calm lake as the moonlight glimmered off its rippling waters.

“Bob!” Woodruff called again.

When no answer came, Woodruff stepped down onto the sandy banks of the wooded island.  A pair of footprints trailed off the beach into the brush.  Kenny stood at the edge of the bridge and held a flashlight high overhead, to light the way.

“You don’t think he’s…” Kenny began.

“No, he’s alive,” Woodruff interrupted.

“I was going to say taking a nap,” Kenny replied.

Woodruff grimaced but did not look back.  He pushed aside the ferns that blocked his way.

“Bob, if you jump out and scare me, I’m drinking your milkshake.”

The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and a lone raspy bullfrog.

“It’s chocolate,” he added, to improve the severity of his warning.

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Kenny said.  “I hate to say it but he’s…”

“He’s fine, Kenny,” Woodruff interrupted.  “He’s fine.  He’s got to be.”

“I was going to say he’s a Scorpio,” Kenny replied.  “Passionate, independent, and not afraid to blaze his own trail, no matter what others think.”

Woodruff turned and laid a narrow-eyed scowl on the old vagabond.  Kenny sheepishly rubbed the scruff on his chin and held the light a little higher, in a vain attempt to seem helpful.

“Stay here,” Woodruff said.  “If I’m not back by sunrise, go get help.”

Kenny nodded and gave him a thumbs up.  Woodruff stepped beyond the tree line and stood still for a moment, until his eyes adjusted.

Of all the times Bob had vanished, the trombone festival, the Myrtle Sklesko incident, the three-day blackout in the Pyrenees, this was the most worrisome.  A number of possibilities troubled Woodruff’s mind.  Had a lake merman worked Bob over for hitting on his lady of the lake?  Had a tribe of pygmy warriors carried him off to be sacrificed to a vengeful god?  Again.  Did he find Bigfoot on a day when the beast was suffering an intense migraine brought on by a 72-hour YouTube binge and mild dehydration?

The sound of grunts and groans coming from deeper into the woods broke Woodruff from his worry spiral.  He inched forward, cautiously, toward the sounds.

“Bob?” he whispered.

Through the thick forest foliage, Woodruff could see strands of orange light casting a warm glow into the dark woods.  He crept forward listening to the soft groaning.

“Bob,” he whisper-yelled as he drew closer.

The groans stopped and Woodruff reached out to part the curtain of leaves in his path.  Behind the natural barrier was a clearing with a roaring fire at the center.  On the far side of the clearing, Bob hung upside down, with ropes tied to both ankles.

“Bob!”

Woodruff sprang into the clearing and ran around the fire pit.  He grabbed hold of Bob’s waist and lifted him up to ease the tension of the ropes.

“Woodruff!”

“I got you,” Woodruff said.  “Who did this?  Was it an angry merman?  How many times have a told you to leave the underwater world alone?”

“It was him,” Bob said.

“Who him?” Woodruff asked, looking down at his overturned friend.

“Him,” Bob pointed out across the clearing.  Woodruff bent over and slowly followed Bob’s finger to a giant hairy creature beyond the fire.

“Bigfoot,” Woodruff muttered.

“His name is Bert,” Bob said.  “And his feet are actually proportionate to his height.”

“Hello,” Bert said.  He waved a hair-covered hand at Woodruff.

“Uh, hi?” Woodruff said.

Bert flashed a big bright smile and Woodruff stood up straight.  The furry giant wore only a blue and black afghan around his waist.  Other than that, his body was covered from head to foot with dark brown hair.

“Are you going to eat us?” Woodruff asked.

Bob and Bert chuckled.

“Uh, gross,” Bert said.  “Why would you think that?  Because I’m hairy?”

“That’s hairist,” Bob said.

“Then why do you have my friend tied up next to a fire in the middle of a secluded island forest?” Woodruff asked.

“The fire is for light and warmth,” Bert said.  “We’re the middle of a secluded island forest.”

“And I asked him to tie me up,” Bob added.

“What?” Woodruff asked.  “Why?”

“He asked me how I got so tall,” Bert replied.

“He told me it was from long term inversion therapy for a chronic back condition,” Bob said.  “I told him I was looking to add some scale to this sweet package.”

“That’s what Xi said,” Bert added.

“Inappropriate,” Woodruff said.

“What?” Bert asked.  “Wang Xi is a composer I summered with in Kathmandu.  She wanted to add scales to her composition.  Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“You were in the Himalayas?” Woodruff said.  “You’re kidding.”

“Nobody kids about Kathmandu,” Bob replied.

“What’s funny about that?” Bert asked.

“The Himalayas,” Woodruff repeated.  “You know, the Yeti.”

“Oh Woodruff,” Bob said, covering his upside-down eyes.

“That’s offensive,” Bert said.  “I happen to have hereditary gigantism and suffer from congenital hypertrichosis, which effect one in ten billion people, just so you know.  I’ve had to endure a lifetime of Sasquatch jokes and straight up cuckoos.  Have you ever been hunted?  It’s not fun.”

“Actually, Bert, we have been hunted,” Bob said, swinging gently side to side.

“A couple of times,” Woodruff said.  “It was not fun.”

“Not fun at all,” Bob agreed.

“I’m sorry,” Woodruff said.  “That was insensitive.  Please forgive me.”

Bert sat down on a stump and scratch at the ground with a broken branch.

“It’s okay,” Bert said.  “My ex says I’m too sensitive.”

“No,” Bob said.  “It’s got to be hard living out here on your own.”

“Oh, I don’t live out here,” Bert said.

“You don’t?” Bob said.

“No, I was just doing some fishing,” Bert said.  “You know, disconnecting, getting off the grid.”

Bob craned his neck and looked up at Woodruff, before they both turned back to Bert.

“I’m a hedge fund manager from San Fran,” Bert said.

“Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” Woodruff asked.

Bert looked down at the afghan tied around his waist.

“I fell in the water and hung my clothes out to dry,” he replied, pointing to a clothesline hanging between two trees.  “Bob gave me this blanket he knitted.”

“Crocheted,” Bob corrected.

“We thought…” Woodruff stopped himself before further offending their host.

“You thought I was a mythical creature living in a secluded island forest away from societies reach?” Bert said.  “I get that a lot.”

“Wow,” Bob said.  “We sure learned a valuable lesson about making snap contextual judgements.  Even when the evidence seems to overwhelmingly support them, you could still wind up mistaking a bay area capitalist on a fishing trip with a North American folk-legend.”

“No worries,” Bert said.  “If I had a nickel for every time I was mistaken for Bigfoot, I’d have invested those nickels in the market, quadrupled my original investment, and bought a SKS-HT540 7.1 Channel Surround Sound System with a 10-inch subwoofer and Bluetooth.”

“The Onkyo,” Woodruff said.  “Excellent choice.  I’ve got the HT-7800 at home.”

“Always nice to meet another audiophile,” Bert said.

Bert gave a double pistol salute with his finger guns just before being taken to the ground by a rampaging man who leapt from the bushes.

“Run for it, guys!” Kenny yelled, as he struggled with his hairy captive.  “Save yourselves!  Tell Meryl I’ve always loved her.”

“Kenny, what are you doing?” Bob asked.

“Kenny?” Bert said.

“Bert?” Kenny replied.

“Hey!” they sang in unison.  With a great big smile, Kenny climbed off Bert and helped him off the ground.

“You know each other?” Woodruff asked.

“This is my brother-in-law,” Kenny said.

“Ex-brother-in-law,” Bert added.

“Her loss, brother,” Kenny said. 

“As always, you’re too kind.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Good,” Bert said.  “You?”

“Same,” Kenny said.  “Whatcha doing out here?”

“Fishing.”

“Catch anything?”

“Just these two,” Bert said, pointing at Woodruff and Bob.

“Those are throwbacks for sure,” Kenny said, with a wink.

“Definitely,” Bert said, and pantomimed a tossing motion.  “Catch and release.”

Kenny threw his arm around the waist of his former brother-in-law and they both laughed.  The smile fell from Kenny’s face as he looked over at Woodruff and a dangling Bob.

“Wait a minute,” Kenny said, raising an eyebrow in their direction.  “Did you two think Bert was Bigfoot?”

“It was dark,” Woodruff said.

“And far away,” Bob added.

Kenny shook his head and muttered, “Of all the hairist…”

“It’s Reno all over again,” Woodruff whispered.

“She was incognito!” Bob said.

Woodruff mouthed a silent, “We’re so sorry” to Bert.

“Would you like a lukewarm apology milkshake?” Kenny asked Bert.

“Jamocha?” Bert asked.

“Chocolate,” Kenny said.

“Pass,” Bert replied.

When We Come To It

“How much further?” Kenny asked.

“If you ask me that one more time, Kenny, I’ll turn this bridge around,” Bob said.  “You just keep hammering.”

“My hammering hand is tired,” Kenny replied.

“Then use your other hand,” Bob said.

“Oh, okay,” Kenny switched hammer from his left to his right hand and finished pounding the nail into the board.  “Much better.”

A cherry-red Karmann Ghia pulled into view, with several dozen 2×12’s sticking out of the trunk.  Bob set his hammer down and made his way across the adjoined planks, to the rocky shore.  Woodruff climbed out of the Karmann Ghia and waved to Bob.

“This should do it,” Woodruff said, as Bob drew nearer.  “How’s it coming?”

“Great,” Bob said.  “Except for some whining from the hammering hobo.”

“Be nice to Kenny,” Woodruff said.  “He’s doing us a favor.”

“He’d be doing me a favor if he built more than he belly-ached,” Bob muttered, with a look back out toward the lake.

Kenny knelt at the end of a long bridge that nearly stretched to the island at the center of the lake.  Waves lapped up against the buoys that held up the footers and the bridge bobbed gently up and down.  The sun hung low in the sky and cast long shadows out over the water.

“Think we’ll get this done before the sun sets?” Woodruff asked.

“Dunno,” Bob said.  “Maybe.”

They each grabbed a stack of lumber and headed back over the bouncy bridge.

“Genius idea to float the bridge instead of trying to sink the piles to the bottom of the lake.”

“Thank you, my good man.  When you cast aside the umbrella of the advisable inspiration is free to rain down on you.”

“Did you just come up with that?”

“Nah, I got it from a fortune cookie at Panda Express.”

Woodruff and Bob set the long planks down next to where Kenny was fastening that next run of girders together.  Bob grabbed his hammer and knelt beside him, while Woodruff let himself down over the side and climbed across the trusses to support the beam from underneath.

“Girder your loins,” Woodruff said.

“Planks for the assistance,” Kenny said.

“Okay Punserella,” Bob said.  “Let’s focus.”

“What pickled his pier?” Kenny asked.

“He’s just anxious to get to the island,” Woodruff said.  “You know how obsessive he gets about celebrities.”

“Remember Reno?” Kenny asked.

“M-M-M-M-iranda, no, um, M-Meryl, M-M-Miss Streep,” Woodruff pantomimed, with a mocking bow.  “It’s an honor.”

“I still say that was Meryl Streep,” Bob said.

“Dressed as a security guard?” Woodruff questioned.

“She was incognito,” Bob said.

“It was a man,” Kenny said.

“With a beard,” Woodruff added.

“In-cog-ni-to,” Bob shot back.

“What about the time we actually met John Krasinski,” Woodruff said.

“You met John Krasinski?” Kenny asked.

“Bob asked if he knew Meryl Streep,” Woodruff replied.

Kenny and Woodruff burst into laughed and Bob threw down his hammer in disgust.

“Are we going to giggle or are we going to build?” Bob said.

“Can’t we do both?” Woodruff asked.

“Meryl Streep could,” Kenny said.

Another round of laughter sent a wave of red up his face like a thermometer on a summer morning.

“The sun is getting low and we’re not going to make it before dark if you two keep messing around.”

“If you’re in such a hurry to get to the island, why don’t you just take a boat?” Kenny asked.

“Because that’s exactly what you’d think you’d want to do,” Bob said.  “That’s why nobody has found him yet.  If you want to do something that’s never been done before you’ve got to do it the way it’s never been done.”

“Fortune cookie?” Woodruff asked.

“Of course it is,” Bob said.  “You know I live my life by the Panda.”

“I could go for some orange chicken,” Kenny said.

“I told you, you’ll get food when we make landfall,” Bob said.

“Bob, you’ve gone full Ahab again,” Woodruff said.

“What did I say about Herman Melville references?” Bob responded with an accusing finger point.

“Only if it’s from Queequeg,” Woodruff and Kenny replied in unison.

“That’s right,” Bob said.

Woodruff climbed up, back onto the deck, and wiped at the lake water splashed across his slacks.

“Well you’ve taken all the fun out of this,” Woodruff said.  “I don’t even want to meet Bigfoot anymore.”

“You don’t mean that,” Bob said.

“I do,” Woodruff said.  “I hope we never meet him.  I hope he stays mythical forever.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Bob said.  “What about your list?”

“Bigfoot wasn’t on my list,” Woodruff said.  “Meet a legendary creature was on my list and we can check that off since you met Meryl Streep.”

Woodruff made sarcastic quotation marks on the word met.

“So you admit it was Meryl Streep,” Bob said.

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends.”

“Convenience and laziness, really.”

“I stay for the food,” Kenny said.

“Fair is fair, Kenny,” Woodruff said.  “Come on, we owe you a meal.”

“The bridge is only ninety percent finished,” Bob said.

“Then I’ll buy him ninety percent of a sandwich,” Woodruff replied.

“No one’s going to make you ninety percent of a sandwich.”

“Then I’ll buy one hundred percent of a sandwich and I’ll eat the pickles.”

“You’d eat the pickles anyway!” Bob shouted.

“I do not like pickles,” Kenny said.

“Fine, then he’s going to get one hundred percent of a sandwich,” Woodruff replied.

“For ninety percent work?” Bob said.  “That’s quite a deal.”

“Being friends with you is quite a deal!” Woodruff bellowed.

“Thank you!” Bob shouted.

“You’re welcome!” Woodruff replied, as he turned around and stormed off with Kenny trailing behind him.

“Bring me a milkshake!” Bob yelled.

“Chocolate or vanilla?” Woodruff shouted back.

“Chocolate, of course,” Bob said.  “Jamocha if they’ve got it!”

“We’re not going to Arby’s!” Woodruff shouted, as he pulled open the car door.

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Woodruff and Kenny climbed in the Karmann Ghia and drove away, leaving Bob standing alone at the end of the bridge. 

“Is he still upset?” Kenny asked.  “I really can’t tell.”

“No, he’s moved into the milkshake phase,” Woodruff said.  “You know, denial, anger, bargaining, milkshake.”

Bob watched as the cherry-red car pulled out of sight.  For a moment he thought about jumping in the lake to cool off, but he was worried he might land on a crawdad or a baby bass.  Instead he set to work finishing the bridge.  Just before the upper rim of the sun dipped below the tree line Bob set the last plank from the deck to the sandy banks of the island.  He looked up at a large shadowy figure, amongst the trees, looking down on him.

“Miss Streep?”

Calls It How He Eats It

“This is the life,” Woodruff said.

“We needed this,” Bob replied.

“No doubt,” Woodruff agreed.

Woodruff reached into a small Styrofoam cup and pulled out a muddy, wriggly, worm.  He quickly expanded a fish rod and caught hold of the hook dangling off the end of the line.  With the hook in one hand and the worm in the other, Woodruff sought to join the two by force.

“That’s barbaric,” Bob said.

“It’s nature,” Woodruff argued.

“Nature?” Bob said.  “So, hooks are the natural predators of worms?”

“Fish prey on worms, I’m just the middle-man,” Woodruff said.

“It’d be more natural if you ate the worms and left the fish alone,” Bob said.

“Fishing goes back to the dawn of human history,” Woodruff said.  “There are cave paintings depicting fishing, and archeologists have found stone age fish hooks made of bone.”

“Yeah, barbaric.”

“You’re just mad because you can’t bait a hook.”

“Could too!”

“Uh huh, sure you could Grandma knits-a-lot.”

“How dare you!” Bob exclaimed.  With crotchet hooks in hand, he swiveled on the boulder to turn away from Woodruff, carefully balancing the balls of yarn in his lap.  Bob rapidly weaved red and blue yarn together with sterling silver crotchet hooks, purposefully blocking his work from Woodruff’s view.

When Woodruff had properly baited his hook, he stood up on top of the massive rock and held the pole over his head and behind him.  He surveyed the body of water and looked for a calm spot between their shoreline and the banks of the not-so-distant island in front of them.

“I choose to use my hooks to create not to kill,” Bob said, holding up a long sock shaped creation.  “I’m making this for you, worm murderer.  Maybe it could warm your cold heart.”

Woodruff lowered the pole and pivoted to look at Bob, who had already turned his attentions back to his project.

“You’re making me a heart cozy?”

“It was going to be an oven mitt, but that was before you forsook the sanctity of life.”

“The sanctity of life?”

“Hashtag worm lives matter, Woodruff, worm lives matter.”

“You’re being very dramatic.”

“Woodruff the wormslayer!”

“When I said I wanted to go fishing, what did you think was going to happen?” Woodruff asked.

“I thought you were going to catch them with your bare hands like a gentleman,” Bob said.

“And then what?” Woodruff asked.  “Don’t fish lives matter?”

“You’re going to kill the fish too?!” Bob shouted.

“I’m not going to eat a live fish.”

“You’re going to eat them?!”

“What else would I do with them?”

“I don’t know, return them to the water with a light taunting for getting caught.”

Woodruff stared down at Bob with his mouth agape.  The rod in his hand wobbled from the movement of the worm on the end of the line.  The moment past with only the sound of a gust of wind between them.

“I need to know that you know where food comes from,” Woodruff said.

“I’m not a child,” Bob replied.  “I know where you carnivores turn for sustenance.  That’s why I gave up fish and chicken and lamb, oh, and hot dogs.  Gross.”

“You had a hamburger last night,” Woodruff said.  “What do you think that was made from?”

“Beef.”

“And where does beef come from?”

“Uh, the store, obviously.”

“Before the store.”

“Beef farms?”

“Bob, beef comes from cows.”

“What?!”

“Beef, hamburgers, steak, it comes from cows.”

“Then why don’t we call it cow?” Bob asked, incredulously.

Woodruff put down his fishing rod and rubbed his forehead with both hands.  He drew in a deep breath and watched Bob stare off at the shimmering waters.  Bob’s head slowly tilted to the side and his lips began to quiver slightly.

“An orange is an orange, an apple is an apple, lettuce is lettuce, chicken is chicken, and beef is cow?” Bob muttered.

From the look on Bob’s face, he was clearly grappling with the new reality.  Woodruff picked up a canteen in a camouflage pouch and walked over to Bob.  Crouching down he unscrewed the lid and offered it to his befuddled friend.  Bob took the canteen and mindlessly drank from it.  Swallowing the cool refreshing liquid, he pulled the canteen away from his mouth and looked at it suspiciously.

“Water is from water, right?” Bob asked.

“Yes, water is from water,” Woodruff said.  “Bob, are you going to be okay?”

“What other food doesn’t go by its animal name?”

“That’s not important right now, you need time to process this.”

“That’s exactly what you said to me when I asked if Vincent died in the LOST finale,” Bob accused.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” Woodruff said.

“Woodruff,” Bob demanded.

Woodruff drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, “Bacon.”

“No.  No.”

“Bacon, Bob.”

“But, but bacon comes from pork.”

“Why do you think the pig on Looney Tunes is named Porky.”

“No…no.  It’s can’t be!  That’s not true!  That’s impossible!”

“Search your feelings.  You know it to be true.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  NOOOOOOOO!”

 

Four hours later Bob was still hunched over the boulder in the fetal position, with Woodruff fishing quietly by his side.

“Woodruff?”

“Yeah Bob.”

“Is there a turg or a wild pirkey out there that we get turkey bacon from?”

“I think it’s just turkey that’s made to look like bacon.”

“That’s awful.”

“No argument here.”

Bob sat up and wiped at the tear stains on his cheeks.  Woodruff set his pole down softly and turned to face his friend.

“You all right?” Woodruff asked.

“I don’t know,” Bob said.  “You know, you think you are a certain kind of person, but then you have to look yourself in the mirror and tell that person that you love bacon and you don’t care who it hurts.  It’s hard.”

“I know, amigo, I know.”

“We were supposed to come out here and chillax, disconnect, take a break, get off the grid.”

“We did, we’re off the grid,” Woodruff said.  “We’ve disconnected.  We’re out in nature.  Look.”

Woodruff gesture out at the beautiful vista, a lake surrounded by evergreens with a wooded island near the center.

“What else out there have I been eating?” Bob said, glumly.

“Honestly, none of the animals you eat were ever in the wild,” Woodruff said.  “They were most likely raised on farms to be slaughtered for food.”

Bob burst into tears and threw himself back on top of the boulder, “I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.”

Woodruff’s fishing pole shot off the rocky shore and went skipping across the top of the water.

“Whoah!”

Bob sat up and they both watched the rod dancing in the wake of a fleeing fish.  The wake turned parallel to the shoreline as it approached the island.  In a flash, a giant hairy blur exploded from behind the cover the trees and ripped the fish from the water.  With wide-eyed wonder, Woodruff and Bob watched the towering creature retreat, back through the trees with fish in hand, dragging the fishing pole behind it.

“Did you see that?” Woodruff asked.

“I sure did,” Bob replied.

“Was that…?”

“Yep.”

“A Yeti.”

“A Bigfoot.”

“Break is over,” Woodruff said.

“Things just got real,” Bob said.

“You know where we’re going.”

“The island.”

“Most definitely.”

Bob collected his balls of yarn and Woodruff picked up his tackle box.  With their supplies tucked underneath their arms they looked across the lake toward the island.

“Hey, Woodruff?”

“Yeah Bob.”

“You wanna get something to eat before we head to Bigfoot Island?”

“What’re you in the mood for?”

“I could go for a PLT.”

“A PLT?”

“A Pig, Lettuce, and Tomato Sandwich.”

“Sounds hamtastic.”

“Don’t be insensitive, Woodruff.”

“I’m sirloin, um, sorry, I’m sorry.”

Woodruff grinned wryly and Bob shook his head.

“We have a Sasquatch across the way, but you’re the real monster.”

Horseplay

Woodruff strummed his fingers against a wooden countertop and looked listlessly out the front window at Bob twirling an arrow-shaped sign in a circle.  A cold breeze blew in through the door that was propped open by a giant horseshoe.   Bob tossed the sign in the air and tried to catch it behind his back.  Quickly, he scooped it off the ground from where he dropped it as a car zoomed by.  Woodruff sighed.

“Bob!” he called.

Bob continued to spin the sign while he jogged across the tiny parking lot.

“What’s up, partner,” Bob said, as he poked his head through the front doorway while keeping the sign spinning just outside.

“It’s been three days.”

“Technically, it’s been two business days and five hours.”

“Nobody’s coming,” Woodruff replied.

“Don’t lose faith,” Bob said.  “You’ve got to believe.”

“Oh, I believe,” Woodruff said.  “I believe nobody’s coming.”

Bob stopped twirling the sign and stepped inside the lobby.

“Do you think we need a new sign?” Bob held up the blue arrow-shaped sign.  The white letters read ‘SHABBY MARES THIS WAY’.  Bob looked down at the sign and back to Woodruff.

“It’s not the sign,” Woodruff said.  “It’s the service.”

“Our service is first rate,” Bob said.  “The best in the world.  That’s what our website banner says.”

“We’re the only ones in the world.”

“That’s why this is going to work.  We’ve already cornered the market.”

“There is no market!” Woodruff threw his arms in the air and gestured to the empty lobby and parking lot.

“Every visionary entrepreneur has had moments of doubt,” Bob said.  “You think Alexander Graham Bell didn’t worry about his new lightbulb store?  You think when Papa John invented pizza that he didn’t wondered if people would like it?  Fact, when Apple was founded in 1976 Steve Jobs didn’t sell a single iPad in his first three days, not one.”

“We’re not Steve Jobs or Papa John…”

“You’re darn right, we’re Woodruff and Bob,” Bob interrupted.  “And we paint horses!”

Bob stood triumphantly with his hands resting on his hips and looked up into the far corner of the lobby.  Woodruff followed his gaze quizzically and turned back to his friend’s unearned victory pose.

“We haven’t painted a single horse,” Woodruff said.

“Not yet.”

“Bob, nobody wants their horse painted.”

“We just need to get the word out,” Bob said.  “They don’t even know they want it, that’s how revolutionary this idea is.  A Horse of a Different Color LLC is going to change the world, one horse at a time.”

“You’re literally just quoting our website.”

“Well it’s true.”

“Unsubstantiated claims on the internet is not a business model,” Woodruff replied.

“Excused me,” a frail voice called from the doorway.

Woodruff and Bob turned their attentions to a short woman with curly gray hair, wearing a lavender dress and a matching shawl.

“May we help you?” Woodruff asked.

“Yes, I found you on the Google,” the old lady replied.  “I have an antique horse I would like to have painted.”

“Antique?” Bob asked.

“Yes, it’s an old rocking horse,” the old lady shuffled into the lobby with her purse cradled close to her bosom.  “My mother’s grandfather made it for her mother.  It’s been in the family for generations.”

“Please, come and have a seat,” Woodruff replied warmly, and hurried around the counter with a chair.

“I’ll handle this, Mr. Doubting Thomas,” Bob said.  “Why don’t you look back behind the counter and see if you can find your faith.”

Bob stepped next to the old lady and took her gently by the arm.  Very slowly, he turned her around back toward the front door.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said.  “We don’t do antiques.  We paint real live horses.  Why don’t you try asking the Google for a hobby shop?”

He gave her a gentle nudge beyond the threshold and the old lady turned around with a confused look on her wrinkled face.  Bob removed the giant horseshoe from the door and waved as it slowly swung shut.

“There,” Bob said proudly, as he placed the giant horseshoe against the wall.

“What did you just do?” Woodruff asked incredulously.

“Uh, I protected our brand.”

“That was a customer.”

“That was a confused old lady.”

“She wanted us to paint her horse.”

“Her toy horse.”

“What’s the difference?”

“We can’t just paint whatever gets brought in off the street,” Bob said.  “We are a horse painting business.  If we paint that old rocker, we’ll be no different than any other paint shop in town.”

“Every other paint shop in town has customers!”

“Exactly,” Bob said.  “We’ve just got to find ours.”

“We just had one!” Woodruff shouted.  “You literally just looked a gift horse in the mouth.”

“An antique gift horse,” Bob muttered.

“That’s it, I’m done.”

“Hold your horses, we had a plan.”

“You had a plan,” Woodruff said.  “I didn’t want to do this.”

“I’m doing this for you,” Bob said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your bucket list.”

“I don’t think I had horse painter on my bucket list.”

Bob pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his back pocket and flattened it out on the counter.  With his finger, he tracked down the long list until coming to a stop beneath the first entry not crossed out in crayon.  He pointed to it emphatically.

“There.”

Woodruff leaned over the list and trained his eyes on the words above Bob’s finger.

“Become a philanthropist?”

“That’s right, become a philanthropist.”

“How is this becoming a philanthropist?” Woodruff asked.  “Other than the fact we are definitely not going to profit off this venture.”

“That was the whole point,” Bob said.  “We just needed a never-before-thought-of innovation that would make us rich and famous.  Then after we’ve been interviewed on talk shows and in magazines, and after we got tired of yachts and lavish parties, we would have the money and fame to become world class philanthropists.  This was supposed to be phase one.”

Bob slumped onto a stool and hung his head.  Woodruff looked down at the well-worn list and back to his sulking friend.  He reminisced about all their adventures and all they had accomplished together.

“Maybe we just need an adjustment,” Woodruff said.

“An adjustment?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, you know, try something different.”

“You mean like horse racing?”

“Or something else.”

“Horse dancing?”

“We don’t have to decide that right now,” Woodruff said.  He came around the counter and took Bob by the arm.  Bob stood up and Woodruff walked him toward the door.  “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

Woodruff pushed open the door and Bob picked up the giant horseshoe and followed him out into the parking lot.

“Horse dentistry,” Bob declared, excitedly.

“It doesn’t have to involve horses.”

“We could call it Straight from the Horse’s Mouth.”

“Let’s talk about it over dinner,” Woodruff said.  “You hungry?”

“I’m chomping at the bit.”

“What sounds good?”

“Anything really,” Bob said.  “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

Ain’t No Party

“We’re here talking to an unusual political candidate,” the blonde newswoman spoke into the camera.  “This first of its kind political team is running as a single entity for a seat in the state assembly.  Woodruff and Bob, thank you for being here.”

“Thank you for having us, Janice,” Bob said.

“It’s Suzanne.”

“Of course you are,” Bob replied with a wink.

“How did you come up with this unique idea?” Suzanne asked.

“Well, I’ve had political aspirations since losing out to Melissa Pennyberry for treasurer in the third grade,” Woodruff said.  “It was a total popularity contest.  I didn’t stand a chance again her sweet headgear and her wicked cool cross-eyed corrective lenses.  It was a landslide.”

“When Woodruff told me he was running I threw my hat in the ring as well,” Bob said.  “We have very different political ideals and I wasn’t about to let this country go to smell like a ham basket.”

“Do you mean, go to hell in a hand basket?” Suzanne asked.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Bob replied.

“Anywho,” Woodruff continued.  “Things got tense between us after that, so we decided we’d flip a coin for the sake of our friendship.”

“The coin landed in the gutter, straight on its side,” Bob said.  “We took that for a sign.”

“And here we are,” Woodruff added, he sat up straight and adjusted his bright red tie.  “Woodruff and Bob for the 53rd Assembly District Representative.”

“Tell us how you resolve those political differences.”

“It’s simple really,” Bob said.  “We agreed to give each other an equal share.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well if I start something, Bob finishes, and vice versa,” Woodruff explained.  “For instance, we’ve got to put a stop to the war on…”

“…hashtags,” Bob said.  “Hashtags are not only useful at grouping topics, but are a hilarious device in conversation as well.  The mean strain media wants to limit them to social media posts and news scrawls.  #freethehash.”

“That approach seems a bit unpredictable,” Suzanne said.

“Not if you know your other half,” Bob said.  “Like if I say, we have to propose a bill with common sense reform on…”

“…potato peeler thumb guards,” Woodruff said.  “One in six hundred seventy-five thousand Americans cuts their finger on an unguarded potato peeler even month and a half.  Twenty-three percent of those are children.  Suzanne, do you want your children to lose the top layer of skin on one of their precious digits because your politicians failed to act responsibly?”

“Uh, no?” Suzanne replied.

“Exactly,” Bob said.  “And even though I’m fundamentally opposed to government regulation in any form, I’m fine with his proposition because I started the sentence.”

“That makes some sense, I guess,” Suzanne said.  “Do you confer at all before commencing a statement?”

“We find it better to just start down a path…”

“…and let the drips fall where they may.”

“You mean the chips?”

“Why would you let chips fall?” Bob said.  “Chips are delicious.”

With mouth agape, the newswoman shook her head and stared at Bob.  He smiled brightly back at her and pulled at the collar of his button-up shirt.

“At the end of the day, Suzanne, it’s our names on the ballot but this election is about the people,” Woodruff said.

“You two are clearly non-conformists,” Suzanne said.  “Is that why you started your own political party?”

“What’s that now?” Bob asked.

“Tell our viewers what the Yes, Please Party is all about,” Suzanne asked.

“Um, well,” Woodruff said.  “The application for candidacy had a blank next to party affiliation and Bob wrote ‘yes, please’.”

“We’re pro-party, all the way,” Bob added.

“Wait, so do you not know what a political party is?”

“Janice, the people are tired of the status quo in politics,” Bob said.  “This is a grass roots movement.  We used a tough blue-green Bermuda hybrid with shade tolerance and a wide range of mowing heights.”

“We’re pretty proud of our grassroots,” Woodruff added.

“Your opponent has said and I quote,” Suzanne looked down at her paper and read.  “The 53rd Assembly District has 99 problems and that campaign ain’t one, they’re two.”

“With all due respect to Mr. Z, who is a Sasquatch denier by the way, there’s actually three major problems in our district,” Bob began.  “First, low income households don’t have access to medicinal macaroons…”

“Medicinal macaroons?”

“Macaroons can treat a variety of maladies,” Woodruff replied.  “Irritable mom syndrome, chronic flat bottom disorder, not to mention the benefits to the gluten-free intolerant.”

“Nine out of ten dentists support our medicinal macaroon proposal,” Bob added.  “Secondly, this country needs to take seriously our mobile warming problem.”

“You mean global warming?”

“What’s global warming?” Bob furrowed his brow and squinted one eye at the newswoman.

“What’s mobile warming?” Suzanne returned a furrowed-brow stare.

“Mobile warmings is when your phone gets really hot,” Woodruff said.  “It’s fake news.”

“Denier!” Bob shouted.  “Ninety-seven percent of Americans carry tiny nuclear reactors in their pockets and it’s only a matter of time before we have a catastrophe.”

“Again, that’s not how phones work,” Woodruff said.

Bob shook his head and turned back to the confused newswoman.

“Janice, we need common sense cell control laws.”

“It’s Suzanne.”

“Right,” Bob said.  “If cell phone reform can save one life then it’s a no-brainer.”

“You’re a no-brainer,” Woodruff whispered.

“Yes, we can!” Bob proudly proclaimed, with a point to the camera.

“O-kay,” Suzanne said, with a sideways look at her cameraman.  “What was the third problem?”

“Migration,” Woodruff said.  “We need to build a wall.”

“You are in favor of building a wall to keep immigrants out?”

“No!” Bob replied incredulously.  “Why would we want to keep people out?  It’s awesome here.”

“We want to build a wall to keep residents in,” Woodruff clarified.

“Wait, what?”

“We lose eighteen percent of our population each summer to the Midwest and the Northeast,” Woodruff continued.  “Only to have them return in the more temperate months.”

“We propose building a wall around the district borders to keep people here year-round,” Bob said.  “If you want us at our best, you have to love us at our worst.”

“Polling shows that the majority of Americans don’t want to pay for a wall of any kind,” Suzanne replied.

“We don’t look at polling,” Woodruff said.  “Besides, voters aren’t going to pay for one single cent.”

“Then how do you propose paying for this wall?”

“It’s going to be made entirely out of recycled material,” Bob said.

“Recycled material?”

“Yep,” Woodruff replied.  “You know all that stuff that people list for free on Craigslist?”

“Yeah?” Suzanne answered quizzically.

“And when people put a couch or a dresser on the sidewalk with a sign that says free?”

“Uh huh?”

“Well, our friend Kenny has collected all of that stuff for years,” Bob said.  “He has committed to line the district boundaries with it, for free.”

“If his estimation is correct, he can build a wall six feet high and four feet thick by the end of our first term,” Woodruff concluded.

“You want to build a wall of trash around your district?” Suzanne asked.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Bob replied.

“That’s our campaign slogan,” Woodruff added, proudly displaying a red, white, and blue bumper sticker.

“Some estimates have you trailing your opponent by as much as ninety-four percent,” Suzanne said.  “How do you intend to close a gap like that?”

“We just received the endorsement of the local chapter of the International Lawn Care Society, who are a big fan of our grassroots,” Woodruff said.  “And our message seems to resonate with housewives, sidewalk musicians, and Latino males 41-42 years old.”

“It’s all going to come down to turn out,” Bob said.  “We’ve got one hundred percent of the vagabond American vote, so if they are all that turns out then we’ll win easily.  That’s just math.”

“I don’t know how to refute that,” Suzanne said.

“Why would you want to?” Woodruff replied.

“Do you have any parting words for our viewers?”

“Just two, Nutella toothpaste,” Bob winked at the camera and flashed a cheesy grin.

“Like I said to Melissa Pennyberry before the final results were read over the intercom,” Woodruff began.  “Win or lose, I’m probably gonna to cry.”

“Well, thank you for speaking with us today, Woodruff and Bob,” the newswoman turned to speak directly into the camera.  “I’m Suzanne Newsworthy and this has been a Naptime Network exclusive, you can now take your pills and drink your prune juice, Geemas and Geepas.”

All About That Bounce

“How much longer are we going to do this?”

“This is important, Bob.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is it?”

Bob laid a penetrating look on Woodruff, who ignored him.  The hum of machinery filled the massive manufacturing floor.  Workers scurried about, covered head to toe in bright white jumpsuits.  Woodruff pulled on a pair of latex gloves and carefully took hold of a pair of metal tongs.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Bob whined.

“Then go wait in the car,” Woodruff said, as he raised the tongs in front of him, with his eyes set on a caldron below.

“It’s cold outside,” Bob complained.  “Can I run the heater?”

“No, just use the blankets in the back.”

“They smell like llama.”

“I told you not that let him sleep back there.”

“Like I’m gonna tell a llama he can’t sleep on a comfy blanket.  I’m not a monster.”

“Well now you’ve got a blanket that smells like llama,” Woodruff replied, carefully studying the contents of the vat beneath him.

“Your blanket smells like llama,” Bob muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.  Now hush,” Woodruff said.  “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Just pick one and let’s get this over with.”  Bob flailed his arms wildly and flung himself to the floor with his legs crisscrossed.

“You’re getting your jumper dirty.”

“I don’t care!  I hate this suit and I hate this place.  It makes my head itchy.”

“That’s because you don’t have any hair.”

“How dare you!  I have hair.”

“Some.”

“I’ll have you know this was a decision of function and fashion.”

“A decision necessitated by premature hair loss.”

“Balding by chance, shaved by choice.”

“The longer you distracted me the longer we’re going to be here.”

“Fine.”

Bob drew his fingers across his lips in a pantomimed zipping motion.  Woodruff shook his arms and rolled his shoulders back, while turning his head from side to side.  He lowered the tongs and took hold of a lengthy green pickle.  Brine dripped from his selection as he pulled it from the vat.

“Oh that’s a fine pickle,” Woodruff said.  He gently placed the pickle in the palm of his hand with the tongs.

“Okay, you’ve got your pickle,” Bob said.  “Can we go now?”

“This pickle looks good, but looks aren’t everything.”

“That’s not what my agent says.”

“And how many gigs has he booked you of late?”

“That’s not because of these beauties,” Bob held up his hands and rotated them in a showy fashion.  “It’s because I have an undeserved reputation for being difficult to work with.”

“You’ve proved my point,” Woodruff replied.  “Looks aren’t everything.”

“Your looks aren’t everything,” Bob muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said your looks aren’t everything.”

“Wicked burn.”

Woodruff rolled his eyes and Bob stuck out his tongue.  Pickle juice covered Woodruff’s gloves and a drop fell to the floor.  Bob eyed the droplet contemptuously as Woodruff raised the pickle to shoulder height.  Like an MC completing a rap battle, he opened his fingers and let the pickle fall to the ground.  On impact the pickle recoiled and jiggled in the air for a few seconds before bouncing to a rest.

“That’s the stuff!”

“What was that about?”

“If it doesn’t bounce it’s not a pickle.”

“Says who?”

“The state of Connecticut.”

“The state of Connecticut?”

“That’s right,” Woodruff explained.  “1948, the people versus pickle packers.  Two men were arrested for selling pickles that were unfit for human consumption.  The Connecticut Food and Drug Commissioner, was called to testify on ways to check for good pickles.  He said that outside of laboratory tests you could drop it on the floor and a good pickle should bounce.  The pickle peddlers merchandise did not bounce and were declared unpickle-ish.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Prove it.”

“You’re saying that the people told a pair of pickle packers they couldn’t peddler a pack of pliant pickles ‘cause the pliant pickles wouldn’t pop?”

“Precisely.”

“Bull.”

“No, dill.”

“This is ridiculous,” Bob said.  “You’ve got your bouncy pickle.  Can we go now?”

“That was just a test pickle.”

“A test pickle?”

“Yeah,” Woodruff replied.  “It’s been on the floor.  I’m not eating that.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Bob shouted.

“I was testing the batch.  This batch is good,” Woodruff turned back to the briny caldron and studied the floaters.  He dipped the tongs back into the vat and pulled out a wrinkle-laden specimen.  “We have a winner.”

“Hip hip, hooray,” Bob replied, sarcastically.  “Let’s go.”

“We can’t just go,” Woodruff said.  “We have to pay for it.”

Woodruff placed the pickle into a plastic bag and returned the tongs to the stainless steel table next to the vat.  He peeled off his white jump suit and removed his hair net and booties.  Bob stood up from the ground and followed Woodruff’s lead, disposing of his suit in the nearest laundry hamper.  With plastic bag in hand, Woodruff walked to the manager’s office at the far end of the manufacturing floor and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice replied from the other side.

“Hello,” Woodruff greeted a squatty office manager sitting behind a large desk.  The man was examining a single paper among the clutter on his desktop.  At the center of the clutter was a plaque that read Clifton King.

“Yeah,” the man behind the desk grunted, without looking up.

“Um, yes, Mr. King?” Woodruff began.  “I’d like to pay for my pickle.”

“What?” Mr. King replied, with a dazed look in Woodruff’s direction.  Bob entered through the office door and stood behind Woodruff.

“Hey there, Mr. King, sir,” Bob said.  “Uh, your majesty, uh, highness?”

“I need to purchase this pickle,” Woodruff replied.

“And one he through on the floor back there,” Bob added.

“We don’t sell pickles here,” Mr. King said.  “How did you get in here anyway?”

“Through the door, obviously,” Bob replied.  “You make all these pickles and they’re not for sale?”

“We sell the pickles, but you can’t buy them here,” Mr. King said, standing up and walking around his large desk.

“Oh, um, well this is the pickle I want,” Woodruff said.  “Where would I buy it?”

“Don’t forget the one you threw on the floor,” Bob added.

“You have to buy it from a store,” Mr. King said.  “We are the supplier.  You aren’t even supposed to be back here.”

“Understood,” Woodruff said.  “But since we’re already back here, what can I give you for two pickles.  And whatever Horacio ate.”

“How many pickles do you eat?” Mr. King asked Bob.

“No, I’m not Horacio,” Bob chuckled.  “Horacio is a llama.”

Bob pulled down on a cord, which raised the blinds to a window looking out on the manufacturing floor.  A tall gray llama stood over a box of pickle jars chewing slowly and looking back at the trio inside the manager’s office.  Mr. King’s face turned red.

“Get that animal out of here,” he demanded.

“Sure thing,” Woodruff said.  “What do we owe you for the pickles?”

“Get out!”

Mr. King pushed them through the threshold and slammed the door behind them.  The binds came clattering down covering the window.  Woodruff and Bob stared at each other with wide eyes.

“I think we’d better go,” Woodruff said.

“Come on, Horacio,” Bob called.  “Apparently this organization is llama intolerant.”

“They really should put up a sign,” Woodruff replied.

“Totally,” Bob said.  “You put a giant pickle over your building and people are going to stop for pickles.  That’s just human nature.”

“And llama nature.”

“Fact.”

Woodruff, Bob, and Horacio walked through the giant bay doors out into the parking lot.

“The good news is you got your perfect pickle for free,” Bob said.

“You can’t beat a pro-bono pickle,” Woodruff replied.  “Isn’t that right, Horacio?”

The tall gray llama spit pickle juice on the asphalt in front of them.

“You can say that again.”

Died On The Vine

“Boom!” Bob slapped down a card on the cherry wood tea table.  “Draw four.”

“Shoot.”

Woodruff picked up a yellow pencil and began to sketch rapidly on a small pad of paper.  He scribbled out four separate images of rubber ducks and handed it over to Bob.

“Come to daddy, duckies.”

“Okay, my turn,” Woodruff picked up a handful of colorful cards and studied them carefully.  A wry smile broke across his face as he slowly removed a single card from the arrangement and laid it on the table between them.  “Reverse.”

“Crud,” Bob said.  “Uh, I mean, durC.  Um, esrever ni kaeps ot evah I od gnol woH?”

“Until I say so.”

“riafnU.”

“You’re the one who wanted to play no holds barred Uno,” Woodruff said.  “It’s a high stake, take no prisoners, game.”

Rows and rows of green bushes and vines stretched down the hillside from where they sat.  In the distance, a tall thin man in a black suit made his way up the hill.  The man wore a bowler hat and carried an umbrella in the crook of his arm.

“taht s’ohW?

“Dunno,” Woodruff shrugged his shoulders.

They watched the distinguished gentleman sail through the lush vineyard in their direction.  White billowy clouds hung in the blue sky, like heavenly spectators for their game of cards.  With the thin man still several yards away Bob turned his attention back to the tea table.

“nrut yM.”

Woodruff eyed the approaching stranger for another moment before turning to face his opponent.

“Whatcha got?”

“piks, peew dna ti daeR.”

“Aw man.”

The tall thin man ceremoniously presented himself and removed his bowler hat.

“Monsieur Woodruff et Monsieur Bob. Bonjour, je suis Alcott Stirling.”

“Bonjour,” Woodruff said.  “Parlez vous English?”

“Ah, yes,” Mister Stirling said.  “Actually, I’m from England.  But when in Rome.”

The tall thin Englishmen gestured to the green sweeping countryside surrounding them.

“ecnarF si siht, emoR t’nsi sihT,” Bob said.

“I beg your pardon,” Stirling said.

“Oh, uh, Bob I release you.”

“I said, this isn’t Rome, this is France.”

“Right you are, Master Bob.”

“How do you know our names?” Woodruff asked.

“I represent Hewing, Durker, and Crane.”

“The publisher?” Woodruff asked.

“Quite right,” Stirling replied.  “It took quite a bit of doing to track you down.”

“Track us down?”

“We are eager for a reply to their inquiry.”

“What inquiry?”

“I’ve left several messages.”

“I didn’t get any messages,” Woodruff replied.  “Bob, did you?”

“Yeah, I posted them on the grapevine.”

“What?”

“I put them back over there on the grapevine.”

Bob rose from his chair and pointed to a red brick wall, with a waist-high hedge running along it.  Strewn across the lush green leaves were several small white papers tucked between long tangled vines.  Woodruff walked further up the hill to the nearest piece of paper and loosed it from the grapevine.

“Mr. Stirling called again about Salubrious Women,” Woodruff read aloud.

“Your blog has gained quite a following,” Stirling explained.  “Despite not posting for nearly a year, your following has reached quadruple digits.  Everyone is wondering what happened to Coleen and Sheila.”

“We don’t do that anymore,” Bob said.  “We’ve moved on.”

“But there is clearly an audience clamoring for your advice,” Stirling said.

“How did you find us, anyway?” Woodruff asked.  “We never used our real names.”

“The IP address for your postings led to an encyclopedia shop in the United States,” Stirling began.  “An irritated gruff woman name Carmela told us who you were.  From there, we searched your last known address and next of kin.  The firm dispatched a private investigator who ran across a homeless man who gave us a Google phone number you use in case of emergency.”

“Homeless man?”

“He means Kenny,” Bob said.  “And the term is Vagabond American, Mr. British K. Snooty Pants.”

“We have an emergency phone number?”

“Uh, yeah we do.  Like we’re just going to go parababooning in the south of France without an emergency contact.”

“Para-what?” Stirling asked.

“Parababooning,” Woodruff replied.  “It’s basically skydiving with a baboon strapped to your back.”

“It’s next level parachuting,” Bob added.

“Bob, why didn’t you tell me about these messages?”

“I put them right here for you.”

“On the grapevine?”

“Yeah, what’s the point of staying in a vineyard if you don’t use the grapevine?”

“How does that make any sense?”

“It’s a grapevine, you know, I heard it through the grapevine.  I put all your messages here.  On the grapevine.”

“All my messages?” Woodruff looked down the vine at a dozen other pieces of paper.

“Yeah,” Bob walked down the vine and pulled off a slip of paper.  “Like this one, from your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Oh right, hold up,” Bob ran down to the far end of the row.  He plucked the first note and hurried back to deliver it to Woodruff.

“Woodruff, Ancestry DNA is trying to contact you about your sister,” Woodruff read aloud.  “Bob!”

“What!”

“You didn’t tell me I have a sister?”

“I did!”

“You didn’t!”

“I did, through the grapevine!”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Stirling interrupted.  “Perhaps this is not the best time.  May I call on you tomorrow in regards to our proposition.”

“I’ll stop you right there, Redcoat,” Bob said.  “We’re out of the women’s health game.”

“If you would just hear our offer, it’s very generous.”

“Pass,” Woodruff said.  “Besides, last time I was propositioned by an Englishman in a bowler hat I ended up crew captain for a Somali pirate warlord.”

“I miss Abshir,” Bob said.

“Be reasonable, we’re offering…”

“Bup bup bup,” Woodruff waved his hands and shook his head at Mr. Stirling.  “Nope!  The answer is no.  Coleen and Sheila are retired.”

“Very well,” Stirling said.  He returned his tiny bowler hat to his narrow head and tucked his umbrella under his arm, indignantly.  “Good day.”

“It is a good day,” Bob replied, matching his indignation.

The tall Englishman spun on his heels and departed the way he came.  Woodruff turned back to the grapevine and surveyed the varied messages.

“Book deal, book deal, home warranty extension, book deal,” Woodruff muttered aloud.  “What’s this?”

Woodruff pulled a note free from the vine and held it up to eye level.  Bob leaned in and read the hand scribbled note.

“Oh that,” Bob said.  “Your credit card company thinks someone stole your identity.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, apparently there’s been some unusual purchases.”

“Unusual purchases?”

“Yeah, a two-hundred-dollar pair of Oakley goggles, eleven crates of pomegranates, six cans of spray cheese, and a couple of baboon harnesses.”

“That was you, Bob.”

“Well I know that, but your credit card company thought it was suspicious.”

“Bob?”

“They froze your account,” Bob replied sheepishly as he backed slowly away.

“Bob!”

“You really should check your messages.”

Woodruff lunged forward, just missing Bob as he tucked and rolled down the hill.  Waving his hands high above his head, Bob sprang to his feet and dashed down a long row of grapevines, staying just out of reach of Woodruff’s long arms.

Before They Hatch

With tongue pressed to the inner wall of his cheek, Bob carefully painted a thick blue stripe down the center of a milky shell.  Woodruff proudly held his egg up to eye level and admired the precision of two parallel red lines, which circled the delicate sphere.

“Beautiful.”

“That looks real good, Woodruff.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

Woodruff gently placed the egg in a giant nest full of eggs.  The other eggs, that lay amongst the hay, sticks, and stuffing, were each adorned with numbers, lightning bolts, racing stripes, or stars.  Bob placed his decorative oval in the nest and stepped back with his hands resting on his hips.

“What’s next?”

“We wait.”

“For how long?”

“Well that depends,” Woodruff said.  “Chickens take about twenty-one days to hatch.  A duck can take up to twenty-eight, while a duck billed platypus only takes ten.  The turtles will take around seventy days and the crocodile is going to take eighty days.  And the python is longer than the duck but less than the turtle.”

Bob flipped a switch on the wall and four red lamps, hanging over the nest, blinked on.  With his index finger, Woodruff began to identify each egg one by one and whispered numbers as he went.  “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…”

“Whatcha two doing?”

Woodruff and Bob spun around toward the voice.  A scrawny young man, with a greasy tank-top, stood in the doorway.  He cocked his head to one side and scratched at the scruff on his chin.

“We’re building an empire?” Woodruff replied.

“Huh?”

“We’ve invented a new sport,” Bob said.

“Crack and Dash!”

“It’s a race to find the fastest egg layers.”

“Oviparous Prime, if you will.”

“Bird, reptiles, mammals, fight it out on land and sea for speciest superiority.”

“It’s the sensation about to sweep the nation.”

They slid to either side of the nest and, with a grand sweeping motion, gesture to the eggs.  The scrawny young man furrowed his brow and looked from Woodruff to Bob to the nest and back to Woodruff.

“Uh, I meant whatcha doing here,” the young man said.  “In a storage closet.  Beneath the bleachers.  On a Tuesday.”

Woodruff and Bob lowered their arms in disappointment.

“Oh, um, well, we wanted our little oviparians to be born to run.”

“So we figured we’d raise them here at the race track so it’d get in their blood.”

“And we painted their shells for racing too,” Woodruff picked up an egg with a blue number four painted on the side.

“You know, crack and dash,” Bob said.

“Crack and Dash!”  Woodruff and Bob repeated in unison.

The young man stood as still as a statue and stared blankly at the excited entrepreneurs.  After several silent moments he sniffed and mindlessly wiped at his nose.  Bob looked over at Woodruff and nodded with a wink.  Woodruff watched apprehensively as Bob approached the beanpole blocking the doorway.

“Biff, may I call you Biff?”

“My name is Trevor.”

“Biff, you look like a man of ambition,” Bob continued, and put his arm around the young man’s bony shoulder.  “How would you like to get in on the ground floor of the next big thing?”

“I’m gonna have to report ya’ll,” Trevor replied.

“Classic Biff.  Listen, here’s the deal,” Bob went on.  “We need a place to hatch our little speed demons.  How about you forget you saw us and we’ll cut in it at four percent.”

“Are ya’ll really hatching demons?”

“I got this, Bob.”

Woodruff stepped forward and pried Trevor out from under Bob’s arm.

“Sorry about him,” Woodruff said.  “We know you’re just trying to do your job.  Would it be possible to rent this space from you for the next ten to eighty days?”

“Well, I dunno,” Trevor said and rubbed at the back of his neck.  “You can’t keep critters at the racetrack.”

“Critters?  I don’t see any critters.”

“Look at them things there,” Trevor pointed to the oversized nest at the far end of the room.

“Those aren’t critters,” Bob said.  “Those are eggs.”

“Eggs that are gonna become critters,” Trevor argued.

“Biff, I mean, Trevor,” Woodruff said.  “Have you ever heard the expression don’t count your chickens before they hatch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well I don’t see any chickens.  Only eggs.”

“So them are chicken eggs?”

“And duck, and turtle, and platypus, and crocodile…”

“Crocodile?” Trevor exclaimed.

“Yeah, but we’re not sure which one anymore,” Bob said.  “It’s either the big one with the red racing stripe or the tan one with the yellow lightning bolt.”

“Or we’ll all just be surprised if a croc pops out from somewhere else,” Woodruff added.

“How you gonna keep a croc from eating the rest of them critters?”

“Biff, if they’re not fast enough to avoid getting eaten, they’re not fast enough for Crack and Dash.”

“Bob!”

“What?”

“Once again, ignore him,” Woodruff said to Trevor.  “We are going to keep them in separate pens.  Every species will enjoy their own habitat.  They’ll be treated quite well, I assure you.”

“You promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” Woodruff crossed his heart and raised three figures to the sky.

“Well, I reckon it couldn’t hurt none if ya keep your eggs in here,” Trevor said.  “Providing ya clear out once they’re all hatched.”

“Deal.”

Trevor and Woodruff shook hands.  Woodruff wiped the grease from their handshake on the back of his pants and Bob stepped up to seal the deal.  He spat in his palm and extended his hand.  Trevor looked down on the offering in horror.

“What?” Bob said.  “Is that not cool?”

Woodruff covered his face in shame.  Trevor pouted and shook his head with his scrawny neck.  Bob wiped his spit-hand on his shorts and stuck out a closed fist to their new accomplice.  They bumped fists and Bob smiled.

“So what now?” Trevor asked.

“Well the platypus is going to hatch any day now,” Woodruff said.  “That means we’re going to have eleven days to convince him these are his brothers and sisters.”

“How’s your momma platypus impersonation?” Bob asked.

Trevor made a rapid clicking noise with his tongue.

“Excellent.”

Woodruff and Bob exchanged nodding smiles.