(This is a story I wrote some many months ago. The company where I work had an opening in the accounting department. Hopes were high that they might actually hire a man - a young man - to fill the position. This would have been an interesting development for several people of the female persuasion. Ramona and Winston Church III was my speculation of what might happen if they did. Note: They didn't.)
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was occasionally witty, consistently addle-pated, and for the most part good-tempered, named Ramona. She worked a moderately interesting and steady job as a customer service representative. Each day brought new challenges, but none so challenging as the dread Nielson Circle Parking Crisis. Homeowners, chafed past endurance by the rigid mandates of their parking by-laws, took out their anger and frustration on the unassuming Ramona.
One day Ramona was walking to the accounting department to ask a fiscal question. Usually she went to Carmella for all her accounting needs.
“Hey Carmella?” asked Ramona, approaching her cube.
The chair swiveled around, and Ramona was surprised to see, not Carmella, but a really very moderately attractive young man with a kind smile and a friendly eye – two friendly eyes, actually.
“Hello.” He said. “I’m not Carmella, but I’m happy to help. I’m Winston Churchill the IIIrd. I work here now. You must be Ramona. I’ve heard so much about your occasional flashes of wittiness and general good humor. Let’s be friends.” Mr. Winston Churchill the IIIrd extended a masculine hand, and Ramona found herself party to a warm and reassuring hand-shake.
“Are you really related to Winston Churchill?” asked Ramona.
“Yes.” Said Winston. “I’m his youngest grandson. But this is no time for chit-chat. You seem to be in distress?”
“Well, yes I am. A homeowner from that horrible Nielson Circle has been calling me all kinds of unsavory names because their car got towed, and I was wondering …”
“Say no more, most excellent Ramona. Park 10, I assume?”
“Why, yes - “
Winston picked up the phone.
“Sir. “ He said authoritatively. “You are much worse than a pig. You are much worse than a pig that has been run over by a car and left on the side of the road. You have insulted a sweet, sweet lady. And if I don’t see flowers on this girl’s desk within 48 hours, I shall put your home into foreclosure status, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Ramona heard some quibbling on the phone, and then a click.
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that homeowner anymore, ma’am.” Said Winston.
“Oh my.” Said Ramona. “I was just going to ask what his account status was.”
Then next morning, Ramona came into work and found two flower deliveries on her desk. The first was a hideous pot of carnations with no card. The second was a beautiful bouquet of gardenias, with a note signed only WCIII. Ramona smiled. She felt that her job was about to get much better.
THE END
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Chimpanzee Charlotte
(This one is me again - I mean Ramona again). This story has an interesting story that goes with it, if ever you wish to ask me about it. Otherwise, just enjoy.)
Once upon a time there was a girl who ran away and went to live with the chimpanzees. She called herself "Chimpanzee Charlotte". All the chimpanzees thought she was kinda weird and mostly ignored her sign-language and pantomime advances. Eventually, she got so annoying that they decided to eat her. And the best part is - chimpanzees don't eat people.
Once upon a time there was a girl who ran away and went to live with the chimpanzees. She called herself "Chimpanzee Charlotte". All the chimpanzees thought she was kinda weird and mostly ignored her sign-language and pantomime advances. Eventually, she got so annoying that they decided to eat her. And the best part is - chimpanzees don't eat people.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Ramona and the Escape from Thursday
Once there was a day called Thursday, and it was so boring that everyone banded together to escape from its dreaded clutches.
"Courage, friends!" said Ramona, the leader of this daring exploit. "If we don't find a way out of this blank doldromy (made-up word), we'll perish in a most unpleasant fashion."
The way out of Thursday was riddled with nap-traps and grogasauruses, but eventually Ramona and her heroic companions stumbled upon the trap-door that led out of Thursday.
"Zounds, it does a body good to stumble on something!" said Ramona.
"Yes!" said her companion Danae. "I haven't stumbled on anything in years ... or at least, ever since Thursday started."
"Where does the mystic portal lead to?" Queried Valeria, the most sensible of all the companions.
"Either to Friday .... or to certain death." answered Ramona. She wrenched the trapdoor open and a gust of frigid air bust through the dank stillness of the Thursday air. "Who's with me?"
"All!" shouted everyone simultaneously.
"Then let us go forth, with our battle cry - I'll lead the way!" said Ramona.
Then did they all go forth, gnashing their teeth and voicing their terrible battle cry: "FOR AMUSEMENT!!!"
Their fate is unknown.
THE END
"Courage, friends!" said Ramona, the leader of this daring exploit. "If we don't find a way out of this blank doldromy (made-up word), we'll perish in a most unpleasant fashion."
The way out of Thursday was riddled with nap-traps and grogasauruses, but eventually Ramona and her heroic companions stumbled upon the trap-door that led out of Thursday.
"Zounds, it does a body good to stumble on something!" said Ramona.
"Yes!" said her companion Danae. "I haven't stumbled on anything in years ... or at least, ever since Thursday started."
"Where does the mystic portal lead to?" Queried Valeria, the most sensible of all the companions.
"Either to Friday .... or to certain death." answered Ramona. She wrenched the trapdoor open and a gust of frigid air bust through the dank stillness of the Thursday air. "Who's with me?"
"All!" shouted everyone simultaneously.
"Then let us go forth, with our battle cry - I'll lead the way!" said Ramona.
Then did they all go forth, gnashing their teeth and voicing their terrible battle cry: "FOR AMUSEMENT!!!"
Their fate is unknown.
THE END
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - THE END!
"A girl like you shouldn't have to carry her own groceries." said a voice behind her.
Ramona didn't quite know what she felt when she turned around and found herself looking up at the tall figure that looked, sounded like, and in fact was, Adrien Grody.
"What are you doing here?" asked Ramona flatly. She reflected that it was the most cliché, obvious thing she could have possibly said at that moment. "Figures." She thought.
"I have something to give you. You were kind of hard to track down, but I had some help."
Adrien glanced across the parking lot, where a familiar man with a long beard and a perfect-fit, size 4 pair of penny loafers was leaning up against the driver's side door.
"You went to the Magic Man?"
"He came to me. He said he felt like he ought to look after you. I asked him what I should do. He told me where to find you, and he suggested I give you these."
Adrien pulled out a box and handed it to her. She held it while he removed the lid to reveal a pair of vibrant, red shoes.
"Oh no - " said Ramona, "not more magic shoes. Never again. You can just give these right back to the Magic Man because I'm not putting them on."
"They're not magic shoes. They're plain, old, ordinary shoes that I picked out from the department store, although they are bright red and fabulous. Also, they are exactly your size."
"I don't understand. Why are you giving me un-magical red shoes?"
"The Magic Man said he told you, when he gave you the Red Shoes, that the magic would only last for 12 hours. After that, you had to sprout your own wings of self-confidence, remember. Don't you see? You already have everything you need. The shoe fits, Ramona ... you just have to decide to wear it. I really hope you will."
Ramona took one of the red shoes out of the box and looked at it. It seemed the most beautiful, yet frightening image she had ever laid eyes on. It was a symbol of the dizzying unknown. If she said yes to the red shoes, she might be on top of the world ... or she might be at the butt end of a very cruel joke. Did it mean a happy ending, or the beginning of a wicked satire? She was at the precipice, and the choice lay entirely, without question, in her own two hands.
She looked up at Adrien.
"Well." she said. "I suppose I'd better at least try them on."
THE END.
Ramona didn't quite know what she felt when she turned around and found herself looking up at the tall figure that looked, sounded like, and in fact was, Adrien Grody.
"What are you doing here?" asked Ramona flatly. She reflected that it was the most cliché, obvious thing she could have possibly said at that moment. "Figures." She thought.
"I have something to give you. You were kind of hard to track down, but I had some help."
Adrien glanced across the parking lot, where a familiar man with a long beard and a perfect-fit, size 4 pair of penny loafers was leaning up against the driver's side door.
"You went to the Magic Man?"
"He came to me. He said he felt like he ought to look after you. I asked him what I should do. He told me where to find you, and he suggested I give you these."
Adrien pulled out a box and handed it to her. She held it while he removed the lid to reveal a pair of vibrant, red shoes.
"Oh no - " said Ramona, "not more magic shoes. Never again. You can just give these right back to the Magic Man because I'm not putting them on."
"They're not magic shoes. They're plain, old, ordinary shoes that I picked out from the department store, although they are bright red and fabulous. Also, they are exactly your size."
"I don't understand. Why are you giving me un-magical red shoes?"
"The Magic Man said he told you, when he gave you the Red Shoes, that the magic would only last for 12 hours. After that, you had to sprout your own wings of self-confidence, remember. Don't you see? You already have everything you need. The shoe fits, Ramona ... you just have to decide to wear it. I really hope you will."
Ramona took one of the red shoes out of the box and looked at it. It seemed the most beautiful, yet frightening image she had ever laid eyes on. It was a symbol of the dizzying unknown. If she said yes to the red shoes, she might be on top of the world ... or she might be at the butt end of a very cruel joke. Did it mean a happy ending, or the beginning of a wicked satire? She was at the precipice, and the choice lay entirely, without question, in her own two hands.
She looked up at Adrien.
"Well." she said. "I suppose I'd better at least try them on."
THE END.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 10
Ramona stood in the grocery line, clutching her microwave popcorn and hot chocolate mix morosely.
"Adrien Grody and Mysterious Woman Disappear Into the Night!" a lurid headline cackled from the nearest tabloid mag.
"Igh." said Ramona. She turned the magazine around. The back cover promised a thrilling expose on the Red-Shoe'd mystery woman's Martian heritage and linked her to the unexplained death of a U.N. ambassador that had been dating Martha Stewart.
"Are last week's events an isolated blip on the celebrity radar, or does the Red Shoe Menace mean to strike again?" the article tag read. "Watch out, Adrien!" A grainy photo of Adrien Grody in sunglasses and smoking a cigarette appeared beside the text.
"Lady, if you're gonna be in line, be in line." said a voice behind her. A fat man with a "Dodgers" shirt and a 6-pack of Budweiser’s was glaring at her. "Read your magazines at home."
Ramona went red and scurried to the self check-out.
"I'm going to go home and eat nothing but pop-corn, and drink myself sick with hot chocolate and watch 'Lawrence of Arabia' 48 times, or as many times as needed for me to forget that this whole thing ever happened." Ramona thought to herself.
"Leave it to me to make a fool of myself in front of my #1 Hollywood crush. It could have been anyone else, but noooo..."
With no company but misery, she walked slowly out to her car and thought of the long, blank hours she had waiting for her when she got home. She had already taken down her 7 posters of Adrien Grody. Something even deeper than humiliation ached inside whenever she saw his picture - an ache that even Swiss Miss had not, as yet, been able to assuage.
"Adrien Grody and Mysterious Woman Disappear Into the Night!" a lurid headline cackled from the nearest tabloid mag.
"Igh." said Ramona. She turned the magazine around. The back cover promised a thrilling expose on the Red-Shoe'd mystery woman's Martian heritage and linked her to the unexplained death of a U.N. ambassador that had been dating Martha Stewart.
"Are last week's events an isolated blip on the celebrity radar, or does the Red Shoe Menace mean to strike again?" the article tag read. "Watch out, Adrien!" A grainy photo of Adrien Grody in sunglasses and smoking a cigarette appeared beside the text.
"Lady, if you're gonna be in line, be in line." said a voice behind her. A fat man with a "Dodgers" shirt and a 6-pack of Budweiser’s was glaring at her. "Read your magazines at home."
Ramona went red and scurried to the self check-out.
"I'm going to go home and eat nothing but pop-corn, and drink myself sick with hot chocolate and watch 'Lawrence of Arabia' 48 times, or as many times as needed for me to forget that this whole thing ever happened." Ramona thought to herself.
"Leave it to me to make a fool of myself in front of my #1 Hollywood crush. It could have been anyone else, but noooo..."
With no company but misery, she walked slowly out to her car and thought of the long, blank hours she had waiting for her when she got home. She had already taken down her 7 posters of Adrien Grody. Something even deeper than humiliation ached inside whenever she saw his picture - an ache that even Swiss Miss had not, as yet, been able to assuage.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 9
"Of course really!" said Ramona. "All you need is a boost of self-confidence."
"Dearest Ramona! May I call you dearest - -"
" - - every day! "
" - - dearest Ramona, can you help me? Can you give my self-confidence the boost it so desperately needs whenever I look into your eyes?"
Adrien tentatively reached out and took her hand.
"Why, I - - " Ramona began, then stopped short. A queer feeling was beginning in her toes and creeping insidiously through her veins.
What's wrong?" asked Adrien.
Ramona pulled her hand out of his.
"I can't!"
"Those are strange words, coming from you!"
"I can't boost your self-confidence. What are you doing? What am I doing? You're an actor! Are you making some kind of a game of me? Is this what you spoiled celebrities do for fun? Stop the car and let me out, I can't stand it!"
"Ramona, won't you at least tell me what's wrong?"
"Leave me alone!"
Ramona jerked the door open and got out of the car.
"Please come back!" said Adrien, but the sound of his voice was buried under the smack of the car door and the click of Ramona's drab, un-chic, un-fabulous little red flats.
Adrien slumped in his seat, dazed and confused.
"Oy vey." came a voice from the front seat. The taxi driver turned in his seat. "I knew it would never work."
"Dearest Ramona! May I call you dearest - -"
" - - every day! "
" - - dearest Ramona, can you help me? Can you give my self-confidence the boost it so desperately needs whenever I look into your eyes?"
Adrien tentatively reached out and took her hand.
"Why, I - - " Ramona began, then stopped short. A queer feeling was beginning in her toes and creeping insidiously through her veins.
What's wrong?" asked Adrien.
Ramona pulled her hand out of his.
"I can't!"
"Those are strange words, coming from you!"
"I can't boost your self-confidence. What are you doing? What am I doing? You're an actor! Are you making some kind of a game of me? Is this what you spoiled celebrities do for fun? Stop the car and let me out, I can't stand it!"
"Ramona, won't you at least tell me what's wrong?"
"Leave me alone!"
Ramona jerked the door open and got out of the car.
"Please come back!" said Adrien, but the sound of his voice was buried under the smack of the car door and the click of Ramona's drab, un-chic, un-fabulous little red flats.
Adrien slumped in his seat, dazed and confused.
"Oy vey." came a voice from the front seat. The taxi driver turned in his seat. "I knew it would never work."
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 8
With Ramona playing the lead in her magical Red Shoes, filming took on a new life.
"I don't believe my eyes!" said Sam. "Every scene is perfect! She's a natural! She's better than a natural!"
Filming went so well that they were able to shoot the whole picture in one day, including all the tap-dancing scenes.
"That's a wrap, people!" said Sam. "Ramona, I could kiss you. In fact ... "
"Hey knock it off, Sam." said Adrien.
"All right all right. Can I at least buy you a cigar?"
"No thanks, Sam, but I'd take a licorice stick and be grateful." said Ramona.
"You got it, honey. Everybody beat it to Max's Midnight Buffet! Drinks and licorice sticks on me!"
"Gosh!" said Ramona to Adrien as he handed her into the car, "This will be my first time in a limosine."
"I'm surprised." said Adrien, "But I'm sure it won't be the last."
"No, probably not."
Adrien closed the door and climbed into the seat across from her.
"I've never met a girl like you before, Ramona." said Adrien.
"No Mr. Grody, I don't expect you have, nor will you ever. There's only one of me."
"It's a crying shame, too. If everyone were like you, I might go out in public more often."
"I don't think it's a shame at all. If everyone were like me, I'd have to start killing them off to drive up the scarcity, you know? There, you see I'm funny, too. I'll bet you didn't know that."
"I did not. I'm only just beginning to feel absolutely inadequate with you."
Ramona made a face.
"But that's silly! You're a very famous, handsome and charming man! You have a resolute nose and devestating brown eyes! There's nothing inadequate about you at all."
Adrien, looking quite serious as well as insanely attractive, said:
"Really?"
"I don't believe my eyes!" said Sam. "Every scene is perfect! She's a natural! She's better than a natural!"
Filming went so well that they were able to shoot the whole picture in one day, including all the tap-dancing scenes.
"That's a wrap, people!" said Sam. "Ramona, I could kiss you. In fact ... "
"Hey knock it off, Sam." said Adrien.
"All right all right. Can I at least buy you a cigar?"
"No thanks, Sam, but I'd take a licorice stick and be grateful." said Ramona.
"You got it, honey. Everybody beat it to Max's Midnight Buffet! Drinks and licorice sticks on me!"
"Gosh!" said Ramona to Adrien as he handed her into the car, "This will be my first time in a limosine."
"I'm surprised." said Adrien, "But I'm sure it won't be the last."
"No, probably not."
Adrien closed the door and climbed into the seat across from her.
"I've never met a girl like you before, Ramona." said Adrien.
"No Mr. Grody, I don't expect you have, nor will you ever. There's only one of me."
"It's a crying shame, too. If everyone were like you, I might go out in public more often."
"I don't think it's a shame at all. If everyone were like me, I'd have to start killing them off to drive up the scarcity, you know? There, you see I'm funny, too. I'll bet you didn't know that."
"I did not. I'm only just beginning to feel absolutely inadequate with you."
Ramona made a face.
"But that's silly! You're a very famous, handsome and charming man! You have a resolute nose and devestating brown eyes! There's nothing inadequate about you at all."
Adrien, looking quite serious as well as insanely attractive, said:
"Really?"
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Ramona and the Magic Shoes - 7
Inside the studio, pandemonium had ensued.
Sam ran towards Adrien with a look of desperation.
"Now what, Adrien?! That air-headed twit has gone and done it! She poked herself in the eye with her mascara brush and now she's being rushed to the emergency room. We haven't got a Julia! She'll be wearing an eye-patch for weeks! If I ever get my hands on Ted in casting, I swear I'll ..."
Sam made various violent gestures that boded ill for Ted in casting.
Sam stopped short when he saw Ramona.
"Well hello there." he said. "Friend of Adrien's?"
"It appears that way." said Ramona.
"Friend of mine, then, if I may make so bold."
"I'm growing used to boldness today."
"Sam, this is Ramona." said Adrien.
"It's a real pleasure." said Sam. "But Adrien, what are we going to do? We've got exactly 6 weeks to shoot this picture, and we haven't got a leading lady. Granted, Maureen was a tarty little trollup without a lick of acting experience, but still! She was better than nobody!"
"I've got the girl for you Sam. She's standing right here. She makes Katherine Hepburn look like a dime-store hussy. She's got a soul, Sam. And she's got moxy."
Sam stroked his chin reflectively.
"Huh ... can you tap dance, missy?"
"Of course."
"Then you're hired. Pam! Get this lady in a costume, pronto!"
Sam ran towards Adrien with a look of desperation.
"Now what, Adrien?! That air-headed twit has gone and done it! She poked herself in the eye with her mascara brush and now she's being rushed to the emergency room. We haven't got a Julia! She'll be wearing an eye-patch for weeks! If I ever get my hands on Ted in casting, I swear I'll ..."
Sam made various violent gestures that boded ill for Ted in casting.
Sam stopped short when he saw Ramona.
"Well hello there." he said. "Friend of Adrien's?"
"It appears that way." said Ramona.
"Friend of mine, then, if I may make so bold."
"I'm growing used to boldness today."
"Sam, this is Ramona." said Adrien.
"It's a real pleasure." said Sam. "But Adrien, what are we going to do? We've got exactly 6 weeks to shoot this picture, and we haven't got a leading lady. Granted, Maureen was a tarty little trollup without a lick of acting experience, but still! She was better than nobody!"
"I've got the girl for you Sam. She's standing right here. She makes Katherine Hepburn look like a dime-store hussy. She's got a soul, Sam. And she's got moxy."
Sam stroked his chin reflectively.
"Huh ... can you tap dance, missy?"
"Of course."
"Then you're hired. Pam! Get this lady in a costume, pronto!"
Friday, July 23, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 6
"I have a poster of him in my room." thought Ramona. "No .... I have 7 posters of him in my room. What a coincidence."
"A girl like you doesn't have to pay for her own ice cream." said Adrien Grody. He turned to the ice cream man. "Make it two."
The crowds were now in a state of hysteria and were snapping pictures.
"It's Ramona of the Red Shoes and Adrien Grody!" they tittered. "Get an autograph! Get a picture! Get something!"
"Let's get out of here." said Adrien. "Paparazzi give me the fidgets."
"Me too." said Ramona. "The flashes drive me absolutely bonkers. Thanks for the ice cream, by the way."
"Don't mention it." said Adrien. "From the moment I saw you I knew you were the kind of girl I wanted to buy ice cream for for the rest of my life. Damn! That ice cream man didn't put nearly enough sprinkles on yours."
"You're very bold, aren't you?"
"I'd have to be, wouldn't I, to get the attention of a girl like you? I'm sorry, I'm smoking, aren't I? Do you mind?"
"I revile it."
Adrien flung the cigarette stub down and extinguished it with his shoe.
"Step into my office." he said with a flourish, as he opened the studio door.
"A girl like you doesn't have to pay for her own ice cream." said Adrien Grody. He turned to the ice cream man. "Make it two."
The crowds were now in a state of hysteria and were snapping pictures.
"It's Ramona of the Red Shoes and Adrien Grody!" they tittered. "Get an autograph! Get a picture! Get something!"
"Let's get out of here." said Adrien. "Paparazzi give me the fidgets."
"Me too." said Ramona. "The flashes drive me absolutely bonkers. Thanks for the ice cream, by the way."
"Don't mention it." said Adrien. "From the moment I saw you I knew you were the kind of girl I wanted to buy ice cream for for the rest of my life. Damn! That ice cream man didn't put nearly enough sprinkles on yours."
"You're very bold, aren't you?"
"I'd have to be, wouldn't I, to get the attention of a girl like you? I'm sorry, I'm smoking, aren't I? Do you mind?"
"I revile it."
Adrien flung the cigarette stub down and extinguished it with his shoe.
"Step into my office." he said with a flourish, as he opened the studio door.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 5
Note: Please be advised that at this point, the story gets kind of gushy. I can't help that, it's just how things went.
The first thing that Ramona did when she left the department store was to head for the nearest ice cream stand.
"On a day like this -" said Ramona, with deep conviction, "The only food one needs is ice cream."
There was a line about a block long for the ice cream stand, but at the appearance of Ramona with her Red Shoes, the customers, awe-struck, stood back.
"Who is this Amazonian beauty who visits mine humble ice cream stand?" said the little ice cream man.
"I am Ramona of the Red Shoes!" said Ramona. "The click of my heels is as the thunder of the gods!"
The crowd murmured with admiration.
"She must be from The Movies ..." they said.
"What will you have, Oh Red-Shoe'd Ramona?" asked the ice cream man, his scoop poised expertly over the buckets.
"A triple-decker! Moose-tracks on the bottom! Strawberry in the middle! And hot tin roof on the top!"
The ice-cream man set to scooping with great vigor.
Ramona reached for her purse to pay.
"Allow me." said a voice behind her.
Ramona turned and found herself looking up at an incredibly tall and famous man. Parenthetically, he was also severely attractive, with kind and slightly tortured brown eyes, and a drooping, extensive nose. One hand was in his pocket, and one hand held a smoldering cigarette stub.
It was Adrien Grody.
The first thing that Ramona did when she left the department store was to head for the nearest ice cream stand.
"On a day like this -" said Ramona, with deep conviction, "The only food one needs is ice cream."
There was a line about a block long for the ice cream stand, but at the appearance of Ramona with her Red Shoes, the customers, awe-struck, stood back.
"Who is this Amazonian beauty who visits mine humble ice cream stand?" said the little ice cream man.
"I am Ramona of the Red Shoes!" said Ramona. "The click of my heels is as the thunder of the gods!"
The crowd murmured with admiration.
"She must be from The Movies ..." they said.
"What will you have, Oh Red-Shoe'd Ramona?" asked the ice cream man, his scoop poised expertly over the buckets.
"A triple-decker! Moose-tracks on the bottom! Strawberry in the middle! And hot tin roof on the top!"
The ice-cream man set to scooping with great vigor.
Ramona reached for her purse to pay.
"Allow me." said a voice behind her.
Ramona turned and found herself looking up at an incredibly tall and famous man. Parenthetically, he was also severely attractive, with kind and slightly tortured brown eyes, and a drooping, extensive nose. One hand was in his pocket, and one hand held a smoldering cigarette stub.
It was Adrien Grody.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 4
"I don't know how you do it, Grody." said the director to "Hank".
"Do what, Sam?"
"Look these little hussies in the eye and pretend to take them seriously. Look at 'er! Off to the make-up dresser again. If I wanted a painted mannequin, I would have hired a department store dummy and an Avon lady."
"Aw, giver a break. It's her first big thing. You don't exactly learn to be Katherine Hepburn doing SoftSpread commercials."
Adrien Grody (for it was in fact, the dashing actor himself), removed his stage hat and lit a cigarette.
"I guess so." said Sam. "Say, is it true about you and Tammy Hunt? I saw it all over the tabloids last week. You two together?"
"Nah." said Adrien. "You oughtta know better than to read those things."
"Yeah yeah. I just kinda hoped ... you're a nice guy, Grody. You should get a girl. Might do you good. Nancy did me good."
"Thanks Sam. But I'm waiting for a girl with a soul, that's all."
"Ain't that the truth. Hey, when you find her, give me a holler, ok? I could use her for this picture. Maureen's giving me ulcers."
"Sure, Boss."
"And get that thing out of the studio! You know what the rules are with the fancy new get-ups."
"What, this?" Adrien held up the cigarette innocently. "All right all right, I'll go outside. Be back in 10."
"Do what, Sam?"
"Look these little hussies in the eye and pretend to take them seriously. Look at 'er! Off to the make-up dresser again. If I wanted a painted mannequin, I would have hired a department store dummy and an Avon lady."
"Aw, giver a break. It's her first big thing. You don't exactly learn to be Katherine Hepburn doing SoftSpread commercials."
Adrien Grody (for it was in fact, the dashing actor himself), removed his stage hat and lit a cigarette.
"I guess so." said Sam. "Say, is it true about you and Tammy Hunt? I saw it all over the tabloids last week. You two together?"
"Nah." said Adrien. "You oughtta know better than to read those things."
"Yeah yeah. I just kinda hoped ... you're a nice guy, Grody. You should get a girl. Might do you good. Nancy did me good."
"Thanks Sam. But I'm waiting for a girl with a soul, that's all."
"Ain't that the truth. Hey, when you find her, give me a holler, ok? I could use her for this picture. Maureen's giving me ulcers."
"Sure, Boss."
"And get that thing out of the studio! You know what the rules are with the fancy new get-ups."
"What, this?" Adrien held up the cigarette innocently. "All right all right, I'll go outside. Be back in 10."
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 3
...............................
Not far away in the busy metropolis, in a swanky film studio warehouse, a tragic scene was unfolding.
"No Julia," said the tall, handsome, brooding man, his fascinating eyebrows quivering sadly. "I don't love you. I never have."
"Oh Hank!" said Julia. "How can you say such things!"
"I thought I loved you. But that was before I realized that you were an undercover agent tracking me for government secrets. I can't be with someone who bugs my hotel room, darling."
"But why not!" sobbed Julia into her handkerchief.
"CUT for cryin' out loud!" said the director. "You're makin' ME cry."
"Really?" said Julia, who really wasn't Julia at all, but an up-and-coming young starlet named Maureen.
"Yeah," said the director. "I'm crying when I think how much this contract cost. Where'd you say you went to acting school again?"
"Why, I -"
"Never mind, sweetheart, it doesn't matter. Take a break. I know I need one."
"I don't know how you do it, Grody." said the director to "Hank".
"Do what, Sam?"
"Look these little hussies in the eye and pretend to take them seriously. Look at 'er! Off to the make-up dresser again. If I wanted a painted mannequin, I would have hired a department store dummy and an Avon lady."
"Aw, giver a break. It's her first big thing. You don't exactly learn to be Katherine Hepburn doing SoftSpread commercials."
Not far away in the busy metropolis, in a swanky film studio warehouse, a tragic scene was unfolding.
"No Julia," said the tall, handsome, brooding man, his fascinating eyebrows quivering sadly. "I don't love you. I never have."
"Oh Hank!" said Julia. "How can you say such things!"
"I thought I loved you. But that was before I realized that you were an undercover agent tracking me for government secrets. I can't be with someone who bugs my hotel room, darling."
"But why not!" sobbed Julia into her handkerchief.
"CUT for cryin' out loud!" said the director. "You're makin' ME cry."
"Really?" said Julia, who really wasn't Julia at all, but an up-and-coming young starlet named Maureen.
"Yeah," said the director. "I'm crying when I think how much this contract cost. Where'd you say you went to acting school again?"
"Why, I -"
"Never mind, sweetheart, it doesn't matter. Take a break. I know I need one."
"I don't know how you do it, Grody." said the director to "Hank".
"Do what, Sam?"
"Look these little hussies in the eye and pretend to take them seriously. Look at 'er! Off to the make-up dresser again. If I wanted a painted mannequin, I would have hired a department store dummy and an Avon lady."
"Aw, giver a break. It's her first big thing. You don't exactly learn to be Katherine Hepburn doing SoftSpread commercials."
Friday, July 16, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 2
The Magic Man lifted his hands and shook his long beard to try to curb her enthusiasm.
"Not so fast, my little snap-crackle-and-pop." he said. "These shoes will give you self-confidence, yes. They will give you confidence to do things you've never done before. But they will only work for the next 12 hours. At the end of that time, the heels will shrink and they will become boring, little, un-chic, un-fabulous flats. So you must make sure that at the end of the 12 hours, you are ready to sprout your own wings of self-confidence."
"Can do!" said Ramona, strutting around in front of the department-store mirror.
The Magic Man shook his head forlornly.
"Oy vey. This will never work."
Ramona tripped away on clouds of velvet red.
"No elevators for me today!" she said, and quick as a wink, she hiked up her pin-stripe skirt, hopped onto the banister of the escalator, and slid down all 11 floors.
"What a strikingly confident young woman!" said the pretzel vendor.
"What a self-possessed female!" cried the Rolex watch-seller.
"What a riveting pair of red shoes!" shrieked the saleslady at Saks.
"Not so fast, my little snap-crackle-and-pop." he said. "These shoes will give you self-confidence, yes. They will give you confidence to do things you've never done before. But they will only work for the next 12 hours. At the end of that time, the heels will shrink and they will become boring, little, un-chic, un-fabulous flats. So you must make sure that at the end of the 12 hours, you are ready to sprout your own wings of self-confidence."
"Can do!" said Ramona, strutting around in front of the department-store mirror.
The Magic Man shook his head forlornly.
"Oy vey. This will never work."
Ramona tripped away on clouds of velvet red.
"No elevators for me today!" she said, and quick as a wink, she hiked up her pin-stripe skirt, hopped onto the banister of the escalator, and slid down all 11 floors.
"What a strikingly confident young woman!" said the pretzel vendor.
"What a self-possessed female!" cried the Rolex watch-seller.
"What a riveting pair of red shoes!" shrieked the saleslady at Saks.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Ramona and the Red Shoes - 1
Note: This story was inspired by a rather remarkable pair of bright red, 5-inch heels that I bought for my brother's wedding, in which I was a bridesmaid. They are the sort of shoes that I would never buy for myself, except that they exactly matched my dress and were 75% off. The latter was enough to at least get me to give them a chance. Anyways, once I did buy them, I found them to be a deeply inspiring springboard for the following tale, which I hope you will find at least moderately riveting/entertaining.
RAMONA and the RED SHOES
Once very long ago there was a girl who was short of stature and had but lacking self-assurance. She was neither particularly hideous-looking nor wholly without wits, but she was convinced that she was really quite a woofer and weak in the head. Her friends all told her she was fine, she just needed a Boost of Confidence.
So she went to the Magic Man and asked him what she should do. The Magic Man lived on the very highest floor of the very tallest department store in the whole city. He was very wise, and some said he even had the ability to wear any size shoe with a flawless fit, no matter how large or small.
"Mr. Magic Man," said Ramona (her name was, in fact, Ramona) "I haven't got a lick of self-confidence. Not one lick. What I must I do?"
The Magic Man pulled out a box. Inside the box was a pair of Red Shoes. Ramona was dazzled. They were very Red. Fire-engine red. Geranium red. Licorice-whip red. Christmas-paper red! Not only that, but they had glorious, sky-scraper-high heels, the kind where you can see France without even standing on tip-toes.
"There," said the Magic Man gravely. "Poke your tootsies in those babies."
Ramona put the Red Shoes on and immediately felt a jolt of electricity travel from her toes all through her arteries and blood cells.
"It's a miracle!" said Ramona. "I don't feel dull. I don't feel drab. I don't feel dim! I'm over the moon, Mr. Magic Man! This is the best thing that's ever happened to me!"
RAMONA and the RED SHOES
Once very long ago there was a girl who was short of stature and had but lacking self-assurance. She was neither particularly hideous-looking nor wholly without wits, but she was convinced that she was really quite a woofer and weak in the head. Her friends all told her she was fine, she just needed a Boost of Confidence.
So she went to the Magic Man and asked him what she should do. The Magic Man lived on the very highest floor of the very tallest department store in the whole city. He was very wise, and some said he even had the ability to wear any size shoe with a flawless fit, no matter how large or small.
"Mr. Magic Man," said Ramona (her name was, in fact, Ramona) "I haven't got a lick of self-confidence. Not one lick. What I must I do?"
The Magic Man pulled out a box. Inside the box was a pair of Red Shoes. Ramona was dazzled. They were very Red. Fire-engine red. Geranium red. Licorice-whip red. Christmas-paper red! Not only that, but they had glorious, sky-scraper-high heels, the kind where you can see France without even standing on tip-toes.
"There," said the Magic Man gravely. "Poke your tootsies in those babies."
Ramona put the Red Shoes on and immediately felt a jolt of electricity travel from her toes all through her arteries and blood cells.
"It's a miracle!" said Ramona. "I don't feel dull. I don't feel drab. I don't feel dim! I'm over the moon, Mr. Magic Man! This is the best thing that's ever happened to me!"
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Doonard
Note: This is I guess not so much a story as an anecdote. It was inspired by a particularly unpleasant day at work, and how I was feelig about the coffee at the time. Next real story coming up: "Ramona and the Red Shoes"
DOONARD
A Tragedy
Once upon a time, a nefarious fiend named Doonard snuck into the LandMarc office and poured sediment, loosely ground gravel, dirt, and sewage into the coffee maker. Then he turned the switch on. THE END
DOONARD
A Tragedy
Once upon a time, a nefarious fiend named Doonard snuck into the LandMarc office and poured sediment, loosely ground gravel, dirt, and sewage into the coffee maker. Then he turned the switch on. THE END
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 15 - THE END!
In the end, George sold the Boomerang to the museum, with a written stipulation that it would never be sold to any private collector. He got a nice sum for it, more than his father usually made in a year. He didn't really feel like he had earned it, so with his parents' help, he put some of it away for college, and the rest he sent to an orphanage in Guam.
He never went to see the Boomerang at the museum. Mr. and Mrs. Howard went on the first day the exhibit opened, at the express invitation of the museum, but George decided to stay home. He reckoned he had seen more than enough of the thing to last him a lifetime.
Mr. Mack recovered fully from his accident, except that he had a pretty severe case of amnesia. He was still able to go back to his old job of driving the school-bus, and all the students decided that amnesia must agree with him, because he was a much happier, kinder and more caring individual from that time forth. George always remembered to smile and wave at him whenever he took the bus.
George returned to school again, as scrawny a little twerp as ever he had been, and once again faced the poundings Porky and his gang. He didn't face it for too much longer, though, due to the fact that not long afterwards, Porky Pete was discovered to have a deathly peanut allergy which made it necessary for him to eat at a separate table and carry around an emergency case so that if he did have a reaction, someone could stick him before it got fatal. George was left much more in peace after this point, and he found that if he ever did see Porky Pete coming at him with a swirly in his eyes, he could evade the situation by yelling "peanuts!" which would send Pete flying down the hall.
"Nurse Velma", or the Marvelous Man, as he know him, was never seen nor heard from again by George, but my sources lead me to believe that he is now residing in a drugstore basement in New Jersey, working on an invention that he calls "The Astounding Bald-Away", which promises to "banish baldness in the blink of an eye" and "guarantees increased attractiveness to the opposite sex."
THE END.
He never went to see the Boomerang at the museum. Mr. and Mrs. Howard went on the first day the exhibit opened, at the express invitation of the museum, but George decided to stay home. He reckoned he had seen more than enough of the thing to last him a lifetime.
Mr. Mack recovered fully from his accident, except that he had a pretty severe case of amnesia. He was still able to go back to his old job of driving the school-bus, and all the students decided that amnesia must agree with him, because he was a much happier, kinder and more caring individual from that time forth. George always remembered to smile and wave at him whenever he took the bus.
George returned to school again, as scrawny a little twerp as ever he had been, and once again faced the poundings Porky and his gang. He didn't face it for too much longer, though, due to the fact that not long afterwards, Porky Pete was discovered to have a deathly peanut allergy which made it necessary for him to eat at a separate table and carry around an emergency case so that if he did have a reaction, someone could stick him before it got fatal. George was left much more in peace after this point, and he found that if he ever did see Porky Pete coming at him with a swirly in his eyes, he could evade the situation by yelling "peanuts!" which would send Pete flying down the hall.
"Nurse Velma", or the Marvelous Man, as he know him, was never seen nor heard from again by George, but my sources lead me to believe that he is now residing in a drugstore basement in New Jersey, working on an invention that he calls "The Astounding Bald-Away", which promises to "banish baldness in the blink of an eye" and "guarantees increased attractiveness to the opposite sex."
THE END.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 14
"Oh! Hello, George. What've you got your suit-case for?" Mr. Howard stood blinkingly in the doorway, his hand poised to knock.
George shrugged. "I dunno."
"George, there's somebody in the kitchen I'd for you to meet."
George followed his father into the kitchen. A paunchy, cheerful man with a brief-case was sitting at the table. His face was red and cheeky like a baby's and his hair curled up in the back like Donald Duck.
"George!" he said. He spoke in a big, booming voice, like he was officiating at a town hall meeting. "I've been hearing all about you!"
"This is Dr. Wendall. He works at the Museum.'
Mrs. Howard came in with warm ginger-snaps and cold sodas.
"He's the curator of the Museum." she specified severely.
"Really?' said George politely.
"Really really George!" said Dr. Wendall. He thought that George must be very impressed to meet a museum curator in the flesh.
"I'm the big man in charge of the museum. Jillian, these are without a doubt the most inspiring and edifying ginger-snaps that I have ever known. But George, I want you to know that I'm not here to talk to you about ginger-snaps. I'm here to talk to you about the deal of a lifetime. I'm here to talk to you about your Boomerang."
"Oh no, Dr. Wendall! - don't buy it! It will kill you; it's magical and very evil!"
"That's all right, George, that's all right. Just calm yourself down a minute. You see, I've heard tell of your Boomerang, and I know of its mystical powers. I've heard rumors of a Boomerang that seems to have a mind of its own, that brings vengeance to the vengeful, but gives back the same punishment in full measure. I've heard about a Boomerang that follows its master all the way across the world. It seem that only 6 were made, then production was suddenly stopped. Because my museum is of course interested in curiosities, I had a mind to find one for our collection.
"I was beginning to lose hope that I could track one down, but then today your father called me up and mentioned about what you have here. It seems to me, George, that what you have is a pretty Amazing Boomerang. And I am hoping that you will consider selling it."
George shook his head. "I'm sorry Dr. Wendall, but I just can't sell it to you."
"But you see George - you wouldn't be selling it to me - you'd be selling it to the museum."
"Don't you see how it would be, George?" said Mr. Howard. "A museum can't throw a boomerang. It hasn't got any arms or hands."
"There's logic!" said Mr. Wendall. "I couldn't have said it better."
He took out a shiny black check-book, and wrote an amount which is not important on it.
"Take a look at that, George, and see what you think of it."
George took a look, but he didn't even see the numbers. He didn't care, not one bit.
"So ... "he heard Dr. Wendall say, "... do we have a deal?"
George shrugged. "I dunno."
"George, there's somebody in the kitchen I'd for you to meet."
George followed his father into the kitchen. A paunchy, cheerful man with a brief-case was sitting at the table. His face was red and cheeky like a baby's and his hair curled up in the back like Donald Duck.
"George!" he said. He spoke in a big, booming voice, like he was officiating at a town hall meeting. "I've been hearing all about you!"
"This is Dr. Wendall. He works at the Museum.'
Mrs. Howard came in with warm ginger-snaps and cold sodas.
"He's the curator of the Museum." she specified severely.
"Really?' said George politely.
"Really really George!" said Dr. Wendall. He thought that George must be very impressed to meet a museum curator in the flesh.
"I'm the big man in charge of the museum. Jillian, these are without a doubt the most inspiring and edifying ginger-snaps that I have ever known. But George, I want you to know that I'm not here to talk to you about ginger-snaps. I'm here to talk to you about the deal of a lifetime. I'm here to talk to you about your Boomerang."
"Oh no, Dr. Wendall! - don't buy it! It will kill you; it's magical and very evil!"
"That's all right, George, that's all right. Just calm yourself down a minute. You see, I've heard tell of your Boomerang, and I know of its mystical powers. I've heard rumors of a Boomerang that seems to have a mind of its own, that brings vengeance to the vengeful, but gives back the same punishment in full measure. I've heard about a Boomerang that follows its master all the way across the world. It seem that only 6 were made, then production was suddenly stopped. Because my museum is of course interested in curiosities, I had a mind to find one for our collection.
"I was beginning to lose hope that I could track one down, but then today your father called me up and mentioned about what you have here. It seems to me, George, that what you have is a pretty Amazing Boomerang. And I am hoping that you will consider selling it."
George shook his head. "I'm sorry Dr. Wendall, but I just can't sell it to you."
"But you see George - you wouldn't be selling it to me - you'd be selling it to the museum."
"Don't you see how it would be, George?" said Mr. Howard. "A museum can't throw a boomerang. It hasn't got any arms or hands."
"There's logic!" said Mr. Wendall. "I couldn't have said it better."
He took out a shiny black check-book, and wrote an amount which is not important on it.
"Take a look at that, George, and see what you think of it."
George took a look, but he didn't even see the numbers. He didn't care, not one bit.
"So ... "he heard Dr. Wendall say, "... do we have a deal?"
Monday, July 5, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 13
"Your mother's right, you know, George." added Mr. Howard helpfully.
Climbing into the back of the family station wagon, George was not so sure. He was not sure at all that things were going to be all right. All the solutions he had been able to come up with had ranged from "horrific" at best, to "cataclysmic" at worst. Even now, his head buzzed and ached and he felt the Boomerang burning in his pocket, chaffing like a rabid dog on a short leash. He knew it was only waiting for the slightest provocation to turn the full force of its persuasive powers on him.
"You're certainly in no condition to go to school." said Mrs. Howard. "Besides, you'd be late anyway. I'll phone the school and explain. Turn down the shades and go straight to bed; you look like death with double-pneumonia."
George did turn down the shades, and did change into his PJ's and did climb into bed, but he did not sleep.
A dreadful choice lay before him. He knew that if he could convince someone to buy his Boomerang, he would be selling them their death. If he kept the Boomerang, it would only be a matter of time before he would use it again. The first time he had used it, it had given him a headache. The second time, it might be fatal ... both to him and to his victim. The gruesome truth was only too clear to him. He resolved upon the least horrific of his options.
"I've got to go very far away." he thought. "Somewhere far away from everything and everybody. I'll go to Antarctica. I'll build an igloo and ice-fish for my food. Then my Boomerang and I won't ever bother anyone anymore. I'll wait until dark, and then sneak away."
With this sober conclusion, George turned over and glumly waited for night-fall
............................
When the clock had finally ticked its last day-lit tock, George made in his final preparations. Knowing that the authorities would eventually declare him dead, he drafted a will bequeathing all his earthly possessions to his parents (since he didn't have any friends) and packed a suit-case of his warmest clothes.
Panic had long ago deserted him and had been displaced by a calm melancholy. The choice to live a life of shame or choose to be buried alive in a frozen tundra away from all human contact, he reflected, was something that should never be presented to a 4-grader. And yet, who ever said that life played fair? After all, he had brought this upon himself. He remembered the boy that he had been just a few short weeks ago - a scrawny, runty, cowardly whipping boy, seduced by Lady Vengeance. It seemed a long, long time ago. He had changed. In fact, he had grown up. That would have to be comfort enough.
"Good-bye." he whispered softly to his bedroom ... to his home ... to his world. He opened the door quietly.
Climbing into the back of the family station wagon, George was not so sure. He was not sure at all that things were going to be all right. All the solutions he had been able to come up with had ranged from "horrific" at best, to "cataclysmic" at worst. Even now, his head buzzed and ached and he felt the Boomerang burning in his pocket, chaffing like a rabid dog on a short leash. He knew it was only waiting for the slightest provocation to turn the full force of its persuasive powers on him.
"You're certainly in no condition to go to school." said Mrs. Howard. "Besides, you'd be late anyway. I'll phone the school and explain. Turn down the shades and go straight to bed; you look like death with double-pneumonia."
George did turn down the shades, and did change into his PJ's and did climb into bed, but he did not sleep.
A dreadful choice lay before him. He knew that if he could convince someone to buy his Boomerang, he would be selling them their death. If he kept the Boomerang, it would only be a matter of time before he would use it again. The first time he had used it, it had given him a headache. The second time, it might be fatal ... both to him and to his victim. The gruesome truth was only too clear to him. He resolved upon the least horrific of his options.
"I've got to go very far away." he thought. "Somewhere far away from everything and everybody. I'll go to Antarctica. I'll build an igloo and ice-fish for my food. Then my Boomerang and I won't ever bother anyone anymore. I'll wait until dark, and then sneak away."
With this sober conclusion, George turned over and glumly waited for night-fall
............................
When the clock had finally ticked its last day-lit tock, George made in his final preparations. Knowing that the authorities would eventually declare him dead, he drafted a will bequeathing all his earthly possessions to his parents (since he didn't have any friends) and packed a suit-case of his warmest clothes.
Panic had long ago deserted him and had been displaced by a calm melancholy. The choice to live a life of shame or choose to be buried alive in a frozen tundra away from all human contact, he reflected, was something that should never be presented to a 4-grader. And yet, who ever said that life played fair? After all, he had brought this upon himself. He remembered the boy that he had been just a few short weeks ago - a scrawny, runty, cowardly whipping boy, seduced by Lady Vengeance. It seemed a long, long time ago. He had changed. In fact, he had grown up. That would have to be comfort enough.
"Good-bye." he whispered softly to his bedroom ... to his home ... to his world. He opened the door quietly.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 12
When George first heard the words "George Winston Howard", he thought he must still be dreaming.
"George Winston Howard!" came the voice a second time, "You get up out of that dumpster this instant or I'll come up there and drag you out myself, and you won't like it."
"Mama?" groaned George. He lifted his head from the cardboard boxes he had slept on the night before.
"Of course Mama! Don't ask me such a stupid question when I've been up all night. Your father and I have been worried sick. We've both agreed that next time you run away from home you'll be grounded for a week, with no television or desserts."
Mrs. Howard was in a ragged day-dress and her hair was still in rollers, but George thought she looked beautiful.
"Winston! Winston! I've found him."
Mr. Howard came blinking around the corner, his pants un-ironed and his sweater-vest askew.
"Oh! So you have! What are you doing in the dumpster, son?"
George decided it would be best to tell them the truth, and hope that, since they were his parents, they would be understanding enough not to report his whereabouts to the police.
"I'm on the lam." he said, "Running from the cops."
"Well, that is the silliest thing I've ever heard of." said Mrs. Howard. "Why don't you come on down and we can go to the diner for breakfast, then you can tell us all about this police business."
Mr. and Mrs. Howard led George into the diner. They ordered him flap-jacks with chocolate chips in the shape of a smiley-face and orange juice. George thought this was a little beneath the dignity of a desperate fugitive, but he ate it all anyway.
After he was finished with his pancakes, he told them all about ordering the Amazing Boomerang, about Porky Pete, and Mr. Mack the bus driver, and meeting "Nurse Velma", escaping from the hospital, and the little girl in the park.
"Well, it certainly sounds like you've gotten yourself into quite a pickle. I never held much with those mail-order gim-cracks, they always seem to turn out disappointing in some way or another. But George, the police aren't chasing you to put you in jail - they were trying to help us find you. When you didn't come home after school, I called the police. One of the officers had heard about a boy and bus driver knocked out by a flying object that morning, and he had a hunch it was you. When he described what the boy was wearing, I knew it was. They went to the hospital to pick you up and bring you home. Of course, thanks to your little window stunt, they never found you."
"Oh." said George. He began to wonder if all the things that the Marvelous Man had said about what the police would do to him (a tender 4th-grader) might not be slightly exaggerated as well.
But there was still the Boomerang. That, he knew, was no exaggeration. He had felt its awesome powers for himself. He could not reasonably doubt its capability to lure him into future acts of rash revenge, nor the velocity which would eventually kill him. He had already tried to sell it to someone else, but he simply couldn't make himself do it. His mother seemed to read his mind.
"Don't worry about it too much, Georgy." she said. "Between the three of us, I'm sure we'll think of something ... something that will make everything all right.
"George Winston Howard!" came the voice a second time, "You get up out of that dumpster this instant or I'll come up there and drag you out myself, and you won't like it."
"Mama?" groaned George. He lifted his head from the cardboard boxes he had slept on the night before.
"Of course Mama! Don't ask me such a stupid question when I've been up all night. Your father and I have been worried sick. We've both agreed that next time you run away from home you'll be grounded for a week, with no television or desserts."
Mrs. Howard was in a ragged day-dress and her hair was still in rollers, but George thought she looked beautiful.
"Winston! Winston! I've found him."
Mr. Howard came blinking around the corner, his pants un-ironed and his sweater-vest askew.
"Oh! So you have! What are you doing in the dumpster, son?"
George decided it would be best to tell them the truth, and hope that, since they were his parents, they would be understanding enough not to report his whereabouts to the police.
"I'm on the lam." he said, "Running from the cops."
"Well, that is the silliest thing I've ever heard of." said Mrs. Howard. "Why don't you come on down and we can go to the diner for breakfast, then you can tell us all about this police business."
Mr. and Mrs. Howard led George into the diner. They ordered him flap-jacks with chocolate chips in the shape of a smiley-face and orange juice. George thought this was a little beneath the dignity of a desperate fugitive, but he ate it all anyway.
After he was finished with his pancakes, he told them all about ordering the Amazing Boomerang, about Porky Pete, and Mr. Mack the bus driver, and meeting "Nurse Velma", escaping from the hospital, and the little girl in the park.
"Well, it certainly sounds like you've gotten yourself into quite a pickle. I never held much with those mail-order gim-cracks, they always seem to turn out disappointing in some way or another. But George, the police aren't chasing you to put you in jail - they were trying to help us find you. When you didn't come home after school, I called the police. One of the officers had heard about a boy and bus driver knocked out by a flying object that morning, and he had a hunch it was you. When he described what the boy was wearing, I knew it was. They went to the hospital to pick you up and bring you home. Of course, thanks to your little window stunt, they never found you."
"Oh." said George. He began to wonder if all the things that the Marvelous Man had said about what the police would do to him (a tender 4th-grader) might not be slightly exaggerated as well.
But there was still the Boomerang. That, he knew, was no exaggeration. He had felt its awesome powers for himself. He could not reasonably doubt its capability to lure him into future acts of rash revenge, nor the velocity which would eventually kill him. He had already tried to sell it to someone else, but he simply couldn't make himself do it. His mother seemed to read his mind.
"Don't worry about it too much, Georgy." she said. "Between the three of us, I'm sure we'll think of something ... something that will make everything all right.
Friday, July 2, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 11
Then a dreadful thing happened. The little girl smiled. When she smiled, George saw that she had just lost her first tooth. His courage failed him. She had so much to live for, so much to discover in life: tooth-fairy visits, the state fair, candy-corn, Halloween parties, and Saturday morning cartoons! He couldn't do it.
"You can't have it." he said. He pushed away her nickel and put the Boomerang in his back pocket. "It's mine."
"No MINE!" Shrieked the little girl.
"What a rude boy!" said an old lady sitting on a bench nearby, and rattled her dentures at him scoldingly.
George's temper started to flare and he heard the ominous siren song of the Boomerang in his back pocket. He ran away, more miserable than ever.
"You can't have it." he said. He pushed away her nickel and put the Boomerang in his back pocket. "It's mine."
"No MINE!" Shrieked the little girl.
"What a rude boy!" said an old lady sitting on a bench nearby, and rattled her dentures at him scoldingly.
George's temper started to flare and he heard the ominous siren song of the Boomerang in his back pocket. He ran away, more miserable than ever.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 10
The first thought that came to George after he had reached the ground was: "I'm 10 years old and I'm a fugitive from the law!" The second was: "Where on earth can I find someone gullible enough to buy his Boomerang?"
The answer to this question presented itself much sooner than George had expected. A nearby park featured a convenient screen of foliage in which George took hasty refuge to exchange his skimpy, polka-dotted hospital gown for more decent attire.
"Ah." said George to himself. "That's better."
"Shiny." said a voice behind him. George jumped and turned around.
In front of him was a little girl with black, braided pig-tails in a pink and white jumper. She was perhaps 4, maybe 5.
"Aw, get out of here, I hate kids." said George crossly. Besides being annoyed at the distinct possibility that this little girl may have seen that he was wearing "Batman" underoos, George knew from his experiences with his little girl-cousin, that this was exactly the age and type of child that does nothing but put their fingers in their nose and say "mine" to everything they see.
"Mine." said the little girl. George followed her finger. She was pointing at the Boomerang, laying innocently in the grass, posturing itself as a safe and delightful play-thing for small children.
"Oh, I see." he said slowly. "You like the shiny?"
"Mine shiny." elaborated the little girl. She reached for it, but George picked it up first.
"No, no, it's my shiny. But maybe we could trade."
The little girl creased her eyebrows, thinking this over, but at last she seemed to understand. She reached into her jumper pocket, and presented a grubby nickel for George's consideration.
George knew it was wrong to sell the deadly, magical gadget even to an annoying 4-year-old, but the opportunity was too perfect, and it might never come again. He reached out to take the nickel and set himself free from the infernal horror of the plastic menace.
The answer to this question presented itself much sooner than George had expected. A nearby park featured a convenient screen of foliage in which George took hasty refuge to exchange his skimpy, polka-dotted hospital gown for more decent attire.
"Ah." said George to himself. "That's better."
"Shiny." said a voice behind him. George jumped and turned around.
In front of him was a little girl with black, braided pig-tails in a pink and white jumper. She was perhaps 4, maybe 5.
"Aw, get out of here, I hate kids." said George crossly. Besides being annoyed at the distinct possibility that this little girl may have seen that he was wearing "Batman" underoos, George knew from his experiences with his little girl-cousin, that this was exactly the age and type of child that does nothing but put their fingers in their nose and say "mine" to everything they see.
"Mine." said the little girl. George followed her finger. She was pointing at the Boomerang, laying innocently in the grass, posturing itself as a safe and delightful play-thing for small children.
"Oh, I see." he said slowly. "You like the shiny?"
"Mine shiny." elaborated the little girl. She reached for it, but George picked it up first.
"No, no, it's my shiny. But maybe we could trade."
The little girl creased her eyebrows, thinking this over, but at last she seemed to understand. She reached into her jumper pocket, and presented a grubby nickel for George's consideration.
George knew it was wrong to sell the deadly, magical gadget even to an annoying 4-year-old, but the opportunity was too perfect, and it might never come again. He reached out to take the nickel and set himself free from the infernal horror of the plastic menace.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 9
Just then, George heard the sound of heavy shoes - not the soft-soled, quiet sneakers like the doctors and nurses wore, but a utilitarian, clomping tread. He listened closer and could also hear the click and scrabble of canine feet, and the jangle of a chain leash.
"It's the police, and they've brought their rabid, child-eating attack dogs!" whispered the Marvelous Man. He turned his mad, twinkling eyes on George.
"Grab your clothes, boy - you'll have to go out the window."
George did as he was told. The Marvelous man put the curly wig back on again and straightened the skirt of his smock so that it (mostly) covered up his hairy legs, and once again he was the mild-mannered Nurse Velma. He cranked open the window and stepped aside to make room for George.
"Gadzooks!" said George. "We must be 10 stories up!"
"Watch your language." chided "Nurse Velma" primly. "Hook the Boomerang on to the telephone cable, then you can slide down it like a zip line - stupid."
George sat tenuously on the window sill. The microcosmic world below him made his head spin.
"You never told me what to do about the Boomerang." he said.
"There's only on thing you can do. As long as the Boomerang belongs to you, it will return to you as its rightful master. In order to get rid of it, you will have to transfer the ownership to someone else."
"But that's cruel!" objected George.
"Eh." said the Marvelous Man. "I'm not in the business of value judgment. But listen, there's more: you can't just give the Amazing Boomerang away. Someone has to buy it from you - it doesn't matter how little or how much - as long as they pay for it. If you can sell it, kid, you can be rid of it."
George wanted to ask more, but the police were just around the corner. Without looking down, he hooked the Boomerang over the cable, grasped it in both hands, and held on tight. He heard the window snap closed behind him, and he looked back in time to see Nurse Velma give him a little wave and a hideous, orange-lipped smile that was perhaps meant to be encouraging.
"It's the police, and they've brought their rabid, child-eating attack dogs!" whispered the Marvelous Man. He turned his mad, twinkling eyes on George.
"Grab your clothes, boy - you'll have to go out the window."
George did as he was told. The Marvelous man put the curly wig back on again and straightened the skirt of his smock so that it (mostly) covered up his hairy legs, and once again he was the mild-mannered Nurse Velma. He cranked open the window and stepped aside to make room for George.
"Gadzooks!" said George. "We must be 10 stories up!"
"Watch your language." chided "Nurse Velma" primly. "Hook the Boomerang on to the telephone cable, then you can slide down it like a zip line - stupid."
George sat tenuously on the window sill. The microcosmic world below him made his head spin.
"You never told me what to do about the Boomerang." he said.
"There's only on thing you can do. As long as the Boomerang belongs to you, it will return to you as its rightful master. In order to get rid of it, you will have to transfer the ownership to someone else."
"But that's cruel!" objected George.
"Eh." said the Marvelous Man. "I'm not in the business of value judgment. But listen, there's more: you can't just give the Amazing Boomerang away. Someone has to buy it from you - it doesn't matter how little or how much - as long as they pay for it. If you can sell it, kid, you can be rid of it."
George wanted to ask more, but the police were just around the corner. Without looking down, he hooked the Boomerang over the cable, grasped it in both hands, and held on tight. He heard the window snap closed behind him, and he looked back in time to see Nurse Velma give him a little wave and a hideous, orange-lipped smile that was perhaps meant to be encouraging.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 8
As if in answer to some dreadful, heathen summons, an insidious scraping noise began in the corner of the room. A familiar, blue and yellow object, like a plastic demon, was making its way across the hospital floor with gruesome resolve. George went sick as he noticed that there were little speckles of gore on its tip. With movements something like a zombie and something like a sucker-fish, it conveyed itself up the bedpost, across the sheets, and into George's hand.
"Yes George - it will keep on following you. It always returns to its owner. Sometimes, you get more than you bargained for. Take me, for instance - anybody would take me for a coy, docile lady nurse, when in reality, I am neither a lady nor a nurse, and though marvelous, certainly not coy or docile!"
Nurse Velma, who apparently turned out not to be Nurse Velma at all, rose the chair and pulled off his wig to reveal a head that was nearly bald, with erratic tufts of white hair sprouting the top like a scraggy, un-mowed lawn.
"Who are you?" asked George.
"My name is not important." said the strange man. "The only thing you need to know is that I am--” he made a grand flourish” -- absolutely Marvelous. And I have made a marvelous (albeit deadly) invention, which you now hold in your hands. Know this, young George: the police may catch you, and lock in an icebox with bats and keep you on broccoli and water for the next 10 years. Yes, they may force you to volunteer in their sadistic police-dog training practices, and call it "community service". They will, admittedly, be likely to hang you by your thumbs and leave your feet exposed to the legendary, flesh-eating prison rats. But George - the Boomerang will kill you."
"I just won't use it anymore!" said George, "I'll - I'll take it home and put it in my sock drawer, in the very back corner! I'll lock it up where it can't hurt anyone!"
"George, George, George, George, George. Don't you see, you dear little imbecile, that that really won't do? Already, the Amazing Boomerang is securing its hold on you - a bond that began from the moment you pulled it out of the box, when it was so brand-new and eager to channel your rage, your thirst for vengeance. You see, it feeds on you, George - feeds on every memory that knocks around in that round, unshapely head of yours, of the injustices you have known. Your stolen lunch-money - your long, sad history of swirlies - every taunt, every insult, every day that you've been called 'bug-eyes', 'weenie-wimp', or 'soy-boy'. Haven't you felt the madness take you, George? It's only the beginning. But the Amazing Boomerang knows the Golden Rule: 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth ... ' "
"That's not the Golden Rule!"
"Never mind that now! The point of it is: Revenge, that sweetest of forbidden fruits, is not without a cost."
"But what can I do?" asked poor George.
"Yes George - it will keep on following you. It always returns to its owner. Sometimes, you get more than you bargained for. Take me, for instance - anybody would take me for a coy, docile lady nurse, when in reality, I am neither a lady nor a nurse, and though marvelous, certainly not coy or docile!"
Nurse Velma, who apparently turned out not to be Nurse Velma at all, rose the chair and pulled off his wig to reveal a head that was nearly bald, with erratic tufts of white hair sprouting the top like a scraggy, un-mowed lawn.
"Who are you?" asked George.
"My name is not important." said the strange man. "The only thing you need to know is that I am--” he made a grand flourish” -- absolutely Marvelous. And I have made a marvelous (albeit deadly) invention, which you now hold in your hands. Know this, young George: the police may catch you, and lock in an icebox with bats and keep you on broccoli and water for the next 10 years. Yes, they may force you to volunteer in their sadistic police-dog training practices, and call it "community service". They will, admittedly, be likely to hang you by your thumbs and leave your feet exposed to the legendary, flesh-eating prison rats. But George - the Boomerang will kill you."
"I just won't use it anymore!" said George, "I'll - I'll take it home and put it in my sock drawer, in the very back corner! I'll lock it up where it can't hurt anyone!"
"George, George, George, George, George. Don't you see, you dear little imbecile, that that really won't do? Already, the Amazing Boomerang is securing its hold on you - a bond that began from the moment you pulled it out of the box, when it was so brand-new and eager to channel your rage, your thirst for vengeance. You see, it feeds on you, George - feeds on every memory that knocks around in that round, unshapely head of yours, of the injustices you have known. Your stolen lunch-money - your long, sad history of swirlies - every taunt, every insult, every day that you've been called 'bug-eyes', 'weenie-wimp', or 'soy-boy'. Haven't you felt the madness take you, George? It's only the beginning. But the Amazing Boomerang knows the Golden Rule: 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth ... ' "
"That's not the Golden Rule!"
"Never mind that now! The point of it is: Revenge, that sweetest of forbidden fruits, is not without a cost."
"But what can I do?" asked poor George.
Monday, June 28, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 7
George went green from the inside out.
"Wh-what did the police want?" He asked.
Velma turned her owlish, pea-green eyes fully on him and gave him a slow, ghoulish smile.
"They're coming to take you away, sonny-boy."
"What?! No! They can't do that! I'm just a kid - I'm only in the 4th grade!"
"Oh, they've got places for you, little laddie. Not places your mommy and dad would tell you about, no sir."
"I won't go!"
Nurse Velma pulled up a metal chair which scraped and screeched awfully as she dragged it across the floor. She turned it backwards and straddled it, crossing her arms over the back-rest. George noticed that her legs were covered with dark, wooly, hair.
"Listen George - "her voice came out deep and raspy, " - the cops are bad news for you all right, but it's not the cops you should be worrying about."
George had opened his mouth to either ask "How do you know my name?", or "Why don't you wear dark nylons to cover your wooly legs?", but he forgot these questions under this stunning communication.
"What should I be worried about?" he asked in a quivery voice.
Nurse Velma leaned in close and her eyes got so big that George thought she could have swallowed up the room with them.
"The Boomerang, George - the Boomerang."
"Wh-what did the police want?" He asked.
Velma turned her owlish, pea-green eyes fully on him and gave him a slow, ghoulish smile.
"They're coming to take you away, sonny-boy."
"What?! No! They can't do that! I'm just a kid - I'm only in the 4th grade!"
"Oh, they've got places for you, little laddie. Not places your mommy and dad would tell you about, no sir."
"I won't go!"
Nurse Velma pulled up a metal chair which scraped and screeched awfully as she dragged it across the floor. She turned it backwards and straddled it, crossing her arms over the back-rest. George noticed that her legs were covered with dark, wooly, hair.
"Listen George - "her voice came out deep and raspy, " - the cops are bad news for you all right, but it's not the cops you should be worrying about."
George had opened his mouth to either ask "How do you know my name?", or "Why don't you wear dark nylons to cover your wooly legs?", but he forgot these questions under this stunning communication.
"What should I be worried about?" he asked in a quivery voice.
Nurse Velma leaned in close and her eyes got so big that George thought she could have swallowed up the room with them.
"The Boomerang, George - the Boomerang."
Sunday, June 27, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 6
George woke with a gentle throbbing behind his temples, and a syrupy, lethargic feeling of contentment. All was warm as a bubble bath. He was aware of a dim yellow light above him, and a surrounding whiteness that reminded him of pictures of heaven in his Sunday-School take-home papers. Maybe he was in heaven. Battling between his curiosity to know if he had really passed into the next world, and his absolute satisfaction with not moving a muscle and going back to delicious sleep, he lolled his head to the left.
All comfort fled. No mild seraph met his gaze, but the vision of Mr. Mack the bus driver, laid out not ten feet from him, eyes closed and jowls sagging over the edge of the bed. George read the legend of a bright purple welt across his wide forehead. George was convinced now that even if he had died, this could not be heaven. He sat up in bed, his head swimming.
“Ooooooh, don’t sit up, honey!”
A substantial nurse in immaculate white scrubs and brilliant orange lipstick came in. Her name tag read “Velma”.
“Well, you’re a chipper little thing, aren’t you?” said Velma. “I didn’t expect you awake for another hour. Do you have any pain?” She prodded his forehead solicitously, and George winced. He put his hand up to it and realized that he had a pulsating lump that must have been the twin to Mr. Mack’s.
“I can give you another shot.” Velma smiled winsomely as she brandished an unfriendly-looking needle in front of his face.
“N – no, I don’t have any pain.” Said George. “What happened? Where am I?”
“Horace Hopkins Hospital. You took quite a knock to the noggin, young mister. Nearly knocked you to next Tuesday, I’ve heard.”
The memory of the boomerang and the bus came back to George with a snap.
Beside him, George heard the noise of Mr. Mack’s sheets rustling. He turned around. Mr. Mack’s eyes were still closed, and he appeared to be still asleep, but it was obvious that he, too, would be waking up soon. Did he know what had hit him, and who had thrown it? Wait – the Boomerang! It was gone! George realized that he hadn’t seen it since he woke up in the hospital.
The phone beside his bed jangled, jarring him from his thoughts. Before George had time to decide if he was supposed to answer it or not, Velma leaned forward and picked it up, holding the sickly green receiver to her ear.
“Horace Hopkins Hospital, room 223, this is nurse Velma speaking.” Said Velma.
George could hear a voice on the other end, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
“Oh yes, he’s here.” Said Velma. “He is juuuuust fine, ma’am. Just took a little tumble and he looks a little peaky, but he’ll be rippin’ around again in no time. Yes, you can stop by and pick him up any time.”
Velma hung the phone up on again, and then pulled out her clip-board. Apparently she didn’t intend to talk to George anymore.
Mr. Mack turned over in his bed, pulling his blankets around him.
“Who was that?” asked George, nonchalantly.
Velma turned her horn-rimmed glasses at him.
“That? Oh, that was Officer Tower, from the police.”
All comfort fled. No mild seraph met his gaze, but the vision of Mr. Mack the bus driver, laid out not ten feet from him, eyes closed and jowls sagging over the edge of the bed. George read the legend of a bright purple welt across his wide forehead. George was convinced now that even if he had died, this could not be heaven. He sat up in bed, his head swimming.
“Ooooooh, don’t sit up, honey!”
A substantial nurse in immaculate white scrubs and brilliant orange lipstick came in. Her name tag read “Velma”.
“Well, you’re a chipper little thing, aren’t you?” said Velma. “I didn’t expect you awake for another hour. Do you have any pain?” She prodded his forehead solicitously, and George winced. He put his hand up to it and realized that he had a pulsating lump that must have been the twin to Mr. Mack’s.
“I can give you another shot.” Velma smiled winsomely as she brandished an unfriendly-looking needle in front of his face.
“N – no, I don’t have any pain.” Said George. “What happened? Where am I?”
“Horace Hopkins Hospital. You took quite a knock to the noggin, young mister. Nearly knocked you to next Tuesday, I’ve heard.”
The memory of the boomerang and the bus came back to George with a snap.
Beside him, George heard the noise of Mr. Mack’s sheets rustling. He turned around. Mr. Mack’s eyes were still closed, and he appeared to be still asleep, but it was obvious that he, too, would be waking up soon. Did he know what had hit him, and who had thrown it? Wait – the Boomerang! It was gone! George realized that he hadn’t seen it since he woke up in the hospital.
The phone beside his bed jangled, jarring him from his thoughts. Before George had time to decide if he was supposed to answer it or not, Velma leaned forward and picked it up, holding the sickly green receiver to her ear.
“Horace Hopkins Hospital, room 223, this is nurse Velma speaking.” Said Velma.
George could hear a voice on the other end, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
“Oh yes, he’s here.” Said Velma. “He is juuuuust fine, ma’am. Just took a little tumble and he looks a little peaky, but he’ll be rippin’ around again in no time. Yes, you can stop by and pick him up any time.”
Velma hung the phone up on again, and then pulled out her clip-board. Apparently she didn’t intend to talk to George anymore.
Mr. Mack turned over in his bed, pulling his blankets around him.
“Who was that?” asked George, nonchalantly.
Velma turned her horn-rimmed glasses at him.
“That? Oh, that was Officer Tower, from the police.”
Saturday, June 26, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 5
George took the package up to his room. He didn’t know what else to do with it.
“I’ll have to re-send it, of course.” He thought.
Gingerly, He un-bound the bedraggled box and opened the lid. Inside laid the Amazing Boomerang, as bright and resplendent as of old, undiminished by the ardors of its twisted voyage.
In spite of himself, a warm rush of memory came over George as he recalled the day he had thrown it for the first time. Revenge had been brief, but oh, so intoxicatingly sweet. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to look for a suitable box to re-package the dubious gadget. A sturdy shoe-box eventually presented itself under the bed.
“This ought to do the trick.” said George.
He went back to the open package. The box was empty.
The packing peanuts still showed the faint, curved outline of the vanished boomerang, but this was the only trace of the box’s former contents. George had no time to panic before he heard his mother’s voice again, hollering grimly from downstairs:
“George Winston Howard, you get down here right now or you’ll miss the bus, and if I have to drive you to school, young man, you’ll be sorrier than a …”
George didn’t bother to listen to the conclusion of the impassioned monologue, but performed one feverish search for the missing boomerang. It was no good. The cursed thing was gone; it was simply nowhere.
“Maybe… maybe it really is gone. Maybe everything will be all right now.” George thought.
There was no time to consider any other possibility. He zipped his back-pack and ran down the stairs and out the door.
The bus driver was an ornery, grimace-eyed, be-jowled gentleman named “Mr. Mack” who, on principle, never looked at any student except through his enormous rear-view mirror.
“ ‘S matter, kid – “ he growled sarcastically, “Think your were goin’ to night school? Go sit in the back.”
George stared down the countless rows of benches. He could see that the very back seat was empty. But in the second-to-last row, the grisly spectacle of none other than Porky Pete and his churlish cohorts loomed before his horrified eyes.
“They can’t hurt me when there’s a grown-up.” He reminded himself. Glancing behind, he saw the menacing eyes of Mr. Mack the bus driver.
“Scoot, kid.” said Mr. Mack. George scooted.
George saw the gleam of unholy delight as he passed Porky Pete, but he did not see the lumpish foot that shot out from behind the bench just before he reached his seat. Down went George and George’s books, in a mushroom cloud of lined paper and sharpened pencils.
“Ooof.” Said George, and picked himself up off the floor. He looked back. He could see Mr. Mack’s surly, hooded eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Heh” grunted Mr. Mack.
Something inside George snapped. Suddenly he knew that he hated Mr. Mack. He hated him more than Porky Pete and the whole gang combined. Then George looked and saw a most surprising thing: there, entangled in the mess of books and papers, falling half-way out of his back-pack, was his boomerang.
A strange madness took him, and his hand seemed to move without being told what to do. He was holding the boomerang – his arm was cranking back now – a snap of the wrist – the boomerang leapt into glorious flight on wings made of fury.
The moment seemed to happen in slow motion to George, but in reality, it all happened so quickly that Mr. Mack never knew, and still does not know, what hit him. He had just time to turn his head before the boomerang met with his skull. Mr. Mack’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped over the big steering wheel. The boomerang adjusted its direction neatly, and barreled home with a horrifying intensity. George tried to duck, but the faithful boomerang slavishly altered its course just as he did so, like a miniature heat-seeking missile, and poor George found no escape. Fireworks erupted in his head like it was the 4th of July, then everything was black.
“I’ll have to re-send it, of course.” He thought.
Gingerly, He un-bound the bedraggled box and opened the lid. Inside laid the Amazing Boomerang, as bright and resplendent as of old, undiminished by the ardors of its twisted voyage.
In spite of himself, a warm rush of memory came over George as he recalled the day he had thrown it for the first time. Revenge had been brief, but oh, so intoxicatingly sweet. Shaking his head to clear it, he turned to look for a suitable box to re-package the dubious gadget. A sturdy shoe-box eventually presented itself under the bed.
“This ought to do the trick.” said George.
He went back to the open package. The box was empty.
The packing peanuts still showed the faint, curved outline of the vanished boomerang, but this was the only trace of the box’s former contents. George had no time to panic before he heard his mother’s voice again, hollering grimly from downstairs:
“George Winston Howard, you get down here right now or you’ll miss the bus, and if I have to drive you to school, young man, you’ll be sorrier than a …”
George didn’t bother to listen to the conclusion of the impassioned monologue, but performed one feverish search for the missing boomerang. It was no good. The cursed thing was gone; it was simply nowhere.
“Maybe… maybe it really is gone. Maybe everything will be all right now.” George thought.
There was no time to consider any other possibility. He zipped his back-pack and ran down the stairs and out the door.
The bus driver was an ornery, grimace-eyed, be-jowled gentleman named “Mr. Mack” who, on principle, never looked at any student except through his enormous rear-view mirror.
“ ‘S matter, kid – “ he growled sarcastically, “Think your were goin’ to night school? Go sit in the back.”
George stared down the countless rows of benches. He could see that the very back seat was empty. But in the second-to-last row, the grisly spectacle of none other than Porky Pete and his churlish cohorts loomed before his horrified eyes.
“They can’t hurt me when there’s a grown-up.” He reminded himself. Glancing behind, he saw the menacing eyes of Mr. Mack the bus driver.
“Scoot, kid.” said Mr. Mack. George scooted.
George saw the gleam of unholy delight as he passed Porky Pete, but he did not see the lumpish foot that shot out from behind the bench just before he reached his seat. Down went George and George’s books, in a mushroom cloud of lined paper and sharpened pencils.
“Ooof.” Said George, and picked himself up off the floor. He looked back. He could see Mr. Mack’s surly, hooded eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Heh” grunted Mr. Mack.
Something inside George snapped. Suddenly he knew that he hated Mr. Mack. He hated him more than Porky Pete and the whole gang combined. Then George looked and saw a most surprising thing: there, entangled in the mess of books and papers, falling half-way out of his back-pack, was his boomerang.
A strange madness took him, and his hand seemed to move without being told what to do. He was holding the boomerang – his arm was cranking back now – a snap of the wrist – the boomerang leapt into glorious flight on wings made of fury.
The moment seemed to happen in slow motion to George, but in reality, it all happened so quickly that Mr. Mack never knew, and still does not know, what hit him. He had just time to turn his head before the boomerang met with his skull. Mr. Mack’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped over the big steering wheel. The boomerang adjusted its direction neatly, and barreled home with a horrifying intensity. George tried to duck, but the faithful boomerang slavishly altered its course just as he did so, like a miniature heat-seeking missile, and poor George found no escape. Fireworks erupted in his head like it was the 4th of July, then everything was black.
Friday, June 25, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 4
For a while, Porky Pete and his gang stopped bothering George. But before long, news got out that he didn’t have his Amazing Boomerang anymore, and the thin veil of fear that had so briefly covered him dissolved like a summer puddle.
“Not so tough without your boom-boom, eh Georgy?” Jeered Porky and his posse.
“It’s called a ‘boom – er – ang’.” George corrected them, as they dunked his head in the toilet.
For two weeks, George went to school, got pounded, and had his head put down the toilet. For two weeks, he paid a tributary of precious lunch-money, and subsisted on the revolting gleanings of his classmates’ lunches. Porky Pete’s gang had declared him a marked man, and the rest of the student body respectfully withdrew to leave them to their prey.
On Friday morning, something truly mysterious happened; something not even remotely expected. George remembered for many years afterwards that it was a Friday, that most unlucky of days. It started off normally enough; George was sitting at the kitchen table, somberly spooning Froot Loops and soy milk in to his mouth, wondering what new devices of torture Porky and his gang may have invented within the past 16 hours.
“George!” he heard his mother call from the front hall-way. “What in tarnation is this doin’ on my front porch?”
George felt a funny, shivery feeling go up his spine, then down again, and a ticklish, constrict-y feeling in his throat. Swallowing his Froot Loops like a lump of sawdust, he went to the front door where his mother stood.
There it lay, that cardboard specter …. A medium-sized box, worn with marks of travel but still addressed in an oh-too-familiar school-boy hand, to: “Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail Order.”
George’s mother (fearless woman, she!) picked up the box with her own hands and inspected it.
“That’s funny.” She said, “There’s no ‘return to sender’ stamp.”
George saw that this was true. By what dark, postal arts had the ghostly thing come back to him?
“Well, for heaven’s sake get it off my porch.” Said his mother, absolutely oblivious to the cryptic significance of this moment.
“It looks like it’s been to Brazil and back.”
“Not so tough without your boom-boom, eh Georgy?” Jeered Porky and his posse.
“It’s called a ‘boom – er – ang’.” George corrected them, as they dunked his head in the toilet.
For two weeks, George went to school, got pounded, and had his head put down the toilet. For two weeks, he paid a tributary of precious lunch-money, and subsisted on the revolting gleanings of his classmates’ lunches. Porky Pete’s gang had declared him a marked man, and the rest of the student body respectfully withdrew to leave them to their prey.
On Friday morning, something truly mysterious happened; something not even remotely expected. George remembered for many years afterwards that it was a Friday, that most unlucky of days. It started off normally enough; George was sitting at the kitchen table, somberly spooning Froot Loops and soy milk in to his mouth, wondering what new devices of torture Porky and his gang may have invented within the past 16 hours.
“George!” he heard his mother call from the front hall-way. “What in tarnation is this doin’ on my front porch?”
George felt a funny, shivery feeling go up his spine, then down again, and a ticklish, constrict-y feeling in his throat. Swallowing his Froot Loops like a lump of sawdust, he went to the front door where his mother stood.
There it lay, that cardboard specter …. A medium-sized box, worn with marks of travel but still addressed in an oh-too-familiar school-boy hand, to: “Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail Order.”
George’s mother (fearless woman, she!) picked up the box with her own hands and inspected it.
“That’s funny.” She said, “There’s no ‘return to sender’ stamp.”
George saw that this was true. By what dark, postal arts had the ghostly thing come back to him?
“Well, for heaven’s sake get it off my porch.” Said his mother, absolutely oblivious to the cryptic significance of this moment.
“It looks like it’s been to Brazil and back.”
Thursday, June 24, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 3
That day after school, George ransacked his room to find the mail-order catalogue. On the dog-eared back page, he found a number in the corner so miniscule that you could barely see it, under the equally diminutive words “Customer Care”. Squinting, he dialed the number, which rang for several minutes before being picked up. A nervous female voice sounded on the other line.
“Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail Order, this is Lucille. How can I serve you today?”
“Yeah, I bought this ‘Amazing Boomerang’ and it’s a dud, I want a new one.”
There was a long pause, followed by a cough, a shuffle, and another long pause.
“Would you like to place an order?” said the voice, irrelevantly.
“No, my boomerang, I want a new one!”
“Please, I can’t hear you when you’re shouting like that….”
“I just want to send in my boomerang and get one that works right, this thing is busted! Here’s the item number …”
“I know the item number.” Said Lucille, with a resigned sigh.
“I’m sorry, we don’t carry that item anymore. It’s been discontinued.”
“Awwwww man…. You don’t have any?”
“No, I’m sorry we don’t.” Lucille’s voice was growing successively more squeaky with each sentence.
“Well all right, all right. I’ll just send it back and get my money back. I spent 3 weeks of allowance on the stupid thing.”
“Um … yes. Yes, why don’t you do that. Just send it to us, and we will refund the money when we receive it.”
George hung up the phone in disgust without even saying “Good-bye”. “What a rip-off.” He thought, as he packaged up the boomerang. He trudged 3 blocks to the mailbox at the end of the street and dropped the package in.
“So long, ‘Amazing Boomerang’.” He said. “Goodbye and good riddance. I guess I’ll have to get my revenge some other way.”
“Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail Order, this is Lucille. How can I serve you today?”
“Yeah, I bought this ‘Amazing Boomerang’ and it’s a dud, I want a new one.”
There was a long pause, followed by a cough, a shuffle, and another long pause.
“Would you like to place an order?” said the voice, irrelevantly.
“No, my boomerang, I want a new one!”
“Please, I can’t hear you when you’re shouting like that….”
“I just want to send in my boomerang and get one that works right, this thing is busted! Here’s the item number …”
“I know the item number.” Said Lucille, with a resigned sigh.
“I’m sorry, we don’t carry that item anymore. It’s been discontinued.”
“Awwwww man…. You don’t have any?”
“No, I’m sorry we don’t.” Lucille’s voice was growing successively more squeaky with each sentence.
“Well all right, all right. I’ll just send it back and get my money back. I spent 3 weeks of allowance on the stupid thing.”
“Um … yes. Yes, why don’t you do that. Just send it to us, and we will refund the money when we receive it.”
George hung up the phone in disgust without even saying “Good-bye”. “What a rip-off.” He thought, as he packaged up the boomerang. He trudged 3 blocks to the mailbox at the end of the street and dropped the package in.
“So long, ‘Amazing Boomerang’.” He said. “Goodbye and good riddance. I guess I’ll have to get my revenge some other way.”
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang - 2
George spent the next two weeks running home from school every day to see if his amazing boomerang had come in the mail yet. When the other kids stuffed him in the lockers, he simply smiled knowingly to himself as he imagined their terror at the powers of his secret weapon. When they beat him up and poured his soy milk down his nose, he only renewed his energies in imagining their impending doom.
Finally, after what seemed years of waiting, the long-expected day arrived. George’s mother told him when he came home, that a package had arrived for him. George rushed into the kitchen, where a medium-sized cardboard box sat upon the table. Sure enough, the type-written address label spelled out “George Winston Howard”. Across the top, a message had been written by hand in black magic marker: “HANDLE WITH CARE!!”. It was underlined 3 times with bold, urgent slashes.
“Oh. Boy.” Thought George, and he snatched up the box and raced to his room. He laid it on his floor, and unwrapped it with the all the reverence of Christmas morning. The Amazing Boomerang lay there, as bright, beautiful and lethal as it had appeared in the mail-order catalogue. Nestled into the packing peanuts, a small, folded piece of paper laid. It said: “To you, the owner of the Amazing Boomerang”.
George pushed his wire-rimmed glasses further up his nose and unfolded the message.
“Dear Owner of the Amazing Boomerang,
Greetings to you and congratulations on this unique purchase. With your new Amazing Boomerang, you hold the power of retribution in the palm of your hand. But beware; not all things are as they seem. Use this weapon wisely, and do not underestimate its powers. Good day and good luck to you, from
The Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail-Order Co.”
That night, George slept with the Amazing Boomerang under his pillow. He dreamed pleasant dreams of his Amazing Boomerang. In the morning, he packed his back-pack with his books, his paper, his pencils, and his Amazing Boomerang.
“Hey look, fellas!” said Porky Pete. Porky Pete was the leader of the school bullies, a piggy fellow with eyes like a gingerbread man; tiny, black and soulless.
“Here comes the freakazoid!”
“Yeah, the freakazoid!” said Porky Pete’s gang.
“Let’s see if the freakazoid wants a swirly!” Said Porky Pete. He pounded his hammy fists together and showed his jagged teeth.
“Not so fast, boys.” Said George suavely, just like the action heroes on television. In one smooth motion (he had practiced this before bed the night before), he un-slung his back-pack, undid the zipper, and pulled out the Amazing Boomerang.
Like magic, the boomerang sailed from the tips of his fingers and flew, spinning so fast that it was a blaze of yellow and blue, across the crowded hallway. Over the heads of the astounded school-children, who all turned with their mouths agape as it passed. Past Mr. Jorkins, the disgruntled math teacher, who didn’t even look up. Its flight was true and sure, and George hopped with glee as it connected with Porky’s skull with a *crack*. The Amazing Boomerang did not stop there – after it had knocked Porky Pete down, it circled around and whacked the rest of the gang, leaving them howling in rage and pain on the hallway floor.
“Ow –WEE it gots me in the eye, boss!”
“What a wallop – call an amb’lance!”
“Oh mommy! Oh mommy! Oh make it stop!”
These plaintive cries landed on the George’s ears like a triumphal chorus, and he soaked in the moment with all due contentment. Then came a fantastically horrible thing for George. The boomerang, having wreaked its promised havoc, turned smartly, and flew, with the same deadly accuracy and speed, straight at George, and before you could say “Mail-Order Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets”, it was square between his eyes, with all the force of an express train. George did a double-backwards-flip and landed in a belly-flop, his glasses skittering across the grubby tile floor.
“Ughhhh… what gives?!” he groaned, as he picked himself off and stumbled to find his glasses. George hesitantly reached down to pick the Amazing Boomerang up off the floor.
“Cheap thing’s defective.” He thought with disgust. He put it back in his backpack and trudged off to the nurse’s office.
Finally, after what seemed years of waiting, the long-expected day arrived. George’s mother told him when he came home, that a package had arrived for him. George rushed into the kitchen, where a medium-sized cardboard box sat upon the table. Sure enough, the type-written address label spelled out “George Winston Howard”. Across the top, a message had been written by hand in black magic marker: “HANDLE WITH CARE!!”. It was underlined 3 times with bold, urgent slashes.
“Oh. Boy.” Thought George, and he snatched up the box and raced to his room. He laid it on his floor, and unwrapped it with the all the reverence of Christmas morning. The Amazing Boomerang lay there, as bright, beautiful and lethal as it had appeared in the mail-order catalogue. Nestled into the packing peanuts, a small, folded piece of paper laid. It said: “To you, the owner of the Amazing Boomerang”.
George pushed his wire-rimmed glasses further up his nose and unfolded the message.
“Dear Owner of the Amazing Boomerang,
Greetings to you and congratulations on this unique purchase. With your new Amazing Boomerang, you hold the power of retribution in the palm of your hand. But beware; not all things are as they seem. Use this weapon wisely, and do not underestimate its powers. Good day and good luck to you, from
The Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets Mail-Order Co.”
That night, George slept with the Amazing Boomerang under his pillow. He dreamed pleasant dreams of his Amazing Boomerang. In the morning, he packed his back-pack with his books, his paper, his pencils, and his Amazing Boomerang.
“Hey look, fellas!” said Porky Pete. Porky Pete was the leader of the school bullies, a piggy fellow with eyes like a gingerbread man; tiny, black and soulless.
“Here comes the freakazoid!”
“Yeah, the freakazoid!” said Porky Pete’s gang.
“Let’s see if the freakazoid wants a swirly!” Said Porky Pete. He pounded his hammy fists together and showed his jagged teeth.
“Not so fast, boys.” Said George suavely, just like the action heroes on television. In one smooth motion (he had practiced this before bed the night before), he un-slung his back-pack, undid the zipper, and pulled out the Amazing Boomerang.
Like magic, the boomerang sailed from the tips of his fingers and flew, spinning so fast that it was a blaze of yellow and blue, across the crowded hallway. Over the heads of the astounded school-children, who all turned with their mouths agape as it passed. Past Mr. Jorkins, the disgruntled math teacher, who didn’t even look up. Its flight was true and sure, and George hopped with glee as it connected with Porky’s skull with a *crack*. The Amazing Boomerang did not stop there – after it had knocked Porky Pete down, it circled around and whacked the rest of the gang, leaving them howling in rage and pain on the hallway floor.
“Ow –WEE it gots me in the eye, boss!”
“What a wallop – call an amb’lance!”
“Oh mommy! Oh mommy! Oh make it stop!”
These plaintive cries landed on the George’s ears like a triumphal chorus, and he soaked in the moment with all due contentment. Then came a fantastically horrible thing for George. The boomerang, having wreaked its promised havoc, turned smartly, and flew, with the same deadly accuracy and speed, straight at George, and before you could say “Mail-Order Marvelous Tricks & Gadgets”, it was square between his eyes, with all the force of an express train. George did a double-backwards-flip and landed in a belly-flop, his glasses skittering across the grubby tile floor.
“Ughhhh… what gives?!” he groaned, as he picked himself off and stumbled to find his glasses. George hesitantly reached down to pick the Amazing Boomerang up off the floor.
“Cheap thing’s defective.” He thought with disgust. He put it back in his backpack and trudged off to the nurse’s office.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
George and the Amazing Boomerang
Once there was a small kind of boy named George. George was one of those unfortunate types who was poor at sports, wore glasses, and had to drink lactose-free milk.
“There goes George, that lactose-intolerant freak!” All the other boys at school would say. Then they would stuff him in the locker and stick things through the slats.
Poor George spent many lonely class periods cramped into the dark lockers, tearfully plotting his sweet revenge.
The answer came one day as he was perusing through one of his mother’s mail-order catalogues.
“The Amazing Boooooooooooooomerang!!” The colorful ad read. In the picture, an excited and extremely cool-looking boy just George’s age was throwing a blue and yellow boomerang that looked like it was about to fly out of the magazine.
George’s eyes grew wide as he read:
“The amazing boomerang has magical powers that will make it return to the hand of its master no matter how far they throw it. Its sure-fire aiming mechanism will guarantee a direct hit to whatever (or whoever) you throw it at. This little beauty is a must for the little man who wants to even his odds.”
“That’s it!” cried George, and he immediately ran upstairs, broke up his piggy bank, and sent $14.95 along with the mail-order form.
“There goes George, that lactose-intolerant freak!” All the other boys at school would say. Then they would stuff him in the locker and stick things through the slats.
Poor George spent many lonely class periods cramped into the dark lockers, tearfully plotting his sweet revenge.
The answer came one day as he was perusing through one of his mother’s mail-order catalogues.
“The Amazing Boooooooooooooomerang!!” The colorful ad read. In the picture, an excited and extremely cool-looking boy just George’s age was throwing a blue and yellow boomerang that looked like it was about to fly out of the magazine.
George’s eyes grew wide as he read:
“The amazing boomerang has magical powers that will make it return to the hand of its master no matter how far they throw it. Its sure-fire aiming mechanism will guarantee a direct hit to whatever (or whoever) you throw it at. This little beauty is a must for the little man who wants to even his odds.”
“That’s it!” cried George, and he immediately ran upstairs, broke up his piggy bank, and sent $14.95 along with the mail-order form.
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