The Baker – A Short Story

He was an artist.  He did not work with paint or words and his work would never be found in any kind of art gallery.  But he was an artist nonetheless.  His canvas was flour and sugar, icing and frosting.  His work was important.  It celebrated the very beginning of life, the start of something new and beautiful.  Each new cake was designed to do so in its own unique way.  No two cakes were the same.  He was the baker, the artist.

The woman had pretty well laid out exactly what she was looking for in a cake.  Chocolate with a spaceship and a red planet.  The name Russel, with one L, would be printed underneath the planet, in green letters.  This is what the woman wanted and this is what she would receive.  Except he knew that it would not just be any old grocery store cake that sat out all day and become as stale as the people who made it. No, it would be something special for this young boy.  His picture would be taken by it, this cake would be recorded for all history.  He imagined the boy blowing out the candles.  There was always something comforting in the thought of a child blowing out candles on his work, as if somehow the combination of wax, fire, and saliva made his work more complete.  He responded in short replies to the woman, not rude but just his style.  He was already thinking about his next piece of work.  This one would have to wait for early Monday morning so that it would be fresh.

It was early Monday morning.  So early the birds were not even up.  He walked from his car, the sole one in his parking lot, and entered his bakery.  It was not quite quaint, there really was not much to it.  Plain, off-white walls that stretched from one end of the bakery to the other.  There were no posters of baked goods or sample cakes hanging on the wall.  He liked it that way, understanding that most of those professional photos weren’t real anyway, the food was always plastic or rubber and the photos were touched up.

He found he never needed to decorate.  People did not come for the warm atmosphere or the welcoming feeling of the place.  No, people came for the food.  His reputation is what drew people in.  One would be hard pressed to ever find tourists in the place, it was not what they came to see.  But the locals knew.  The best cinnamon raisin bread in Appleby County.  The wonderful baklava and dinner rolls.  And of course his cakes, his ever famous cake.
He set out to make his first cake of the day.  It was for Russel, with one L, Weaver.  Mother Carrie Weaver would soon be in to pick it up.  He set out the pans and mixing bowls, what he needed to make the cake.  He checked his notes about the cake.  The last necessary element was his apron, which he tied tightly around his waist before dipping his hands in to some flour.

To watch him work, one would swear that he entered his own little world.  Some thought him almost rude when interacting with him.  To see him bake, however, was to see him totally immersed in his own element.  His hands moved with a certain grace that only can be compared to that of a painter‘s.  Whereas he may not have seemed happy in many other capacities of life, he was happy here, doing what he was meant to do.

The first cake, the one for Russel, was finished and placed upon the rack.  He took a moment to look at the work for what would be the last time before he handed it over to the harried mother, who would take one look at it to check the spelling, before rushing out to grab the balloons or whatever other party necessity was still needed.  He liked to look at it whole, before it had been decimated by the knives of parents or smudged by the fingers of anxious children.  What could best be described as a slight smile crossed his face.  He stepped away and moved on to his other work.  There was always plenty to do.

Time passed.  Other cakes joined Russel’s on the rack.  The delicious smell of baked goodness filled the air.  Customers came and went.  The cakes surrounding Scotty’s slowly disappeared until it was late and his was the only one left standing there, looking somewhat lonely.  It was late.  Certainly any birthday party had come and passed.
He stood for a while just looking at the cake.  It perturbed him greatly that his work had not been picked up.  He put himself in to his work and he hated to be ignored.  He checked his notes, just to make sure this was the correct date.  He had never been wrong before but he double checked nonetheless.  Of course it was the correct date.  The cake should have been gone now, just leftovers in the refrigerator.  It should have been enjoyed by countless children.  Pictures should have been taken.  Frosting should have been stuck to the corners of young mouths.  It angered him.  He reached for his little book.

The phone rang loud and for a long while.  It perturbed him greatly.  It rang and rang until finally the answering machine picked up.
“Hey you’ve reached the home of Greg” a man’s voice said.
It was quickly followed by a woman. “And Carrie.”
Then a young boy piped up. “And Russel.”
Then everyone, laughing together. “We aren’t home now, so leave a message.”
The young boy added. “After the beep.”  Some more laughs which abruptly clicked off.
Beep.
The sound was harsh in his ears.  He paused, knowing it was recording.
“You have a cake here.  It was never picked up”
He did not know what else to say.
After a long pause, “A sixteen dollar cake.”
He gently put the phone back on its hook.

He hated having to resort to money.  Sixteen-dollars was no great loss.  But somehow, it seemed as it was often all that people could understand.  To them, his work was simply a commodity, nothing more.  He knew there was more than that but was unable to communicate this, resorting to monetary terms.  He hated to do so.
He began the process of cleaning up.  He washed the counters.  He swept the floor.  He cleaned all his pans and put them away.  He wiped down the ovens after they had finally cooled down.  Normally this was quite relaxing, especially after a long day.  Tonight was different.  He made his way over to the rack where the cake sat.  He picked it up and placed it on the counter while he wiped out the area it had been sitting all day.  He was finished except for that cake.  He looked at for a bit before picking it up and placing it in the fridge.  He decided that the woman must have given him the wrong day, that she would be in to pick up the cake the next day.  It annoyed him and he wasn’t sure how one forgets the day of their own child’s birthday party but he knew this had to be the case.
He arrived the next morning.  He had slept alright but not that great.  He was up again before the birds.  He walked in and hit the lights.  The greenish florescent glow sputtered slowly to life and threw itself upon the off-white walls.   He walked to his fridge and opened it.  The cake sat there, slowly drying out.  He looked at it for a bit, thinking he could discern the smallest crack in the frosting beginning inside the spaceship.  He knew the woman would be in soon.  He began to go about that morning’s orders.

He worked hard that day.  He had a lot of customers and a lot of orders.  His concentration slowly waned as the day turned to night and the woman had still failed to show up.  The unthinkable happened.  He was baking a batch of cinnamon raisin bread for a woman who was coming in around 7:30 to pick them up.  When he checked them around 6:30, he was shocked that they were completely flat.  He had forgotten to add the yeast.  He couldn’t remember the last time he made a mistake like that.  He felt embarrassed having to call the woman and tell her that her order would not be finished until 8:30.  After hanging up, he decided that he was not finished with the phone.
He dialed the number without even having to look at the book.  Where was Carrie Weaver and her child Russel?  Why had he not had his cake and eaten it too?

As it rang and rang and rang, he knew there was nothing ahead of him but that familiar message.  He listened to it and it annoyed him.

Beep.

He hung the phone up, a little harder this time, and he could hear the jangle of the bells as they rang slightly inside the phone.  Cleaning that evening was even less relaxing than it had been the night before.

It was early but the sun was peeking from out behind the horizon.  There was the occasional chirp.  The parking lot was empty.  He pulled in.   He had not overslept for anything in over 20 years.  He could not believe it happened now.  He could see the glow of the refrigerator through the windows.  He knew the cake was still sitting in there.  He entered the shop and immediately considered throwing it out but he knew he could never do that.  He walked straight to the phone and called again.

The laughing irked him.  He felt like it was directed at him.

He did not bother to leave a message.  He began to work and tried to lose himself in it but was just unable to do so, as much as he would have liked.  It showed too.  He baked a cake for a graduation party but realized after he had frosted it that the customer probably did not want it to read

“God Luck Jerry!”

He had to throw the whole cake out.

After a long while of frustrating baking, he could no longer take it.  He was fairly certain that they were not going to pick up the cake.  He considered closing down early and taking the rest of the day off.  He decided to stay.  He had never left early before and was not planning on stopping anytime soon.  At the same time, he was still quite angry.  Perhaps they just wanted to disrespect him.  Maybe they had it in for him.  He did not know. He did not know why they had forgotten about Russel’s birthday party.  Perhaps they had found another baker, one that was cheaper or they thought would be better.  This angered him even more.  He worked so hard, his life’s work was his pride.
He decided he would no longer put up with the cake just sitting there, wasting away.  The crack in the spaceship had grown and was quite discernible and he knew it was no longer smooth and creamy.  He knew what lay beneath the frosting wasn’t any better.  It was dry and crumbly he knew.  He picked up the cake and carried it out the back door.  There was a smallish dumpster sitting there.  He considered throwing it in but stopped before he did.  A few stray dogs were known to roam this neighborhood.  Instead of just throwing it out he put it on the ground next to the cold green metal feet of the dumpster.  He thought about how fast the cake would be ravaged by the dogs when they came.  A smile almost crossed his lips as he thought about it.  Those dogs would probably appreciate his work as much as any of his customers would, if not more.  The irony struck him.

The day went on.  He received his usual assortment of compliments.

“This is the best roll I’ve ever tasted!”
“My sister-in-law from Seattle tried some of your cinnamon-raisin bread and she told me that she is going to fly back just for it.”
“Last year Jimmy loved his cake so much.”

He took the compliments the way he took anything his customers said to him.  A slight nod of his head.  Clearing his throat.

“Will there be anything else?”

Author’s Note:  This is really just a run of the mill kind of character study.  Nothing too special but I did really enjoy creating this kind of character.  He’ similar to the “Soup Nazi” from Seinfeld without being as extroverted or over the top.  I find it very interesting that this man is in love with his work and would probably rather do it without having it “ruined” by people and yet the people remain a part of the process of creation.  If God was a pessimist, I think He would kind of be like this guy.  Thankfully, He isn’t.

The Philosophy of Life/Finding a Career – A Short Story

Author’s Note:  Some of my readers may at first be slightly uncomfortable with the 2nd Person Singular tense of this particular piece of writing.  The only time I had actually read something in this tense were those terrible “Choose your own Adventure” novels.  However, I wrote this piece during a creative writing class in college where we spent some time exploring different forms of post modern writing.  Although it was strange to write and even stranger to read, I believe you may find yourself hardly noticing the 2nd person tense by the end of it.  Let me know what you think.

You probably will dream of being quite a few things.  First, you will want to be an astronaut, every young boy’s dream.  The space shuttle liftoff, the feeling of pure power beneath your feet.  It will be magical.  But that dream will fade when, after viewing Apollo 13, you realize you will probably throw up in space.  Also, it seems to be awfully dangerous.  The stars don‘t seem quite as enthralling.  But that is ok because you won’t even be able to see them anymore through the thick smog of Los Angeles after you move there when you are nine.
Your father wants you to be in the army like him.  Courage, glory, honor.  These words float around your home like some kind of pollen that you are allergic to.  You think of becoming a four star general but quickly brush it off.  There is no way such a scrawny boy with poor posture will ever be able to be an army commander.  You cannot even avoid being picked on by your three older brothers, how could you possibly control a whole military?
Of course, the best choice for you is to be some kind of sports star.  There’s the big money, all those endorsements, your face everywhere, beautiful girls (although that is not as important now), and that chance to do something amazing in front of thousands of people who are screaming your name.  You’ll be that guy who makes the amazing catch at the wall, in the fourth quarter, with the shot clock running down.  Except, you don’t know much about sports and your lack of knowledge is dwarfed only by your lack of skill.  When your older brothers play basketball or football, they never want you on your team.  You stand from the window or the porch while they pick teams.  You meekly yell out
“Can I play?”
They all look back at you, except for Dwight, he didn’t even bother.
“Hell no, shorty.” they yell.
Or:
“We don’t let no girls play.  You a girl, Jessie.  You got a girl’s name and a girl’s body.  Show me your boo…”
Douglas stops when Pop steps outside.  He looks at you.
“What are you doing here on the porch.  Go play with them boys.”
“No thanks.” you say quietly.
Your father looks at you.  “You gotta have courage boy.  Courage to go out there and do something even if it hard.  No pain, no glory, no honor”
You turn around and walk back in to the house.
“Jessie’s a girl, Jessie’s a girl.” You hear chanted as you walk away.
You got stuck with that name.  Jessie.  Everybody else had a real manly name.  Douglas, George, and Dwight.  All were famous generals.  You like to think you weren’t named after your Aunt Jessie but you know you were supposed to be a girl anyways.  Supposed to be daddy’s little girl.  In some ways, maybe you are.
So if not sports, then what?  How about acting.  Actors make a lot of money.  They are famous.  People like them a lot.  By now you are getting interested in girls and acting certainly seems to be a way to get them.  So when your favorite celebrity’s marriage breaks up, you imagine an opportunity for yourself.  You could fill the void in her life.  There is only one problem.  You don’t ever really have the chance to act.  Maybe you would be good at it.  Father doesn’t think so.
“Acting is for sissies.  I don’t want no sissy boy of mine acting.  Get that damned fool notion out of your head.”
Douglas, George, and Dwight snicker.  You look down at your plate of food.  Mom pipes up.
“You know your father’s right.  It’s mighty difficult to make a good career out of acting Jess.”
“Yeah.  Hard for a sissy to make a career out of anything.  So they go and get fake sissy jobs, like acting,” your father says betweens bites of broccoli.
For a while, any career that involves girls fills your head.  Your hormones rage as you consider the seemingly endless possibilities.  The idea of being a gynecologist crosses your mind but it is more of a misunderstanding of what the job actually entails rather than a plausible career choice.  That dream is ended rather abruptly after a freshman year health film from PBS which showed an actual live birth.  Any desire to do that job for the rest of your life ended amongst blushing faces and snide snickering of your fellow classmates.
There is always the possibility of fashion photographer.  You’re pretty sure they get to see girls naked, something your brothers always talked about but you have yet to experience.  You are fairly certain you wouldn’t experience it in high school either, seeing as the pimples ruined what might have possibly been considered an attractive face.  And, oh yeah, there’s always the twig like arms, the matted down hair, and the painfully pale skin.  Not to mention the crippling shyness, which does nothing to help you get anywhere with a girl who could look past your physical appearance.
The fashion photographer idea falls flat when you mention it to Dwight who just laughs.
“Figures you’d go do something gay like that.”
You are now under the impression that all fashion photographers are gay so what chance would you have with the girls if they just assumed that about you?  You throw that idea away with a seemingly careless but actually disappointed
“Yeah I was just kidding.  Haha.”
So now life seems disastrous.  All three brothers have left home and gone on to begin successful military careers.  You have one year left at home and no idea what you are going to do.  Career after every possible career flash through your mind.  Accountant.  Eh, you aren’t too great at math.  Mountain climber.  That probably doesn’t work so well with your asthma.  Salesperson.  You are too shy to convince anyone to buy anything more than a burger from the local hamburger joint.  Journalist.  Don’t they go to dangerous places?  Nothing seems to fit.
You fearfully broach a possibility to your father:
“College?” your father asks incredulously.  He then thinks for a while.  “I guess it’s ok.”
You smile at mom and dad and begin to go look through the many leaflets you have been collecting of late.  As you leave, you overhear your father.
“Damned boy wouldn’t have lasted a week in basic anyways.”

So you finally pick a college.  You aren’t dumb.  In fact, you are something of the braniac of the family.  It is the one thing you pride yourself on.  Like the time you beat George at the game of Risk.  It was an amazing win, leaving you with a chestful of pride as well as a eyeful of fist amidst yells of
“You cheatin’ bastard!”
The days of college are fast approaching and you have read through the lists of possible majors so many times that you practically have it memorized.  Nothing they offer seems to fit and you question your reasons for going to college. Then you look at your family and find yourself scanning the list one more time.  Luckily for you, the college allows you to come in Undeclared despite your father’s protests.
“Damned foolish if you ask me.”
You want to tell him that no one did ask him but you think he might kill you if you do.
The first day of classes you walk in to your philosophy class.  The professor is funny looking, with long, wild blond hair and a thick handlebar mustache.  You figure it is status quo for philosophers and you want to giggle to yourself but then he begins to talk.  Suddenly, you are entranced.  Finally, this is what you needed.  A whole class just about thinking!  Right then and there you decide on your major.  Philosophy.  You walk to the registrars office and shift your course load.  You throw out your razor.  Four years of college and you are constantly in the library, reading Plato or Aristotle.  You and the one other philosophy student in your building sip green tea together before it was popular.  You argue about Locke with him, explaining that it is clear that his mind is still a tabula rasa.  You hang out in the professors’ lounge down by the philosophy wing and pour out your views on Kant and freedom from self-induced tutelage.  You and the professors laugh at empiricists and question existence.  You think, therefore, you are.  Your hair is long and your beard is thin but it is almost noticeable.
You find the simplest, everyday tasks as suddenly profound, philosophical events.  One day while preparing your morning ritual of toast and jam, you stop.  You ponder for a long while whether the seemingly random brushstrokes of strawberry jam and butter on your slightly burned toast is the product of mere chance or rather part of a larger, dynamic system that is actually deterministic but seems chaotic.  You look at the toast for a long while, too afraid now to take a bite and institute some kind of butterfly effect.  You end up late for your acting final but it does not matter, you never really liked that class much anyway.
You buy a cat for some company but then read Montaigne.  You look at the cat suspiciously, assuming it is just using you to pass the time.  You get rid of it.
Still, it is the best time of your life.  Career aspirations, girls, and your family all fade away as your mind fills instead with the beliefs of Hume, Rousseau, and Thoreau.  Then you graduate.
Suddenly, there exists a quandary as you realize you have spent the last four years of your life doing nothing but reading and talking about people who are long dead.  You do not know how to run a business or engineer a building.  What is there to do?  You open your mailbox and discover a plethora of offers from graduate schools.  This is the answer you have been seeking.  You apply to several and, soon enough, are back in school.
You still study hard and sometimes even laugh with the professors of philosophy at your new school but come to find that your interest in philosophy is waning.  You no longer care much about what people thought long ago.  You hardly give toast and second glance and begin to find everyday activities as simply, well, boring.  You figure there is only so much thinking one person can do and you believe you have exhausted your resources in that area.  So you decide that after grad school, you will swear off of philosophy.  You clunk through the semesters, reading only what is absolutely necessary and wishing that the papers in grad school were not so long.  Discussions with other students or professors are no more.  You find yourself wishing you had paid a little bit more attention to the other classes you had taken in school.
Two years of grad school and all you hold is another small, officious looking slip of paper framed in a slightly tacky frame and no real marketable skills.  You look for some jobs but none really appeal to you.  You apply for a few but don’t receive any offers.  You blame the economy.
You finally find a job at a local college, through another philosophy graduate, working in the admissions department.  It is dreadfully boring but it puts food on the table.  There is also an attractive woman who works there but your are too nervous to ever approach her.  Even if you could, you doubt that you would be able to impress her with your knowledge of epistemology.  There is also, of course, the cheery middle aged woman on staff who takes every opportunity to forward you the latest philosophy jokes she finds on the internet.  Seeing as there are two students of philosophy on staff, which to her is an incredible irony, she believes this is part of her job description.
How many philosophers does it take to change a light bulb?
Sometimes you look over them.  Mostly you delete her emails right away but nervously pretend that you have read them when she comes over to your cubicle.
“Wasn’t that one about Sarte hilarious?” she asks.
You nod, wearing a fake smile.  You want to explain to her that the whole premise of the joke represents a elementary misunderstanding of the major structures of his presuppositions.  But you don’t.  You smile as she giggles to herself and then walks down the hall.
You hate life and absolutely want to get out of this dead end job.
An opportunity presents itself in the strangest of places.  You stand over the grave of an old, former philosophy professor from your undergrad days.  It’s the strangest funeral you’ve ever attended.  There are a couple of philosopher friends standing around but not many others.  The dead guy was an existentialist.  One of the philosophers offers up some wisdom.
“Well.  He existed.  And that is all he could have hoped for.”
Another guy mutters something slightly under his breath.  You foresee some sort of upcoming philosophical debate that will likely spill over to the nearest bar.  You decide you have probably paid enough in last respects.  Besides the guy probably wouldn’t have cared anyway.  You begin to walk back to your car.
You are about to get in your ‘73 Ford LTD Station wagon with the custom rust when you here a familiar voice.
“You know they are looking for someone to replace him?”
You stop for a moment, then turn around.  It is one of your old philosophy professors.  You have only been off of philosophy for 5 months or so.  You will stick to what you promised yourself.  But then the thought of another meal of ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches crosses your mind.  Professors make pretty good money.  You inquire as to what the hiring practice is going to consist of.
You apply for the job and since you are an Alumni, they give you the benefit of the doubt and offer you the job.  You accept and wonder what you have gotten yourself in to.  The days drag on, turning to weeks, and months, and eventually years.

Now, you are 43 and have been teaching philosophy for the past 17 years.  Not exactly happily but it is a job.  Every so often you have someone in your class that reminds you of yourself from your younger days. You dub them “Mr. Naïve” and spend the rest of the semester ignoring their raised hands and harshly criticizing their ideas.  Sometimes they ask to have lunch with you but you ignore them until they move on to other, more positive professors.  You might hope that they don’t become like you but you don‘t.  Too unsympathetic.  Too cynical.  You anticipate the truth.  Many of them will become just like you, going through the motions.  Dream after dream crushed until you finally find something that is physically sustaining though not emotionally satisfying.  This is your pinnacle, this is how you find a career. Good luck.

I heard that Rhode Island passed this awful law, I think I’ll boycott them.

In case you haven’t been paying attention to any of the recent news, or simply use this blog as your source of information, there has been an uproar in Arizona over a recent immigration law that was passed.  When I first heard about the sensationalized media reports about the law, I found myself wondering whether this was a good thing.  I do take issue with a government that intrudes too much upon its people and I wondered whether this new law would take steps in that direction.

Since then I have actually read the bill, which is about 16 pages long.  As is the case with any bill that is ever passed in the United States, there is a great deal of legal terminology and a lot of wasted paper.  But for those of you who have not read it, more than half of the bill deals with the unlawful smuggling, transportation, and employment of illegal aliens.  The one line in the bill that seems to have turned the whole world upside down essentially gives law enforcement the right to arrest a person that has “committed any public offense that makes the person removable from the United States.” as long as they have probable cause.  The controversy here seems to stem from the notion that law enforcement will resort to racial profiling as a form of probable cause.

I have friends in Arizona and my wife and I have made a number of trips out there to visit them.  Every trip we have gone through some kind of INS checkpoint.  For whatever reason, the INS has always waived us through the checkpoint, sometimes without us even having to speak a word to them.  Could this be because we are white?  Undoubtedly so.  So in some form, racial profiling is already going on.  Does it make it right?  I’m not sure.  But on some level, I believe we profile each other every day, whether it be based upon class, color, creed, religion, etc.  That does not mean that police should necessarily be profiling strictly on race, but they will undoubtedly be using it as a factor.

At this point, I am not sure where I stand when it comes to this law.  I support several aspects of it (the too oft ignored problem of employment and smuggling of illegal aliens).  I am also not sure exactly how I feel about that one particular line.  However, the response to this law has been over the top and offensive.

The comparisons to the internment of the Japanese during World War II and the Holocaust need to end now.  This has been used as a sensational scare tactic and it is wrong.  To suggest that the unfair removal of legal citizens from their homes or the murder of millions of people based solely on their race/creed can be equated on the same level as this law is a joke.  Anyone who suggests such a thing should be ashamed of themselves.  Now I understand that proponents of this position will claim that the Holocaust started with little events and laws such as these.  True.  However, the law is ultimately directed at the people who have already broken the law by their presence in the country, not by their race.  Last time I checked, Canadians cannot come here illegally.

Let us also not forget this little irony of the law:  This law was created as a means to enforce Federal law.  If an illegal alien is discovered and arrested they are to be transported to a Federal center.  In other words, these illegals are going to be handed over to the same group of people who could not enforce their own federal law to begin with!!

Just today, Los Angeles County voted to boycott Arizona over this law, ending any contracts with companies from that state, restricting funded travel to the state, and divesting bonds from Arizona.  Does anyone else find this to be laughably stupid?  Our Board has nothing better to do than boycott another state over a law that does not affect residents of this county?  Last time I checked the County and City were millions of dollars in debt.  Last time I checked the city and county had a plus 10% unemployment.  Last time I checked the school systems were failing.  The mayor of Los Angeles, when this law was initially passed, declared that the city was also going to boycott the state of Arizona.  What he did not bother to find out, however, was exactly what that meant.  Apparently, one third of Los Angeles’s electricity comes from Arizona companies, who are now considering not renewing the contracts in the future.  Thanks Mayor, here’s hoping that all the blackouts happen at politicians’ homes and city hall.

In the end, I am not sure that this law is completely perfect.  I do question and fear too much government interference.  On the other hand, this does seem like an effort to simply enforce the laws on the books.  Whatever the case may be, right or wrong, too many people have taken the wrong approach to protesting this law, making sensationalized, offensive claims or resorting to political boycotts in what is probably just an effort to gain votes.  Healthy debate, this is not.

Alice and Jim – A short story

From the outside looking in, which we dear readers, are certainly doing, Alice and Jim Cauffield seemed like your typical, happy, married couple.  Perhaps we could go so far as to say that they were not typical, in that they had been happily married  for almost eight years.  In today’s society that is indeed quite a long time.

Even now, as we look in upon them, they seem quite content.  Jim is seated in his favorite armchair, with a book open upon his lap and his eyes closed.  Alice sits next to him on the love seat, knitting a pair of mittens, presumably for Jim for a cold winter.  A rerun of a late 90’s sitcom is playing on the television and the sound of the laugh track but not really anything else, is audible.

The telephone rings loudly, jarring the peaceful moment.  Alice puts down her knitting and picks up the receiver, while checking to make sure that Jim has not stirred from this rude interruption.

Alice, very gently, “Hello?”

Alice looks over at Jim again.  Did he just move?  Did she wake him?  No.  She seems quite concerned about this.

After listening for a bit, Alice again quietly speaks. “Nope.  No problem.  Oh yes.”  Pause.  “Everything is good.”  Another pause.  “Thanks for calling.”  She tenderly hangs up and goes back to her knitting.  Jim continues to rest peacefully.

By now, you’re probably wondering what makes this family so interesting.  Their life seems, shall we say, nice, if not a little boring.  If you ventured a guess that their marriage was rather uneventful, you would be right.  They had no kids and no pets, not even a lonely fish.  Their routine was, routine, as was their sex life.  Even their occasional arguments carried with them a sense of  rote conventionality.

This had not always been the case.  At the beginning, their marriage was passionate and fun.  But that is neither here nor there.  And it is certainly not for us to judge why the flame slowly dimmed over the eight years.

What is important is the here and now, the present.  Presently, Alice and Jim lived an ordinary life with little to no excitement beyond visits from family or a dinner party with friends.  Life was quiet, like Alice and Jim.

At least it was, until Alice noticed something about Jim.  She first noticed when they were buying milk, eggs, bread, and cherry tomatoes at the local market together.  (They almost always did their shopping together.)  They went to a new cashier at the market to checkout, since Frank’s line was a little too long.   This cashier was not just new to the market but actually new to the town, which was a fairly big deal in a town of only 3,532 people.  She was pretty and young, with flowing blonde hair and large blue eyes.  For the first time in a while, instead of paging through an Archie comic as was his usual habit, Jim was looking at the cashier.  Alice at first wasn’t quite sure what to make of this except that it was unusual for Jim and that she certainly did not approve of the amount of cleavage this cashier decided to expose.  It bothered her a little on the way home but she failed to say anything, deciding instead to speak about how excited she was about Jessica’s upcoming baby shower.  By the time she got home, she’d almost forgotten the whole thing.

But a few weeks later it again became an issue.  Alice and Jim were at the market again, buying a few items together as usual.  Except this time, when she went to get Jim’s favorite cereal, she returned to the front of the store to find Jim standing in this new cashier’s line, even though Frank’s line was at least as short, if not shorter.  Once again, Jim did not take the time to look through the Archie comics but instead spent the time making small talk and smiling at the new cashier.  This time on the ride home, she was quiet.

Another week passed before it happened again.  And then again.  Alice could not get it off her mind.  Then one day, Jim came home late from work with groceries.  He had gone shopping without her.  This was certainly odd and Jim covered it by saying that he thought she had said she was not feeling too well. (In Jim’s defense, Alice had indeed muttered those words that very morning before work, but she had forgotten this.)

Now whether or not Jim actually had an affair with this cashier remains a mystery.  Really, it depends on who you ask.  Again, we are not here to make assumptions.  Just to speak the truth.

You may or may not have seen or heard the news stories concerning what happened with Alice and Jim.  Depending on what station you watched, you may have heard slightly different accounts.  Channel 9 came the closest but even they missed a few things.  Those few things are what really make this whole story interesting.

You see, it is certainly true dear readers, that Alice brutally murdered Jim.  It is true that she did the deed while he was washing the dishes.  (This is not as odd as you may think.  Jim actually enjoyed doing the dishes for whatever reason.  To him, it was not a chore.)  It is true that she stabbed Jim with her metal knitting needles a number of times and that it was quite messy.  It is true that she dragged him back to his favorite armchair and sat him up on it with his favorite book resting open on his lap.  It is true that she was indeed knitting with the same needles that she had just used to commit the heinous crime when the police found her, investigating after the neighbors claimed they heard screaming.

This is all true and most of this you probably knew if you watched Channel 9.  (As I said, they were the most accurate.)  But that is not what is the most interesting about this whole happening.  The most fascinating thing about this whole affair is what she was knitting.  When the police entered after being let in by Alice, she sat down and, as they looked on in horror, finished putting the last stitch in her project.  Mittens.  For Jim.  Presumably for winter.  Except Alice and Jim lived in southwestern New Mexico.  Now as any knitter will tell you, mittens take time.  What could possibly have possessed her to knit mittens?

Author’s Note:

Some of my readers may be somewhat surprised by this particular story.  Some may be disgusted.  Some may wonder what strange being has possessed me.  (I have to admit that I am somewhat nervous as to what the in-laws will think).  Now whether you enjoyed the story or not, I do feel a need to explain my intentions with this piece.  As someone who strives to one day possibly write for a living, I believe it is important to explore different avenues of expression.  In this instance, I wanted to create a couple of interesting characters in a very short story that were fascinating for different reasons.  And if I can surprise the reader at the end then that is good too.  Overall, this was really an exercise for me to explore character development on multiple levels in a short piece.  I not only wanted to briefly look at the “normal” relationship between the husband and wife but the narrator’s fascination with this case.  In the end, I am hopeful that people gleaned some level of understanding as to who the characters were, both in the story, and the one telling the story.

I promise I am not crazy!  Just ask my mother about my freshman year history story that had some wondering whether I should be seeing the school’s psychiatrist!  As for the in-laws, here’s hoping they let me come home for Christmas!

You are at the correct site (unless you aren’t)

Dear readers.  Fret not.  You are now reading my new blog, American Idle.  It looks different.  There will be more changes coming.  But fear not, for not only are you going to be getting new content, but you will also be getting short stories, poems, maybe some gross limericks, and whatever the heck else I feel like posting!

I would appreciate a moment of silence for Kennywood.                      There.  It was fun.  But it probably won’t be missed too much.

Contradictions

Contradictions.  Here are some of my favorites.

There is something in Los Angeles called the LA River.  Everytime I have driven over this so called “river” there has been little more than a thin stream of stagnant water that may or may not be feral cat urine.  To call this a river is an awesome contradiction.  Back when I lived in Sussex, NJ we had something similar.  It was Clove Lake that was little more than a hole in the ground with trees and long grass growing in it.  At least LA had the sense to fill their river bed in with concrete.

Another great contradiction are commercials for 3D TV’s that play on regular TV’s.  Not only do they tell you about the televisions, but they actually mimic the look of 3D TV’s by creating a sense of depth that we can perceive even on our non-3D TV’s.  Why do I need a 3D TV when I can perceive depth on my non-3D TV?

A blog post would not be complete without a sport’s reference.  Here’s an awesome contradiction in sports.  The Boston Red Sox decided this offseason to build a team on pitching and defense and not worry so much about run production.  This is like a basketball team deciding it will focus on great defense and being awesome at passing but won’t worry about shooting.  Needless to say, the Red Sox have generally failed in most of these areas.  Sure this may not actually be a great contradiction but any chance I can get to bust on the Red Sox is an opportunity not to be missed.

So you may be wondering why I am writing about contradictions?  I chose this subject because I have been what you could call the Great Contradicter.  I promised to write more and I have failed to deliver.  I am calling this a contradiction because I like to think that I didn’t actually lie to you.  I had every intention to write more.  I could make excuses.  I had friends from the East Coast visit recently and then spent a weekend celebrating my one year anniversary.  Also, many of you may not know that I recently had a kidney transplant.  (If you believe that, I know this great river in LA that you and I can go kayaking on.)  Well I am no longer going to make any sort of promises.  I am planning on starting a new blog that will be categorized a little differently.  I am hoping it will allow me to write shorter posts and longer posts about a variety of topics in a number of categories.  I am also hoping to possibly publish some short stories or other writings here for your entertainment.  Do I have a time frame for this?  Sure.  Does that mean I will deliver on time?  No.  But it could happen.  I am not going to tell you my time frame so you’ll never be the wiser.

Text your friends about this post!!

Is modern communication technology dumbing down America?  Is text messaging, instant messaging, automatic spell checker, and whatever else making ours and future generations dumber? Well I guess that depends on what your definition of dumber is.  If by dumber you mean less reading, writing, and grammatical skills because of this new(er) technology then I guess you would agree with me that it probably is.  If you don’t consider that dumber then go ahead and lol at me.  Text your friends. “WTF up wit kennywood.  i not dumber cuz i txt.”

For those of you who are still with me, allow me to explore this phenomenon a little more in depth.  First let me speak from personal experience.  For one, I have not become a better writer or reader because I know how to instant message or text.  The only fringe benefit that I have found is the fact that I can type faster.  Of course, this was nice since I no longer had to sit at a computer with a typing program that insulted me whenever I made a mistake.  Modern technology like spell checker has actually made me a worse speller than I used to be.  I used to be pretty good.  Now I suck.  I commonly find myself forgetting how to spell words because the computer will either automatically fix them for me or put a little squiggly line under them.  It bothers me.  Back in the day, if i did not know how to spell a word I would ask my dad.  He would tell me to go look it up in the dictionary, supposedly to help me learn.  Maybe, but sometimes I think he just didn’t know how to spell it either.  If I asked my mom she would make me go through it phonetically until I figured it out.  I had a frustrating childhood.  But looking back, these actions did help me to become a pretty good speller and now I feel as if I have lost some of that because of my computer spell-check.

Now that is only my personal experience.  What about some empirical evidence?  Well here ya go.  Did you know that national grades in grammar and spelling have declined in the past 5 years?  Did you also know that I completely made that statistic up, and yet you probably nodded your head and said “That’s not surprising.”

Now I guess opinions on this depend on how much you buy into Marshall Mcluhan’s theory that the medium is the message.  In college, as a communication major, I did briefly explore Mcluhan’s theories and found them rather fascinating.  In this instance, I find Mcluhan to be absolutely dead on.  For those of you who are not communication studies students, basically Mcluhan proposed that the content of a medium is less significant than the actual medium and its overall effect on society.  Texting/instant messaging could not be a more perfect example.  Let’s be honest, how much profoundly significant content is spread through text messages and IM?  Last time I checked people like Dickens and God had not written their famous works through text messaging.  But what about the profound effect of the medium on society?  We now have non-words like “lol” and  “j/k” as big parts of our “language.”  We have kids and even adults who are literally glued to their phones for fear of missing a text.  I didn’t read the story but there was a news report concerning texting addiction.  Call me crazy but I hardly think that these shifts are making anyone smarter.  If anything, they must be making people dumber.  Try to look at this from more of an outsider’s POV.  We walk around with tiny electronic devices in our pockets that ring or buzz whenever someone wants to get in touch with us and we simply insist on being able to reply immediately to that text of “wat r u up to?”.  I’m LMAO at how silly we human beings can be sometimes.

On a completely, well slightly related side note, you should understand that in the scheme of things what I’ve written here is not really all that important.  What is important is that blogs like this and the internet in general is something of a democratizing force that allows for anyone to express their opinion, whatever that may be. (Except maybe in China).   Eat your heart out Marshall.  I would love to see a Marshall Mcluhan blog where all he ever says is how unimportant the content of his blog really is.