A letter to Senator Owen Johnson

Senator Johnson-

I have to say I haven't paid much attention to this job until today, although I have always been moderately aware of the votes and issues on the floor. But your vote against allowing gays to marry has provoked me.

Mr. Johnson, tear off that pin!

First of all, I am very uncomfortable with you budding into our lives in this manner, and although I am not gay, I feel this as an intrusion into the homes and lives of every human being. That government should decide how to legislate partnership, marriage, and the ideal family smacks of great arrogance and foolishness, as well as great naiveté. For this alone, I do not want anyone working in government who believes they have the right to do this. These are people who are against human rights, and are actively trying to wound another person, who is not asking you to marry them, just to leave them to their own life.

If your argument was for the sanctity of marriage, that has no merit in a society where half of all marriages (between a man and a woman) end in divorce. There is no sanctity here, and again the state getting involved with legislation is egregious and goes against the experiment that is our great democracy.

If this is a question of party unity, then this vote only states unequivocally that the republican party is against human rights, which I hope is not true, but I only have your vote to go by. Perhaps when you or your spouse is on their deathbed, someone might deprive you the right to sit by their side and to share their last moments, due to you not having a legitimate right to even get in the room.

Unless I see a change in vote, it does not matter where you stand on any other issue, as this is a matter for which this country is based, and for which wars have been fought, the right for person to be treated as a legitimate human being, which you obviously oppose. I will work and vote against you in the next election, and encourage everyone I know to do the same.

Consider this the next time you decide to "stand together." What are you really standing against?

Sincerely,William Daniels

For a complete record of the vote go here: NY Times vote

Parts of the Hole

Went to a deli today, and the "Sandwich Wizards" behind the counter were wearing blue tie dye shirts that had the name across the breast, and the swirls emanating out from a dark blue circle. I offered that the color suggested a black hole, and that they were absorbing all the available light within the deli and the surrounding cosmos.

A dramatic reenactment with

dramatic sideburns and

a dramatic collar.

The Wizard(ess?) laughed not politely, but genuinely, yet with an eyebrow raised in a familiar manner. I wouldn't have mentioned it to her if I hadn't already been aware that she had a good sense of humor. My comment didn't offer up any great laughter, but I escaped without dead silence haunting me.

I did well enough, by my calculation. as I had pointed out something to a strange woman that was displayed across her front, without drawing creepy attention to the breasts (They're always there, we men are aware, even when obscured by fabric or other drapery). This allowed me to at least direct her toward my impression without intruding too far into her world. And I moved on when the moment was over, intuitively, so I didn't feel a rising embarrassment at having manufactured myself the fool. Still, probably not worth doing, but for some reason, I believe my insights are worth sharing, like this blog. Highly illogical, notes my inner Spock.

Incidentally, I called her a "Wizard" out of a kind of respect that her job is of value to me, and also that I think terms like "diva" and "pornstar" are overused. She did not look like Gandalf the White or Grey, nor did she have signs of an Adam's apple. I wonder if Bill Gates owns that word.

At the Apple Store, they have sales people roaming around that are titled "geniuses." This annoys the crap out of me, so I find it useful to peruse the latest I-phones and Macbooks when I am feeling blocked up. I guess it's more likely than Apple "Worms" or "Fungi." Oh, come on, "Worms" would have been awesome! I'd quit my job for their pittance in order to have a job title "Worm." Wussies!

I once heard it said, by someone I thought of as brilliant, that the word "Genius" was overused, and that this "Genius" had only met one true "Genius" in his life. I thought this over, and I have to agree that at least the superlative has lost some power. But I also love to discover intelligences in people that are often ignored. To make a sandwich well is a skill, and requires a discipline that I do not possess. I worked in a Subway-type establishment in college and could never remember the sandwich orders, or keep my mind on what I was doing, and I can say I have a fairly good memory, and a good ability to concentrate on detail. This was just something outside of my grasp.

Work at Apple, or Subway? Maybe for a million dollars!

I worked as a carpenter's helper for a short time in my early twenties. The master carpenter needed me to keep the beams and planks ready for when he was fixing them in place. He wanted each piece handed to him "bow out." He told me every piece of wood has an arc to it, that the wood will naturally bend like this even after it is cut, as it is in the living structure of the wood. The carpenter would deftly build things with adjoining or layered pieces of wood bowing the same direction, to provide a more uniform swelling and shrinking with age and seasons.

I had trouble seeing this bend unless it was pretty exaggerated, in which case he might not be able to use it. After awhile of him affirming my correct guesses at the direction of the bow, I started to get better and better at it, to the point where I was always correct. I noticed I could guess correctly sooner than I could consciously see the bend, and trusted that there was a feel to it. Eventually, I learned to see it as plainly as I could identify colors, but this learning fascinated me. These craftsmen were relying on a sense that most of us simply ignored, and didn't talk about it after I had learned it again. How many more things were they sensing?

These Carpenters gave me a reason to saw wood. Unless you consider these poses to be defensive in nature. Who would attack these nymph-like creatures?

So, I have to assume the sandwich wizards have some insights I don't. Thoughts about black holes are apparently not incorporated into the wizard world view at this deli. And why not? (The Suffolk Life, a recently defunct local weekly, used to end all of their editorials with this, whether it made sense or not. I believe it mirrored the mission statement of the paper, but it's not nice to speak ill of the dead). Anyway back to the black hole and the ladies who wear them.

Commonalities:

Who says nature abhors a vacuum?

My son Evan (who is autistic) is oblivious to the stereotypes ascribed to Autists (the British use this term, and I like it's proximity to Artist). He does have trouble filtering out some of the things he senses, and has alerted me to many things in my surrounding world that I had previously dismissed or simply missed. I feel privileged to be able to witness the senses he will cultivate in the future, as he is clearly not fettered by the social limitations most of the rest of us experience. I already hear him at the piano mining the C & E notes for some tonalities I'm sure I had missed before, and even miss now at 6 AM. Things can draw him in like cleavage, or black holes, and he doesn't mind. He doesn't have my value judgements about tastes and flavors, which I find fascinating and disgusting, depending on how much sleep I've gotten.

Artist rendition of what Evan sees when family comes to visit.

Evan seems to experience a synethsesia when it comes to many things, when he experiences something with one sense through another. There are quite a few artists who are reported to have been synesthetes, among them Rilke (he felt words as a very kinesthetic experience, and his writing clearly reflects this). I have heard interviews with a pianist who has discreet visual experiences with each note, and so has been verified to have a visual perfect pitch. It's said we are all synesthetes as infants and we seem to lose the ability, or perhaps learn to ignore it. I think that's more likely, the way a toddler might respond to a jet flying overhead that we have long ago pressed the mute button on. Ah, yes, I hear it now.

Can you hear/see me now?

Evan will see something and need to taste the object in order to know it. It does not seem to me like a compulsion, rather than an fascination to the possible taste of something with a specific appearance.We can relate possibly in the confusion we experienced as children, when things like play-do and glue did not taste the way they smelled. He is unswerved by this disparity, and continues to seek out the scent in the eating of these things (and shaving cream, and soaps, and some things I will omit). He does not make a face of disgust over almost anything, and if he is not pleased by something, he hands it to me, or uses my shirt to wipe it from his tongue. When he hands me the thing, he looks me in the eye as if to observe me like the alien I must be (See above rendition).

It seems that one aspect of autism that I have noted was a difficulty with classing objects, at least in my son's case. Perhaps it is not a difficulty but a difference. Perhaps the classifications are not related in ways that are typical to most of us, or anyone who might read this. But I don't think these classifications or associations should necessarily be discounted. I refer to Einstein's seemingly intuitive leap toward a cohesive theory on Relativity, or Hawking's thoughts on black holes. My son may sense things seemingly more mundane than great theories, but he pays attention to sounds and sights I don't in a way that seem very profound and important to him. Considering our myopia concerning global warming and other resources, including the resourcefulness of humans, perhaps alien experience is a necessary component of the species as a whole.

Focus, People!

We want the Holly Dolly!

In most diners around Long Island and the rest of the New York suburbs, the waiting areas are filled with various arcade games, including astrological predictions and the love-o-meter.  Typically there is a game with a claw and a bunch of sub-par stuffed animals, all tucked in just enough to suck quarters out of the pockets of parents and late night drunken clientele.  They’ve recently added a vacuum attachment that sucks in paper currency.  The claw reaches down and only half-heartedly takes a swipe at the prizes is weak in its grip as it is in its resolve.  I sometimes simply reach into my pocket and deposit the contents into the garbage bin nearby to get the same results that machine gives me in order to spare a few minutes more to my miserable existence.

 

Who needs innuendo when two bits can bring

you a deeper truth?

There is a children’s show on the Noggin channel named "Wa Wa Wubbzy", and the title character’s was unable to win a prize in this arcade machine, a Hammering Holly Dolly that he/she (not sure if the gender is even relevant) was trying to win for his mechanically inclined friend Widget. 

Wa Wa Chubbzy

 

My son Kieran was reminded of this when he saw a machine in a local diner, and my wife was able to win a prize for him on the first or second try.  I knew this would not bode well for me, and it’s turned out to be the case.  This kind of beginner’s success would distort Kieran’s perception of odd’s to bring about bitter disappointment for the rest of his life, I fear.

Can't touch this.

I have never won a thing from those “Holly Dolly Machines,” and I did not expect to get better at it in the future.  I have a friend who has frequent success with them, to the point where his wife is bored with his prize-winning ability, as well as his prize-winning smile.  My son was fixated by these games, and it was not setting up well for me in my role as the hero I was aspiring to be (at least in Kieran’s eyes.) 

I have managed avoiding breaking my son’s heart to some extent so far, finding a game that offers the contestant to “play till you win”  (this is typically jawbreakers, hard candy, small bottles of bleach, kid safety items that belong in these child friendly environments we frequent of late).  I am also able to distract him somewhat, to my relief.  But sometimes we are confronted with the Holly Dolly that offers no easy out. I have not even come close with any of these evil machines, watching lesser men, women, and even children walking off with small basketballs, stuffed animals, and laptops, while I dig futilely in my pockets for more quarters or similarly shaped and textured pocket lint.  I’ve heard whispers among the toothpicks and breath mints that when this machine talks to the Lov-O-meter, it refers to me as “my bitch.” 

Years from now, when Kieran is in therapy, if that still exists when he’s ready to heal his inner trouble maker, perhaps he might explore the disappointment that I never won him anything, and this machine would sit in the middle of his discourse, filled to the brim with toys I could not win him. 

I had always assumed it was nude

In the early nineties I spent a good bit of time exploring the concepts of “toxic shame” and “inner healing.”  I bought into this so thoroughly that I sought out only shampoos and conditioners that were willing to heal my “damaged and overworked hair.”   I assumed that since I was wounded that would apply to my scalp and follicles as well, even though I wasn’t sure what work my hair was performing.  It’s not like I ever saw any W2 forms.

The Good Ol’ Days: Hair before the invention of an interior life. Sometimes a split end is just a split end.

 

Between all the extensive spiritual and mental healing, I had to pay the bills (my freeloading hair was not kicking in a red cent).   I worked on a construction survey crew for my family’s business. To pass the time on our travel between job site, I would talk quite openly with a skeptical co-worker named Paul.  Paul had a way of being understatedly funny and subversive in a single stroke of his sarcastic brush. I loved the economy of it and enjoyed laughing and being shocked in the same moment.

We drove to work one morning during this time and it was typically quiet between us on the early morning commute.  About a half hour into the heavy traffic, Paul broke the silence with what sounded like an observation and a confession. 

‘I undressed my inner child last night,” he quietly offered.

 I spent the rest of the commute laughing to myself, and thinking of how many people in my healing “community would be shocked and newly rewounded by such a comment.

There is an assumption in all of this, I realize, and this realization comes to me often enough for my wife to disagree with my understanding of it.  Watching my son shift through his various burgeoning interests, this Holly Dolly fervor will probably pass the way of the seasons or his moods, and perhaps people will not care about that inner child joke, although I doubt that.  Inner child work is fragile and serious, like an unexpected bowel movement.  There is an urgency to it that is best addressed in a protected environment. 

Paul and his inner Carmen Electra.  It makes the undressing so much more palatable, don’t you think? Philosophy example- Tautology:  Paul is bearded, this fellow is bearded, therefore Carmen Electra could arouse this fellow out of his lobotomized stupor.  He is, after all, covering up the truth telling genitalia.

 

My Inner Kirk may have Shatnered, but I doubt he was circling Uranus.

I did some soul-searching as a child and had an unpleasant discovery.   What surprised me almost as much as this dramatization was that my inner old man wore sunglasses.  

I think I busted my inner hip on this contraption.

What?  I wasn’t paying attention.

People, I believe, are not thinking that much about one another.  I was involved with a weekly discussion group years ago that explored specific topics each week, and the following week we were to offer our thoughts on who or what had impressed us the most specifically.  Initially, I was hoping my ideas and thoughts would always impress people to the point that we would forgo a new topic and explore my compelling insights.  But after we went several weeks without my input being mentioned by a single person, I found myself strangely relieved.  So people were not only not thinking about me all the time, they didn’t even notice me.  I felt as if I was off the hook.  I’m not even sure for what.  I am more invisible than I think, and consequently, more free.

My wife suggests that I am wrong on this point, and it is particularly for acts or comments we may have forgotten that may be living lives independent to ourselves.  At her mother’s funeral a few years back, a woman came up to my wife and mentioned that she remembers vividly a time that my wife’s mother had scolded her sharply to do her own laundry (My mother-in-law had been washing this woman’s laundry for years and had enjoyed it and the woman’s company for many years, until she could no longer do it because of aging and her health.).  Although the scolding was years in the past, and despite the fact that her mother spoke fondly of this woman, it was this scolding and not the companionship the women mentioned to offer her memories to my wife in comfort. 

My wife’s mother had found it increasingly difficult to do as she got older, and really was struggling with how to tell her friend this.  It simply was held in too long, and when she made her sharp comments, it left a permanent mark on the other woman.   I can’t help but think that even after these many years that the proper telling of the inner workings of my mother-in-law could have melted away this version of history.  If this woman knew the fondness my mother-in-law had for this woman, that she liked her enough to wash her clothes in order to enjoy her company more fully, that surely might have washed away like the water under the bridge.  Both the bitterness and a healed memory contradict my original belief about how we don’t even notice one another sometimes, but perhaps there is a better point to make.

The second guessing and self-recrimination are not very useful or enjoyable.  To obsess on the effect we are having causes an echolalia in our experience, that confuses us and takes us out of the moment more than we admit. To double think everything in order to protect our image is wasted energy that more often or not is not even necessary.  Even if we tried to control our effect on the world around us, we can’t guarantee the outcome.  To be stuttering through our existence is no way to use the grace that comes with trusting and acting with clearer purpose. The trick is to put this theory into practice.  You’re on your own with that key component.

Two Monks Walk into a Bar…

There is a traditional fable I have heard about two Buddhist monks walking along a road until they come to a river they must cross.  There is a man there also wanting to cross, but who claims he is unable to because he doesn’t not know how to swim.  One of the monks carries him across and deposits him on the opposite bank. The two continue on without the man, walking in silence (much like my coworker and I in our commute, except we were in a Kharmic minivan). Some time passes, and the second monk voices his displeasure about the man who his companion carried across, when swimming turned out unnecessary.  The river could be waded across with little trouble.  He suspected the man simply did not want to get wet, and this was infuriating to the second monk.  The first monk looked at his friend and said, “I have put that man down a mile back, why do you still need to carry him?”

Monks: No Passengers

Great story I think, ignoring the fact that I will never be the monk to let this kind of thing go.  I not only carry that man well past the river, he had to climb on top of the other hundred resentments I forgot to put down.  Where’s the chiropractor in this old yarn, anyway? 

My own version of this Fable is one involving my younger brother Terry.  We were working together in Nassau County, Long Island.  They were raising the roads and sidewalks in this low-land working class community near the shore.  The lots were so small that one could walk on the sidewalk and hear the television, arguments, and surprisingly, the chirping of a pet squirrel.  The front door of that tiny house had an embroidered potholder hung on it, with the words, “I love squirrels” hand sewn on it and the silhouette of boxy looking squirrel to boot.  It was mid summer, and every day a heavy, untidy old woman would lumber up to any of the work crews and begin a conversation warning us about the dangers of sunburn.  Despite telling her repeatedly that we wore plenty of sunscreen, the woman would protest with “I’m just saying…” and add some detail or other about putting on lotion.  She didn’t seem to heed this advice herself, wearing a soiled lookings torn sweatshirt styled in manner of Jennifer Beals in the 80’s film “Flashdance”   This not only completely exposed her shoulders, but the garment too readily offered up a courtside view of pendulous breasts that needed as much washing as her hair and skewed remaining teeth.   I was too busy trying not to screw up my calculations about the roadwork to listen to her for very long, and usually I walked away from the woman almost before she was done talking.  The odor was challenging, to say the least.    The other crews took to actively ridiculing her, calling her a “Swamp Thing” which seemed a bit harsh to me, even if it was not entirely inaccurate.

My brother Terry came to work with me for a couple weeks, in between projects, and while I was preparing for our field work, I looked up a couple times to see him talking to this woman, interestedly.  When one day she sauntered off back to her squirrel house, I realized that Terry was the first person I had seen that had actually outlasted this woman in a conversation.  I imagined that she might be plotting to find a way to beat my brother at this game, and that she was scheming even as she lumbered away from us.  

My brother felt this was too complicated a scheme. “Her, she’s probably just thinking about her soup right now.”  I didn’t know it at the time, but I often catch myself concocting conspiracy theories, only to remember this woman and Terry’s opinion about her thoughts.  I would have to agree with him that more often than not, people seemed to have lost interest in the dramas I observe, and are now just thinking about their soup.

 To be fair, this squirrel was quite talented.  

Waterskis are so passé.

Post Script-The Foul-mouthed Space Invaders

I’m reminded of one more story about the machines in diners, and this involves a diner just outside of Kennedy Airport.  Our family business would provide survey work for the Port Authority, and we were always working on one part of Kennedy Airport or another.  When they paved the runways, we were required to stay nearby when they worked to be ready the moment they finished a pass with the paving machine.  This work was often done at night, and there were long stretches when we would go to the diner to juice up on caffeine and wait for our next bit of work. Before he found his calling as a teacher,  my youngest brother worked with us, and he was particularly wild in his late teens and early twenties. Tim joined us during his summers to make a little more money than he might earn flipping burgers.  He spent a lot of this down time playing the video game they had in the diner, and did not hold back from exclaiming his frustration every time he did poorly issuing forth loud bouquets of colorful obscenities.  After he ran out of quarters, Tim joined us at the booth, and the waitress came over to refill our coffee. 

“I never realized how foul the language in these games had become.  I’m going to mention it to the manager.  These machines really gotten out of hand these days.”

The waitress said this earnestly and without a trace of irony.  Tim did not miss a beat.

“I know,” he agreed solemnly and turning his gaze,  “I was getting embarrassed.” 

 

Talking Shoes

President Bush is ready to get back to baseball, or so I first thought upon changing the channel to CNN this past Sunday night. 

I thought I was watching a sports update.  During what turns out to be a press conference in Iraq earlier in the day, a pair of shoes were flung, one by one, at the head of the departing President of our great land.  The footwear was coming across the plate with a fair bit of heat, but I felt Bush was able to lay off the pitches and avoid the chin music at the same time.  The secret service (the lack of chest protectors clued me in) never allowed it to get to a full count and constrained the pitcher after the second toss.  I am assuming the other throw was done immediately because Bush did not step out of the batters box and so the second shoe was a legal strike.  Baseball is baseball wherever you play it.  

He is most certainly no batter, my friend!

 He is certainly no batter!   

Batter, Batter, 

sweeeng, 

Batter!

The Iraqi president showed his lack of understanding of American sport, and blocked the pitch as if it were a punt. We should no longer be surprised he was drafted in the 2ND round by the Tennessee Titans.  Maliki has never played a game, but did get some great ratings at Scouting Camp.

I thought Maliki didn't understand that Bush knew what he was doing, That the President was only trying to run up the count on the pitcher.  Or so I had imagined. When they turned the camera around on the pedal pusher, all my confusion melted away like a Foxburo fog.

By the look of this scrum on the other side of the room, I'm now more inclined to agree with PM Maliki. There was clearly a blitz on.  (By the way, if Brady's healthy enough to attend a press conference, why wasn't he taking snaps against the Raiders yesterday?)

If Bush had read a book lately (the playbook!) he might have known the ball was coming, actually the shoe was coming, and this could have been the result:

Happy as a pigskin in you-know-what!

 

I suppose if Bush had owned a football team prior to being president, we wouldn't be having this discussion right now.

Alternative **cough** Explanations

So we're at home watching endless reruns of this play, watching George duck over and over, and the newscasters are calling this a "grave insult."  My wife cannot get enough of it, and is overcome with laughter at each new replay.  I wonder what the shoes could signify, and if they are in direct relation to Bush's actions, or the U.S., in some way.  Not knowing enough about Arab culture, and too lazy to do a quick Internet search,  I am left to stew in my imagination.

 Metaphors, I thought, that's what the shoes are!  Consider-

1)      Boots on the ground as the generals were repeating continually at one point, not enough of them in the early going.  This is certainly true, is it worth 2 shoes?  Shouldn't the shoe be a boot, then?

2)      This second suggestion to me seems a bit more likely:  The Bush Iraq policy stinks, and the man throwing the shoes made it a point of wearing old shoes and his socks were for 4 weeks prior to the press conference unchanged.  His urgency might then have come from getting the shoes as far away from himself as soon as possible, and the reporter's revulsion to his own foot odor would overcome any anxieties that were unsteadying his nerves.  Forcing a point of no return is a good way to compel one forward, I think.

3)      Perhaps he is proud of the new democracy in Iraq, and thinks Bush is a "shoe-in" for the Nobel Prize.  That might be Bush's interpretation, as that iconic grin never left the president's face, even in the midst of avoiding the flying footwear.  I must admit, however, that the reporter wasn't giving off a convincingly gracious vibe.

Rare company, indeed.

 

Exhausting that line of thinking, I considered if perhaps other pieces of clothing could be used to send different messages:

Glove- 

Maybe this should come from Maliki, and not the reporter.  The Prime Minister could present our Commander in Chief with something symbolizing his gratitude for what Bush had done for his career and family fortune.

Thanks for the cash, brother, now beat it!

 

Bra-

I believe our president could have used more support from the European Union.  Why else was he trying to take Chancellor Merkel's bra off?

"George, I've already told you, you're no Vladimir." 

Note:  that guy on the left is sooo jealous right now!

Jumpsuit-

Here's a chance to tidy up the country  by removing useless and unneeded items.

as seen on e-bay.iraq

 

Panties-

I know he's no Tom Jones, but this would be a major sign of respect.  Have you ever tried to get panties off anyone from a strict religious background?  Not that I'm suggesting that reporter was wearing panties, mind you. Let us for the sake of discussion imagine these quantumly possible delicates were thrown voluntarily, perhaps even with a sense of naive glee.   

Hmmm…. 

Another way to "Air it out"

Sister Batrille and a thong was not something that has occurred to me before, but I'm willing to consider it.   Perhaps a sort of sexual palate cleansing sorbet to rinse the taste of Mother Theresa and Angela Merkel's bra being undone.   

I can't say I ever imagined there was anything under there requiring undergarments when I sat in Sister Mary Noel's class, listening to the Sound of Music.  That music will cause me even today to flinch and count to 500 by 5's despite my best efforts to stop myself.

After a little googling and ogling,  I got some insight into the whole loafer tossing crisis.  I imagine the shoes are a sign of very specific signalling of disrespect that I imagine will be lost on our President.  The feet are thought to be unclean in Islamic culture, which would be logical enough considering the heat in the middle east, but Muslims go so far as to make the point by washing their feet prior to entering places of prayer.  I understand that it may be important to the reporter to make a point to the rest of the world, but his anger seemed very pointed and specific toward George W. Bush.  Perhaps something to wear while clearing brush would have driven the point home with more of a personal message:

Or is that too wordy? 

 

 

 

 

Thwithle, or the Tale of the Surveyor’s Daughter

Here's a little story which teaches us all something very important, indeed.

A version recorded in 1918 by Dr. Newton K. Murray in his “Appalachian Bulldinky and other Horse Ploppery” was rediscovered recently.   

For no good or apparent reason, a Surveyor’s daughter was locked in a basement office and told that she had three days to complete the Certified Payroll or be torn asunder.  

The maiden wept and crowed loudly, “Alas, I cannot do this thing, and fear I will be killt.  I would give my first-born to have these completed by someone else.”  

 She was fair and cursed with a stitch in the spine from previous payrolls, and so was sore afeard for her humble and underpaid life.  However, almost at the instant of her resigned utterance, a swarthy elf leapt from a deep pit behind her desk. This creature exclaimed:

“I can do yer payroll, lady

But ye must pay my fee

I will have a roasted brew

And it shall be for free.”

The fair daughter thought this was not unreasonable, and so contracted the elf to complete this task. She steeped a pot of Chai tea to keep her self busy, and was soon asleep, dreaming of possible bargains at target.com. The girl awoke to a banging at the door by the local constable who stopped in not infrequently to foul the toilet.  She looked in her outbox to find the payroll was printed out and faxed.   The constable had a nasty habit of tobacco chewing, which the girl tried to ignore.   He reached over the empty tea cup and spit out a nice juicy brown slug. 

******

The following day, Surveyor's daughter was commanded to go through the review the billable hours to account for missing Union payroll by the unseen forces she called her "employers."  She was to complete this in 24 hours, or her fair head would be lopped from her shoulders. 

She teared up and began to wail (not quietly),

“Alas, I canno do this thing, and fear I will be killt.  I would give my first-born to have these completed by someone else.”  

The elf leapt from the afore-mentioned pit, and calmly suggested that she might refrain from the melodrama, as it hurt his ears to hear it.  He exclaimed

“I can find these hidden hours, lady,

But ye must first agree

To bake some cookies Nestle filled

And bring them straight to me”

She could do that.  

“No problem, Elfie.   In a jif.”

 She ran up to the kitchen above and cooked up a batch of the precious treats.   The chai tea was soon steeped and she was fast asleep.  When she awoke to the constable's “Yo!!"  bellowing in her ears, she found the billable hours documented and finished, and an empty Tupperware bowl containing not one crumb.  The constable tried to spit in this as well, but she would not have it,

and shooed him from the room, swatting his leathery hand as she locked herself in. 

******

The third day she got a call from the all of the insurance companies asking for whatever the hell it was they usually needed. The now boiler-plate threat of death was dangled before her, with some other mind-dullingly uninteresting form of dismemberment offered.   

She began the same plaintive wail, “Alas, I cannot do this thing, and fear I will be killt.  I would give my first-born to have these ....”  

 and before she could snort a second time, the elf had leapt before the desk. 

“Enough! I get it.”  The elf covered his pointy ears.

“You got the part about giving my first born away?”

“Whatever.  Don’t really need a baby, but what the heck, I hear they make a nice stew.”

He licked his lips almost imperceptively, as if imagining what spices to sprinkle into the stew.  Marjoram was an interesting choice, and he'd always had a special place for cumin.  His eyes rolled in a dizzying fashion and his tongue dashed about his lips and nostrils.

The Surveyor's daughter was quite impressed, but feigned indifference, yawning and staring at the tips of her fingers. “So you’ll do it?”                                                                                             

The elf then began a little dance as his grin broadened.  

Oh, did I mention he had cute little shoes?  

They weren’t easy to dance in, let me tell you.

“I can do yer insurance forms,

And take yer little one,

It’s not as if I need the kid

I’d much prefer some chewing gum”

She found herself sprawled face down across the desk, having fallen asleep again. The constable was leaning in, acutely oblivious to her personal space.  The smell of tobacco dip and spit was strong in the air.  Then the phone rang.  It was the owner of the business. 

“Hello, fair maiden. I suppose you can go home now.”

The Surveyor's daughter dabbed at the drool at the corner of her fair mouth.  “Really?”

There was a pause, and then," Sure, why not? I’ll expect you at 8.00am sharp.”

The constable had already grabbed a magazine from the waiting area and headed into the crapper.  The eruptions were almost palpable in the lobby.

******

Before you could click two fancy little heels together, our maiden was in the delivery room. We shall surmise that she managed to get pregnant in order to get herself put into this position, and that even the paternity was of no great importance to our tale.  When the Surveyor's daughter went to get the baby from the nursery, she saw the elf inside, talking to Nurse Dawn the local nurse, and lifting the little knit cap.

“... Ye don't say!  Well, which part is the most tender, Nurse?” The elf recalled the diagram of the cow at the butcher shop, labeling the various cuts.

The nurse thought this over and then prodded the infant with a thermometer.

“I’ve always favored the thighs.  Look at those meaty little drumsticks!”

The Surveyor’s daughter’s jaw dropped. 

“Get away from my baby!” She shrieked. Both heads whipped toward the door, while Nurse Dawn blushed and covered her mouth.  The elf was non-plussed.

“I think this is not yer situation to command, Lady.  I’ve got a broth going and ye’ve got a deal to keep.”

“I’ll give you anything.  Take one of the other kids at my house; they’re both weaned, and corn-fed."  She was particularly tired of the girl as she had been quite disrespectful as of late.  "Do you need a survey done?  My husband can tile your kitchen for you, for just above cost!”

“Hmm, Let me think....hmmm...”

 He paused and began to gently dig into his left nostril. Jackpot! There must be two or three good nuggets up there!

“...um..No.  Don’t think so.  I'm takin’ the kid.  Nice working with you, though.” 

He reached tenderly into the crib with his unwiped hands.

 “...so cute... such a shame, I’m hungrier than I thought."

“There’s nothing?”

 The maiden felt the panic rising up the back of her fair neck.

“Well, ya know, there is one thing...for some strange reason; I love it when people guess my name. Don't ask me why, guess I'm just drawn this way.”

“That’s completely f***ed up!” The words ejaculated loudly out before she could hold her sassy tongue. The maiden covered her fair and yet surprisingly foul mouth.  The elf only raised his eyebrow in a curious manner, as he had seen Mr. Spock do so often in syndication.

“Isn’t it? Well,

I’ll give ye days numbered three

To guess my name right that’s the deal

With one guess each day to give to me

Or this kid becomes my evening meal.”

Nurse Dawn looked quizzically at the elf, and then spotted his shoes.

 “Say, those are nice," said the nurse. "Do they have them in white?”

“Planning on having any more kids, nursy,  or would you like to try some other payment plan?”

“Stick a fork in me, I’m done!"  She patted her Koga-flattened belly. This thing was finally starting to play like the drum those little buggers had stolen from her. "I love the shoes, don't get me wrong, but they ain't worth my man's wandering eyes."

The elf considered this. “How about a Juicy Fruit gum? I find that delicious stick a tasty treat to die for."

The nurse rummaged around her a room-sized handbag. "All I have is Altoid's.  They're curiously strong, don't you know?.” She reached into her pocket.  The elf put his crooked hand on her wrist to stop her.  He would have none of it.

“Meet me tomorrow at this woman's office. at the long stroke of midnight.  If ye bring yer Juicy Fuit, ye shall have your shoes.  What are ye, around a 6 ½?”

“You do have a way, don’t you?”  The blushing nurse winked at the troll and let her gaze scan his gnarled and ruddy form thoughtfully.  She gave a satisfied,  "mmmph!"  then flung another soiled nappy into the waste bin.  

******

The Surveyor’s daughter went back to the office (the baby, and her husband were by this time at home, conveniently enough for this story, which predates TiVo). She tried and tried, but could not imagine what the elf’s name might be.  Coming up with nothing, she went to the Target.com and picked out some nice “Holiday” gifts for herself.  As the hour approached midnight, she found herself struggling to keep awake.  The fair one contented herself with a cup of chai tea that had an exotic tobacco tinge to it.  There was a sound at the door.  It was Nurse Dawn.

“This place is hard to find.”  She shook the snow from her frock and white hat.

“I wouldn’t know” The maiden answered frostily.  She kept her eyes on the screen.  These bargains were not to be missed.  She almost forgot why she was there, when her eyes caught a blur, and something leaped up from below.

“Where’s the gum, Nurse?”  The elf stuck out his claw.

The nurse did not miss a beat. “Shoes first.”

He pulled the shoes from beneath his hat.

“Okay, then, together on three. One, two....”

The nurse looked doubtful. “You said white.  These are almost pumpkin colored.”

“Ye think it’s easy to read a pantone chart in a dark hole?  Take the shoes an be gone! ye ungrateful wench!”

 He waved at her threateningly, but did quietly accept the gum that was offered with his outstretched, bewarted arm.

The nurse slowly took the shoes, shrugged and closed the door behind her. 

The elf turned toward the maiden.  He tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently.

“Hold on, I’m just putting in the shipping address.”

She waved her hand without looking up.

“Do ye have yer guess, or don’t ye?  I don’t have all night.  Yer early on my evil trade rounds.” He looked at his evil watch.

“Can I have a hint?  It’s still a shot in the dark.”  She was frantic.

“I’ll give ye two.  There are three syllables and it sounds like something ye might blow.”

“Oh, my!”  The maiden feigned mock surprise, but was secretly intrigued.  She covered her mouth not only for affect, but to cover the smile that was creeping across her lips.  She hoped he would not see.  She was not so innocent as the term “Surveyor’s daughter” might imply.  She had an idea.

“Is your name Saxophone?”

“Is that your final answer?  Sure you don’t want to use a lifeline?”

“I’m sure.” She wasn’t, but managed to answer evenly enough.  She waited as the elf took a deep breath.

“Oh,” he began, “I’m sorry. Two more nights. See you then.”  He did a triple somersault backwards into the pit.  The maiden was left alone with her incredible bargains. 

******

The second night she asked for another hint.  The elf thought about it, dancing gleefully as he chose his words.

“I may know payroll, but I also like to work with what some might call ‘a third leg.’ ” 

She was no closer to the truth.  While she thought, the elf wandered about the office and came across a container of Mint Milano cookies.

“Do you mind if I help myself?”

“No,” said the Surveyor’s daughter absentmindedly, for the germ of an idea was beginning to form in her mind.  Meanwhile, the elf continued to munch on the cookie, spraying food liberally about the room. The particles struck the walls and ceiling with a gentle but increasing thwap. 

“Do you have an anthwer?”

“Don’t rush me!”

“Tick, tock, ya don’thttop!  I need an anthwer now!”

 The percussion increased as though someone had aimed a wood chipper straight into the room.  It was getting hard to think, and her nostrils and eyelids were getting clogged and matted.

She blurted out “Is your name Clarinet?”  She forgot to cover her mouth and tasted mint and- was that tobacco again? She thought to herself, Damnit!  Something is familiar here, but she could not put her finger on it through the growing blob of molten sludge.  She had spoken too soon, but at least there was one more night.

“What? That’th the betht you can do?  Thaths Horrendouth!”

 He wiped the globs of food from his lips.

 “Till tomorrow then, fair maiden. And don’t forget the child, or I thall be forthed to come and fetch the thoup thtock mythelf.”

 He reached in for another Mint Milano and inhaled deeply as he chewed, his eyes closing in delight.  When he was done chewing, he wiped again, and with a triple summy with a double toe lutz, he was gone. 

The peace officer burst in through the door.  “Did I hear something?”

“No.  It was just something I had for lunch.”  The Surveyor’s daughter had an idea. “Can you be here tomorrow night, around the same time?”

The constable nodded and looked down at the vile film covering floor.  He shrugged, scratched himself, and headed off to the toilet. 

******

The third night, she had a bundle in a bassinet, and sat at the desk, quietly waiting.  The game of solitaire was going exceedingly well.

“Ye missed the four of diamonds, lass.”  She didn’t turn at the voice of the elf. In a low voice, she said, slowly,“Don’t tell me what to do, you bastard!”

“Yer’re sounding awfully feisty tonight, maiden.  I see ye brought yer baby.  Well, I’ve got the pressure cooker in the trunk of my carriage.  Time for yer last, and probably incorrect guess. Do ye need a clue?”

The surveyor’s daughter glanced at the clock before turning slowly toward the elf.  “No, elf, I don’t think I do need a clue from the likes of you.” She stared him straight in the eye and declared confidently, “Your name is Thwithle.”  The eyes of the elf grew wide.

“How could ye have known that?  Where have ye heard that name before?”

“It was simple.  Have another cookie, Thwithle”

The elf, angry as he was, was no match for Mint Milanos.  He took a bite, and stared down at the cookie, accusingly.

“Oh, I  thee.  Thith thcrumpthiouth delight hath uncovered my thecret identity. Curtheth!”  By now there was an even film of cookie remnants scattered about the room, like freshly fallen snow on a newly frozen pond. The elf turned his eyes, as well as his trajectory, toward the bassinet.  The Surveyor’s daughter waited, calmly.

“Thince the broth ith already thimmering, I thee no reathon why I thouldn’t take thith child, ath ye were very eager to give it away when ye made the deal.” He made no effort to hide the lisp now, as the time for disguises was done.

“That doesn’t matter, as I have correctly guessed your name.  Begone, Thwithle, and darken our doorstep no more.”  The elf rushed toward the bassinet and scooped up the bundle.  He began an intricate and subtle dance in those delightful shoes.  He was better than one might have expected, considering his skill in eating cookies. 

At that very moment, that very instant, the police officer rushed through the door, and ordered the elf to stop.  He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew if he brought the elf in for questioning, he could pinch a loaf at the station house. The constable's momentum at entering the room caused him to slide on the cookie mulch and he slipped, firing a single slug into the chest of the elf as he tumbled into the goo.  The maiden shrieked, not so much out of terror, but more  because that was her thing.

“It doethn’t matter,” cried Thwithle, “bulleth cannot hurt me!” 

But it was a lie, one he had told so often, he had forgotten that detail and begun to believe himself.  All that was over, now.  The bullet had gone clean through, and bits of cookie mulch were beginning to drip into the gaping wound.

The elf began to shrink into the wound as well.  It was as if the bullet had opened a portal into another dimension, one whiched pulled the creature roughly into itself.  The elf grew smaller and smaller, and soon there was nothing left but the excellent shoes.  All around the boots the remaining cookie bits drifted silently to the floor.

The constable lifted himself heavily from the frothy goo, and tried on the shoes.  They fit to a tee. These bucks might look quite sharp with his uniform, he thought to himself.  They were sure to give him a lot of credibility on the boulevard.   

He headed off to the bathroom with a fresh spring in his step.  In a moment the maiden could hear the comforting yet nauseating sounds of intestinal expulsion and splashing water through the wall.  She quit her game of solitaire, quickbooks, and turned off the computer.

The Surveyor’s daughter got up slowly and went over to the decoy bundle to unwrap it.  It was empty except for some faxes with certified payroll requests marked by a single hole through the center.  She had left the baby with the father, just in case. It had probably pooped a few times already, she was glad to have that handled without needing her.   This was no place for a child at this time of night.  She squeegeed the cookie film into the pit, and wouldn't you know it, when it was all swept in and cured, there was not a trace of the hole that had been there these many days.

She locked up the office and headed to Target.  The payroll would have to wait till tomorrow.