Delivering the Mail

I come from a family with very little discretion. We don’t “keep our cards close to our vest”. We don’t “hold our tongue”. There are very few taboo subjects. And this is just the sort of environment in which creative language develops. My brothers and I now have such a rich language for discussing topics that few people even have the words (much less stomachs) to speak of aloud. I’d like to highlight one such topic, which we call Delivering the Mail.

As we age, my brothers and I, fewer things are as greatly prized or held as subjects of pride as a good bowel movement. The topic was introduced about 10 years ago when at a family gathering, someone mentioned being a little “bound up”. I, in my envy… my lust, really, for a firm BM…shouted in my best Tevye-from-Fiddler-on-the-Roof voice “Constipation? May the Lord smite me with it. And may I never recover!”

That was the moment when we all realized that we had been suffering from loose bowels for years. Further discussion revealed that we also suffered from a condition that results from loose bowels that we were terming “Swamp Butt”. That is where our journey begins.

The first order of business was to establish a neutral platform for discussing such a topic. Business, was a possibility. As in “I clogged the toilet yesterday with my business. No toilet paper involved. Just my business.” But it didn’t really take off. Duty was another one that we really liked that persists even today as a secondary dialect.  Duty calls.  Sgt. Brown reporting for duty.  This especially makes truck commercials very funny for us…with terms like Super Duty and Heavy Duty. This is good stuff…oh, and Pay Load makes for a good chuckle from time to time.

But the most enduring, by far, for discussion of our daily constitutional (old school), is in terms of Delivering the Mail. First introduced by my twin brother, Delivering the Mail has become a mainstay of Burnsien gentle BM speak. Consider this mail rating system, for example:

• First-Class Mail (the Holy Grail of all craps). Can be delivered in two categories “Letters and Cards” or “Large Envelopes”. Little or no wiping is required.
• Second-Class Mail. It might start strong, but it ends weak.
• Third-Class. Starts weak, ends weak. (also referred to as Mississippi Mud)
• Fourth-Class. My dad, the most discreet of all of us, evidenced his experience of Fourth-class mail when he said, “I have a touch of dysentery”. (also known as the Cha-Chas).
• Other terms that we favor include: Express Mail, Bulk Mail, and Extra Services (requiring multiple wiping sessions, usually following a Third or Fourth-Class delivery)

Although, our discussion centers around mail, we do still experiment (sometimes to powerful effect) with other idioms. My wife’s contribution (perhaps one of the greatest) was in reference to a fart that sounded like it could have produced a turd when she said “Hey! Don’t throw out the baby with the bath water!”
Idea in development: I’m finding some good possibilities with the way Wines and Spirits are rated. I enjoy terms like “powerful bouquet” and “firm finish”.

Occasionally, I will share my secret love of dooky-lore with my coworker. I exercise extreme caution, usually sharing in the form of a joke. For example, in a team meeting we were discussing software projects. I said, “Ya know, our software projects are kind of like turds. People want them delivered on time. Sometimes we take on too much work and our projects get stuck and take a while to deliver. Sometimes we push them out too soon and they fall apart. But even in the best of circumstances when everything comes out solid and on time, it’s still just a piece of shit.”

I will leave you with this final anecdote. While taking a little trip to the mall with my younger brother, I expressed concern about the unusually large congregation of birds around the mall grounds this winter. I said, “Geez, I hope this doesn’t have something to do with Global Warming.” My brother replied in his cranky old man voice, “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit! And I’ll tell you something else! I haven’t had a decent crap since this whole climate change started!”

Try the Salsa

Tom first noticed her hovering around the breakfast bar as he struggled with the pump on the coffee dispenser. He was not a fan of chatty food service professionals, and he was already struggling to form a game plan to avoid the chit-chat assault that was fast approaching his vicinity. As he reached the juice dispenser he began to glean bits of what he was up against. She wasn’t just chatting, she had an agenda, and it all seemed to center around a bowl of some diminutive form of salsa. It was just a grade above the hot sauce that comes in packets at fast food Mexican restaurants.

He could see a very disturbing pattern forming. She would step out with an empty tray or cruise the hotel dining area for empty plates, then she’d return to the eggs where the salsa was being very prominently displayed. She was watching for something. But for what, he was not quite sure. Then, to his horror, the full agenda of Chatty Cathy the Holiday Inn Express breakfast bar professional, was fully revealed when a woman cautiously reached for salsa. Cathy pounced.

“Ooo, I see you’re trying the salsa with your eggs,” she said with perverse enthusiasm, blocking the buffet line.

“Oh, yes, I saw it there and thought That sounds interesting. I’m going to give it a try.”

“I’d never heard of it myself before just a few weeks ago. It just doesn’t seem like it would be good. I don’t usually like real spicy stuff. But I really got hooked on it. I suggested it to the manager myself.”

Myself.

This word really rang out. It hung in the air like a foul odor. Tom had heard similar words uttered by grocery store baggers, receptionists at doctors’ offices, and interns of any profession … people with big ideas and small positions. This was far worse to Tom than general chattiness. She meant for him try this salsa. She had a son or a nephew who had visited San Antonio or Santa Fe or El Paso or somewhere in the Southwest and who had spooned Pace Picante sauce on her eggs one visit on Christmas or Thanksgiving or something and she was not going to rest until she had spread the gospel of bad salsa on eggs.

How would he get passed this to get to the sausage and biscuits? How would he reach his fruity yogurt and Corn Pops cereal. Corn Pops for Christ sake! This was not the crappy organic cereal that his wife always bought. This was FUCKING CORN POPS!!

In the distance he heard the cry of a young child, “Mommy! It burns my mouth!”

No, he would not make it passed her without salsa somewhere on his plate.

But just as she began to sidle up to him the voice of a savior rang out. It was the voice of authority and reason.

“Carol. Can I see you for a moment?”

Apparently her name was not Chatty Cathy the Salsa Nazi. It was Carol. Carol attempted one parting shot before she stepped away from the egg station.

“Hey. You oughta try the salsa on your eggs. Just a little, you know. It’s preeeeeetty spicy. But it gives it just a little kick, you know?”

Tom stared at her, speechless and terrified. He looked at the eggs. He looked at the salsa. Then he looked at the Corn Pops. She was relentless. Merciless. Exuberant. Undeniable.

But the hotel manager was too quick. She touched Carol on the arm and spoke her name once more. She led her out into the hall. The manager spoke in hushed tones. The only piece he could make out was, “Carol. We’ve talked about this. The answer was no. Corporate was very specific.”

The conversation was over. The manager stepped briskly into the dining area grabbed the bowl of salsa off of its decorative stand, and disappeared through the service door.

Carol stood in the hall, deflated. Tom could just make out the words on her lips as she spoke them to the floor. “I thought it was a good idea. I liked the salsa.”

Tom’s heart sank. It was just salsa after all. Did it really hurt to set some salsa out by the eggs? Some people like salsa on there eggs. Even bad salsa.

“Ma’am?” said Tom to the manager as she reappeared through the service door. “Do you have any salsa? I’d like some with my eggs.”

The manager returned with the salsa. Her face and ears were flush and her smile was forced. She’d been duped, and she knew it. She glared at Carol who was sauntering up to the egg station, revived and triumphant.

“Mmmmm. Ain’t them salsa and eggs good?”

The Smell Collector

On some level, we all do it.  Olfactory memory is believed to be the most powerful memory of all.   I remember the day when I realized how valuable and unique smells are.  In the mid-summer of 1977, I was a very young child of four, and my dear mother had taken me with her to the post office.  There were two worlds happening in this post office.  One at a height above the counter and one at a height below the counter.  My world was below the counter.   In my world, there was a beautiful little girl.  Her hair was shiny and brown and was drawn up with a red bow.  She wore a pretty polka dotted dress.  On her feet, were ruffly socks and patten leather shoes.  She did not say anything to me.  I did not say anything to her.  After all, I would be gone soon.  My family was moving to a different state.  Mother was filling out a change of address form.   A few days after we arrived at our new house, mother took me once again to the post office.  And here, I collected my first smell.  When I entered the office, the smell  immediately triggered the memory of the girl.  This post office smelled exactly like the other one.  In that moment, In my own five-year-old way, I longed for that girl.  It was the first of many experiences with unrequited love.

Smell collecting is unique.  It’s not like stamp or coin collecting.  You can’t keep a smell except in your memory.  However, it is far more rewarding then any silly stamps or baseball cards.  It is like having a time machine.  A smell can take you to another place and time.  It takes you to a very intimate moment in your life.  Smell is a very intimate experience.

After thirty-one years of collecting smells, I’ve built a system that works for  me.  Smell Collecting requires a combination of documentation, travel, and chemistry.  When you’ve found a smell that you want to collect, you begin by documenting the experience.  What did you feel?  Where was it?  What were the circumstances?   What was the time and date? And so on.  Next you must undergo the more challenging task of discovering what is creating the smell.  Sometimes it’s simple.  A ballgame is popcorn, beer, cut grass, and roasted peanuts.  It used to include tobacco smoke, and sometimes includes a hint of human urine.  Others are not as simple.  It requires investigation.  For the post office, I later inquired about the cleaning agents.  I researched the composition of the counter and the floors.  I sniffed and studied the whole lobby.  Other strong contributing smells included stamp glue, paper, scotch tape, packing tape, dust, and the metal that comprises the post office boxes.  All of this must be carefully documented.

And finally, if you want to revisit one of your smells, you have two choices.  One, you can go to the place where you collected the smell.  I make as many as 20 little trips a week to browse my collection.  Or, two, you can attempt to construct the smell.  This is where chemistry comes into play.  Some smells  are not bound to a place.    They exist in a single moment in time.  A woman’s perfume, a whiff of cigarette smoke, a little bit of diesel fume, and some spearmint gum might come close to someone’s first kiss, for example.  Of course, it’s almost impossible to recreate a first kiss because of the human element.  I’ve tried samples of human saliva and sweat.  I’ve tried various hair products and toothpastes; anything, really, that I imagine might go into a first kiss.  Perhaps she’ll be wearing Secret Deodorant For Women.  I fancy, that she’ll be wearing some sophisticated perfume from the Channel line.  Mother always says that my first kiss will make me light-headed.  I wonder if it has anything to do with the smell?

My smells are my life really.  Smells and Mother.  I don’t know what I would do without them.  Smells capture all those special moments.  Mother’s goodnight kisses, for example:  Maybelline lipstick, stale coffee, Channel #5, and Finesse Moisturizing Shampoo.   I think it’s a great hobby.  More of a way of life really.

The Tale of the Happy Chef and the Picky Diner

Once upon a time, there was a Happy Chef. He was happy because every day he got to do what he loved best in the world, which was cook for his customers.  He had dedicated his life to it. He kept his kitchen stocked and fresh, and was prepared to satisfy the desires of every one of his diners. His stove may have been old, but it was hot. His knives may have been worn, but they were sharp. His recipes had not changed for years, but they were delicious. His serving plates were old and plain, but they seldom cracked.

Customers loved to be served by the Happy Chef. They enjoyed being able to come into his restaurant and be served exactly what they wanted by simply asking. They were content not knowing how to prepare Chicken a L’Orange or Beef Wellington or Waldorf Salad or Steak Tartar. After all, this was the Happy Chef’s job.

Then, one bright day, a new young diner entered the Happy Chef’s restaurant. He carried a large bag. People began to whisper, “What could be in this man’s bag? It must be something special for him to have to carry it inside the restaurant!” He did not wait for the maitre d’ to seat him. He chose his own table and immediately opened his bag.

The other diners watched as the man reached into his bag. They ooooo’d when he pulled out a microwave oven and plugged it into the Happy Chef’s wall. They ahhhhh’d as he pulled out a food processor and plugged it in as well. An then, ever so gently, he reached in and pulled out the most beautiful plates that anyone had ever laid eyes on. The other diner’s plates seemed old and plain compared these.

When the waiter arrived, he greeted the new diner warmly and tried to offer him a menu. The new diner refused the menu and proceeded to make his own order. “I would like one head of lettuce, one tomato, an onion, olive oil, and vinegar.” The waiter, eager to serve, took the strange order back to the kitchen and gave it to the Happy Chef who, although perplexed, assembled the items onto a plate for the waiter.

When the waiter returned with the first order, the new diner made a second order. “Bring me cream, tomatoes, and fresh basil.” The waiter returned to the kitchen and gave the order to the Happy Chef. Although, the Happy Chef was just as perplexed as before, he dutifully assemble the ingredients on a plate for the waiter.

It took several trips to complete all the orders for the new diner who was busy the whole time operating his food processor and his microwave oven, and carefully arranging his concoctions onto his beautiful, new  plates. The other diners watched in amazement. There was nothing that interesting to do at their tables. All they had to do was eat. And somehow their food did not seem quite as delicious as it did before.

After the new diner finished his meal and cleaned his own table, the Happy Chef delivered the bill himself. He said, “Why didn’t you let me cook for you? Don’t you think I recognize the dishes you are preparing? They are all on the menu. All you have to do is ask.”

The diner, weary from his efforts, replied “Good Chef, I am a very skilled diner, not like the other simple people who dine here. Your oven is old. Your knives are worn.  Your plates are old and plain.  I know exactly how to prepare the dishes that I want and I have beautiful new plates on which to dine.”

The Chef said nothing.

The diner’s face broadened into a smug smile.

Then the Chef asked, “If you will not let my Maitre ‘d seat you, if you will not make your order from the menu, if you will not let me cook for you, if you will not eat off my plates, and you will not let my Bus Boy clean up after you, then, why, good sir, have you paid full-price to eat at my fine restaurant?”

The Picky Diner, having no answer, packed up his bag and left. The Maitre ‘d, the Waiter, the Chef, and the Bus Boy stood watching him leave while the other diners eyed them with dissatisfaction. And the Chef, who had once been very happy, was now very sad.

Note to Fly By Night Readers…

Friends,

If you were one of the folks who I left hanging with “Fly By Night”, I want to direct you to The Reconciliation

Someone out there published another novel with the Fly By Night title, so I’ve changed it to The Reconciliation .  I’m determined to finish this thing.  I believe in it.  I believe it has a place in the world.  I know how it ends and I’m just dying to bring it to you.  I’ll begin by publishing the first 14 chapters (or some variation thereof) as a weekly serial.  My hopeful prayer is that by the time I publish the 14th chapter, I will be able to pick up where I left off and take it on home.

If you are new to this novel, perhaps you’ve found me through my stories here on fictdoodles, please consider taking this fiction journey with me.  Give The Reconciliation a shot, will ya?

Briar Wood

Cigars kept making him throw up.  He thought perhaps a pipe would suit him better.  To Jeff’s eyes, his pipe had a certain old school cool to it, although he was embarrassed to bring it out in public.  Jeff’s take on old school cool was not generally a winning formula for him, and in this case, his wife had been waiting in ambush to remove this scourge on cool and health from her house.  She succeeded when she decided to wash the coat where he kept his pipe and tobacco, citing the I-get-to-keep-or-throw-away-anything-that-you-leave-in-your-pockets-when-I-wash-your-stuff rule.   He did not argue with her, even though he felt he had a strong case not having asked for his coat to be washed in the first place.  But he let it slide because he was ready to upgrade.

Albert, the proprietor of Long Live the Pipe and a master pipe maker, surreptitiously eyed Jeff, as he carefully examined the pipes on display.   The faint gleam in the shop owner’s eye was evidence of the hope that Jeff and other young men might carry on ancient tradition.

“Al?  I’m having a tough time picking one out this time.  I want something unique.  Nothing fancy, but something really…special.”

Albert raised his eyebrows.  He was bushy in general, and his eyebrows were certainly no exception.  He pulled slowly on his artfully carved Meerschaum.  Smoke swirled around his enormous head filling the room with a mellow vanilla.   The faint gleam in his eyes increased by an almost imperceptible degree.

“Something special,” murmured Albert to himself.

He  disappeared behind a curtained doorway and return with a small wooden box.

“Would you consider a previously owned pipe?”

He offered the box to Jeff.  Inside was a very old and exquisitely made bent briar pipe.   It was flawless.   Two tiny letters were carved on the underside of the bowl:  DM.   The pipe seemed to exude it’s own subtle light.

“What’s the DM stand for?” asked Jeff, his eyes fixed on the briar wood pipe.  “Are those the initials of the man who carved it.”

“Well I can’t be sure, but I was told that it stands for Douglas MacGregor.  He was one of the finest pipe makers in Scotland.  But he was not the maker of this pipe.  This one was made by his apprentice just after the death of his master.  Something of a memorial. “

“Geez, Al, I doubt I could afford something like this.”

The gleam that the pipe was giving off seemed to grow as he continued to stare at it.

“I’ll tell you what.  If you promise to come back and see us, I’ll give you a deal on this one.”

Jeff left with the wooden box and a bag of his favorite blend.  He stepped quickly in anticipation of his first smoke with the new pipe.  He was pleased.  It was already nicely broken in.  It was a good smoke.

After a few weeks, Jeff began to notice some changes.  They were subtle at first, but lately they were becoming more pronounced.  At first, the change manifested itself in subtle changes in perception.  He began to understand the pipe on a more technical level.   He soon began to appreciate the remarkable craft that produced this pipe.  And then he began to imagine exactly how to go about this craft.   But he didn’t become concerned about any of these changes until his whiskers began turning into a beard almost over night and his eyebrows began to get bushy.

He found the small wooden box that the pipe came in and began to examine it.   He quickly discovered that it had a false bottom.  He found the trigger and popped the panel out.  There, in the hidden compartment, was a small card.  It read:

To the bearer of this pipe,

If you are reading this card, I have most assuredly departed from this earth.  I had but a short time to live after the death of my teacher, Mr. Douglas MacGregor.  I knew I would not have the time to pass on his fine craft to another apprentice.  So I’ve constructed this pipe from the briar that was growing near his grave in the hopes that by some miracle of the spiritual world, his craft would pass to future generations.  Long live the pipe!

Most sincerely,

Charles Burrows

Accidental Cop

It’s not that I meant to do it.  It’s more like I imagined doing it, and the Universe just kind of pushed me along.  The question is now, what do I do about it?  I’m a very shy person.  I would never do something like that…not for reals.  But, she doesn’t know that.  Apparently, she thinks I’m the kind of guy that meets a woman at a party, buys her a drink, and touches her bottom.  And, apparently, this is something she looks for in a guy?  I didn’t even mean to buy her a drink!  Everyone knows that I’m not capable of buying a strange woman a drink at a party.  Anyone would laugh if you told them that I’d bought a woman a drink and grabbed her there…on the bottom.  Well, anyone except for her.  This is terrible.

She doesn’t know that the bartender accidently gave me two drinks.  I feel like I should tell her, but…things are…she might not…I DON’T KNOW!  As far as the grab.  I still don’t know how it happened. She just kind of walked into it.   One  moment my hand was empty, then it wasn’t.   I don’t know why I squeezed it.  I would NEVER do something like that.  This puts me in a very awkward situation.  Look at her.  Have you ever seen something so beautiful, lying there, her hair is so silky.  I’ve never touched anything so soft.  My hair’s always been kind of coarse.  I don’t want to wake her, I’m afraid it will all be over.  I just like to watch her in the morning.  She likes to sleep in.  I  know it’s been weeks now, but I don’t know how to tell her.  She doesn’t know that I’m not that kind of guy.

Lingering

Their presence was just an accepted part of his routine by now.  Perhaps just emotional impressions from previous inhabitants, or perhaps their lingering spirits.   The house was old enough.   Whatever the case, here they were:  a man and a woman.  Their faces were indistinct.  Their demeanors were anguished, confused, unaware.  When they came, it was in the moment between waking and sleeping, and only if his spiritual vision was active from an evening meditation.

His response was consistent.  “Spirits,”  he would address them, “Guard my home against harm or leave. “

Connor believed in spirits earning their keep.

He only became concerned when his daughter of ten began to complain of emotional disturbances at bedtime.  She described feelings of despair and deep sadness which seemed unrelated to her.  She told him one evening that there were rooms in the house where the feelings were stronger.  She was afraid.  The only room that she felt entirely free of these feelings was the dining room.

He pulled the structural records for the house and noted that the dining room was added twenty-three years ago.  This eliminated the last three owners, leaving only the original owners.  Their names were right there in front him in black and white.

Belly of the Church

Of course they would have closed them up, he thought as he knelt by the old church.   In retrospect, he supposed they were pretty dangerous.   He recalled the cool, dank air that used to drift out of the basement through these open vents and into the summer heat.

The old church that served as his playground, had four vents just inches above the sidewalk on both sides of the building.  They were just tall enough for a child to squeeze through.  Although he was generally afraid of the vents,   his fear did not prevent him from climbing through them and into the basement.

He supposed they must have closed them off years ago in favor of a more modern ventilation system.   In doing so, they closed off the possibility of danger for the children that played near the church.   For the child who still lived in Brian, however, they closed off much more.   It had been a gateway into a forbidden underworld where a forgotten secret threatened the peace of this quiet little antebellum town.  He never considered sharing what he found, until now.   The ugly truth that lay buried in the basement of the church had spread and twisted it’s roots through the foundation of this town and was now beginning to crack the surface.

Keeping Time

Throughout the evening, Daniel was periodically aware of the ticking of a new watch he was wearing. He wasn’t used to wearing a watch anymore and he was a little bit pleased and a little bit annoyed every time it invaded his consciousness.

Daniel had a bad track record with watches. He never could seem to keep one for more than a year at a time. His wife, Ashley, used to buy him watches, but he would inevitably lose track of them. The fact that a man who can maintain a large scale computer system for an international airline, skillfully run an elementary school classroom, and transform $50,000 in student and credit card debt into $75,000 in sound investments but could not keep a Timex on his wrist from one birthday to the next baffled Elizabeth.

It’s not that Daniel didn’t like watches. Watches were actually very important to him. He could still remember his first watch. He had wanted one of those new digital watches when he was a child, but his parents insisted that he should learn to read time with hands, first.

He remembered that his first watch was a very plain Timex with a black, plastic band and black numbers; no date, no month. Perhaps he got it for a birthday, he wasn’t sure. He spoke with feigned pride at school about his reason for having a watch with hands.

“You know, people aren’t going to be able to read time this way anymore if they just use digital watches. I think everyone should have to wear a regular watch before they get a digital watch because what if they’re in a room with only a regular clock? They might be late or something.” This was the explanation Daniel had given to his friends who wore digital watches, much to his envy.

Daniel’s first digital watch came just as scheduled: one year after receiving his first watch. It had multiple settings including regular time, military time, time with running seconds, and (Daniel’s favorite) a stop watch.

Daniel used to compete with his brother, Gabe, in church using the stop watch setting. They would take turns seeing who could start and stop their stop watch using the least amount of time. Gabe had achieved the record of nine milliseconds. Daniel would not break that record until the day he helped the P.E. teacher at the school where he taught years later. He was in charge of timing the fifty yard dash on a track and field day using a digital stopwatch. He recalled his childhood competition and ended up scoring seven milliseconds while practicing between heats. He wondered if Gabe remembered the long standing record.

When Daniel was in sixth grade, he purchased a calculator watch. He could perform most mathematical functions right there on his wrist. Unfortunately, the watch became fresh ammunition for the group of boys who had nicknamed him ‘Mr. Computer’.

‘Mr. Computer’ was a name that referred to Daniel’s insistence on raising his hand to answer every question that he knew the answer to, which was most of them. Neither the boys or Daniel had any idea that computers would lead him into such a lucrative career.

By the time Daniel was fifteen, he was ready to step up to a level of mature sophistication that a digital watch could not provide. He wanted a watch that would go with the tie and slacks he wore to church. With the money he was earning at Fruti Tuti, a soft serve yogurt shop in the mall, he purchased a watch with a black leather band and a silver colored rim. Daniel was attracted to the ‘old school’ look of it. He felt a little more refined when he wore it with the tie that his great aunt Emma had returned to him on accident and the shirt that his best friend’s dad had previously owned. The fact that both items were previously owned by successful lawyers who could afford a certain level of sophistication made Daniel feel a little sophisticated regardless of the permanent, yellow, smelly pit stains under the arms of the shirt.

Ashley had hoped to train him to keep his watches. He would be permitted to have a watch if it were very cheap. If he wore it for a year, he could get another watch that was a little nicer and so on until he could finally buy a watch that he wanted. Daniel had long since resigned himself to wearing thirty dollar watches. He could never get passed the first level.