The Littlest Restaurant Greeter

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

Please, chatter amoungst yourselves as you scan the menu board and then walk right past me. I'm nothing important here, just a prop for your dining experience. A minor one, sure, because if I threw down this fibreglass fork and walked off, you probably wouldnt even notice, would you?

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

No, I have no sad story. I'm not a single mom or a struggling college student or an outsourced software engineer. I'm just a hostess, invisible and unashamed of it. I've always been invisible, you see. Even in school... they would choose up kids for teams, and I was invariably last. Sometimes, they'd just head out and play, leaving me there because, well, after all, I'm invisible and no one noticed I hadnt been picked. But that was okay with me, I like being invisible.

So every day at four, I arrive, put on this ridiculous outfit and stand here for seven hours, telling people...

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

... for which I get paid seven dollars and fifty cents an hour. That's about two hundred a week after taxes, so you can imagine what my life is like away from here. I couldnt afford to eat here, that's for sure. These people drop the equivalent of my monthly salary in a single hour. Then they leave, walking right past me as they get into their cars and return home to their kids and their pets and their answering machines full of messages inviting them to dinner next Saturday night. And chances are they'll come back here, where they'll find me telling them yet again...

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

I could be bitter about it, sure, but I'm not. Bitter is too easy. Sure, I fantasize about dropping arsenic into the evening's soup special... but what would that accomplish? Even if I didnt get caught, the place would be shut down, and I'd be out of a job. And that's not a good idea right now. Alicia once asked me if I was interested in moving up, maybe to a watress or an inside greeter. I told her no. I like being outside. It makes me feel like I'm not quite so trapped.

Hello, welcome to Alicia's Restaurant. Enjoy your meal.

The Littlest Italian Director

"I started my career in movies with a small-budget motion picture called... uhm... what was it again? Ah, of course, Aperti. We shot in twelve days, edited in three, submitted it to Cannes, took the Palme d'Or, and embarked on a magical journey of cinematic discovery. The film was a wonderfully touching story of a young girl's awakening to maidenhood, filmed with all the artistry and delicacy of an exotic flower. The critics raved. The public adored me. I was on my way.

"My next feature, Partenze, was an evocative, crystalline study of a 15-year-old girl who, through her love of Mozart and Brahms, grows to become a sultry, exotic concertplayer. Her life is sad, but she braves it all to give her greatest performance on her eighteenth birthday. It was touching, wonderful. The critics raved. The public adored me.

"Carta riciclata examined the life of a sixteen year old who lives a barren, emotionless existence. Her parents ignore her. She is sad. She turns to the arms of a seventeen year old ballerina. Together, they find magic in ways that are exotic yet tender. Sultry yet innocent. At the end the ballerina dies, crushed by a gigantic Chinese urn. It is sad. But my heroine, having learned that life is for the living, goes on and takes her friend's place in an impromptu performance of The Dying Swan. This film has been called 'brilliant' by the critics. The public raved.

"After that, they begin to rush by in a wondrous, exotic blur -- Limite de credito, Aggiornato, Lavaro a orario ridotto: all sensitive, delicate studies of the hopes and aspirations of the young as they emerge from bewildering childhood to the sometimes harsh, sometimes confusing world of womanhood. They are my chidren. I love them all.

"My latest will premier in Hollywood in time for the Oscars. Indebitato. My star is a fourteen year old I rescued from the horrors of Bosnia and brought to my home where, like a delicate exotic flower, she has blossomed into the essence of womanhood. And my cameras have followed her on this unique yet universal journey. It is my first time at a documentary, and I am very pleased.

"I see it as an expansion of my horizons, pushing me into new areas of discovery. I look forward to my next project: a sensitive, serious drama about a sixteen year old streetboy, as he grows into a difficult yet wondrous manhood. Creatively, it is a major risk for me. I hope the critics will be kind."

The Littlest Castle

He'd bought the land forty years ago, when land was cheap and the village was still four miles down the road. Three acres, enough, he decided, upon which to build his castle. He wanted a big house, with rooms for no other purpose except to exist.

But that required money, and he'd spent all he had, for the moment, on the land itself. So he contented with a small wooden cabin and reassured himself that one day, he'd have that huge house of his dreams.

In the interim, he faithfully mowed the acreage to keep it trim. But it only took a few months of that before he decided he'd had enough, that he could get away with less mowing time by planting a few flowers, maybe some trees. Those didnt need a lot of maintenance, and they'd take up some space. And if nothing else, they'd look pretty. Good for everyone all around, he decided with a grin.

Years passed, and the village became a city whose limits now met his own. When he was incorporated inside it, he was told his cabin didnt meet building standards. So he nodded his head and rebuilt it into a wooden frame house the same size. Nothing lavish: a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, a bath. He didnt want to waste the money or the energy when he knew that someday he'd be building the house for which this acreage was intended.

More years passed, and his once isolated lot was now encircled by developments of huge houses, structures so large they barely remained within their lots. There were more people now, so he built a fence to keep them off his land, then added more flowers. His wood frame house was now starting to crack and shift, so he rebuilt it one more time, this time of bricks, with a little ornamental window over the door.

Evenings, he would sit outside, enjoying the night air as it rustled through the trees on his lawn. The few flowers had now become gardens that commanded fully half of the space, and the smell, at that moment, the very tag end of the day, was sweet. Calming. Delicious.

He looked across the way, at his nieghbours, in their big houses in the big developments. As the sun settled, they turned on their lights and locked their doors, a wall of light around the man's little castle on his three acres of land.

The Littlest Radio

"He said he found it in the barn," the Listener said quietly.

The Woman with the Shaved Head stared, incredulous. "And in all that time, he'd never heard anything else?"

The Listener shrugged.

He had indeed found it in the barn, back behind the trunk with his grandfather's army uniform and under a box of old postcards from small cities across the Midwest. It needed a few tubes and some resoldered wires, but when he took care of those small matters. then plugged it in and turned it on, the tiny light behind the frequency panel glowed with an anticipation to match his own.

They had a radio in the house, of course, permanently tuned to WXXY in Oklahoma City. The knob had broken off one night, and his grandfather, a proud supporter of Hank Williams and Tammy Wynette, sensibly decided that if it wasnt country-western music, there was no point in listening. Perhaps they played something else at school, but since he left when he was fourteen, he had no real idea.

But now...

The station indicator slipped easily behind the glass, bringing in its wake buzzes and hisses and the occasional, fleeting sampling of... well, he wasnt sure what. It all sounded so.... new and different. Odd instruments playing in odd rhythms, to lyrics that made as much sense as the time granted them would allow. He was about to turn it off for the night...

... when suddenly he heard her. A voice like... an angel. Sure, he'd never heard angels singing, at least never outside the Friendly Avenue Baptist Church -- but if angels sang, they had to sound like this. He stood, entranced, for twenty minutes until the singing stopped and a voice came on to remind him he was listening to the Texaco broadcasts of the Metropolitan Opera. He wondered if Darrell at the Texaco station had anything to do with this and decided probably not. This wasnt Darrell's thing, not by a long shot.

After the commercials and some sort of game where a panel of guests had to answer what were to him unfathomable questions about composers and music hed never heard of, the "opera" continued, more glorious than ever. By now, he knew there was a story of some kind, that the woman he'd heard singing was in love with someone who was about to be killed. That didnt sound good.

But the music sure did...

"So the country boy discovered opera?" the Woman with the Shaved Head laughed. "How delightful!"

"Well, no, actually," the Listener responded, a bit ruefully. "See, thanks to that broadcast, he found himself caught between two worlds: the one that did the chores and took care of rhe cattle and listened to Tammy and Hank -- and the other one, that learned the difference between Mozart and Cerrubini before he was sixteen. But he had no one to share that experience with. As a result, he was never completely comfortable in either."

"Maybe he should have taken up the tango," the Woman replied enigmatically.

"Perhaps so."

The Littlest Fist Fighters

I dont know how long it's been going on now. A long time, maybe.

No, I dont know what started it. Neither does he, I think. Something, years ago, now so far back in memory that it no longer matters. Maybe I brushed against him the wrong way in a bar one night. Maybe he did that to me. But whatever it was, that night started a chain that's never stopped. Now, whenever we see each other, we have to fight. It's like we cant stop. I can be in my office, and he'll come in the door, and within seconds we'll be rolling on the floor, pounding the crap out of each other. Or I'll go to a restaurant, and he'll be there, and you know that tables will be overturned and chairs smashed.

I dont know why. It's just unavoidable. For a long time, I tried going to other places, consciously trying to avoid him. It didnt work: he apparently thought the same thing. One summer I took a cruise ship to South America. The only thing I remember of that trip was that he and I fought the entire nine days.

It doesnt matter where I go or where he goes. Somehow, we always manage to wind up in the same place. We've fought almost everywhere around the globe: beaches in Hawaii, hiking trails in the Pyrenees, in an elevator in midtown Manhattan, behind a diner off the interstate somewhere in South Dakota. No matter where I am, so is he.

We no longer question our fate. We know that we will spend our entire lives battling it out. We wont stop because we cant. One of us may win a particular fight, but that doesnt mean it's over. Chances are, the other one will win the next time.

So we no longer keep score. We just fight. And we are not the only ones so cursed. One night, we met two others, like us, driven to battle. I fought one of them. He fought the other. We both knew: it wasnt the same.

In a curious way, I cant imagine life otherwise. Part of me would feel empty without knowing that, around the corner, he would be there, fists up, ready to strike. Chances are, he feels the same way. It's like, we need this to survive. We are blood brothers... of the most literal kind.

And without that, we die.

The Littlest Aerobics Instructor

All right, ladies, let's burn that fat off!

And one!

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And one! (Looking good, Evelyn!)

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And one! (Knees higher, Louise!)

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And two! (Focus, Francine!)

And one!

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And two! (Almost there!)

And one!

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And one!

And two!

Good job!

The Littlest Zombie Hunter

I started as a zombie hunter when I was... gosh, I dunno, sixteen, seventeen maybe. In those days, it was an easy career move, lots of growth potential. Zombies were everywhere, y'know? You couldn't fling a brick in any direction without hitting at least someone related to a zombie. But they were such a frigging nuisance: they never knew when to shut the hell up, and all that feeding on brains... well, not exactly something you want to see every day, right?

So I figured, what the heck, I'll become a professional zombie hunter. Found a training camp advertised in the back of one of those hunting magazines, sent them my application, and away I went. Of course, they knew the first day in that I'd lied about my age, but it wasn't any big deal to them: they were more interested in the tuition money than actually teaching effective ways of killing zombies. So I quit after two weeks, took what little real info they'd provided, and hung out my shingle.

Sure, in the early days, I made a few mistakes. Hey, who doesn't when they're just starting out? But eventually I learned who was a real zombie and who was just faking it. Got some nice, high-profile contracts and settled in for what I figured was a long-term career.

Then the Environmental Protection Agency came into the picture, and things were never the same again.

It seems that so much "culling" (as they put it) of zombies had taken place that now they were an endangered species. Gone were the days when you could just wipe them out -- nossir, now they were protected... by the Government, no less. The only way I could actually practice my trade was under the strictest of circumstances... like, only when they were devouring certain types of brains. Or when they were attacking visible minorities. Or when they were after women. Or... well, you get the idea, right? Heck, if one of them was attacking yours truly, I couldn't do a thing because it was perfectly legal for the zombie to be attacking someone like me! Go figure that one.

Bureaucrats.....

So now I'm kinda stuck. I mean, this is all I know. I can show you one hundred and seventy-three ways to dispatch a zombie, but I'm handcuffed by a bunch of do-gooder politicians who think that saving the Zombie is the next environmental "cause". Heck, maybe it is: the last time I tried to take one out, I got crap from some group in New Jersey called ZAP2 (which apparently means Zombies Are People Too), claiming zombies have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness too. They said I was "zombiophobic", whatever the heck that is.

Damn.

The Littlest Rocket Scientist

I retired from NASA about a decade ago, I guess. I mean, it was all getting way too political, and folks just sorta forgot about the whole purpose of getting someone in outer space. We'd have a launch, and some senator looking for an "issue" for re-election would bitch and moan about all the dollars being wasted when it could be put to perfectly good uses right here on ol' Planet Earth. Funny how they always seemed to involve some project in his home state, but that's politics, I guess.

Sometimes I miss the old days -- like, when someone new joined the company, he had to spend ten minutes in the anti-grav simulator, then usually another twenty cleaning up the mess he'd made. They never figured out why we always called them in for this right after lunch. Suckers.

Or, if you really wanted to see veins popping out, all you had to do was look at your screen and quietly whisper "Oops". No matter how noisy it might be in that room, everyone heard "oops".

But it just got to be too much after a while. Folks complaining about the costs, about the lack of any real return on investment -- or, as they liked to put it, "Where's the ROI? Where's the ROI?" Idiots. We gave the world Tang -- what more did they want?

So, like I said, I left -- grabbed the pension offer, sold the house and the van and the truck, bought a boat, sailed to the Caribbean, and never looked back. But you know how it is: once you get the space bug, there's no cure. So for the last five years, I've been building this little beauty right here. We're sending her up tomorrow, so tonight's the night for a little party down. And believe me: she'll make it. She's nothin' but wall to wall premium-class rocket booster that usually sends things fifty times her size into orbit. When this baby goes up, she's goin' seriously up.

So tonight, we send her off with a little beer and a little tequila mixed in. Inside, there's a Jimmy Buffett CD and some local flora, just in case anyone out there comes across her.

Yeah, it's kinda nice to think that some day, some alien out there's gonna be singing Margaritaville. Here's to that!

The Littlest Juggler

He had been juggling since... well, he couldnt remember a time when he wasnt juggling something. Usually the traditional balls, but occasionally, when he was younger, a rattler or two, perhaps a toy drum and its attendant sticks, then moving on to his sister's dolls, all of them flying in the air in a dance with its own rhythm, one not easily shared.

As he grew up, he added more and more: a panolply  that jumped and lept by his deft hands. His favourite was the flaming orbs, four magical balls that had to be lit before he could toss them into the air, their very flames lighting up the afternoon sky. The crowds adored this trick, and it guaranteed him a full stomach and a place to sleep, and that was enough. His own needs were simple: all he wanted was to throw things in the air, as many as possible, and keep them aloft without letting any touch the ground.

He grew older and found that he couldnt manage quite as many as before. During one especially fearsome afternoon, he dropped one of the flaming orbs, nearly missing one member of the audience. So he reduced the number from four to three, not as good but still enough to bring appreciative ooohs from the audience.

Years passed, and he found he could only juggle the magic orbs: the other props, tantalizing, were now unfamiliar in his hands. He tried one afternoon to juggle his sister's old dolls and dropped all three. The timing was off, unreachable as a long-lost memory. So he stayed with the orbs and found solace in their comfortable heat.

But another fell to earth, then another, leaving him with only a single orb that he tossed aimlessly up and down. The crowds had long since departed; now he only juggled (such as it might have been) for himself. But he looked back on the days when he could handle anything; he could juggle the world if need be. And he thought to himself, One last chance. I'll give myself one last chance.

So, carefully and methodically, one bright afternoon, he took out all four orbs, coated them, prepared his hands, set them alight, and threw the first one in the air. Finding the rhythm, he added another. Then another. Then cautiously, carefully, the fourth, until all four were burning the air, setting it ablaze. And for a moment, one brief moment, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world, ready to juggle anything and everything.

Then, just as suddenly, the rhythm was gone, and he jumped to elude the burning orbs as they crashed to the earth, their flames dying as they met the sweet, damp grass. He looked at them, then walked away as they threw up wisps of smoke that danced in the early evening air.

The Littlest Restauranteur

My grandfather started this place shortly after the War. Our family'd lost just about everything when we shoved into the camps in California, but my grandfather refused to accept that kind of Fate. So, after peace was declared, he packed the family up and moved us to New York and opened "Mister Fine Japanese Takeout!"

My grandfather's command of English was never the best.

The neighbourhood back then was pretty much like it was when I was a kid: two- and three-story brick buildings that lined 9th Avenue, otherwise known as Restaurant Row. You could find anything here, from Bulgarian to Tahitian. We werent the most successful place around, but we werent the least by any stretch. Granddad kept it simple and reliable and built a steady clientele that more than paid the bills every month. I grew up around these people, all our neighbours. I didnt even have to ask for an address when I was delivering; Mom would say it was for Mrs. Berkowitz, and I knew exactly where she lived. This was my extended family: I knew who tipped the best and who I could take my sweet time delivering to.

About the time I took over the place, the neighbourhood had begun to change, pretty much overnight. Buildings were torn down and replaced with 28-story condominium towers. Mrs. Berkowitz moved out to Long Island with her sister. We were pretty well forced to move the restaurant into a place that was two-thirds the square footage and commanded three times the rent. We were still carving out a profit, but with the change in the customers, I decided maybe it was time for a little image renovation.

I hired this marketing agency that branded everything as "Wok It Out!" ("Physical fitness! Very market chic!" they told us.) and spent thousands on everything from new menus to staff t-shirts. They said I needed to make my menu different, so I added exotic dishes, like wild boar and peacock, and jacked up the prices on everything to compensate.

The regulars I knew as a kid were replaced with a new set of regulars: toned twenty-somethings who got really POd if you didnt tell them about MSG not even being in there in the first place so they could tell you they didnt want it anyway. And even though I added all these exotic new dishes, they would just nod, like it was nice to know I had them available, but could they just have some lemon chicken and a small salad?

Do you have any idea how expensive peacock meat is? And worse, it doesnt keep. But god help me if I dont have it available, because the first time I decide it's too much money, that'll be the day some lady from West 45th will come in and want her entire dinner party of 18 chowing down on peacock.

Chopsticks? You cant win. If you provide wooden ones, they get upset. If you provide plastic, they get upset. If you simply send them a couple of sporks, they go ballistic.

And dont get me started on the number of times our delivery team has been stiffed by someone who claims the food didnt arrive "hot enough". It's Japanese! Not everything is supposed to be "hot"!

Our lease is up in six months. McDonalds has expressed interest in taking the site.

The Littlest Screenwriter

I started in this business in 1931. Double-reeler potboilers, mostly: quickie mysteries, lotsa westerns, even the occasional short musical. Fun stuff, y'know? Easy to produce, cheap, and fast! We could run these things out in four or five days tops. No idea was too ridiculous, 'cause everyone knew that in another two weeks, it'd all be history anyway, right? Posters on the wall here, some of my best stuff, bar none.

Then around '37, I figured it was time to do something really stylish. A film noir, as they call them now. I wanted the story simple, but filled with action, and at the same time moving, in its way, y'know? So I hit on this story about an orphan. Orphans are always good, 'cept she falls in with this bunch of miscreants. Real bad apples, y'know? They go on this murderous rampage. Lots of bodies everywhere. At the end, just before she's supposed to go to the Chair, she has this big weepy scene that had Oscar written all over it, about how all she wanted in life was a real home. Brilliant stuff, gotta tell ya.

So the studio takes a look and gives it the green light. Casting was a breeze, except for the kid. Still, we found a great little trooper and signed her on.

Then the problems start: they've decided to do a little rewrite, they tell me. Nothing big, but since they own it, they make it clear they can do anything they want with it. Part of the game, I figure.

Next thing I hear, it's a musical. A musical! And since Technicolour is the Big Thing, they've decided to go from simple black and white to full colour with this. And I start getting worried, let me tell you.

I didn't hear much after that: some casting changes, a few mishaps on the set, I don't know what all else. Then they have the premiere, and I figure I should go: despite all the changes, I was still listed as screenwriter. I don't recognize the director or most of the cast, and thirty seconds into it, I had to leave the theatre. I didn't write any farm scene, let alone some auntie-em and uncle-whatever-his-name-was comic-rellief duo. I figured if they changed it this drastically, there was no hope in Hell for the rest of it.

I've never seen it. Y'know? It's like this black mark on my resume, one of those embarrassments I'm ashamed to even mention I was connected to.

The Littlest Antique Dealer

This store has been in my family for three generations. I was raised to know what is and is not quality, and I believe a simple look around the shop will prove that. Go ahead, look: you'll find nothing but the finest here, quality heirlooms that have, in some cases, been passed down for five centuries, items of unquestioned perfection, things that have stood the test of time and now stand before you as enduring monuments to ages long gone. More exquisite times, when more refined tastes reigned. You'll find nothing here that does not underscore the luxury of the past.

Of course, the nature of my shop is such that people bring things to sell. Estate sales, in the main. But my reputation is such that no one comes with anything less than the best, since they know that I can get the best price for them as a result.

So it came as a small surprise one afternoon when an elderly gentleman came into my shop. Not my usual customer, you may rest assured -- he was dressed in a suit and overcoat and porkpie hat that had long seen better times. Still, the shop had been quiet all day, so, rather than send him away, I asked him if I could help him.

Yes, he replied, taking out a worn metal box. Would there be any possible interest in this item?

I examined the box itself: a plain, simple metal box, with evidence of decades of wear. A lesser dealer than myself would have swindled the man right then and there, but I could not. I shook my head and gave it back to him.

No, he said, you dont understand. It's inside.

I opened the box, and there, on a bed of plush burgundy velvet, was a wooden ring. A simple, plain, wooden ring.

It had been in his family for centuries, he said, passed from one generation to another upon the oldest male's wedding day. His family, in days long passed of wealth and position, used this as a test of the true love of its recipient, and not once, in all this time, had it ever failed them. His wife, he continued, wore it for sixty years before she passed on. Now, having no children, he had no one to pass it on to.

I picked it up, gently. It was old, that much was certain. Without markings of any kind, it was difficult to assign a definite age, but the craftsmanship was quite probably from the Middle Ages. That was a guess, nothing more, which made it impossible to verify. The inside was well worn from the hundreds of years and scores of fingers it must have adorned. Perhaps oak, perhaps walnut -- it was difficult to tell.

But it had no real value to me, so I put it back in the box and returned it to him, suggesting another shop down the road that might consider it.

Disappointed, he nodded and left.

I had no real choice, you understand. For all the value he might have given it, it was simply a wooden ring in a metal box. Nothing more.

The Littlest Climber

This is my ladder.

Every day, every hour, I continue to climb it, because... well, that's what we do. We are trained from birth for this. At ten, I was shown my ladder and prepared for the day when I would start to climb it. At fourteen, I started to climb. And I havent stopped since. We never do, you know. We continue to climb and climb and climb, because... well, that's what we do.

Success? No, success has nothing to do with this. That's not why we climb. Social standing has nonething to do with it either. At least, that's not why I climb, anyway. I climb because... well, at the risk of repeating myself yet again, its what I do. I climb, up and up and up, always following a distant light that never comes any closer and never recedes any further. It remains a constant distance from me, safe, secure, predictable.

Sometimes, I see others climbing their ladders. Some are faster than I; others are slower. I can only barely see them in the dark that surrounds my ladder, you understand, but I know they're out there, somewhere. Sometimes, I stop and peer into the infinite darkness that encircles me, and, if I'm lucky, if I look hard, I can see them, climbing up and up towards their own lights. Sometimes I can even see the lights themselves, moving just as regularly up the ladders of my friends and neighbours. For a while, I had someone climbing with me... but he's gone now. His ladder careened off in another direction. I considered jumping over to climb his... but it seemed like such a violation of who I am that I just couldnt do it. So I stayed on my ladder, and he on his, and we swore that somehow, someday we'd get back in touch... but I know we never will. His ladder is out there somewhere, while mine is... here.

It's not as lonely as you might think. Like I said, sometimes I can see the other ladders around me. Sometimes I talk to the people on them. Sometimes they talk back. Once, I stopped climbing, and the light above me went out for a few moments --- and in that brief period of time, I could see hundreds, thousands, millions of ladders, all around me. And I knew I wasnt alone.

But most times, I cant see anything except the next few rungs above me. The ones beneath me slip away into darkness, but the ones above glisten with a newfound light that propels me upward ever more.

What's at the top of the ladder, you ask? No one knows. No one's ever climbed back down to tell us. Oh, a few folk have claimed to have done so, but no one believes them. You dont climb down. It's simply not done. You can only climb up.

The Littlest Snorkler

I never liked the water all that much, to tell the truth. I avoided swimming lessons like the Plague. I showered instead of bathed. Just the idea of immersing myself in water was... well, I dunno... scary. No idea why. It just was.

Then I got married, and Brenda -- my fiancée -- says, "Y'know, about the honeymoon, I've always wanted to go to the Caribbean. Can we do that?" I swallowed hard for about five minutes before finally stammering, "Sure." I was hoping for some place like the Rockies, to tell the truth. Or Nevada. Maybe even the Sahara.

But not the Caribbean.

Still, I wanted to make her happy, so I sucked it up, and the day after the wedding, we were on a plane headed to St. Croix. The hotel suite overlooked the water, but I'd only allow myself out there at night, when I couldnt see it. Brenda, of course, wanted to have breakfast out there on the damn balcony, and I finally figured out that if I positioned myself with my back to the railing, I'd be okay. During the day. I'd lay on the beach with my eyes slammed shut so tight you'd need a crowbar to open them while Brenda played in the water. She'd kid me about what a fuddy-duddy I was, and "what happened to the guy who promised me long walks on the beach?" But she never really pushed the issue that much, so I thought maybe I'd get out of this one kinda easy.

Then she decides she wants to go snorkeling. And she wants me to go with her. "It'll be pretty! They'll take our picture together under water!" Trying not to make my shaking too obvious, I sucked it up once more and said, "Sure."

The guide told us the water we were going in wasnt all that deep, maybe three or four feet, and I thought to myself, Okay, I handle that. So in the water we go --

-- and terror hit me like a grand piano from a fifth floor window. Brenda kept asking me if I was all right, and I just told her I was a little cold, but I'd get used to it soon enough, and not to worry. The guide starts pointing out fish and plants and rocks and the remains of "buried treasure" put there, no doubt, to keep the tourists happy. But I could barely hear his radio through the earbuds because I was so damn frightened. I knew I was going to drown! This water was a hundred feet deep, not four or five, because isnt it true that under water things look a lot closer??? And that little fish was actually a far-off shark just waiting to take my leg home as some kind of aquatic drive-through, because isnt it true that under water things look a lot farther away??? And that plant -- that wasnt a plant after all, but... but... a nest of electric eels!, all ready to reach out and zap me into unconsciousness!!! And not only that, but now I couldnt breathe!! And there was no way I was going to be able to swim the eighty or ninety feet separating me from the surface -- I was going to die out there! Now frantic with fear, I slammed my feet on the sand and raised my head --

-- and the sunshine cascaded on me like warm gold.

I was safe. Thank the gods, I was safe.

And there was Brenda, her head above the water as well, laughing and smiling. "Isnt this great?"

I nodded with as much of a smile as I could command.

"I hear they have deep sea diving tomorrow!" she added. "Can we do that? Please??"

I just looked at her with that same forced smile. "Sure."

The Littlest Bartender

Three o'clock. Another long night was over, he told himself. The crew had cleaned up the place, the books were balanced; now was his time to relax and enjoy a small bourbon before heading home. His wife would be asleep, and when he finally eased into bed, she would, as she had done every night for eight years, sleepily move next to him as they both dozed off.

Then, the next morning, they would have breakfast. He'd help her around the house. Maybe they'd do some shopping or some gardening. Then, about two, he'd get dressed and make his way to the bar for the night.

It was a good life. He made enough that they could afford the occasional extravagance. He still remembered the shocked look on her face the night he surprised her with two tickets to Paris. True, they ate poor while there, but, still, it was Paris, and that was good enough.

The customers that night had mostly been the regulars. Frank, who had a chain of car dealerships. Matt, who married well. Louis, who went into real estate and, if the rumours were true, now owned about a third of the town. They'd all gone to school together; they used to sit by the creek and dream about the big things they'd do when they were older. None of them ever did, but Frank, Matt, and Louis all did well enough that they could afford to spend night after night in his bar, drinking and laughing and pinching the waitress' butt until it was time to go home. They never wanted to. They insisted he stayed open for just a little while longer, just so they could have just one more, just one to steel themselves against not only the cold night wind but what awaited them when they finally made their way to their various homes. With a slight grin, he told himself he didnt want to think what was behind the front doors when they opened them.

He finished the last of the bourbon and carefully washed out the glass before turning off the lights and locking the doors. And when he softly walked into his bedroom, his wife lay there, sleeping.

The Littlest Window

"How long did he stay?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked incredulously.

The Listener thought for a moment before replying. "He's not sure. Three, perhaps four years."

"And when he came back?"

When he came back, it was like nothing had changed. Actually, there was no "like" about it. Nothing had changed, period. No time had passed. It was as though three or four years of his life had suddenly been given back to him, with all his memories of that time intact.

True, the memories -- for the most part, anyway -- weren't much. He'd gone to sleep one night in his own bed and woke up the next morning just outside the Door. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, just that he was lying next to a doorway set improbably on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific. At first he wanted to go through the Door, but something inside said "No. Dont do that." Somehow he knew that if he did go through the Door, he'd never be able to come back. He didnt know how he knew this, just that he did.

He also knew -- somehow -- that he was supposed to guard the Door. From what he wasnt sure, but that was his job. For a month, he stood next to it, waiting for... something. At night, while he slept, trays of food were left for him, trays that came from the Other Side, as he began to call it. Other things appeared: clothing, shelter, even the odd magazine... but always at night, always while he slept.

He'd been there for three months when a woman appeared on the beach, walking toward him. Dressed in an immaculate white business suit, she carried a small black leather valise. She stopped in front of him and opened the case, as though it were some annoyingly simple task she just wanted done and over. He looked inside: there was nothing inside the case.

"Is it all right?" she asked with a bit of impatience. He nodded. "Thanks," she snapped, then walked briskly through the Door and disappeared into the black void. Curious, he cautiously approached the Door and stuck his head through -----

--- and pulled it back almost immediately. The view was...  It was... he'd never seen anything quite like... there were no words to... the sheer... and he was never doing that again.

"What did he see?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked.

"He didnt say. He couldnt, you see. There apparently werent words to describe it."

"But was it good? Bad? Terrifically dull? Incomprehensibly ordinary? Surely he should have been able to tell you that much."

The Listener shook his head. "He couldnt."

"Were there other visitors?"

"A few, every three or four months. They stopped, opened empty briefcases, passed through and disappeared into... whatever was on the other side. And then one morning he was back in his own bed."

"What do you think he saw?"

The Listener shrugged.

The Littlest Satyr

"... and one of these new reality shows comes on where they makeover this guy so he can get laid, and I'm thinkin', it's been a coupla decades since I got myself some decent tail. 'N' before you know it, I'm on the phone talkin' to the producers and I say, Hey, I'm a decent lookin' guy; I just can't get laid, and they say, You sound like our kind of guy; how's next Thursday? -- and before you know it, I'm on the show.

"So I meet with the producers, and they tell me, Okay, here's the ground rules: you turn yourself over to our staff for four days. Anything they say, you do, no matter what. If you don't like it or the results or say anything about our staff, you're off the show. Now I got no problem with that, y'know?

"Then I meet the staff.

"Okay, I've known a lot of fairies in my day -- I mean, I am 2000 years old (2001 in November, in case anyone's looking to send a card)... but this bunch! Man! They show up with their camera crew and start flittin' around the house. Their damn wings nearly knock over everything in sight. And they're nonstop: Your last girlfriend dumped you? I guess you didn't have much ta satyr! Then they'd all tee-hee and giggle and I wanted to get out the can of Raid so much.....

"But I kept thinking 'bout this nymph who was the prize at the end of the show, and I figure, okay, I can do this. Just steel myself through the next few days, and it's over, and they're gone. Easy, right?

"Wrong. First it was the hair. Girl, when did you get that cut last, the Napoleonic Wars? (tee-hee, giggle) When I said I hadn't had it cut because it was part of my image, they just rolled their eyes. It's so 14th century! they tittered. We're gonna bring you into the modern day! And before I know it, they've cut it off, spiked it, dyed it blue, and then congratulated themselves on a job well done.

"Then it was the body hair. I said, Look, I'm a satyr! I'm supposed to have body hair! And they'd roll their little fairy eyes again and start flitting around with cans of Neet and triple-blade disposables. But when they got to the waist, I told them to stop: that was gettin' just a little too personal, if ya know what I mean.

"After that, it was the clothes, then the glasses, then the house itself. Four days later, I look in the mirror, and I don't have a clue who's lookin' back. Nobody I know, that's for sure. But the fairies are all, like, Oooo, what a stud! and The centaurs are gonna be so green with envy!, and I figure, okay, if it turns them on, maybe it'll work for the nymph as well.

"Not a chance. She took one look, and it was all over. I thought you were a real satyr! Man, I was bummed. I mean, a satyr gettin' turned down... that's the lowest.

"But it wasn't all bad, I guess. The camerafairy called a few days later to see how it went, and I told him, and he was all solicitous, which was kinda nice after the way I piled on his buddies. So I invite him over, and we have a couple of beers, all buddy-buddy like, and then he asks, So is it true about you guys?

"Ya should seen the look on his face when he realized it gets this big...."

The Littlest Retrosexual

"I just dont understand," I told my friend one night. "How come the ladies dont like me anymore?"

"Dude!" he grinned, "it's because you're still in that metrosexual mindset. Women dont want that anymore! Now they want retrosexuals!"

"Huh?"

"Dudes that know how to hunt, man. Dudes that pay for a lady's date. Dudes that dont wear anything but jeans and a flannel shirt when it's minus thirty outside. Dig?"

I did. I hated being a "metrosexual", with all its attendant fussiness to "feelings" and "shared experiences" and "concerns". I wanted to go back to being a man again, dammit. But in the four years since losing my way, I'd forgotten how.

My friend grinned. "Dude, trust me."

So, with his help, I re-learned my masculinity. I learned it was okay to cry... but only when my football team was losing and it was the end of the fourth quarter. I learned it was okay to leave the toilet seat up. I threw out my cashmere sweaters and do-it-yourself bow ties; if I couldnt do it with a single Windsor, I couldnt be bothered.

"Dude, trust me."

I learned to open doors for any lady, even the ones marginally described by gender. I learned to offer my seat on a crowded bus to any woman, pregnant or not, or to any member of the military below the grade of CO. And when I did, I learned to give my best visual snarl to the three-piece-suited wimps who suddenly hid behind their copies of the Wall Street Journal.

"Dude, trust me."

I learned to appreciate red meat all over again, the rarer the better. As my friend told me, a Retrosexual doesn't worry about living to be ninety. It's not how long you live, but how well. In his mind, if you're 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, you're doing damn good.

"Dude, trust me."

I quit my job as an accountant and got a real one, a more satisfying one, back in the construction trade, where I started when I left school. I learned how to use hand tools all over again, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. I learned the value of just giving my word and a handshake instead of hiding behind a thirty-page contract.

"Dude, trust me."

And suddenly I felt great about my life. I was a man again. It was like a decade's worth of anxiety and worry just... disappeared, and I could breathe. I wasnt an animal; I just was what biology wanted me to be. My friend and I took up old hobbies together, things my fiancee and all my dates never understood: boxing, working on the car, cigars.

So that Friday, after I clocked out, my buddy (my buddy, not my "friend") went for a beer, and the women were all over us. We were confident and strong; we were taking testosterone out for a walk and a talk. At the end of the night, we'd brushed the women off and headed back to my place for another beer and the taped replay of Colts-Panthers game.

During the game, we started talking about sex. "Dude," my friend says, "what women dont understand is, we just wanna get off. That's all. It's just what we're hard-wired for, y'know?"

"But, like, what about all that stuff about making sure she reaches climax as well? Doesnt that matter?"

"Sure," he says, "but she has to take some responsibility, y'know?"

"I guess."

"Cut through it all, and, for guys, it's just sex. Dude, trust me."

It was close to 4AM when it was over, so I said, What the hell, stay here. You're in no shape to drive home, and I aint calling a cab.

So we hit the sheets, and I'm lying there thinking I havent felt this close to another human being my entire life. So I gave him a hug. And he gives me this look, like I'm-not-feeling-what-I-think-I'm-feeling, like, WTF?

And I just grinned. "Dude, trust me."

The Littlest Opera Patron

He eased into the couch and waved at a couple he knew: regulars, like himself, season ticket holders for God only knows how many years. No, he responded quietly, his wife wasn't joining him tonight. Yes, it was indeed a shame: the opening night of the new season, and she wasn't there to experiene it. Yes, he promised to tell her all when he returned home.

He glanced briefly at the program: Madama Butterfly. His favourite Puccini. A new production, but one that he had heard was quite lovely, not that Euro-trash he had been forced to endure during their last trip to Italy. He sighed, just remembering it: an "iconiclastic direction," the local papers had said. Nonsense, he decided -- the purity of Butterfly's plight had been buried under a concept that even now made him cringe.

Ah... for the old days, when opera was treated with respect. He had met his wife here, when they were both young, students at the University. He was studying music while she was more interested in anatomy. Still, like Romeo et Juliette, they had fallen in love and married... secretly, so her family would never know.

Those first years were like a scene from La Boheme, he thought with a small smile. They had no money, but they had each other, and for a while, it seemed enough. She was his Giocanda, and even now the memory of those days stirred him, like a distant orchestra of close knit strings.

Then, suddenly, it wasn't. Suddenly, she was Manon -- more interested in money and prestige. He suddenly felt like Orphée aux enfers, trapped in a marriage that had indeed gone terribly, terribly wrong. She was Medea, pushing him away; she was Salome, ever taunting him by casting her body at any man who happened to take her eye and ever returning to tell him all the lurid details to shame him into further submission.

He in turn was Otello, mad with jealousy. He was the Dutchman, sailing the turbulent waters of his emotions in search of a love he knew no longer existed. Finally, he knew he was nothing more to her than a mere Capriccio, a passing fancy. Well, he would show his... his... Cunning Litle Vixen. So he waited, patiently.

Then one night, he found them together, she and her newest Giovanni, in his own bed . He shot them both -- not mortally. Oh no, his venegance demanded more than the sudden finality of a bullet. Instead, he dragged their bodies to the basement, even as she screamed, pleading for mercy, a mercy he would never give her. Instead, he had a different finale for her and her... paramour.

He shoved them into a storage room, then slammed the steel door shut. He turned on the record player he'd brought to the cellar just for the occasion, and the basement was filled with the strains of Verdi's Act Four of Aida: a fitting choice, he felt, although he wondered if they would appreciate the beauty of the selection. Then, with extreme patience and care, he sealed the doorway with an outer skin of brick and mortar. He still relished the sound of their desperate cries as they futily pounded on the unforgiving metal.

Then, he'd showered and donned his tuxedo for the evening's performance. By the time he'd finished, the basement was silent.

Ah well, he thought as he rose to enter the auditorium, it shouldnt have been all that surprising. After all, cosi fan tutte...

The Littlest Sleeper

A dog was barking outside.

He looked at the clock -- 2AM, and he still wasnt asleep.

It'd been going on for weeks now. Promptly at 10:30, he'd brush his teeth and go to bed, only to spend the next five to six hours trying to get to sleep... and when he did, it seemed like it was only for a few minutes before the slightest noise woke him again.

2:05.

People at work had been talking, wondering why he would suddenly doze off in the middle of a meeting. It was never for very long, only a few seconds, but long enough for his superior to take note.

And that wasnt good, not at all.

2:10.

He turned over and stared at the wall. A slight pattern of light and shadow danced before him, from cars passing by outside. His cats loved to play with the moving light, but now they were, quite sensibly, asleep at the foot of the bed.

He stared at them in wonderment. How come they got to nod off so easily when he had to struggle for the slightest bit of unconsciousness? It wasnt fair!

2:20.

Resigned, he got up and walked into the kitchen, feeling a slight pain in his side as he did. Damn mattress. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he just needed one that was less... lumpy... or something. He drank a glass of tap water, then padded back to the bedroom, throwing himself at the mercy of Morpheus yet again.

2:30.

This is silly, he thought angrily. Other people can just fall asleep like that, and it's no big deal. How come I have to deal with this? And what is this intolerable pain in my side? Thats it: tomorrow I take the day off from work and see a doctor.

2:35.

He lay there, become more and more frustrated. He turned over, and as if following his move, the pain moved to the other side, a sharp tiny little pain right in the middle of his ribs.

Maybe he had cancer.

Yeah, there's a sleep inducing idea for ya, bud.

2:40.

The dog barked again.

He finally drifted off for a few minutes before the alarm jangled him back into consciousnes at 5:30. He sat on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. This is ridiculous; I gotta get some sleep! He trudged into the bathroom and started the morning ritual,ignoring as best he could the slowly enlarging bags under his eyes...

---------------------------------------

I think we've made the point by now, dont you agree?

I suppose. All right, if he can feel that, that proves he's...

Not so fast. True, it may prove it on one level, but we still have to make sure.

I suppose you're right. But something tells me he's the one.

:: snort :: As if a single pea can prove anything..."

The Littlest Lady of Some Means

The War had been over for, what, fifteen years? Sixteen? Like so many others, Ronald did not come home. But life must be endured, so I shouldered my grief and carried it well. If my parents taught me nothing, it was to be as brave in the face of adversity as a lady could be.

But life without Ronald seemed... no, was bereft of meaning. Still, I never sought out a second husband. We had no children, of course. I suppose I found the emptiness satisfying, almost comfortable.

The flower stand is only a short walk, and I made it part of my daily regimen -- every day, after lunch, I would don my coat and hat and purchase a small bouquet for the dining table for that evening. It was never a very large expense, but I found the simple act of transaction a steady reminder that life must be renewed on a daily basis.

The gentleman who owned the flower stand had been a veteran of the War: I believe attached to one of the units that served in France. He had been decorated for valour and wore his medal, once brilliant brass but now slightly coated with a patina of age, with enormous pride. His greatcoat was in constant need of mending, yet he never allowed a soul to undertake what would have been a simple gesture of kindness. He was a proud man, and I found his daily company reassuring. We never exchanged names, of course, merely simply pleasantries, brief words about the weather and our respective health.

Last Thursday, or thereabouts, he apparently took his service revolver and shot himself. I say "apparently", as I do not know the details for certain: it was only after the passage of a few days that I was informed. I had assumed he had gone on holiday.

I haven't bought flowers since. Yes, there are other vendors, of course, but somehow it feels... disrespectful. For the moment, the crystal vase sits empty. It's only proper, I think.

I was thinking about this man whose name I never knew as I walked home last night. I was perhaps a block or two from home when I encountered a young woman, apparently in the direst of straights. Her face and hands were filthy; her clothes little more than rags. Impetuously, I stopped, took off my walking shoes, and gave them to her, then continued home in my stockings.

Ronald, had he seen me do this, would have severely reprimanded me for such foolishness, of course. And perhaps he would have been right to do so.

But then again, perhaps not.

The Littlest Marching Band

When I was in junior high and high school and even into college, music was my life. Totally. I was lousy at athletics and worse at academics, but music... now there was where I could shine. I played cornet, and I could make that thing shine like a sun on a cloudy day. So me and marching bands? A perfect fit, dude. I lived for those uniforms, those parades, those intricate half-time shows.

And I wasn't alone thinking that way, either. Joey, Fred, and Wolfgang, they all felt that way too, and before long, we were, like, inseparable. So you can imagine how desperate we felt when school was over. Here we were, four marching band junkies with no way to a fix, let alone anything resembling a marketable skill. We used to spend Friday nights at the diner commiserating over the old days and how much we all missed those practice sessions out on the field. How much we loved music, particularly that kind of music. And how life just wasn't, y'know, the same anymore.

Then it hit us.

We didn't have to lose that magic. We could still be musicians.

It was all in the marketing.

Face it: what says traditional American music more than a marching band, in full regalia, out there playing the be-jezuz out of John Philip Sousa? But four guys in uniform... well, that might look a little silly unless we had a gimmick. And the gimmick was easy: we'd do our part for world peace by taking Sousa and setting it to techno dance beats.

Sure, the early concerts were something of a disaster. We didn't have the format down, and all the marching on stage did look a little stupid. So we hired a choreographer -- the same one who used to work for the Backstreet Boys, so we were able to get him real cheap, considering he didn't have any other work lined up -- got some flashy costumes, and hit the touring road again. In New York and LA, we were a bit of a bust -- but in Kansas? Nebraska? They loved us! Majorettes were throwing themselves at us for the chance to work in our group. Former cheerleaders threw their old pompoms onstage with their phone numbers attached. We were serious shock-n-awe!

Then Patriotism became the in-thing again, and the ride got really wild. Suddenly, folks in NY and LA were re-discovering Sousa -- and us! Our last album went platinum ten minutes after recording. Our dance remix of Stars and Stripes Forever is mandatory drill in the best clubs. MTV had us twice on Unplugged. And there's been serious discussions between our manager and the Republican National Convention -- seems you-know-who is a huge fan of our work.

So we're settling in for what we figure will be a pretty long haul. Homeland Security wants us to do a record for them, and I'm already thinking we could expand our skillset a bit, maybe do a heavy-metal version of God Bless America.

SOUSA ROCKS!!!

The Littlest Anarchist

It wasnt supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be a clean, simple job. And now it was all... screwed.

It wasnt supposed to be like this. Not at all.

He'd believed them when they said he'd get out safely. All he had to do was posiition the devices, set the timers, and leave. That was it. They'd walked him through the procedures; he knew what he was supposed to do. When they left him in the building with the explosives, he had every right to know he was going to do a good job. Theyd trained him for it. He was ready.

Then the timers didnt work right. He kept re-setting them, but they'd go back to just three seconds, every time. He reconnected the wires, thinking that would do the trick, but the timers were adamant. Maybe the ones he was using were faulty... so he replaced them. But it made no difference: they still stuck at three seconds.

Then, all of a sudden it was like he had no control at all -- suddenly the timers went red, and he only barely had enough time to jump out of the way, behind the temporary safety of the wall. The explosives went off in a single shot, encircling him in flames. And the only door was an easy twenty yards away, behind a field of fire.

It wasnt supposed to be like this.

His superiors had every faith in him. He'd been chosen specifically for this. They kept telling him that, and he believed them. When they removed his identification papers and told him to change into a shirt with the logo of the enemy, he trusted their wisdom. He understood why it was important to be seen like this.

But they left him, with broken timers and more explosives than they said he'd have....

It wasnt supposed to be like this.....

The Littlest Social Secretary

So John and I had thought about going to the movies that night, so I call him. "We going out tonight?"

"Sure," says he. "You mind if Larry comes along?"

"Not at all. Just give him a call and let him know what time we're going."

"Look, you mind calling him for me? I dont feel comfortable calling him myself."

"I guess not," says I. So I call Larry. "You wanna go to the movies tonight with John and me?"

"... I suppose," he says hesitantly. "What time you wanna go?"

"Call John and ask him. I'm easy."

"Look, you mind calling him and asking him?"

"Well, I guess not," I says. So I call John. "What time you want to go?"

"What time does Larry want to go?"

"I dunno. Ask him."

"You mind asking?"

"Yes," I say, as I'm starting to get a little steamed. "Just call him and ask him."

"Fine," he says a little curtly. "I'll call him after I have lunch."

"Good." So I hang up. A couple of hours pass, and I havent heard anything from anyone. So I call Larry. "You heard from John?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"Yes," I grouse. "He was gonna call you about what time tonight."

"Look, just call him and tell him any time he wants. You know that unless he sets the time, he's not gonna be happy. So just call him and ask him."

So I call John. "What time you wanna go?"

"What time you guys wanna go?"

"I dont care! Anytime!"

"Hey, no reason to shout. I'm just asking."

I took three very patient breaths. "Just tell me what time."

"Fine." His voice was getting equally short. "Seven."

"Good."

"You calling Larry?"

I resisted the urge to throttle him through the phone. "Of course." So I call Larry. "Seven."

"Sounds good to me. What're we seeing?"

"I was thinking something mindless, like Mamma Mia, over at the rep house."

"Oh." There was a long pause. "I guess that'll do."

"Is there something else you'd like to see?"

"No! No! Mamma Mia's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Well, look, run it by John, okay?"

So I call John. "Which movie?"

"What do *you* want to see?"

"Mamma Mia, over at the rep house. That okay?"

"... I guess. What'd Larry say?"

"He said to ask you. So I'm asking you."

"Well, not my first choice, but I guess it's okay."

"Fine. What do *you* want to see?"

"Anything, really."

"... as long as it's not Mamma Mia, right?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

"Fine. What do you want to see?"

"Look, I dont care. Call Larry; ask him what he'd like to see."

I stared at the ceiling for help and guidance. "Do you have any preferences?"

"No. Well, maybe Wall Street."

"Fine. We'll see that."

"Well, ask Larry first, see if it's okay with him."

"How about I just put him on three-way conversation?"

"I dont think that's necessary. Just call him and ask him."

" -- then call you, right?"

"Right."

So I call Larry. "Okay, what do you want to see tonight?"

"I thought you wanted to see Mamma Mia."

"I do, but I'm in the minority on that. So what would you like to see?"

"I dont care, really. What's John want to see?"

"We could conference call this, you know. I pay for three-way calling, and I might as well put it to use."

"No, no reason to do that. Just call him and ask him, and then give me a shout back, okay?"

"Fine."

I hung up, then stared at the phone for one very long minute. Then I took a sip of a very nice white wine, then called the Indian restaurant and made a reservation this evening for one. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time before the seven o'clock showing.

And I plan on singing my little head off during "Money Money".

The Littlest Shop Girl

She held the bottle up to the customer's nose. "This is our newest, Gold, from Chanel. Lovely, isnt it? A few drops, and it will transform you into the woman he has always wanted."

It was one of his earliest memories of his mother and father. She was sitting at her vanity, carefully opening a small bottle and dabbing a bit on her neck as she smiled at him. "Your father loves this." Later that evening, when his father came home, he embraced her and deeply inhaled the scent, so close his unshaved cheek made her laugh in ticklish delight. And as he watched his parents, he thought to himself how he wanted that kind of moment as well.

"We also carry a new eau de toilette, Charmante, from Fragrance de Paris. Subtle, shy, winsome. Let me put a bit of this on your wrist."

The next night, when his father came home, he happily lifted his son high in the air, then sniffed. "What've you got on?" his father asked with a perplexed smile. His mother laughed. "That little scamp must have gotten in my perfume." "I did it for you, Daddy," he grinned. His father's smile became more grave and uncertain. "Dont do that again, son. That's for ladies, not for you."

"I know: sometimes the sheer number of scents becomes perplexing. Think of them all as doors that slowly open to reveal you in a new and tantalizing guise, the woman you may not be during the day, but the one he dreams of at night."

His first years in college were marked by confusion and desire for those he could not have. He wanted to feel their stubble against his neck, but he knew that they never would grant him that. He was different, he knew, but he also knew that in order to capture their hearts, he could change.

And change he would.

"There is also this one: Sunset, by Lancome. Pale, mysterious. Apply it to your skin, and it changes. It is different on every woman, and its effects are different on every man."

At the end of her workday, she gently covered the counters with dustcloths, then raced home to her apartment. She was meeting him tonight, and she knew, as well as she knew anything else, that tonight was the night. Tonight he would propose to her. And she was more than ready to say yes. She just hoped he was ready for the surprise she had in store for him as well...

The Littlest Lifeguard

I've been a lifeguard for... well, far longer than I should have been, to tell the truth. Started this job as a summer thing, back when I was in high school. Since, it's seen me through a coupla years of college, a whole buncha girlfriends, coupla wives, eight apartments, and one really fine car. All that's gone now, I guess.

Not that I miss it, let me tell you. Sometimes I see folks coming out here, loaded down with enough crap to set up housekeeping. I want to yell at them, You're at the beach! You dont need that portable DVD player! You got an entire ocean at your disposal! But it wouldnt do any good, right? Still, ya gotta wonder about folks who drive two hours to get to the beach just so they can watch Finding Nemo. I mean, the real thing is just sitting out there waiting for them, right?

Or the girls who come out here and spend the whole day reading. Reading. Now I dont mind reading myself, but let's get our priorities straight, huh? You're on a beach in some overpriced micro bikini, a cute guy walks by and gives you a wink, and you miss it because you're reading about some cute guy giving some chick a wink and you're thinking, Gosh, I wish that could happen to me... Okay, so what's wrong with this picture, right?

Know who's got it right? The kids. Watch them: the minute the car door opens, they head for the water. They know why they're here all right; they know what's what. Mom and Dad and Aunt Ethel can lug the umbrella and the towels and the CD player and the icebox and the sunglasses and the tanning oil and the three changes of clothing and God only knows what else down to the beach -- but all the kids want is that ocean. And they look up at me and smile and wave and I wave back and we laugh. Sometimes we'll look at a shell they've found down in the tidewaters before Mommy yells, Put that nasty thing down! Here, eat your burger before the ants get to it! And you want to say to them, Go for it, kid, because before too much longer, that ocean aint gonna mean a hill of beans compared to the head honcho position and the trophy wife and the trophy girlfriend and the three mortgages and the SUV. The only water you're gonna give a damn about will come out of a bottle and the only waves you're gonna feel are exhaustion.

But hey...

My folks keep asking me, When're you gonna get a real job? Guess they dont understand that I'm not just protecting lives out here. I'm protecting Life itself. One small line of defence against a stuff that seduces you with Glowing skin at any age. Put yourself in good hands, because I'm lovin' it. Stay regular. All that Zoom zoom stuff that folks seem to think is so important.

Well, ask them again in about forty years, I guess. Maybe then they'll figure out that the ocean doesnt give a damn about your trophy wife or how cool your car is or how many books you've read or how many burgers you've stuffed into yourself. It just sits out there, patient, waiting, knowing that eventually you'll figure it out and hoping you still have enough time left to enjoy it.

Tide's coming in.

The Littlest Porn Star

Yeah, I've been in the business for a few years now -- well, more than a few, actually, but as long as the producers don't know the hair is dyed, I figure I'm still good for a few more shots... so to speak...

If you hang around any of the rental places, you've probably seen some of my work. I don't like to brag, but I'm one of the top stars in the industry. Some of my best stuff? Let's see... Try Me on for Thighs was a serious money maker, as were Charlie's Angles, Blade: Rimmer, and of course the classic Are You Being Serviced?. Used to be, the producers liked me: I'm dependable in the delivery department, if ya know what I mean. And the directors knew that I always know how to hit my marks without needing more than one rehearsal. So it was no surprise when I got nominated for a Fleshy -- that's one of the porn industry awards, usually for lifetime achievement. I was pretty stoked about it, and it was a real rush when I was up on stage to accept the award.

So I'm thanking my agent and my always understanding girlfriends and my mama and all that, and before you know it, I've said "And I'd like to thank Jesus for letting me be the success I am." Now I'm not normally a religious person myself. I got it from watching all those other award shows where they thank Jesus for sending them the right script or letting them survive the post-production taping or actually knowing the words to the song they had to sing. These days, everyone thanks Jesus for getting an award; I figured, okay, it's the trendy thing to do, so I probably should as well. Right?

Well, y'know, people don't normally thank Jesus for getting a Fleshy. But there it was, and there I was, and before long, I'd be filming a scene, and right at the moment of... impact... I'd yell, "THANKYEE, JESUS!!!" It was like I was on automatic. Now to me, it was no big deal, something on par with my partner yelling "OHGODOHGODOHGOD" about four hundred times before hitting her peak.

But somehow the directors never saw it that way. They'd complain that they'd have to do a reshoot because "the religious freak" had ruined it. Of course, I was ready for a second take... but wouldn't you know it. I'd get right there, and I'd yell "PRAISE JEEZUZ!!!" at the top of my lungs. Then everyone would get all upset and we'd have to stop yet again.

So now they shoot my scenes without mikes and dub in the dialogue later, usually using someone else's voice. Yeah, he's dependable too -- at the right moment, he knows he's supposed to not say "HALLELUJAH!" but instead "OH BABY you are the BEST!!!"

I guess it's the same, in the really grand scheme of things.....

The Littlest Retro Girl

I adore the sixties.

Oh, sure, lots of people say that -- it's real fashionable now, what with the Boomers aging and the Rolling Stones making their - what? - seven millionth farewell tour. We celebrate all the hairdos and the pot smoking and... well, everything, right?

But that's not me. I really adore the sixties. For me, life stopped in 1966, and I refuse to allow it to move ahead even one year. Father Time was furious, of course, but I was adamant, and finally we had to come to a sort of agreement. He'd let me live forever in 1966, but at the same time I'd continue to live forward as well. So I've been here for, well, close to forty years now.

It's hard to explain. See, I get up in the morning, and I open the newspaper, and it's July 1, 1966. It's sunny outside the kitchen window, and the patina on my stainless steel dinette set gleams in the morning light. I listen to the latest 45 from the Beach Boys on my transistor radio while I defrost my Cycla-matic Frigidaire. My brand new Ford Falcon sits bright and shiny in the driveway, as I pull on a copy of a Rudy Geinrich dress I made myself from a photo I saw in the latest issue of Vogue. I pack a light lunch and open the door --

-- and it's a cold, miserable February day in 2010. The skies are grey, and there's a nasty wind, and I have to walk carefully so I dont get my runners wet. I drive my beat-up Falcon to the office, where I spend the day working at a computer and hating every moment of it. My boss threatens me with overtime again, since he cant get any of the young things to stay after five, and he figures an old woman near retirement probably needs all the spare cash she can get. But I refuse, and he yells at me so much I have to take an extra dose of my heart medication just to finish out the day. I cant wait to get in my rust bucket of a car and drive home so that when I walk through the door --

-- the black and white TV flickers, and Ed Sullivan has just come on. I adjust the aerial to get the best reception possible, then make a TV dinner and sit in front of the television, watching summer reruns of my favourite shows: Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, and this new thing called Star Trek. Some nights, my mother calls, worried that I'm still single at 22, and I laughingly tell her not to worry. I'm a liberated woman, and I'll get married when the right man comes along.

Then, at 10PM, I wind the clock and set the alarm for six, and I sleep, and I dream. Paul (sometimes Ringo) whisks me away to England, and the Queen and her little son Charles invite me to tea.

He's so adorable.

The Littlest God of Sunflowers

Sure, every flower, every tree, every bush has its protective spirit. All the really pretty things get their individual, terribly specialized treatment. You want to be the real queen of the garden? Get yourself assigned to a black rose. You just dont get any higher than that, not in our hierarchy. After that, violets. Ladyfingers, jack-in-the-pupits, pansies, a few others on the next tier. Then you get the flowering shrubs, then the various trees - which have their own hierarchy - then the non-flowering shrubs.

Then you get the weeds.

That's where I come in. I protect the flowers that everyone else calls weeds: the stuff that doesnt have the pretty stems or the nice smell or the lovely colours of springtime. No, mine's the stuff that most folks consider an annoyance to be cut down so they can make way for, you know, the important stuff, like begonias or tulips.

Tulips. Pfft. Dont get me started on those pretenders.

Sure, when I was younger, I wanted the rose assignment. But I knew, just like everyone else in this game, that (1) I didnt have the right conections and (2) I damn sure didnt have the talent. So I bided my time, did an internship with a few birch trees and a small oak --

-- and then I noticed the sunflowers.

Not the prettiest thing on the planet by a long stretch. Smells awful. Has a stem about as eye-catching as one's Great-Aunt Martha. And as such, no one wanted them. Couldnt give the assignment away. But something told me that I should do it.

My friends in the biz all said I was crazy. But with no competition, I found I could take over the whole field and no one would care. Then I expanded out, into daisies and crepe myrtle and a few others. I nutured them as carefully as the Level 1 guys do their Princess Anne daffodils. And the flowers, so desperate for attention and care, responded. The sunflowers went from dingy little stumps to magnificent eyes that follow the path of the sun all day long. Daisies... well, now, thanks to me, nothing says young love better than a handful of daisies. And you cant travel anywhere in the Southwest without seeing fields of Indian paintbrush; I think those might be my second highest achievement.

But it's the sunflowers I love the most.