The Littlest Cupid

Okay, you can't blame a guy for trying.

It wasn't like I went around trying to make all that happen.

I was just doing my job. Pure and simple.

It started simply enough. Boy meets girl. Same tired old story you've heard since the earth was in diapers. Couple of nice kids. I almost didn't have to do a thing, 'cause they would have figured it out for themselves eventually -- I just nudged a few things here, quietly shoved a few things there, got them in position, shot the proverbial arrow, and voila. Happy couple, off to the church, then to live happily ever after.

Well, seems the families weren't too impressed with my efforts. Now I take great pride in my work. If I figure two people should be together, it's because I'm a paid professional. I can't change the oil in my truck without getting it all over the driveway, but love? I can see that in a second. Still, the families objected. "You're too young!" "She's not good enough for you!" "His family is all crazy!" You get the idea. So I had some mop-up work to do.

Now, those are tough -- you really have to keep your eye on the ball to make those work, but I'm not one to turn down a challenge. I surveyed the landscape a little and found that his uncle would look real good with her cousin -- yeah, little age difference, but I can work with that: I'm an artist. Then her brother proved real compatible with his mother's cousin's daughter.

Now I'll admit: sometimes I get a little crazy. Must be the artist in me. I couldn't leave well enough alone: I had to keep pushing the creative envelope. I had those two families so intermixed that in the end they could hold the same family reunion. Some of my best work, bar none.

Well, until the various honeymoons were over and folks started looking at the situation a little harder. Now, his little brother is her grandfather, and her cousin Jeremy is his new step-mother. It kinda got a little ugly, I guess. Three murders (well, okay, two: the other one was just manslaughter), a suicide, and a couple of life-in-prison-without-paroles, and, well, I guess I did go a little overboard a bit.

I know, I know, call me wild, call me crazy. I've always been one for experimentation -- it makes things more interesting by a long shot. And I did manage to get the entire mess its own guest spot on Springer, so they shouldn't be complaining too much.

Still, the company put me on indefinite leave for a while. They've promised they'll let me back once all the furor dies down.

The Littlest CEO

Can I have everyone's attention, please?

Hello?

HELLO?? Whack!

Good. Thank you.

As some of you know, the company is going through a bit of restructuring. The Board of Directors has been dissolved, and the Chief Executive Officer and Chief Financial Officer have been taken up on money laundering charges. The President was finally apprehended only moments before he could escape to Mexico, and I'm pleased to announce that 4.5 billion of the company's 8.1 billion in assets have been recovered.

However, I must add this:

I am very, very disappointed.

And you know what happens when I'm disappointed, dont you?

Exactly.

In the past few weeks, it became obvious that someone in this company needed to step up to the plate and exhibit a little leadership. And yes, when I did so, there was a great deal of grumbling about how I was a mere secretary and who did I think I was anyway.

But I have managed to pull this company out of the fire and turn it around in a scant two weeks. Our stock price has tripled. Our quarterly returns promise to skyrocket. And it's certainly not in thanks for a group of men who hired twelve-year-old hookers from Guadalejuara.

This company needed one mother of a CEO.

And as you all know now, I am the mother of all mothers.

I didnt raise three kids just to see another bunch of overaged children run my place of employment into the ground. So I did what any good mother who believes in Tough Love would do.

I locked you out.

Remember? It was cold that day, wasnt it? But it taught you a lesson you were long overdue in learning.

Disobey, and you'll be punished.

Strongly.

You coming home late? You better have a good excuse. And God help you if you dont call.

If I find your fingers in the cookie jar, prepare to have them slapped so hard you'll be sucking your food through a straw for three months.

I dont want to hear a single word of backtalk, from any of you. Try it, and I'll introduce you to my very special bar of soap.

I expect to see all of you at the Directors meeting tomorrow, when I introduce my new staff. You'll recognize most of them, I'm sure -- many are your former secretaries. There's also Lenny from the mail room, and three members of the cleaning staff. They know this company far better than you, because they see it from the bottom up.

And as for all of you... well, I think the question we should be asking now is: Who do you think you are, anyway?

Thank you.

The Littlest Disco Dancer

He was a child of the 80s, and he loved to dance. In his youth, every Saturday night was at the local disco, and he could chew up the floor with the best of them. Travolta had nothing on him, not when it came to commanding attention under the mirror ball lights.

Then, suddenly, it wasnt the 80s anymore. He still went out on weekends to dance, but things had changed: the girls were younger, the music faster, the drinks weaker. But he went anyway, because he loved to dance. And during those moments on the dance floor, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world. Not an office worker trapped in a nine-to-five cubicle, but -- even if in his own mind -- a star.

And then he wasnt a star at all, but a middle-aged man who, like the music he adored, had gone beyond "retro" and "classic" to "who put that crap on!?!" So he stopped going to the discos and remained more and more within the safe, if unsatisfying, confines of his cubicle...

... where he could dance.

Every Friday night, after everyone else had left for the day and the cleaning ladies had finished their rounds, he turned up the stereo behind his desk and danced, to all of his friends, the Thompson Twins, George Michael, the Eurythmics. He danced till he couldnt dance anymore, then he would carefully turn out the lights and go home to his little apartment.

Then, one Friday night, he made a perfect Bus Stop turn and was shocked to see, in the building across the street, someone else dancing. A woman, near his age, as far as he could tell. But she too was dancing away in her cubicle, with her own music. She was doing a modified Hustle; he eased into the same steps. And she was watching him: she smiled and waved, and he waved back. They danced together for two hours, and he went home happier than he'd ever been.

The next Friday, the woman was there again, but now there were three more offices, on three different floors, with three more people dancing. All more or less his age, all putting their bodies through wild contortions -- the Electric Slide, the Boogie Down -- that not even age could deny in memory. The next week, he could see, in the reflections of the glass skyscraper, reflections of his own building, with now half a dozen more people, all dancing away, alone and yet together through the music.

And before too much longer, it seemed the entire block was one huge dance party: scores, if not hundreds, of middle-aged office workers, all getting down in the night. It didnt matter if they were playing the same song or a hundred different ones -- they just danced.

Then, just as quickly, they disappeared, one after another. And finally, one Friday night, he looked across the way: the woman's office was dark. He sat there waiting for two hours. She never showed.

The following Friday, at 5:00 promptly, he put his dance CDs in the trash and went home.

The Littlest Pill

The Woman with the Shaved Head stared at the television. "Do people really think that some little pill will do all that?"

"Do what?" the Listener asked.

"Make them happy. Give them great sex lives. Allow them to sleep all night and wake up congestion-free."

The Listener shrugged. "Perhaps."

The pink one wakes me up.

The yellow one keeps me awake.

The blue one focuses me so I can drive to work.

The red one keeps my cholesterol down.

The green one keeps my heart rate up.

The orange one adjusts my stomach acidity.

The taupe one allows me to swallow.

The cyan one gives me a day's equivalent of fourteen vitamins and minerals.

The umber one allows the fourteen vitamins and minerals to interact at poeak efficiency.

The lavender one supercharges my exercise routine.

The mint one cools down my exercise routine.

The cardinal one maintains my mental equilibrium.

The pale grey one sharpens my focus.

The tan one allows me to unfocus and see the big picture.

The black one adjusts my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The white one allows me to self-adjust my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The emerald one calms me down at the end of the day.

The rose one puts me to sleep.

The slate one makes sure I stay that way.

The lime one gives me fantastic dreams all night long.

The powder blue keeps the nightmares away.

And the silver one... well, please, everything looks better when set off by silver.

"But does she ever eat?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked.

"Eat?" the Listener answered. "Why bother?"

"Why indeed."

The Littlest Trapeze Artist

I've been flying since I was six.

My uncle and aunt were the company stars when I started to learn this, and they taught me well: I was doing triple flips before I was ten, and there's not many in the business that can claim that.

And every night since I was six, maybe seven, I've been up here. At first, I was decoration: "Ooo! Look at the cute little kid!" Then my aunt pretty well shoved me into the spotlight with my first jump and catch. The audience went nuts. I was a star. And I loved it.

I've never been to school, y'know? I can read, a little, and write enough to cash my paycheques. But I dont know much else. Never needed to, really. It's not like you have to worry about political science when you're on the trapeze. All you need to know is how to get from here to there without breaking your neck. So that's what I do -- and I do it damn well.

Yeah, afterwards, when we're all just sitting around, I'll hear folks talking about this or that, and I wont have a clue what they're talking about. No big deal, actually. The world just keeps turning without my help, so I guess no one will notice if I dont understand why we're sending troops here or flying aid there.

But up here, when I'm in the tower, everyone notices. Everyone. So this is where I give them what they want: thrills, excitement, the defiance of death. All I have to do is reach out and grab that other bar, and I can hear them gasping in unison because they thought I might not make it, that I might miss and fall.

Sure, normally there's a net. Not tonight. Tonight I plan on giving them the thrill of their lives, something they'll tell their grandchildren about: a quadruple spin, without a net. It's kind of the Grail in our business, something everyone aspires to. My uncle tried. He didnt make it. Afterwards, my aunt left the business, and I carried on on my own, working it up till I got the sense of how the spin was supposed to work. And tonight...

Well, tonight, sure, I'll be like everyone else in the business. I'll try the quad without a net.

And I'll fail.

And people here watching, the folks who have their eyes on me, will talk about that for years.

That's entertainment.

The Littlest Opera Singer

Yes, I am Il Divino.

My voice is recognized internationally. It is insured by a company in London: should I ever fail to complete a performance for reasons outside my control, I am to be paid twenty-three million pounds Sterling. I am told this is a great deal of money. And of course. It would have to be. I am, after all, Il Divino.

How does a simple Tuscan peasant boy become Il Divino, you ask? Sit. I shall tell you.

From my earliest days, I loved to sing. I would sing in the forest, in the meadows, to the birds, to the cattle, to the gently babbling stream. They were the perfect audience: quiet, attentive, appreciative.

One day, a man in a long black autocar stopped. "Young man," he called out, "I am entranced by the loveliness of your voice. You are without a doubt Il Divino." And so of course I was. "You will come with me to La Scala, where I will make you a star." He was wrong, of course: Il Divino is not a star. Il Divino is the star.

I sang only once during my audition. "More," they asked, but I would not. If you want more, I said, you must sign Il Divino. And of course they did.

I made my La Scala debut as Tamino. I was astounding. "Il Divino!" the women would cry out beneath my hotel room at night. 'Come to the window!" But of course I would not. Then they would shoot themselves in unrequited anguish. In the morning, I would find the steps littered with the bodies of women who had shot themselves for Il Divino.

The Paris Opera called. "Il Divino, you must sing for us!" And of course I did. I was Pinkerton. I was brilliant. No one could weep on command as touchingly as Il Divino. I was Calaf. I was flawless. The audience cried with joy for Il Divino as he swept Turandot into his arms for an impassioned kiss.

Others came and threw themselves at Il Divino’s feet: the London, the Metropolitan, the Arena de Verona. At every turn, I was incredible.

Then one day a man appeared at my dressing room door. "You are Il Divino?" Of course I was, I said. "I would ask you to sing for my company, but I don't know that you can."

"My schedule is quite full," I replied.

"I know that," he said. "It's more a question of whether or not you can sing. Can you?"

I was taken aback. I am, after all, Il Divino. Of course I can sing. Who does this little man think he is? So I sang. Tamino’s opening aria, when he is given the locket of Pamina. Unaccompanied. Beautifully. My maid wept when I was finished.

But the little man, he shook his head. "No, it's not quite right. The melodic lines are uneven, and you missed the high D by a quarter step. I'm sorry. You won't do." And then he left.

I spent the entire night and the entire day following singing the aria. Suddenly it was not as beautiful. To my horror, I discovered I had missed the high D by a quarter step. Even more shocking, the melodic lines were uneven. I was devastated. But now I am determined. Now, no matter what role I play, at some point in the performance, I always sing Tamino’s opening aria. It is expressly written in my contracts. My agent thinks me mad, the directors and conductors loathe me, but I am Il Divino. My name alone brings in attentive audiences. But they no longer matter. After all, the little man may be in the audience, and I want him to know that Il Divino can indeed sing.....

The Littlest Fashion Designer

I work for Lockheed, as an engineer. For years, I designed the inner workings of planes of all sorts, mostly bombers, lots of defence related stuff. Good money, lots of work. Good days.

Then for a while the bottom dropped out of the defence industry. Outsourcing ran rampant. That sort of thing. Oh sure, the company put on the happy face and told everyone things were just fine, but we all knew we were in trouble -- the Lock had outsourced the construction of a whole fleet of 787s to some little company in India. The union raised a huge stink, but the corporate brass stood their ground. They couldnt take the overhead any more, and we were part of it. I guess it didnt become obvious until the day we got the note...

Our division was being taken off defence related stuff. The Lock needed to diversify, it said, and we were gonna be the guinea pigs in a whole new era of... well, we werent too sure, but something. Along with the memo tho was a list of internet links we were told to study: at first I thought this was just some corporate prank (the guys upstairs love to pull that kind of stuff) -- I mean, I deal with aeronautical specifications, right? So why was I looking at sites for Versace and Montana?

Because the company said so, that's why. So overnight we went from air flow resistance factors to understanding the drape of a good piece of French linen. Turns out it was the boss's wife's idea -- she saw those fifty thousand dollar dresses on Fashion TV and told her hubby there was the stuff that was gonna save the Lock's butt. He wanted some tail that night, I guess, because he agreed

Sure, some of the guys were a little resistant. We got kidded pretty mercilessly in the division meetings. But then we saw it as a challenge. After all, it's just engineering, right? Build something so it doesnt fall down -- or, in this case, off. Our first releases -- okay, not so good. We were still learning, after all, and I guess it takes a while to understand that rivets dont work on cloth and skin the same way they do on metal. But we persevered...

... and now, five years later, we're the toast of Milan. I have my own collection premiering this month in Paris, and I'm really excited. The theme is "The Art of the Mobile Land-Based Interceptor : a Theoretical and Stylistic Analysis". Wasnt my first choice for a title, but you know how Corporate can be -- always have to keep up the image.

Yeah, the Lock's doing fine with the defence contracts, but they've let us remain. Good for PR, they say. A chance to show the "human side of the technologically advance defence industry". Me, I just like to take that six yards of triple-dyed black Chinese silk and make it into something that will make America proud!! Take THAT, Bei-jing!!

Gotta go. The guys at Northrup are showing their spring collection in about thirty minutes, and I want a good seat. They got into this late, and it shows: silly fools dont even know the difference between gabadine and codouroy. What a bunch of amateurs -- this should be a riot.

The Littlest Celebration

Since the holiday onslaught has started, let's remember a few things about why we celebrate holidays like this in the first place.

The Littlest Wizard

They made me a wizard about a year ago, I guess. I say "they" because for all I know, it could have been anyone: three guys in dark suits and sunglasses. At first I thought they were the FBI. Then when they said they wanted to make me a wizard, I figured it was one of those software scams (I'm an accountant; I see a lot of that). When I told them I didn't like computers, they laughed and said, no, they really wanted to make me a wizard -- and before I knew it, they'd put this stupid crown on my head, given me a stick wand thing and an owner's manual, and left.

The crown, by the way, doesn't come off. Try explaining that to your boss. Good thing I know my stuff; otherwise, they would have canned me on the spot for dress code violations.

So I look through the owner's manual. Seems I'm restricted in my powers from 1401 Beltline to 1722 7th Street SW, no further. Now, I can live with that. I like knowing my boundaries. But then I thought, hey, I'm a wizard, right? Let's see a pile of money on the table now.

Nothing happened. So I called the 800 Helpline number in the manual. "Look, when we made you a wizard, it wasn't so you could run around ruining the economy, okay?"

"Great," says I. "So what can I do?"

"Hey, important stuff, okay? Heal the sick, mend broken hearts, that kind of thing. Nothing big, no cures for cancer or raising the dead. Oh, and you can't tell them when you do it, understand?"

"What?"

"Yep, basic wizard rule. By the way, you want a familiar?"

"A what?"

"A familiar. An animal sidekick."

"I have a cat."

"Cats are good. We have an extra warthog here if you want it."

"No thanks," I said and hung up the phone.

So, without their knowing, I cured Mrs. Andretti's arthritis and gave Mr. McElheny a little more bounce in the bed, if you know what I mean. Helped the McMaster twins get over a cold, and did something about my neighbour's tennis elbow. Got Twinkles down from a tree when no one was looking. Pretty simple stuff all around.

Then Gerald, that nice kid down the street, got dumped by his girlfriend. It hit him pretty hard, and I thought, hey, maybe I can fix that too. So I waved the stick wand thing, and all of a sudden he's like he hasn't got a care in the world.

And it felt wrong somehow.

So I changed him back and instead asked him if he was still interested in cutting my lawn, figuring every kid needs some pocket money, right? So he comes over, cuts the grass, then when we sit outside and talk. About sports, politics, family, stuff like that. Then he starts on his girlfriend. So we talk about love. Nothing big, y'know, just little stuff, like you're gonna get your heart broken a few times anyway, so best to get used to it early on. When he leaves, he's thirty bucks richer and actually smiling for the first time in a week.

And I thought, hey, I didn't the stick wand thing to do that.

That felt pretty good.

Now, if I can just get rid of the stupid crown....

The Littlest Wolf

The Woman with the Shaved Head set the book to one side with a happy sigh. "I love fairy tales."

The Listener looked up in mild surprise. "Oh?"

"Of course. They're so blindingly, naively hopeful."

"Perhaps for some," the Listener replied.

So I'm at my local bar one night, and in walks this truly fine specimen. Great build. Thick shock of red hair, and I am so into red heads. And as for down below, well, hell, I mean, no kidding, this guy was so seriously hung that I was surprised those jeans stayed intact. And I thought to myself, Damn, I want me some of that!

But I was cool. No sense in throwing yourself at them, right? Let them come to me, that's my motto. So I let him know in little ways I was interested, but he seemed determined to ignore me. So I finally walk up to him and say hi. He says hi as well. Nice smile. Great teeth. A jawline that would cut butter. I am so hot for this man it's not funny.

So we chat for a while. Small talk. Bikes. Football. Guy stuff. Then he tells me maybe we should get together some time, but he can't tonight; he's on his way to see an old friend, and he's gotta motor if he's gonna get to the other side of town in time.

My mind is racing like a Harley in sixth gear. "So where's your friend live?" I ask. He tells me. Not far. Then an idea hits me. "You know, you can't go that way. They got Fifth Street all torn up. Sewer construction. You're gonna have to take the 820 Loop."

"Damn!" he says. "That's like thirty miles outa my way. Well, if that's what I gotta do... Thanks, bud."

"No problem. Glad to help." Then I take off outa there like a bat outa a Meatloaf album. I jump on my hog, head over to the friend's place. The friend's an older guy -- still hot, though, and I'm starting to think maybe two for the price of one. "Listen, sorry to drop by like this, but I got a message from your buddy. Mind if I come in?" Within seconds, I have him in the bed, and we're going at it so heavy that, I swear to God, he passes out cold.

So I close the bedroom door and wait. And maybe five minutes later I hear the other guy's bike roaring up. Real quick, I turn down the lights; I like the element of surprise, y'know. Red walks in, says "Hey, stud," and grabs me in a liplock like you cannot believe. Even though he thinks it's the other guy, I'm seriously liking this, let me tell you.

So we go at it, right there, in the dark. And every now and then, he says something like, "Damn, Gramps, you been working out?" And I'm, like, disguising my voice: "Hey, all the better for you, huh?"

"Yeah, but check those arms!"

"Yeah, well, hey, all the better, huh?"

"And that stuff from the Internet site musta worked. Sheesh, I had no idea it was this big now."

And I figure the only way to shut him up to put that mouth to other uses. So I do. And he ain't complaining.

So we finish up -- and lemme tell ya, it was every bit as good as I hoped. He gets up, turns on the light. He looks at me. "Hey, you're not my grandfather!"

I'm, like, "Huh?"

But he's really pissed now. "Okay, slime, where's my gramps?" Then he looks at me real hard. "Don't move a muscle, you hear me? You move one inch, and I'm gonna hunt you down and beat the living crap outa you." Then he heads outa the room, calling for his... gramps. And I'm thinking, What the bloody hell have you gotten yourself into now? Whatever it is, it definitely ain't my scene, y'know?

The second he's gone, I'm outa there like a bullet, on my hog, and heading down the road as fast as I can, taking every side road I can think of. And I'm a mile away before I look down and realize I've left one of my custom-made boots behind, and it aint gonna take him very long to see whose foot fits inside that...

"Oh my!" the Woman with the Shaved Head laughed. "How terribly awkward."

The Listener merely nodded.

"But it does leave one question," she added with a pensive grin.

"What's that?"

"What kind of goodies were in his basket?"

The Littlest Affair

He took another drag on the cigarette and leaned against the bar rail. It was midnight, maybe later -- far too late, in any event, to be wearing sunglasses, but he hoped they made him look at least slightly cool.

It was his first road trip.

He'd been married - and happily so -- for fifteen years. His wife was a great woman. He fell in love with her because she made the best corn muffins he'd ever eaten, and that alone was reason enough. Yes, she was also pretty and considerate and supportive, and that just made the package even sweeter.

When he got the his hotel and opened his suitcase, he found a couple of muffins, boxed in a small plastic container. He set them on the bureau, changed clothes, and hit the bar.

He'd been waiting for this trip for weeks, months. It was the first time the company was sending him out alone, and he was thrilled by the excitement of it all. Other guys came back with tales of wild women and drunken orgies, and even though he loved his wife very much, he kept wondering What was it like?

Now he could find out.

The music was loud, so much so that he was havng trouble hearing anything else. And everyone seemed so young, some barely older than his eldest daughter. Was this what she did on weekends? he wondered. He hoped not.

Then he saw her.

Pretty. About 25. Legs that went to her neck and long, luxurious hair he wanted to drown in. Barbara used to have long hair like that, until he came home one afternoon and discovered she'd cut it all off. This girl would never cut hers off, he knew it, not the way she kept tossing it around. She was talking to three other girls, friends. A girls' night out, to have a few laughs and maybe a hook-up they could talk about over lunch the next day.

And he suddenly realized that was all he wanted. Just a hook up. A chance to say he still had it when it came to the ladies. Something he could brag about with the guys back at the office. He really, really wanted this.

He loved his wife, no question. And he knew how wrong this was. She'd never been unfaithful to him, not once in fifteen years, and he felt a slight pang of guilt as he realized that he too had never once acted on the impulse, even though the opportunity had afforded itself several times: the secretary in accounting who smiled at him a lot, the assistant manager at his biggest client's flagship store, the personal trainer who always seemed to be at the gym the same time he was. But he never did anything about them, because he loved hs wife so much.

Maybe this wasnt such a good idea, he decided. I'll finish my drink and go back to the room and call Barbara and tell her I love her and then go to bed -- like I should. He took one last gulp of the bourbon and set the empty glass on the counter, then looked up one last time at the girl with the long legs and the long hair.

She was smiling at him.

The Littlest Mechanic

Now my brother 'n' me've been living in this town since we were born. It's just your average nothin' lil small town out in the middle of nowhere. I'm a mechanic, and my brother runs a metal fabrication shop -- so we see a lot of each other, both professionally and personally. And that's a good thing, keeps the family squabbles down, y'know?

So I'm in the garage one afternoon when this guy shows up. Walking. Dressed kinda funny -- I mean, like everything was okay 'n' all, but there was something about the jeans and the shirt that didn't look quite right. I couldnt really put my finger on it, but something. Anyway, point is, he's walking. It's twenty three miles to the nearest highway, ten at least to the nearest town down the road. That's a hike I wouldnt want to take, but he looked like it was the most normal thing in the world. Says he needs some parts. Sure, says I, no problem. If I dont have 'em, I can order pretty easy.

So he takes out a piece of paper -- at least, it looked like paper, sorta -- and sketches something out. And while he's doing it, it's pretty clear it's not like any part I'm familiar with. So I casually ask him what it's for, thinking if he tells me that, I can figure out where the hell to get this thing from. He just looks at me and sorta grins. "It's kinda hard to say," he says. "It's for my car. But I've done a lot of custom work on it." Then he explains what the thing does, and it takes me about three minutes to decide I'm seriously out of my element here. Time to call my brother.

So he comes over and takes a look, and after a little head scratching, decides maybe he can build whatever the damn thing is. And the guy's just ecstatic about that, says he'll bring in the working drawings for them tomorrow, with all the specs my brother needs to get the job done.

Now, I dont know anyone who walks around with walking drawings of car parts in their hip pocket, but whatever, right?

So Bro gets the drawings, and they're the damndest things you've ever seen. The measurements are like 3.1719" and 16.248913", tolerances that are just crazy, in my humble opinion. But my brother loves a good challenge, so he snatches those drawings up and heads straight to the shop to get started. Tells the guy it'll take a couple of days, and then he'll be ready to roll. I tell him he's welcome to stay at my place in the interim, and he shakes his head, telling me that's okay, but he prefers to stay near his car.

"We could tow it in, y'know. No sense in you walking back and forth like that."

But he just says no, thanks. It would be somewhat awkward, he tells us. He's traveling with his wife, and she doesn't like to be around strangers all that much. He'll drop by when the parts are ready. Then he pays a deposit and leaves.

Well, true to my brother's word, two days later he comes in with this bunch of... things, I guess. No idea what these are supposed to do, and I can tell Bro has no idea either. Still, when the guy sees 'em, he's all happy, pays the bill in cash, thanks us both for our hospitality, and heads out, promising that, once he's got them installed, him and his wife'll drop by before they head back home. That's kinda nice, y'know?

So later that day, Bro and I are out walking around, and we see this... glow in the sky... liike someone set a bonfire out by the lake. So we go check it out -- and here's the guy. And his wife. And his... well, I guess you'd call it a car. Maybe. Not like any car I know, 'specially since it was about thirty feet in the air and just hanging there.

But he's all happy to see us, brings the missus over and introduces her, and we talk for a bit, almost pointedly ignoring all the obvious questions floating around just like that damn car. Then he finally says, "Well, we gotta scoot. Thanks, again, guys." And we were like, "Drop by again sometime, hear?" He looks up, nods real quick, and the car just sorta floats down. He and the wife get in and shut it up with some sort of weird series of things, then the car floats back up and just blam! disappears off into the sky.

Damndest thing I've ever seen, I swear.

Nice people, tho. Really nice.

The Littlest Dreamer

The highway ends right here. This very spot.

Been like this for years, they tell me. Every now and then, the town council will pass a decision to extend it out to the freeway, but no one can ever find enough money for the last mile and a quarter. So nothing gets done. And the highway ends. Right here.

I sorta like it that way. I come out here, where it's all peaceful and quiet. I lean against the blinking light and look up at the stars. It's nice.

Every now and then, some car will come along. The driver'll see the blockade, and I can hear the occasional "^%&%$$%!!!!!!" Then they turn around in a big storm of gravel and dust and high tail it back to town, thinking there might be some other road to the interstate. There never is, but cant blame them for trying, huh?

But I'll come out here and just look up and enjoy. Sometimes I think maybe I should get my backpack and just hike the last mile and a quarter to the interstate -- and then I'll stop and ask myself, Well, self, why bother? It's a good place to end a road. It's an honest one. No detours that take you fifteen miles out of your way, just a blinking yellow light that says, "End of the road. Deal with it." Some folks cant. Others, like me, can.

That's life.

Look, up there: a star.

The Littlest Latte

Billy, another, please? Gwendolyn! You look fabulous! Maurice! Call me!

:: sigh ::

This is my life.

Eight months ago, everything was so very different. I dont think you would have recognized me. I was one of those women who watched a lot of Oprah, made sure her husband went to work sexually satisfied, kept a spotless home, went to church every Sunday, and shopped at WalMart. My thighs were the size of Jumbo Jets, and I had varicose veins Triple A could have used as a map of Cleveland.

Francine! How was Italy?

Then... I dont know. Forty hit. My cat died, victim of a neighbour's boy who liked to barrel up and down the road on his ATV. My eldest daughter decided she was quitting school to become a beautician. And my husband drunkenly admitted to having an affair with his secretary for the past two years.

Well, things like that... I guess you'd call them a collective wake up call, right? I took a long look at my life and wondered what happened to the little girl who wanted to be a ballet dancer and the first female astronaut.

Then a friend told me about Sidewalk Cafes.

Linda! Love the hair! Is that a new colour? What's it called?

The first time, I thought, well, this is silly: sitting around all day drinking overpriced coffee I could very well make at home -- and then it hit me: I didnt have to make this coffee at home. It was like, the skies opened and God Himself smiled down on me and said, That's right, lady: you dont have to make coffee at home. I stayed for four hours. I spent almost thirty dollars that was supposed to pay for my husband's dry cleaning -- but you know what? I didnt care. If he wanted clean suits to impress his floozy secretary, he could pick them up. Here, I had people waiting on me hand and foot. And I loved it.

So I became a regular, and when you become a regular, people remember you. Imagine that! I spent ten years going to the same clerk at WalMart and every time I paid by cheque, she asked to see ID -- after ten years! But here, within a week, Billy, that adorably cute little gay man behind the counter, knew I liked the double-whipped caffe latte with extra-lo-fat whipped cream and grazed walnuts. I didnt even have to tell him who I was! He'd just look up and smile and say, "Hi, Sally. The usual?"

Imagine. Me: having a usual.

Taki! Loved the show! The new line looks stunning!

Within weeks, I noticed other changes: my thighs shrank to normal size. I woke up one morning and found a whole new wardrobe in my closet. My hair was a gorgeous new colour. I didnt give a damn about my husband or his secretary or the neighbour boy or my screaming kids or the house or... well, anything. All I cared about was... sitting here. Drinking my latte. Looking fabulous. WalMart could implode, taking that idiot clerk with it, and I wouldnt care. As long as Billy keeps them coming, my life is complete.

Giorgio! When is the new book coming out? Hillary! How's the campaign? Sasha! Killer party last night!

:: sigh ::

The Littlest Minstrel

He stood, anxiously, waiting in the wings. In front of the curtain, his advisor was clearly having trouble. Not good. And yet, at the same time, very very good.

"... I, uhm, I was somewhat thrown when Richards came to me with this proposal for his thesis. Certainly, as a cultural thread, it bears proper historical research so that we can see it both as a cultural and social phenomenom that has had impact to the current day. Still, when Richards said what he wanted to do for his defence..."

Here it comes.

"... I was, I believe, justifiably concerned. After all, I dont think anyone here wants to be reminded of this especially shameful part of our theatrical history. Still, here, we do encourage independent thinking, and... well, I suppose... there is a line of thought in this... one worth... investigating..."

His advisor seemed unable to continue. Although he couldnt see the professor, he knew the man had abandoned the stage, leaving him to... well, whatever was going to happen.

He could hear the music start: a ragtime piano, accompanied by a banjo and a tambourine. The curtains parted, and suddenly he was hit by a spotlight -- and he could hear the entire audience gasp. Steeling himself, he started to sing:

"Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped-turned upside down
And I liked to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air

In west Philadelphia born and raised
On the playground was where I spent most of my days
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
And all shootin some b-ball outside of the school
When a couple of guys
Who were up to no good
Startin making trouble in my neighborhood
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared
She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air'..."

As he continued on, now easing into a soft shoe, he could tell the audience had no clue how to respond. Some sat there with stupid grins on their faces, others looked appropriately shocked. The one or two who had moved to walk off suddenly stopped, now openly curious even as they made their disgust manifest.

But the music had carried him onwards. He only had a moment to throw his top hat and wig into the wings before he was catapulted into the next song, a light banjo strum:

"Well we're movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.

Fish don't fry in the kitchen;
Beans don't burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin',
Just to get up that hill.
Now we're up in the big leagues,
Gettin' our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it's you and me baby,
There ain't nothin wrong with that."

He could see the enormous question marks floating over everyone's heads: where was this going? Even the most offended now stood in the aisles, utterly perplexed.

But he had no time to gauge their reaction -- now he was in for the proverbial penny and pound. He flashed his brightest smile as he started to wipe off the burnt cork makeup, revealing his own skin tone, even as he rolled into his ragtime finale:

"You walk on the moon float like a balloon
You see it's never too late and it's never too soon
Take it from me what it's like to be. In living color.

And how would you feel knowin' prejudice was obsolete
And all mankind danced to the exact beat
And at night it was safe to walk down the street.

Everybody here is equally kind in living color.
What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine in living color."

He hit the final note on one knee, arms spread wide, a grin on his face, still streaked with makeup, a grin that was both cherubic and slyly winking. As he stood, it was silent in the theatre, followed by a thin trace of sporadic applause.

His professor joined him onstage, his eyes an odd mix of enlightenment and curiosity. He looked over the collected professors. "Mr. Richards will now entertain questions."

The Littlest Job Seeker

His finger hung over the Enter key, almost waiting for his mind to give it permission and yet at the same time not wanting to wait...

He'd been looking for a new job for years now. At his office, he looked at the people who had stayed and gone crazy and people who had gone and stayed sane. He'd stayed -- what did that say?

Then one morning a "career counselor" called him out of the blue, the first time in years that something like that had happened. The more she talked, the more excited he became. The perfect job, half again as much money, a true step up the professional ladder. Sensing his interest, she gave him a url and told him to check out the company. If he was still interested, she could be reached at...

He couldnt type the website address in fast enough. But even before the page had finished loading, he knew this was gonna be a problem.

His new employer was a spammer.

He hated spam. Check that: he loathed spam. He had no need for sexual enhancement, nor for replica Swiss watches, nor for milllions in beneficient funds from a dead government/bank official in Nigeria. He did not want a lovely new wife from the Ukraine. He was not interested in off-shore online gambling sites. They loaded his mailbox on a daily, if not hourly, basis, and he often lay in bed at night plotting ways of getting his revenge on spammers, should he ever get the opportunity.

And now, the Perfect Job meant working for one. He would get more money than he ever dreamed, a three week vacation his first year, complete medical and dental, a full retirement package, all of it wrapped up in one glorious package... in exchange for teaching little spammers how to be great big ones. He would be ordering address lists that toted in the millions. He would be writing code that would be purposely devised to get his employer's product in as many e-mailboxes as possible before the spam detectors could avert it.

On one hand, he could finally take that trip to Scotland.

On the other, it meant working for... he couldnt even bring himself to say it.

He called a friend. "What should I do?"

The friend laughed. "Ah, the moral quandry of our times. Well, what do you want to do?"

He couldnt answer, nor could his friend answer for him. And so, for another hour, he sat staring at the online application, his fingers poised...

The Littlest Sword of Damocles

You remember the story, right? Poor peasant who's friends with the king, constantly bitching that the king has it so good while the peasant has it so rotten. So one day, the king calls him on it. Says, "Look, you think my life is so wonderful, I'll give it to you for a day." "Hey, works for me," says the peasant, who races up the hill as fast as his little peasant feet can take him. King tells everyone, "This is my bud Damocles. He's gonna be king tomorrow. Treat him good, capisce?"

So the next morning, ol' Damocles wakes up, and here's all these retainers and servants and slaves and God only knows what else, and they're all fawning over him and agreeing with him and laughing at all his jokes, and he's thinkin' he could get used to this real quick. Then they take him downstairs for breakfast and seat him at this lavish table, and he's looking around, thinking Man, I have so got it made!, when he looks up...

... and there's this broadsword, hanging, like, right over his head, suspended by a single strand of horsehair. He starts to get up, but the king, who's been sitting next to him, pulls him back down and says, "C'mon, man, enjoy yourself!"

"But that sword..."

"That ol' thing? Bah! I have to deal with that every day of my life. Never know when someone's gonna come along and take you out, 'know? But don't worry: you only have it over you for a day."

"Yeah, well, if it's all the same to you, I'll let you deal with it." And with that the peasant gets outa Dodge fast as he can; never again did he bitch about his friend's success.

Cool story, huh? I mean, reassuring when you see those things on Entertainment Tonight or those talking heads on Larry King Live and yer thinking You know, those people aren't any better than me; I could be like them if I wanted to. Well, yeah, you could. You could be rich and famous and successful and have lots of friends and go to all the right parties and get on the covers of all the right magazines...

... and then I'd be there waiting for you.

Oh, you know, nothing serious. I'm no stalker or anything. But I'm still there, all the time, reminding you that success is ephemeral and your friends just want your money and Larry King doesn't give a damn, really, about your new book about the Bush era. A hundred years from now, all new people, as they say, and I'm right there telling you right now that a hundred years from now, no one's gonna care one whit about the fact that you got a corner office and a Beemer and a mistress shacked up in a swanky hotel in Paris.

So you go ahead and get yerself all successful-like. Don't worry: I'll be there, right beside you. And when you least suspect it, I'll take my sword and whack right through that horsehair. And won't you be surprised when it happens, huh? Then we'll have a little laugh about it and go for a beer -- that sound good to you?