This one’s timely

My Great-Great-Grandmother Blynth was single when she gave birth to my Great-Grandmother Reginow. When asked who was the father, she was mum.

Last Sunday at the family picnic, my Great-Great-Grandmother Blynth took me aside and asked if I could keep a secret. I said I could, even though I’d never ever been able to. For instance, when I was seven, my best friend Billy Beaver once made me pinky swear not to tell anyone he was in love with his cat, Miss Mercy, and one day hoped they would marry. By the end of the day, via me, everyone at Bollswigger Elementary knew. That night Billy ran away from home with Miss Mercy. About a year later they were found on a shipping freighter at a port in Guangzhou Harbor, China. Billy came back to school, and during lunch asked if was the one who told. I said I was. He asked why I broke the pinky swear. I said I have a problem with keeping secrets, but I have a hard time admitting it.

Anyway, my  Great-Great-Grandmother Blynth shared with me that from 1904 to 1906 she was White House secretary for President Theodore Roosevelt and Vice-President Charles W. Fairbanks, and sometimes did it with both of them. She got pregnant and they fired her. Six months later she gave birth to Great-Grandmother Reginow. I asked why she decided to tell me. She said I seemed non-judgemental. I said I wasn’t and listed the low opinions I had of every family member at the picnic. She said I was spot on, then reiterated I’d promised to not tell anyone. I said I’d keep it private from the family. (They don’t read these posts, so I think I’m finally turning the corner on keeping a secret.)

When I got home that night, I got in my time-travel machine and went back to the White House in 1907. There in the Oval Office were President Roosevelt and Vice-President Fairbanks. They asked what I was doing there. I said I was a visiting relative. They asked of which of them. I said I was the great-great-godson of their former secretary Blynth. They asked how that was possible, and I showed them my time-travel machine. They asked how that was possible. I said eventually everything is.

 

Here’s that damn story I wanted to tell you

I’m extremely impatient. Just typing these words, I’m thinking to myself, “Why couldn’t you have been with me when the story I want to tell you happened so that I wouldn’t have to tell it to you?”

Anyway, here’s the story. I got tired of listening to Chopin on Spotify. It’s a tinny sound. I imagine it’s what it would be like to see a copy of a Picasso printed in dot matrix. So, I got in my time-machine and rode instantly to Chopin’s home in Paris in 1837.

I brought a really big watermelon with me. I read on Wikipedia that its Chopin’s favorite food. I knocked, Chopin answered, saw the watermelon, and quickly invited me in. We walked briskly to the kitchen, where he got out a big knife  and cut the watermelon in half. He gave me half and a spoon. Then plunged his face into the other half. He was savage in his ravishing of the fruit.

I was just eating my second spoonful of watermelon, when Chopin finished and stood up, his face glistening with red juice. He didn’t seem to mind that it ran down onto his jacket and shirt. He asked me if I was going to finish my half of the watermelon. I said no and handed it to him, and he proceeded to disappear into that as well.

When he was done, Chopin asked me if I had any more watermelon. I said I didn’t and asked if he would do me the favor of playing some of his selections on piano. He got upset and said I was holding out on him. I said it would be obvious if I had more of the fruit. He said it was highly possible I was hiding other watermelons in my horse and carriage. He left the kitchen and went out the front door. He came back, frustrated there was no such vehicle parked outside.

I asked Chopin again if he would kindly play me a song or two of his. He said that he was in a fowl mood and that I needed to leave. I said that if he played me the songs, I would go out and come back with more watermelon. Chopin said that if I went out and came back with three more watermelons, he would play me three songs.

I agreed and left. I took my time-machine to today, went to the store, bought three watermelons, and returned to 1837  and Chopin’s home. I watched while Chopin fervently devoured the fruits, one after another. By now, his entire outfit was drenched in the juice. He began rambling incoherently. I chalked that up to blood sugar overwhelm.

I took Chopin by the arm and guided him from room to room, until we came upon his piano in the solarium. I sat him down at the piano. He sat still in a stupor. I put his hands on the keys and began making a metronome sound by repeatedly clicking my tongue. He slumped onto the keys and began to snore.

I got upset at myself for needing things to be perfect. Why couldn’t I be satisfied with the way things are?

Chopin rolled off the piano and slumped to the floor. I picked him up and carried him upstairs to the bedroom. I got him out of his fruit soiled outfit, and into a night shirt and night cap. I laid him in bed, and pulled up the cover.

I took a moment to watch him sleep. It was soothing to observe the breath come and go.

Better than having a job

I don’t like to work. I’ve given it a try a few times. But when you realize something isn’t for you, you do yourself a favor by stopping it at once. I do other things like wander around, sleep, sit and look out the window, and have long discussions with my dog Rexy.

The thing about not working is that you tend to not have enough money for things that you want to buy right now. Such was the case this morning when I realized I’d run out of dog chow and couldn’t feed Rexy. Rexy said, “I’m pretty hungry, so you’d better go back in time and find us some money.” I said she was coming with me. If nothing else, while out and about in time we might come across a meat cornucopia that would do the trick.

I got in my time-travel machine, Rexy sat on my lap, and I punched in the time-space coordinates for 28th January, the year 814, and the city of Aachen, Francia. We were there in an instant. Time-travel suits my deliriously lazy nature because it takes about the same amount of time and energy to get anywhere as it does for me to pick my nose.

We caught a ride in a dung cart. We dragged the time machine behind on a rope. I equipped it with wheels a ways back because wheels make everything easier. We got off at the Royal Palace. We went in and walked to the master suite where King Charlemagne was laying on his death bed. He was bemoaning that he was dying too soon, leaving behind a great deal of unfinished business. Further evidence that living an ambitious life is on the same level as repeated self head-hammering.

King Charlemagne asked who we were. I said Rexy and I were angels, ready to carry him to the great beyond. I said the sooner he left, the better he would feel. King Charlemagne sighed and concurred. I said that he would need to bring a big chunk of gold to pay the fare to cross the River Styx. He got out a hammer and a chisel, and from a refrigerator-sized block of gold, knocked off a brick-sized piece. Rexy put it in her mouth, and the King, Rexy, and I got in the time-machine and came back to today.

We took a detour and stopped off at a hospital and admitted King Charlemagne. Then Rexy and I took the time-machine to the Safeway to the present time. I don’t have a car, so I use the time-machine to do errands.

I got a can of Rexy’s favorite, Gravy Train with Beef Chunks, and we went to the register. The total was $1.29. I took the gold brick from Rexy’s mouth and gave it to the register person. She said they didn’t accept gold. I said she could have the whole brick, but she said no deal because she would get in trouble. We left without the can, went outside, and sat on a bench.

I asked Rexy if she was still hungry. She said that her stomach shrunk and she was okay.

Just then King Charlemagne wandered by. He said they gave him an aspirin and he was feeling better. I said that Rexy and I weren’t angels and asked if he wanted me to take him back to 814. He said that while sitting in the hospital he reassessed his life, and decided to give the idle life a chance.

He sat down on the bench with us. We watched cars drive by.

Water speaks up

I stood on the beach, looking out at the ocean.

The ocean said, “Hey, why you looking at me?!”

I said that it was comforting.

The ocean said, “Not to me it isn’t.”

I said I was sorry and walked back to my car. I drove home, went in and began to prepare dinner. I washed lettuce under the faucet.

The water coming out of the tap said, “You think you can make me do whatever you want?!”

I said I was sorry and turned off the water. I dried off the lettuce, put it in a bowl, and added dressing. I sat down and began eating the salad. I realized I was thirsty. I almost got up and got a glass of water from the faucet, but I didn’t want any trouble.

I finished my salad and put the bowl in the sink but didn’t wash it.

I watched some television. After a couple of hours I got drowsy and turned off the television. I got up and changed into my pajamas. I brushed my teeth, but I didn’t rinse off the toothbrush.

I turned out the light and got into bed. I lay there and was almost asleep when I heard a, “psssst” coming from the wall behind my bed.

I said, “Yes, what is it?”

From the wall I heard, “It’s me, the water in the pipes. I’m sorry I was harsh with you. Sometimes I get crazy from the constant demands. I promise I won’t get upset again if you need me.”

I accepted the water’s apology. I got up and went into the kitchen. I got out a glass and turned on the faucet. I drank the glass of water.

I went back to bed. I lay there and shook my hips back and forth. I could hear the water slosh around in my stomach.

You can never get away

I’d had enough. I needed a get-away-from-it-all break. So I hopped in my time machine and went forward to the year 3,000,000. I picked that time because I was sure by then the Universe had enough of humans and was back to favoring dirt and rocks.

I was right. There I was, standing on a flat and treeless ground. There wasn’t a building, person, animal or car in sight. The silence was immense. I put my ear to the ground and heard the Earth creaking in its rotation.

Off in the distance, the wind whirled, creating a dust devil. The dust devil got closer. Soon it was hovering, inches from my face. The dust devil said, “Heeeyyy, how’s it going? My name’s Mitch. Do you wanna be my friend? Hmm? Hmm?  Hey, let’s have a tickle fight. Whaddya say, whaddya say, whaddya say?”

I ran in the opposite direction. The dust devil followed, saying, “Hey, where yah going? Can I come with yah? Oh, I get it, you wanna play tag. I’m gonna getcha!” I ran faster, but the dust devil kept up, just inches away.

I fell and the dust devil swept under me, lifting me forty feet in the air, spinning me around until I almost threw up, and saying, “I got yah, I got yah, I got yah!”

I yelled to be put down. The dust devil set me on the ground and said, “Okay, now you catch me!” It swiftly swept across the barren landscape until it was a tiny spike of dust in the distance. I ran to my time-travel machine, punched in today’s date, and found myself back home.

The phone was ringing, someone was knocking at the door, and a neighbor’s car alarm was going off. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.