The Taming of the Shrues, a short story

It's summertime, and that means vacations, which brings back a story I published in Commuter Lit, and polished a bit recently.  Hope it makes you giggle.

THE TAMING OF THE SHRUES

After twenty-five years in the travel business, Dan Defoe of Adventures Unlimited boasted that he could make any dream come true.  He had a reputation – which is why a certain Mr. and Mrs. Shrue showed up at his office nine o’clock sharp on a Monday morning. 

Mr. Shrue declared, “We want the perfect vacation.  Money is not an issue, you understand?”

“I understand,” said Dan, his mental cash register clinking.   

The Shrues were a familiar type. Mr. Shrue had skipped youth to achieve early middle age, paunch and all, and wore brightly colored argyle socks and yellow ties with pink pigs on them, without irony.  Mrs. Shrue wore tennis whites to show off her early summer tan; and a lime-green tote and matching headband, with the very same pink pigs.     

 “We want a true adventure,” insisted Mrs. Shrue. 

“We’re all about adventure!” added Mr. Shrue.

As Dan knew well, the true adventurer rarely graced the inside of a travel agent’s office. The adventurer came, saw and conquered, with no budget and a single knapsack.  Those who hired Adventures Unlimited wanted, say, Johnnie Walker Blue delivered to mountain retreats.     

“True adventure is why I'm in business, Mr. and Mrs. Shrue,” said Dan with a straight face.

“Andy and Mandy,” said Mr. Shrue affably.   “We’re going to be friends!”

“Andy and Mandy,” repeated Dan.

 “Just one teeny thing,” said Mandy.  “It must be completely different.  Last year, we did Everest, and can you believe that we met our neighbors there? What’s the point?  We need different.”

“Think out of the box, as long as it has golf,” Andy added, with a wink.

“Trust me,” Dan said, winking back.

Alas, easier said than done.  This globe-trotting pair had done it all—African safaris, white-water rafting in Maine, rock-climbing, hang-gliding, and archaeological digs in Mexico, Israel and Greece.  No city on earth had escaped them: Rio de Janeiro, Lima, Prague, Trieste, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Sydney, Rome, and Istanbul, not to mention every village on the Dalmatian Coast. Add to that Andy’s hankering (actually, demand) for golf and Dan was flummoxed.   

Dan’s days became a veritable stream of Andy-Mandy communication. Andy emailed in the morning, and Mandy picked up the slack in the afternoon with a flurry of anguished texts; they split the difference in the evening.  Dan tried to remain cheerful.  But his stockpile of vacation ideas was growing low, since even talented travel agents have a limited repertory of so-called “adventures.”  

Dan’s ever-practical wife solved his problem over dinner.  She said, “My friend Trudy is going to Nirwana Bali, it’s a golf course in Bali.  She says it’s got rice paddies and the world’s best golf.  Plus, it’s this fancy resort on top of a cliff and it overlooks the Indian Ocean—which for some reason is better than the Atlantic.  Can you imagine?”

 “Idyllic retreat,” Dan told the Shrues, “very expensive, but very remote.”

“We love remote,” cooed Mandy.  

 Dan forged ahead with intricate preparations:  translators, chauffeurs, guides, as well as daily shipments of organic produce to fit Mandy’s new North Beach diet.   He counted the hours until he was rid of the Shrues.

Everything was set, until one day before departure.  Mandy called. “Dan, there’s a big problem,’ she said. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Dan replied, grabbing a few aspirin.

“Our neighbors are going to Nirwana Bali, you know, the same ones we met on Everest.  And we hate them. We can’t go,” she said. “I’m so sorry to cancel like this.”

Moments like these defined a legend like Dan Defoe.  “Not to worry, I have a back-up plan,” he said.

“Back-up?” asked Mandy warily.

 “Oh, it’s a true adventure.  No questions, I don’t want to spoil it.  My driver—his name is Maurice-- will pick you up tomorrow. Trust me, you’ve never been anywhere like this.  And pack just like you were going to Bali…bring everything.”

Early the next morning, a beat-up Toyota arrived in the Shrue’s grand circular driveway. “Maurice, here for your Urban Adventures,” a grinning young Jamaican shouted.  “Hope you’re ready!” 

Maurice’s car had no air-conditioning, and smelled of strong incense.  Soon, the two were en route, as the car limped along the bleak streets of Northeast Philadelphia.  Traffic was heavy, too.

“We’re going away from the airport,” Mandy observed. “This is the Ben Franklin Bridge.”

“No airport,” said Maurice. “Urban adventure, it don’t need airplane.  Urban is all about urban.”

Andy whispered, “I think that urban is a synonym for…slum.”

“You are funny person!” laughed Maurice. “You stay with Maurice’s sister. She’ll make you nice goat stew, delicious.  You are going to love it! Only seven people in her apartment, but so much good food, you’ll forget about it! Wednesday, we go to Newark, even more urban!”

In less than half an hour, Maurice stopped in front of a dilapidated building in Camden, New Jersey – a town that was far from picturesque, and even farther from the imagination of Andy and Mandy.

 A teen-aged girl, wearing halter top, regarded Andy and Mandy with cool hostility.  “You a social worker?” she asked.  “We don’t need social work around here.”

Maurice said, “That is funny, social worker. No, no, no, paying customers…they are going to be my sister’s…guests.”

“Right,” said the girl. “I thought this building was condemned.”

“Ha ha, funny girl,” said Maurice.

  “Whose brother are you?” asked the girl. 

Maurice gaily opened the door, and started to carry the luggage up—but Mandy stopped him.

 “What did she mean, condemned building?” she asked. 

“A matter of opinion,” said Maurice. “The police don’t mind so who cares?  Police all friends with my sister, you hear me?”

Andy and Mandy nodded. 

 “Good, let’s head upstairs, only five flights, but watch out, some of the steps not too strong.  Don’t mind the roaches, they don’t bite, they’re just really big.  You want excitement!”

“Five flights,” said Andy, looking up.

“Roaches,” said Mandy, looking down.

“Some rats, too, but small,” added Maurice. “Very urban adventure.”

The building was hot in the way only cities can be, the kind of heat that makes fire hydrants popular.  Andy’s slight bit of hair was matted down, and Mandy’s foundation, or what was left of it, had begun to streak. 

Mandy said, “I was thinking.  Our neighbors are not terrible people.”

“Rudy and Trudy aren’t bad golfers,” said Andy. 

“We should be more charitable…in the future,” Mandy said.  “But I guess it’s too late.”

Maurice smiled pleasantly. After a suitable pause, he said, “Mr. Dan, he hasn’t cancelled your trip. You could still go to that fine resort in Bali. Of course, it’s not such an adventure…might cost you a little extra.” 

Andy whipped out an unseemly number of hundred-dollar bills- and leading Mandy by the hand, headed back to the relative comfort of Maurice’s Toyota.  The ride to the airport was brief and silent—although, mercifully, cool since Maurice had somehow discovered the air-conditioning switch.  

“Here’s to the Shrue’s perfect vacation,” laughed Maurice, now in a navy blazer, over martinis that night with Dan.

“Not so perfect,” said Dan. “Their neighbors are on the very same flight.  I took the liberty of putting the seats together. It’s a very long flight.”

“That will be a true adventure,” said Maurice.

Interview with Stephanie Gangi, Author of THE NEXT

In honor of the paperback release of THE NEXT, one of Library Journal's Best Books of 2016, I am posting our earlier interview with Stephanie Gangi. You can find her lovely personal essay on this website.

First, a few words about her:  Stephanie Gangi lives, writes and goes to her day job in New York City. She is a poet, a fiction writer, and at work on personal essays and her second novel.

SARETT:  It’s hard to believe this is your first novel-- the writing’s so vivid.  Had you written other novels before THE NEXT?

Gangi: Well, thank you, but No! I have made a dozen starts over the years, crates full of beginnings. I always knew I was a writer, but I spent much too long considering it my ‘hobby’. Crazy!

SARETT:  Which came first for you -- the story or the character of Joanna?

Gangi: Joanna came first. I wanted to write about a complicated, complex woman, an angry woman who can not reconcile the disappointments that life delivers, and is determined to finally unleash her rage. I myself am not terribly angry (until the election, of course), or if I am, I manage to redirect or channel that anger, as many women have been trained to do. I wanted to to just let my Joanna rant against heartbreak, aging, sickness, invisibility, inevitability.

SARETT:  The novel is about after-life, of a sort.  Do you believe that we do experience “life” after death?  That we have souls, for example?  

Gangi: I actually don’t believe we experience life after death, but I must say, as I get older and wiser and more reflective, it’s become harder for me to accept that all the energy we’ve generated – all the love – just dissipates. I guess I think – hope – there could be some sort of cosmic consciousness, to where all our best energies – our souls – are drawn when we leave this plane of existence. A giant magnet, pulling the best part of each of us into a big love cloud.

SARETT:  Many writers love ghost stories- and so do I! I’m a huge fan of Edith Wharton’s ghost stories.   Were you a fan of ghost stories before writing THE NEXT?  

Gangi: Honest answer is no, although Wharton is the exception. I thought the ghost concept was a strong metaphor, though, and the more I wrote into it, the more comfortable I became with it. Women of a certain age made invisible by society, existing outside reality when you are sick, technology harboring the ghosts of our many selves in the machines. And I loved the idea of a contemporary ghost in NYC, mingling with all the other ghosts, playing with how she would operate, how she would use her invisibility to take what she wants. Or thinks she wants!

SARETT:  Your angry heroine did bring to mind the great Fay Weldon.  Was she an influence in your writing?  Any other style muses?

Gangi: Thank you for that! There’s a deep morality in her work, and a worldview that is tough and authentic and feminist. On top of that, she’s a satirist and funny, which is so hard to do. I’ve heard from readers that they’ve laughed out loud reading The Next, so if I’ve come close to Weldon stylistically, I’m thrilled.

As far as ‘style muses,’ I can only respond as a reader. I’ve been drawn to an ironical, cynical voice that thinly veils blinding passion and despair! I’m thinking of Heller, Vonnegut, Tom Wolfe, DeLillo, and an heir of theirs, the great Anthony Mara. Combine all that with my love of commercial fiction (Gone Girl comes to mind), and I’d say my “style” lies therein. I aspire, anyway.

SARETT: Joanna, your ghost heroine, is hell-bent on revenge-- and yet the object of her affections is a second rate guy.  To me, that felt like a feminist statement (funny, but biting) about how much time women waste on unworthy men -- was that your intent?

Gangi: I’m not sure I was successful with the Ned character if he comes across as ONLY unworthy. I hoped to show that Ned is driven by his own demons – alcoholic mother, closeted dad, a deep-down romantic streak he tamps down for his ambition. It’s true that ultimately, he is a guy -- non-communicative, selfish, a survivor at all costs. Ned is aware of what he has lost and how he himself is responsible. I hoped he was redeemed somewhat by his awareness?  
And yes, it was my intent to “use” Ned as a feminist’s foil … but also to show that Joanna was complicit. After all, she was pursuing vanity by getting involved with a younger guy, and on a deeper level – his desire helped her feel healthy. Stay alive. Helped her talk herself into believing their love could heal her.
I will say that the verdict is split. Half of my readers hate him, the other half are sympathetic to him.

SARETT:  Most novels have a mix of real and invented details?  What’s the mix in THE NEXT?

Gangi: Maybe, 60/40? The outline is close: I’ve had breast cancer. I have a big dog. I live in Manhattan. My own parents died suddenly. I’ve been divorced. I have daughters. But, I have also had great men in my life. Sure, I’ve had disappointments, but I’ve not experienced the level of betrayal that Joanna does! Unlike Joanna, I’m a blessings-counter. Unlike Joanna, I have no doubt where love lies – I have two wonderful daughters, family and friends that support me and care for me, a world of love I could never neglect to tend to my fury. Unlike Joanna I try and take a hard look at my own part in life’s disappointments. What choices did I make that I don’t want to repeat? She doesn’t wake up to that until it’s too late.

SARETT:  Lots of writing rules out there.  Is there any writing rule that you secretly enjoy breaking?    

Gangi: Yes! I did unleash an angry woman. I knew that would be controversialm and I was worried it would render The Next un-commercial. But the team at St. Martin’s embraced the book from the beginning, never once suggesting I tone Joanna down. Also, I alternated first and third person perspectives. I’ve heard from one illustrious editor that it’s almost impossible to do well, so I’m glad I stuck with the choice. I didn’t want a full-on rant to overtake the story. I needed to head-hop between characters, to show the impact Joanna’s death has on them. Grief is a complicated process – we don’t turn into saints when someone we love dies. We who are left behind remain our messy selves, and I wanted to show that through Jo’s daughters, Ned and even Tom, the dog.

SARETT:  Humor is a tough game-- and there’s that saying death is easy, comedy is hard.  How do you keep it funny?

Gangi: I think I am funny in real life. I can be irreverant and quick, maybe a little bawdy at times. I think life is funny, and people are funny, and even illness is kind of ridiculous. I think women are very very funny, and thankfully, recently, less afraid to reveal it lest men find it unattractive. I tried to channel all that, and then make it less specific to me, more universal. I’m glad you think I’ve succeeded! I wanted The Next to be funny and tragic. Like life.

SARETT:  My blog readers are always looking for new books.  Are there new fiction books that you’d recommend?    
Gangi: These are my most recent reads:

Bad Marie by Marcy Demansky

A Constellation of Vital Phenomena: A Novel by Anthony Marra

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolsoy

The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt

The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman

H is for Hawk by Helen MacDonald (nonfiction)

Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life by William Finnegan (nonfiction)
Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine (Poems)

Find her:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/author.stephaniegangi/

Twitter: @gangi_land

Instagram: stephaniegangi

Buy the paperback at Amazon and if you enjoyed The Next, please leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. They are so important for debut authors.

Gender-Bending Laughter

Yes, it is time for a new short story for those needing an August giggle amidst the unrelenting tedium of the 2016 election, or any of the other gloom and doom of the world.

So, hop on over to this month's edition of new humor magazine, "Intrinsick," to read my latest comic (and gender-bending) flash, "If I Was Your Girlfriend."  

(Warning:  no serious readers allowed.  For laughs only.)

Read the story HERE

Shoplandia: Creating Comedy in the Studio

Today we're hearing from Jim Breslin, the founder of West Chester Story Slam, who has just written his first novel. I asked Jim to reflect on writing comedy.

I was recently at Chester County Book Company, reading a short story from my newly released novel Shoplandia. The story I read took the form of a fawning letter written by an Iowan woman to a show host who works at the Shoplandia home shopping channel. In the letter, we learn much about the mother, her husband and her dreams for her daughter. Although the letter is humorous, it is also tinged with a sadness about this woman’s plight in the heartland.  

So anyway, I was reading this story in front of fifty people and the laughs were tremendous, and this was obviously exhilarating. People laughed at the right places. It was strange though, because I felt a sadness welling up for this fictional woman’s predicament. The moment reminded me of this quote.

The author and Joan Rivers

“Tragedy is when I get a hangnail. Comedy is when someone else falls into an open sewer and dies.”        - Mel Brooks

Having written the character of Shoplandia customer Marie Ellen Marstan, I feel her pain more than the typical reader might. I had to remind myself she’s not real! And I find this interesting, particularly because of the subject of this novel.

You see, I worked as a producer at a real shopping channel, QVC, for seventeen years. Over this time, I worked closely with the show hosts, my fellow producers and the crews, soap opera celebrities and infomercial pitchmen. Many have become friends. There really hasn’t been a novel written with an insider’s perspective of what happens inside the TV studio of a home shopping network. There’s a real mayhem in a live TV studio. So when I set out to write Shoplandia, my goal was to capture that spirit of a frenetic live TV studio and the bonds that form between the people that work or visit.

Throughout Shoplandia, disasters occur. There’s love, sex, death, and pooping moose candy dispensers. There’s a motivational guru, a reality TV star, and a retired drunk baseball player. But in the end, Shoplandia is about those that work hard to keep the show on the air, the sales stream flowing, and American shoppers entertained. 

My hope is that stories can be funny and sad and powerful when the protagonist is somebody worth rooting for. I hope you will read Shoplandia, and let me know if you agree.

You purchase the book here

Jim Breslin’s Shoplandia is being published on May 15, 2004. There are three events to celebrate the launch. Learn more at jimbreslin.com.

SHOPLANDIA Book Launch

Thursday, May 15th, 6-8 p.m., short presentation at 7 p.m.

Chester County Book and Music Company

957 Paoli Pike

West Chester, PA 19380

Open to the public. For more info, click HERE.

SHOPLANDIA Book Launch Weekend

Sunday, May 18th 3-5 p.m.

BOOKPLACE,

2373 Baltimore Pike

Oxford, PA. (717 951-6418)

For more info, click HERE.

SHOPLANDIA Book Signing/Discussion

Tuesday, May 20th 6:30 p.m.

Henrietta Hankin Library

215 Windgate Dr, Chester Springs, PA 19425

(610) 321-1700

April Foolishness: The Calligraphy Cat by Shana Marshall

Today's bit of April Foolishness comes from my very talented niece, Shana Marshall, a student at San Francisco's School of the Arts -- who while not singing opera, dashed off this very sweet and funny feline tale.

(For cat lovers:  don't miss the anthology, Contrary Cats where cat tales, funny and not, abound.)

The Calligraphy Cat

Shana Marshall

           His hand shook as he glided the quill across the paper. He was almost done, and this commission had been the most difficult and most tedious of his entire career. Although Jim was only twenty-four, he had a nearly thriving career as a calligraphy artist. I say nearly, because it’s difficult to ever truly have a thriving career as a calligraphy artist, but Jim was about as close as it gets. He had been awarded a slew of unrewarding jobs in the past few months, until he received a call from Dean Sarah Stein from Harvard University, commissioning him to design the graduation diploma for the 1974 graduation year.

            It was 7:46 am on the day that they had asked Jim to submit his final design, and he was on the final word- “university.” His meeting with the Harvard faculty was set for 9:30,  Needless to say he was running late. He had planned to complete the design the night before, but of course his mother had called asking how to change the ribbon on her brand new typewriter.  Jim, being a good son, had walked her through it step by step. Unfortunately, after he got off the phone, Jim thought he deserved a break and sat down to watch Johnny Carson, after which he fell asleep.

            As Jim scrambled to finish the last few letters with beauty and consistency in the rest of the document, he noticed his cat Alfred meowing loudly and rubbing against his leg.

“Alfred, I swear to god, just give me two minutes here and I’ll come and play with you.” 
Alfred was a needy animal, and decided that Jim’s offer was not up to par with his desires. He leaped up onto Jim’s desk, much to Jim's dismay. Jim was in the middle of a word, and could not lift the quill off of the paper, let alone push his 18-pound cat off of the small, square desk.  Alfred tiptoed across the desk, completely ignoring Jim’s anguished yells, and then it happened. Alfred was not particularly graceful for a feline, and he had accidentally dipped his paw in the ink, and then gotten scared and jumped off of the table, treading all over the document on the way.

            Jim was in shock. He sat there with his mouth open, staring at his ruined masterpiece. It was now 8:37 am and Jim was still in his underwear, with messy hair and coffee breath. He needed to clean himself up and get from Brooklyn to SoHo in the next fifty three minutes. Jim was at a loss. He looked at his design, “it’s not THAT bad,” he lied to himself under his breath. The complete document actually looked quite beautiful, save for the four Alfred-sized paw prints that made it look like something you’d win for shooting the most ducks in one of those carnival games.

            Jim thought for five more minutes while he went to brush his teeth, 8:42. He finally decided that:

A)    He didn’t really need to shower, he had showered the day before and he wasn’t an extremely sweaty or smelly person

And

B)    He would bring the diploma to the meeting and calmly explain to them the situation, and that he would have a new one for them in a week.

Jim took deep breaths, attempting to calm himself down as much as possible as he got onto the subway. It wasn’t his fault after all, how could they possibly blame him? Or give the job to someone else? ….Or completely ruin his reputation in the calligraphy business? Or fuck up his entire life? No job means no money which means no house or food, and what would he do with Alfred? When was the last time you saw a homeless man with an obese orange tabby? Maybe in a moment of madness from the hunger, he’d be forced to consume his beloved cat? Wait, he was the one who got them into this stupid mess in the first place! He deserves it!

STOP.

Jim took his inhaler out of his briefcase and took a few puffs. He looked at the frightened woman sitting beside him and apologized profusely. Luckily he had snapped out of it at the right time because this was his stop. He apologized one more time, and then got off the train.

He exited the subway station and walked to the building, scrambled up to the elevator and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. It was now 9:27 and Jim was wondering how he ever managed to get there on time. He sat in the lobby and a moment later a woman came out and said “Mr. Young, they're ready for you."

Jim walked in and they immediately asked to see his work. He took it out of his briefcase, a stern looking man grabbed it out of his hands and before he could utter the words "let me explain" the man said "thank you, you can go now."

That was it? Jim was distraught. This was his big break and it was all ruined, by a cat no less. They didn't even give him a chance, how could they not even let him explain what had happened? Jim was a timid man and obeyed. He walked out of the room.

Three days went by and Jim didn't leave the house. He lay in his bed, ate potato chips and watched the Newlywed Game. He decided to spite Alfred by only feeding him two cups of food a day as opposed to his usual three.  
On the third day of his hibernation, Jim received a call from the Dean of Harvard University. "Hello Mr. Young, this is Sarah Stein, thank you for your wonderful design for the Harvard graduation diploma. We thought it to be a bit avant-garde at first, but after much thought we came to the conclusion that the deep metaphoric symbolism about the animalistic tendencies of the real world, and how the graduates will be entering into it is exactly what we were looking for with this diploma. It's a step in the right direction for Harvard University. So thank you Mr. Young, for putting so much thought into this project. We hope to see you at graduation."  

April Foolishness: Paul Hogan is God by Mike Heartz

A comic treat from writer, Mike Heartz, who specializes in hilarious (and touching) tales of the classroom.  Mike and his wife are both teachers, and also the proud parents of budding writers, Lucie and Gracie, shown here. 

You can find more of his funny work at Eric's Hysterics.  







Paul Hogan is God

By Mike Heartz

           “Carl, what’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Carl, what’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Carl—I know something is wrong.  I’m good at spotting when someone is sad. It’s a gift.” 

I was in the middle of a Science lesson and everyone was following along as I was reading the directions to our “Camouflage” experiment. Everyone except Carl. He was sitting under his desk repeatedly drumming his head against one of his steel desk legs. My deft powers of intuition led me to believe that all was not copacetic in “Carl Land”.

            “I don’t wanna talk.” He bellowed before slamming his cranium into the leg once more.

            “I understand. And I’m not gonna make you. But, I am trying to teach this lesson about camouflage and everybody’s trying to follow along, and every time you slam your head into the leg of the chair—it makes a pretty loud sound and they look at you. It’s a little distracting.”  I bent down to check his forehead for open wounds.  “And although I know you know about camouflage better than anyone, the others here need to learn about what it is. As you know, it’s incredibly important in nature. It’s how most animals stay alive.”

He looked at me quizzically, trying to figure out how he, Crazy Carl, had become resident expert on this concept of “camouflage” when he wasn’t even that confident in his wiping abilities. Finally he admitted, “I don’t know what that word is or anything.”

            “Sure you do. You may not be able to tell me exactly what it means, but you do it all the time.”

            “Do what?”

            “Blend in. That’s what camouflage means. Remember when you stuck your head in the snowdrift last month so you could ‘look like snow’ playing hide and seek? Well, that’s blending in.”

            “What’s ‘blend in’ mean?”

            “Who can help me here? Who knows what ‘blending in’ means? Yes Aneesha?”

            “If you don’t believe in God then that’s like blending in with the devil and if you don’t go to church and don’t believe in God, then he just skips your house.”

            “Skips your house? Like Santa?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Wow. I did not know that. Good to know.”

            “And Mrs. Claus is God’s mom.”

            I sat back on my desk, baffled.  “Wait…What!? What did you just say?” 

            “It’s the truth. I know it.” 

Somehow God and Santa Claus had surreptitiously snuck their way into our Science lesson. I slid my Science Book on my desk—we wouldn’t have a need for that anymore.  “So let me get this straight. God, like Santa, will skip your house if you don’t believe in him because you’re blending in with the devil. And—if you’ve also been bad all year and don’t believe in God, then Mrs. Claus would really be mad at you because that means you don’t believe in her son and you are disrespecting her husband. Wow. Not a good idea to be a bad person who doesn’t believe in God. Vincent get that out of your mouth. Do you have any idea how dirty that thing is? Yes, Ronald?”

            “So blending in means you be with the devil?”

            “No. Blending in means you try to look like your environment. Like you’re trying to hide. Lions are light brown. They blend in with the tall grasses on the African plains. Frogs are green. They blend in near ponds. Polar bears are white because they live on the ice and snow.  Animals do this to hide from other animals or to hide themselves. Now why would they want to hide? Yes Willy?”

            “They hide from other animals because they’re scared of them.”

            “No!!...Actually maybe—probably yes!....But not what I’m looking for! Yes Antonio?”

            “They hide so they can sneak up on them and eat ‘em!”

            “Yes! A leopard or a lion can be on you faster than you can blink. They can cover the length of this classroom in the time it takes you to hiccup! You don’t have a chance on the African Plain people! These aren’t domesticated zoo lions! If they see you and their hungry—they’re gonna eat you. A lion can puncture your skull with its bite like you can crush a weakly packed snowball in your tiny hands! 

A leopard will just shred you to pieces with its claws—like an angry chainsaw. They’re like very powerful tiny knives. You’ll bleed to death of course as he’s gnawing on your leg.  After you bleed out and he’s had his full right then—he’ll drag you up on a high tree branch and place you in a secure nook to save the rest of you for breakfast.” There were a lot of scared looks, but most were on the edge of their seats. Now was time for the disclaimer. You always had to add the disclaimer.

            “Now remember—there are no leopards in our state, our country or even on our continent. You have nothing to worry about. You will not be taken by a leopard. But—that is what they do in their environment. Remember the only rule of nature!”

            As one, they screamed back, “There are no rules!!”

            “That’s right! If I’m bigger than you and quicker than you—and I’m hungry—I’m gonna catch you, kill you and eat you. I’m not trying to be mean or am mad at you. It’s just the way it works. And I won’t say sorry or thank you. That’s nature. And if you’re bigger than me—then I’ll sure be making certain that I try to blend in everywhere I go because I don’t want you eating me! Yes Aneesha?”

            “Are there any in our city?”

            “No. Remember I just said there are not any lions in our state or country or even on our continent?”

            “I know. But you didn’t say nothing about our city.”

            “Well, I thought if I said that there weren’t any in our state, country, continent that you would get—forget it. No. You will never be eaten by a lion.” 

Just as I predicted Willy sent his hand high. I knew where he was going. “And no Willy—we will not be ‘blowed up’ by a meteor. I never said that. I said it was remotely possible.  I certainly didn’t mean to keep you up for three nights. Your mother’s note was pretty harsh. It was just a video with outstanding animation.”  Willy’s horrifying meteor shower nightmares notwithstanding, but he just wouldn’t let it go. He was always bringing it up.

            “No.  I wasn’t going to ask that…Does God or Santa control the animals?”

            “Control the animals? What do you mean?”

            “Well…who talks to the animals to let them know stuff—just God? And who do they talk to when they want to tell us something? Are all animals able to talk or just some of them?”

            “Well…it depends on what you call ‘talk’. Whales are known to use their songs for communication purposes and monkeys certainly do vocally in the jungle.  Even when dogs are barking at each other, they could certainly be exchanging some thoughts—it certainly looks like they’re screaming at each other sometimes. ”

            “No…I mean in “Rudolph” the reindeer were all talking and being mean to Rudolph because of his nose. They were talking like people.”

            “Well that was a cartoon. Animals don’t really “speak” how we speak. They don’t “speak” English. But they do communicate with each other.”

            “I think God talks to animals with his hands. He don’t even use words. Just points at them and they do what he wants. I saw it.”

            “What are you talking about Willy? Where did you see it?”

            “I saw him get out of his car and point at a big cow and the animal moved so he could keep going. It was God. He had a different kinda hat on but he had blonde hair and I think he was really tan. Musta been summer cause he was wearing different clothes than in the pictures at church. He was only wearing a vest.”

            “Willy—did the guy have an accent?”

            “No…I don’t know…They didn’t show if he peed himself or not. I don’t know.”

            “No…I said ‘accent’ not ‘accident’. Did he speak with an accent? Like he doesn’t sound like us?”

            “Yes.  It’s just the way God sounds I guess.  I could understand most of it so I know I’ll be able to understand God.”

            “Was there always a lot of crocodiles around? A lady who kept getting herself in trouble?”

            “Yeah…you saw it too?”

            “You were watching “Crocodile Dundee” weren’t you?”

            “Yeah...that’s it. God killed a crocodile to save that girl. It was a miracle he was there.”

            “Well…I hate to break it to you Willy—Paul Hogan is not God. And I think you mean he looked like Jesus right?”

            “Who’s that?”

            “Jesus? Or Paul Hogan?”

            “Not the Jesus.”

            “The actor in the movie who did that animal trick. Paul Hogan is his name—he’s Australian, and he is not Jesus or God.”

            “I don’t know. He coulda been.”

“Did you see the third movie—when he comes to L.A.?  He’s no god Willy. He’s no God.”