LIKE A MIGHTY QUONKER, Chapter 18

     Matt growled at the paper plate on his knee, rehearsing what he should have said.  He gave himself points for being able to conduct a conversation at all around mouthfuls of calzone, but he was convinced he had said at least three stupid things to each person who stopped him to chat.  Had he expected to be talking this much at the party he’d have made up some impromptu remarks.  But in general he spent these get-togethers parked in a quiet corner, watching the hours erode under the feet of a buzzing crowd.

     Tonight the crowd had buzzed his direction, as persistent as wasps too big for you to dare swat them away.  Since Marshall Silberwetter had spent time on this previously unremarkable specimen, the curious or self-seeking felt compelled to find out why.  This effort carried its own penance: only the hardiest opportunist could make much conversation with a man who had little to say beyond “Oh?”. “Heh,” and “Mm-hmm.”

     The Wittiest response he’d come up with so far was “Heh heh.  Cows, huh?”  That had been enough to convince almost everybody that this was not Marshall Silberwetter’s latest protégé.  But a few still had suspicions.  “He’s obviously not planning to take any of his friends up with him,” Linda Szarkowski had snarled when she didn’t know he was just behind her, to the left.  “So forget him.”  Earlier, he had heard Walter Prince use the term “Bolshoi” in a way that suggested ballet was not the topic of conversation.

     He had even been tried to the extent of enduring a friendly man-to-man with his Uncle Chris, who had taken no notice of him whatsoever since getting him the job at Down six years ago.  Chris was his mother’s oldest brother, one of those fierce bald men whose chin was always foremost, whose mouth was always open, and whose refrain—half command and half guffaw—was “And let me tell you another one!”

     “Silberwetters!” Uncle Chris had barked, after the required chit-chat about the health of various kin had been dispensed with, “Running in pretty fast company, aren’t you?  Eh?”

     Matt had shifted his plate of calzone to another hand.  “I’m really….”

     “Knew old Marshall four wives ago!  Knew the wives, too!  Don’t mention that to your aunt, ha ha!  Eh?  Bad habit of his: all those kids  and grandkids to place in the system!  Eh? Oldest son was slime, real garbage.  Wouldn’t have sent you to Down if he’d still been in charge there, never mind that there wouldn’t still BE a place to go if he’d stayed.  Bad company, he was.  Slime.  Can’t have Matty in bad company.  Eh?”

     Only very privileged relatives used the name “Matty” and only one or two could use it without making Matt grind his teeth.  Uncle Chris was not one of these.  Matt had tried to wrench the conversation around to the only other bad company he could think of.

     “Carleton Nairn?” snorted Uncle Chris.  “Carl, he’s nothing but a naughty boy who got caught at the cookie jar.  They needed somebody to kick out who couldn’t kick back, so they used the boy with one hand in so the boys with both arms in would learn to be more careful.  Ha-HA!  And how is my dear old pal Walter, by the way  Eh?”

     Matt finally found shelter from the horde of Matt-Watchers om a char tucked between a potted tree and a cold off-brown wall.  He was able to relax there, his calm ruffled only by the realization that if he went back to the buffet for a fifth helping of cheese fried in brown sugar, he ran the risk not only of being corralled again for conversation, but of accusations of gluttony.  Besides that, of course, there were the legendary dangers inherent in buffet dining.  Matt had never yet dropped a plate of hot food on the mayor’s wife, but he had faith in his own unerring lack of balance that someday he would.

     Still, the chances of seeing cheese fried in brown sugar again before next December were nigh nil.  He heaved himself up out of the chair, bid it a regretful farewell, and eased toward the nearest buffet tables, his ears open for any dialogue that would warn him of incoming conversationalists OR which he could use in “Ascent of the Ruby Slippers”.

     “It is really close to almost as bad.”

     “If the weather gets any colder, I’m transferring to the Fire Department.”

     “His net last year was higher than his gross.”

     The cheese had been cleaned out at this end.  But to eliminate long lines, buffets had been scattered through the room.  Taking bearings on a clump of people a dozen yards away, Matt set off to investigate, weaving around colleagues discussing the filthy tricks of spreadsheet programs and their service representatives, the untrustworthiness of tax services or pizza deliveries, and the possibilities of sneaking out to a “real party” while the night was still young.

     “I took the job because someone told me once you had cashier experience you could work anywhere.”

     “I mean, pardon me, darling, a ship full of Texans?  No, thank you.”

     “I was at the Halloween party last year and she came in wearing nothing but a sheet and a toe tag.”

     Matt froze.  That couldn’t mean anyone else.  He frowned at the use of the word “Rubenesque”.  People without art history training should ne named from throwing names around.  Tubens was not Ada Silberwetter’s artist.  Renoir, Boucher, Dedini, Cole: there was no shortage of old masters more applicable.

     He looked for her, the better to consider which artist would best fit the subject.  The first person he recognized in this direction was Holly MacTaggart at the center of a crowd of admirers.  These bright, polished men sat wherever they could find space: on the edge of side tables or standing ashtrays, just to be near this vision.  There was nothing overtly expensive or exclusive, as far as Matt could see, about their suits, and yet they had all the crease and precision that he somehow lacked.

     Her step-grandmother was not far away, at the center of a circle where the suits were older and the hair, what there was of it, was less sculptured.  Matt had only to turn his eyes in the direction of the loudest laughter to find her.  The boys buzzing around Holly were mainly City employees lured by a fascinating female counterpart, but these were men warming themselves at a fire.  Holly’s face shone with polish and calculation; Ada’s blazed with life and to spare.  Rosy features, unrestrained and undesigned, radiated out at the viewer.  Matt studied that lower lip.  It bounced back.  It billowed out.  It dropped open.  It nestled against the teeth.  Matt had been unaware that human beings could even have expressive underlips.

     The eyes were expressive, too.  Matt knew the exact moment when those orbs perceived his face across the room.  Clutching his empty plate, he ducked back into the crowd, dodging around chattering fellow slaveys.

     “He’s got a lot of crust showing up tonight.  The Tribue’s gonna be hot about reform tomorrow.”

     “Every stick of furniture in their place turns into a bed.  If those walls could talk, they’d be the richest walls in the world, with what she’d pay the to keep quiet.”

     “She wouldn’t.  He might.”

     Matt glanced back; she was sashaying through the other guests with supreme unconcern.  He pushed forward quailed under the glare of a woman whose glass he’d bumped, lost ground.

    “Hey, sw-sweetheart, what’s your hurry.  C’m’over here.  I’ll show you m-mine if you sh-show me yours.”

     Arrested by a vague sense of chivalry, Matt paused again, and looked back to see the dazzling teeth of Ada Silberwetter as she squealed with delight, “Why, what an uneven trade!”

     “Aha!” escaped from Matt as he spied sanctuary.  He dashed into the little corridor off the main rook, caromed off a wall, and plunged past a swinging door.  The one place even Ada Silberwetter….

    He wiped his forehead and wrinkled his nose.  Best not to make hasty assumptions.

     In any case, she was just the sort who could lie in wait outside without anyone thinking it unusual.  So Matt lingered as long as he could, despite suspicions glances from various comers and goers.  It was not a huge room, and the bar had now been open for nearly four hours, so traffic was brisk.  Finally, understanding his size was not only startling people but blocking traffic, he slipped outside.

     Scanning the crowd, he froze.  The mind of Matt-the-Writer had a way of kicking in when least expected, and suddenly he no longer stood on the fringe of the same party.  He had entered the Post-Holocaust world of “Ascent”.  The building was a ruin, its walls and windows in tatters.  The partygoers, naked and in rags, went on partying: an end-of-the-world get-together.  Matt fumbled with his shirt pocket to get the little page of notes.

     “My wife would give her eyeteeth for a dress like that.”

     “That is NOT what SHE gave for it.”

     She had her back to him, but he knew her.  He pulled away to a safe distance, his vision of dystopia receding even as he rushed to write it down.  That woman couldn’t be undead if she tried with both hands and a foot.  She would always be lively, alive, even when dealing with a murderer.

     His mind, juggling life and undeath, helpfully moved to the dining room table at home, and the tombstone pictures spread out flat there.  Flat.  But they weren’t new, and photo paper, even the best photo paper, curled with age.  How old were they?

     His pen came up, leaving the party of the dead.  It depended on how long the extortionist/murderer had been planning this, unless, of course, she/he just kept a pile of pictures of tombstones and skulls around for reference, like his mother.  The pictures certainly weren’t new: he’d stake a goodly amount of money on that, if he had a goodly amount of money he had no plans for.  They probably went back to the days when she was Ada Thaxter, over at Streets and San, before his time.  Or had she left Streets and San when she married Thaxter?

     What must she have been like in those days?  Matt shuddered as he had not done when considering a party room full of walking corpses.  She was probably lucky the photographer had been off somewhere taking pictures of historic tombstones instead of….

     Matt’s chin came up.  He swatted one thigh with his empty plate and started forward.

      “You might,” the man was telling her.  “You’re built for it.”

     “Now now,” Ada replied.  “I have standards.  Never on the floor…on City property.”

     The pair turned away from each other with a mutual laugh.  Matt was face-to-face with the foe a half second before he was ready.  That dress just screamed that it contained a woman, like a carnival barker hollering suckers up to the show.

     “My!”  She was not taken aback in the least.  “The last time I saw a face like that, somebody threw it a fish.”

     Matt’s mouth twisted into a snarl.  “When were you planning to show me the rest of the pictures?”

Size Does NOT Matter

     In our last thrilling installment, we considered postcards which made jokes about couples who were mismatched in waist size: a round man and a spindly woman or vice versa.  But apparently the postcard cartoonists found disparity in height to be nearly as hilarious.  The tall man and the short(er) woman gave rise to jokes easily, including some we might not make today.

     Naturally, as we are in the world of cartoon humor, things needed to be exaggerated.  It was considered normal (whether the facts bore this out or not) for men to be taller than women, so to make a funny, you had to shrink her a little and stretch his spine a bit.

     It might seem to us, misjudging our ancestors as always, that this giant of a man would be the more adventurous, more proactive side of the romantic pairing.

     This was not always the case, however.  Even our ancestors could observe that sometimes the woman had to take the lead.  (As I have mentioned hereintofore, how many more clues does this chap NEED?)

     In any case, we have a literary tradition suggesting that the exceptionally tall man is kind of shy.  (We also have a tradition that goes quite the other way, of course.  We are vast; we contain multitudes.)

     However, the couple generally finds a way to make things work.  (Like our cartoonists, who are addicted to this particular caption and will cheerfully come up with a new picture every week to fit it: romantic couples, cigars, beards, what have you.)

     Love, we are reminded, is blind, and romance and bliss will follow the most unlikely attachments.

     Although there can be little hiccups along the way, no matter how tall you are.  (I think the wronged girlfriends have realized that if added together, they ARE bigger than he is.)

     When it comes to an entirely mismatched couple, most cartoonists are romantic.  (AND, as you will notice in the caption, aware of their shared treasure trove of jokes.)

     I like to think this is the same couple as seen in the previous card, coming back to the beach for their thirty-seventh anniversary.

     On the other hand, this happiness IS something of an exception when, as mentioned last time around, the couple is, in fact, married.  For every happy ending like this one, there are a dozen other cards in which married couples of different sizes…but that’s a whole nother blog.

Round Romance

     Hereintofore, this space has discussed the lives of large round people on postcards.  Our most recent  considerations have especially focused on the large round man, with or without the apparently standard checkered suit and cigar.  We have even touched briefly on the slender young ladies who are often another accessory of the round man.

     There is a reasonably consistent dynamic of a romance between a round man and a shapely but thin young lady.  The association indicates that HE has money and SHE wants it.

     This changes completely when the, er, shoe is on the other foot.  If the lady is round and the gentleman is thinner, this indicates that SHE has something that HE wants.  And neither one of them is being shy about it.

     The male lead in these postcard relationships tends to take what I call the Bohemian Restaurant attitude: If I like something, a double helping is always welcome.  Could you supersize that, please?

     The suggestion is that we are supposed to be mocking these couples, especially the female half of the romance.  Vaudeville and the Music Hall each had their share of very large women acting as if they believed they were sex queens, to raucous laughter from the audience.  What I have read on the subject, though, says those performers got quite a lot of fan mail of a fairly warm (as it was called at the time) nature.  So even then, the joke may not have been on the round woman.

     In fact, considering how many of the postcards take us to the beach so the cartoonist could draw the lady in as little as the law would allow indicates that the artists knew what they were doing.

     The number of slender men shown picking up the round lady of their dreams suggests that we are first getting a joke about the CONTRAST, not the couple personally, and second receiving hints that this is a cuddle with possibilities.  Your laugh at this postcard’s dilemma is supposed to be sympathetic.

     Yes, the caption may suggest the lady is a lot, but in general the man shows he is enjoying his place in the picture.

     We need to be fair about this.  My inventory contains several cards showing men whose needs are in their knees, who are more concerned with the throbbing in their joints than in their, um, hearts.  But the majority agree with Hoagy Carmichael’s “Huggn’ and Chalkin’” in which the singer claims the only thing he dislikes about his round girlfriend is that he gets lost sometimes and needs to make a chalkmark here and there to remind himself where he left off.  The dynamic DOES change on postcards where it is made clear the contrasting couple are a husband and wife.  But that’s a whole nother blog.

LIKE A MIGHTY QUONKER, Chapter 17

     Muzak and mistletoe but more to the point were the mugs of egg nog clustered under a large statue of a bandaged finger in flight.  Not far away. Trays of glasses—wine and soup—surrounded an artwork made up of the exclamation points from a hundred junked typewriters.  Mugs and cups had been in straight lines earlier, but this catered order was long gone now, disappearing as the guests appeared.

     They arrived in clumps, first a few at a time, and then in battalions, until the crossroads of conversation reached a buzzing level worse than all the sounds ever uttered by all the politicians of babblekind  They had settled not bunches across the broad room.  A few brave nomads moved from these nebulous settlements to visit other camps, but usually the clumps moved together as one body, swirling among the other clusters of merrymakers.   None but the waiter crossed the Great Wall that snaked throughout the room, invisible but inviolable, separating rulers from rabble.  The distance between employer and employed was like a swift, vast river, and although not a few had crossed it before this party, few were building bridges for those who would follow.

     Matt wished they’d stand in little squares corresponding to their boxes on the organizational chart.  Not only would it be amusing, at least to him, but it would make conversation easier.  He wouldn’t need to bend down to read lapel labels to find out who was who.

     That group in that corner was speaking Polish, which Matt had heard aplenty in the bar in his youth.  The clump just to the right favored Korean, while the larger group far from the double glass doors took care of Spanish.  Where ethnicity didn’t define the gathering, clothing did: this price range gathered HERE, well insulated from THAT price range.

     Matt could not spot one person dressed the way he was.  It had been the same way all through school, even though his clothes came from one of the most popular mail order catalogs.  Tonight he wore the newest of his three dark blue suits, over one of his collection of white shirts with thin black stripes.  His closet contained three generations’ heritage of neckties, but he alternated between two: the black one with little red stars and the black one with little white dots.  How could anything so nondescript, he wondered, stick out like a gangrenous thumb?

     Overhead the Muzak changed, easing into “Wunderbar”, a song bright and secular.  This was, after all, not a Christmas party.  Held on City property, paid for with City funds, it could be nothing other than an End-of-the-Year Get-Together, all the hyphens serving as camouflage.

     Matt’s egg nog was gone.  He set the mug down next to the thick glass ashtray.  He had chosen this chair because it was close to this ashtray, and to the glass double doors.  Someplace to run, something to throw: he liked to have these handy at any large gathering.  His size frequently made him a target for overlubricated guests looking to prove their mettle.

     The glass doors, presumably locked, would open onto a balcony in better weather.  The balcony was currently filling with snow.  At ten stories, the violent wind and flying sleet were just fog, spreading a fuzzy glow around the streetlights.  It looked peaceful out there.  No profit out there, he supposed: he needed crowd noise to add to “Ascent of the Ruby Slippers”.

     One eighth page of the paper in his pocket was already scribbled with notes, despite the noise that made it difficult for him to eavesdrop efficiently on passing conversations to copy them for frippery fiction.  He didn’t always need to hear the dialogue to follow, for example, the drama od that smiling man who nodded and the smiling woman who shook her head in reply.  Matt could even predict the ending of the story, as the nodding grew confident as the headshaking diminished.

     He picked up his mug to make sure it was empty.  Time to get another; it was too early to take root here, pre-empting a chair one of the older guests could use.  And, of course, he had to be seen.  When the mayor and crew made their obligatory appearance, every department would be taking the roll.  Matt wanted to be sure he was marked Present.

     He stood up and turned right in the same motion, and was very nearly skewered by a lethal-looking fingernail pointed his direction.

     “You!” said Maryann Hoxey, in a voice of command.  “Don’t try to get away.  I want to introduce my husband to everyone.”

     Matt murmured insincere admissions of joy at the prospect, but she continued, darkly, “It’s what he gets for not taking me dancing last Saturday.  This way.”

     Matt followed, grinning, but Mr. Hoxey barely noticed their approach.  His head was turned at an acute angle, and his eyes were wide.

     “What,” he demanded, “Is THAT?”

     Strolling among the merry mob, THAT was Holly L. MacTaggart, her face transformed by make-up designed to make her look dead and eyelashes that reached halfway to the end of her pert nose.  Eight ribbons in varying shades of red nestled among her hair.  Her pants were hot pink—very hot—and as tight as the black vinyl blouse that divided her in half between belt and shoulders, the top half flesh, the bottom half vinyl.  Her arms were hung with a collection of plastic watches and leather dog collars.  A charm bracelet swung from her right ear, and what looked like a vacuum cleaner fanbelt dangled from the other.

     Abandoning Matt, Maryann plunged gleefully forward to draw this walking work of art over to her husband.  “Pleased to meet you,” said Holly, her polite boredom stating clearly that she would not have bothered to respond had Maryann been anything less than a secretary.  She had not come to this party to speak to anyone from Down, but to alert the rest of the world that she was ready for better things.  Still, she knew better than to snub Maryann, so she was poised, polite, professional.

     At least until she decided she had chatted long enough to satisfy protocol and turned to go.  Her poise slipped as her eyes gazed beyond Matt.

     “Oh, goobers!” she said, under her breath.  “Here comes the county seat.”

     Maryann choked.  Holly, oblivious to this, muttered, “A life like clowns at the circus.”

     Matt had a pretty fair guess at who was coming  by.  “Slapstick?” he inquired.  “Carefree?  Chaotic?”

     Red spots showed on pasty cheeks.  “No!  How could so many men fit into one vehicle?”

     Maryann and her husband had already turned to smile a greeting.  Matt took a breath, squared his shoulders, and did the same.

     Marshall was with her, and three of his grandchildren/staffers.  But Ada Silberwetter could not be outnumbered.  She had assembled no vinyl binding, preferring a simple gown not unlike Maryann’s.  Except that hers flowed from curve to curve without a single obstruction to prevent the mind from going into a trance.  Matt blinked.  So many modern fashions said, “I am magnificent!  Touch me and die!”  This said “Let’s go play!”

     Holly had pulled closer to Matt.  “She pays so much to look so cheap.”

     Ada did not look cheap to Matt.  She looked prohibitively expensive.

     Holly decided on a strong offense.  “Oh, Grandpa!” she cried.  “I was going to wear your brooch but I ran out of room!”

     She slid a hand along her chest toward the tiny strip of vinyl.  Marshall looked her up and down with the eye of a connoisseur.  Ada leaned forward to whisper, “Curves are back in style, if you hadn’t heard.”

     “Oh, hello, Grrrrrandma.”  Holly’s patented winsome smile suggested she had suddenly noticed Marshall’s latest wife.  Matt could tell the difference between a greeting and an opening salvo, and moved a little out of the crossfire.  “It’s just the season for a plump pudding.”

     Marshall winked at Maryann.  Ada smiled and Holly spread her feet a little to brace herself for the next wave.

     Matt was to miss the skirmish, though; Marshall was gesturing him to one side.  “I hear you’ve got a brother in the pharmacy trade.  What’s good for dry skin?”

     The elder statesman spoke with what seemed unfeigned amiability.  Things had been different over the summer, when a garbled version of Ada’s meeting with Matt reached her husband.  Marshall had sent a pair of grandsons around to take Matt on a brief tour of distant neigborhoods while spelling out the law.  On actually meeting Matt later, however, Marshall’s self-confidence triumphed over hostility.  He now saw Matt as someone who could not steal anyone’s wife, much less the wife of a Marshall Silberwetter.  Insultingly convinced of Matt’s harmlessness, he now pumped his distant subordinate for details on winter skin care while his wife and granddaughter traded compliments.

     Matt didn’t need to hear the rumble of artillery to know how the battle was going.  He had had no serious doubts about the outcome.  Ada Silberwetter, her eyelids half down and her mouth half open, remained in possession of the field as Holly L. MacTaggart, bright red under the makeup but still icily polite, stormed away.

     “We’d better mosey, lamb,” Ada told her husband.  “That Mr. Natarus will be looking for you.”

     “Ah.”  Marshall smiled at Matt and put out a hand.  The smile was his own, if the teeth were not, and his grip was firm.  “Thanks for the info.  I’ll get some of that stuff.  Drop over to the house some time.”

     “We’ll play the piano,” Ada suggested, reaching to pat Matt’s shoulder in passing.  “I know the bottom part if you can play the top.”

     Light shimmered in Marshall’s polished black hair as they moved on.  “I wish you wouldn’t torment the unworldly ones, Bundle,” he told his wife.

     “He’s not unworldly, Lamb,” she said, as supple and symmetrical in retreat as advance.  “He’s otherworldly.”

     Then she was gone and Matt could breathe again.  He turned his back on the memory and, looking up, sucked in the sigh he had just released.  Laser-sharp beams were coming to puncture him from eyes all around.  Linda’s gaze, from over by the egg nog, was of lethal quality; hatred burned in the stricken eyes of Walter Prince.  Eyes he didn’t know scanned him like X-rays.

     Matt had recently moved up half a box on the City organizational chart, but this did not bring him shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of Marshall Silberwetter; it was more like hairline to toenail.  When Ada talked to him, suspicion hardly simmered, for Ada Silberwetter might talk to anything in trousers.  But that Marshall Silberwetter would waste time, and a smile, and a handshake, on a Matthew Benz was no mere dalliance.

     Matt opened his mouth.  Then he shut it.  What could he say?  “Hey!  I’m a nobody!  Really!”

     At that moment, someone else’s voice called “Hey!  Looks like the buffet’s open!”

     Turning, Matt all but ran for a plate.  He never liked to be first in line—with his size, people always thought he was bullying his way up—but survival outranked dignity.

FICTION FRIDAY: Forbidden Rites for the Lovelorn

     “What is the meaning of this?”

     “Oh, mighty Aesterorglym!”

     “Who said…oh, down there.  Another human, is it?”

     “Yes, oh ancient wise one!  I have performed your ceremony as called for in the Nekropedicon.”

     “That’s loaded with typos, but you’re here.  Are long purple noses in style among you evanescent scum?”

     “Well, no, oh splendid one.  I let the incense cook too long in the iguana skull and it got scorched.”

     “I hope that accounts for the smell.  Well, out with it!  What do you want?  Incredible riches?”

     “That is not my goal, oh potent plague!  I seek….”

     “World domination?  That’s covered in Small Claims, down the wormwarp and third door on your right AND left.”

     “That again is not my great wish, great leader of loathsome dreams.  I wish merely a brief vision of you aweful radiance at a table at Ahab’s Coffee Shop.”

     “If this is just a ploy to get that pumpkin spice stuff early….”

     “No no, Your Eldritchness!  Nothing so ephemeral as that.  I want to impress my girlfriend.”

     “Oh, come on!  I was in the vivisection lab with a rare Chalsydyan and had just heated the pinking shears when you called, and I had to come out here for…eh?”

     “This is a picture of my beloved Strigillia.  She is so-o-o-o Goth,”

     “Are those platinum eyelid rings?”

     “Yes, Mighty Malevolence!  She won’t touch silver.”

     “I can see by the way it smears that her mascara is of kohl and…hamster blood, is it?”

     “She told me it was shrew’s blood.”

     “Ah, easy mistake.  Well, I understand your desire, just for a change.  But there is a toll to be paid…in my service.”

     “Tell me what to do, Victorious Vomicant!  Nothing is too difficult in the accomplishment of my desires!”

     “That’s the spirit.  Well, for starters, you’ll need to stop waving your arms around.  Thank you, Worm.  Now raise your hands above your head and brace them to hold this offerings bowl.”

     “Ah!”

     “Yes, it is very hot.  I should have provided you with gloves, but that’s not really what my sphere is all about.  Nonetheless, if you hold it steady, and count from one to one million and seventy-three, nothing will spill.”

     “One…two…three….”

     “If a single drop tips out of the bowl, you will be scalded to death…in about seven thousand of your years.  As you gradually melt, some of the vermin under my carpet—species for which you have names not even in your darkest nightmares—will creep out to see what the screaming is about and begin to inject you with various poisons which will dissolve you from within.”

     “Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine….”

     “This will take seven seconds fewer than will be required to scald you to infernity, but should keep you entertained in the meantime.  Just hold that steady while I fetch my hairbrush.”

     “Forty…forty-one…hairbrush?  Er, what else did you have….”

     “There.  The tentacles blow all over everywhere with the screaming in the lab.  How do I look?”

     “Forty-seven…forty-eight…you are a terror from beyond imagination, oh Mighty One.”

     “Good.  Now, wait here.  I have a date at a coffee shop.  What was that name again?  Strigillia?”

     “Fifty-three…hey, wait!  You can’t….”

     “Well, you don’t want her to just sit and wait there while you count to a million seventy-three.  Her matcha will get cold.  Wait.  Let me grab those pinking shears.  She looks like just the type.  Pity you don’t have a hand free to grab your phone.  We’d send pictures.”

Toes On Sand

     I was on my way somewhere else.  Not Fort Lauderdale “Action City USA”, as advertised on this beachfront postcard.  I was really just listing some Summer Vacation postcards online, as I like my sales to be reflective, or a little ahead, of the season.  And, anyway, I didn’t have all that much to sell that fit in with the Quarter Millennium.  (OR the Back to School Sales, which started around the first of July, as retail selling seasons do not mirror postcard seasons.  In fact, my first Christmas commercial for 2026…where were we?)

     Anyway, believe it or not, I was actually looking at the feet of those bikini bunnies on the first card, especially after I saw THIS beach card.  My third thought, following close on “THAT guy’s got big feet and hers are so small: how appropriate.”) was “Why is she wearing those heels at the beach?”

     Checking through inventory, I found that this was a definite fashion at md-century.  Women who wore bikinis to enjoy the sun and spectacle on the sands tended to sport stylishly high heels.

     My time on beaches has been minimal, but I cannot recall a lot of ladies in heels.  Most of my swimsuit experience has been at swimming pools, and I don’t remember women wearing heels with bikinis THERE, either.  We could assume I was looking somewhere else, and we would probably be correct, but this does lead to a secondary question: are heels less practical on sand or on wet concrete?

     Especially the really remarkable heels worn by these ladies.  (I do not wish to criticize the ogling style of my fellow man, but for someone admiring the view, doesn’t he seem to be staring at her hand?  To each his own, but, really….)

     And this is not merely a custom of the mid-century cartoonist.  This Maggie impersonator and her high-button heeled shoes was setting the style a decade or so earlier.

      Now, if you are one of those hostile, negative, critical souls (yeah, the thought leapt to MY mind) you might be assuming that this is simply a convention for those cartoonists who couldn’t draw feet.  But Walt Munson has here given both the boys bare feet but given the lady heels.  Maybe if Mom had had feet like Dad’s, it would violate her general air of fashion, but an ability to draw toes cannot be doubted in this case.

     And if the thought occurred that maybe it was a matter of cliché, that drawing a sexy model demanded high heels, here we have a bevy of beauties in flats.

     In fact, the only thing flat about THIS young beach bunny are those shoes.

     If you were going to complain that SKINNY models never wear flats, we can cover that thought as well, however little we cover otherwise.

     In fact, we even have bathing beauties going barefoot.  There may, in fact, be no more reason for any swimsuit model’s feet beyond artistic preference.  Maybe some artists didn’t like drawing feet, and maybe some artists preferred to produce women in heels.  The matter COULD have been dictated by editors at the postcard company, too.  Alas, not every phenomenon, despite Sigmund’s insistence otherwise, has some erotic explanation.

     Though I have a feeling the artist who gave this barefoot bather an ankle bracelet was responding to some inner call.  Without data, however, further investigation will require the perception of a Sherlock Holmes.  (There.  And you thought I couldn’t get through this article without saying “The game is a foot.”)

LIKE A MIGHTY QUONKER, Chapter16

     No one attempted to kill Matt that afternoon.  Outside the city building, a light snow gave the huddling, hustling crowds a bit of sparkle.  The sight lowered Matt’s blood pressure.  He slowed down to enjoy the array on the plaza: the big Christmas tree with perhaps too many snowmen hanging on it, the massive metal puppy by Picasso, and the stark, geometric menorah erected in the name of equal-time holidaying.  He looked back at the overdecorated tree.  Yes, he liked the sleek, stark lines of the menorah, but he wasn’t drawn to it.  He supposed he was just the type who would always prefer a baroque clutter of fripperies to something grand and solemn.  This would be a cause for rebuke one day at the gate of the Great Golden Ultimately.

     His mood was so much lighter as he waited for the bus that when it came he nearly let it go by, so he could take instead the one that would carry him to baroquely cluttered Water Tower Place (and Beth.)  But there was that party to be faced tonight, and Friday rush hour would make the chances of getting home in time for a shower and a change of clothes iffy at best.

     The spirit of the season seemed to be in all the drivers, though, and Matt made it in good time.  He was almost whistling as he unlocked the door and dropped the Christmas cards from George and the insurance company on the hall table.

     “I’m….”  His nose was confronted by an aroma his memory told the nose it ought to recognize.

     “Oh,” he moaned, the memory hitting him just before Ada Silberwetter stepped around a corner to hail him.

     “About time you got here,” she informed him, one hand on one hip.  “Come listen to our clue!”

     Matt set down his briefcase and ambled down the hallway.  He reached the dining room as Ada sat back down at the table, next to his mother.

     “Oh, hello.”  Mrs. Benz looked over the tops of her glasses.  “Are you home?”

     “Tell him what you were telling me,” Ada said, waving at the pages spread out of the table.

      The taller woman shrugged and looked, through the glasses this time, at the nearest page, which was cluttered with her handwriting.  “Well, it’s only a preliminary character sketch.  It’s a kind of psychological profile of Miss Skull.”

     She looked up.  Seeing her audience nod, she went on, “Miss Skull has a dirty mind, and is proud of it.  Miss Skull is creative—I don’t think ‘impudendum’ and ‘erotaerobics’ are really words—and she—or he, of course–likes to show off.  You’re  right to want to be sure this is actually murder, dear, and if I were you, I’d check among my friends first.  Or acquaintances who might play this kind of [rank.”

     Ada applauded.  Matt had heard nothing especially knew, and saw no reason for delight.  “Did you get all of that from the letters?  Or the envelopes too?”

     “Oh, yes.”  His mother picked up the page so she could read down to the bottom.  “Assuming Miss Skull stole the stationery and the envelopes, she’s not a scrupulously honest person.  And she works in either a very small or a very large office.  These are just plain white envelopes, so the place must be too small to spend money on envelopes that match their letterhead, or big enough to stock both letterhead and plain envelopes.”

     “If she works for the City,” Ada pointed out, “Then that’s no problem.”  She looked up to Matt.  “Can you shave a face that long in one day?  Cheer up!”

      “I’m not in the mood to cheer up.”

     “Aren’t you feeling well?” his mother inquired.

   “I’m allergic to murder.”

     “Oh, he’s just jealous that we’re getting ahead of him while he’s playing around having a job.”  Ada reached her feet under the table, hunting with her toes for her shoes.  “But we had to compare notes, you know.  You don’t catch murderers by sprinkling salt on their tails.”

     She found her shoes and stood up.  “I suppose I must toddle and let you take care of business.  There is that party, after all. You know.”

     “I know,” Matt sighed.

     His mother looked up.  “A party?  Is that where we’re going tonight?  I thought wee were just going out to eat.”

     “That was last night,” Matt told her.  “Tonight we’re….  I’m going to the office Christmas arty.  You remember.”

     His mother frowned, trying to remember.  “I’ll be there, too,” Ada put in.

     Mrs. Benz’s eyes slid all the way to the right to regard her son.  “You’re going…together?”  Her mouth jerked up at one side.

     Matt leaned forward.  “I….”

    “Oh, yes, we’ll be together,” Ada cooed.  “I guarantee it.”

     “Oh, then don’t let me keep you.”  Smiling, Mrs. Benz shuffled the pages together.  “Have a good time!”

     Matt ground his teeth.  “Mother, I….”

     “s that my other shoe Mrs. Benz?  Down there?  No, I see.  I gave them both on!”

     Matt faced Ada, a growl scratching its way out of his throat, not only because he’d been interrupted but also because he knew she had done it to avert whatever he had been about to snarl at his mother.  Guilt and embarrassment merged to become fury.

     Ada reached up to pat one blazing cheek.  “Now, now.  Be a good boy and I’ll bring you a Christmas present.”  She blew him a kiss and sauntered to the door, leaving Matt bubbling with anger and at the same time wondering why she put him so forcibly in mind of marshmallows.

     His mother walked to the window.  “Matt?  This place you’re going…is it far?  Maybe you should take the car.”

     They had sold the car four years ago.  “No,” Matt said.  “Not far.  You can see it from here.”  You could see a ways from the nineteenth floor, of course.  The joke was that when the light was wrong, you couldn’t see across the street.

     But she nodded, accepting his judgement, and left him free to get his shower.

     There was still time, even for Matthew Benz, once he had his good suit on.  He could leave now, he supposed, but rather than be the first one there, wandering around the rooms alone, he sat up to his desk and pulled down the looseleaf binder that contained the manuscript of the first section of “Ascent of the Ruby Slippers”.  Perhaps he could find a chapter or passage that he could work on while milling around at a party.

     At the unfinished end of the tale, his characters were busy falling into a trap laid by Mai Doon Izahn, the evil warlord obstructing their quest to save post-holocaust mankind from starvation.  The trap was fiendish and foolproof and, as far as Matt could determine, the heroes were stuck.  He flipped backward through the text, hunting for some early line that might light a lamp or ring a bell to guide him through this maze.

     “In the war between the Gibbelins and the Gnoles, there was little for humans to do.”  Matt had read the opening of the novel so many times it had become a cliché to him.  He flipped forward again.

     “At the verge of a mighty forest sat a castle.  It was a fine castle, but a bit imposed upon by the forest.  In any other location, it would have been a grand castle: indeed, one of the greatest works of architecture to issue from the human brain.”

     “It just wasn’t much of anything when compared to the forest.”

     Forest.  Imposed upon.  Dwarfed by the life around it.

     “Aha!”  Easy enough to make notes about that at a crowded City party.  He took a blank sheet of paper, folded it four times, and wrote “crowd” on the outermost layer.  If he needed more data than he experienced at the party, he could collect it while Christmas shopping.  Saturday would be perfect for that, and he had planned to get tp the library that day to research tombstones.

     He looked over the top of the looseleaf binder at the little yellow box on his desk.  Miss Skull had been lucky.  Putting such a small number of photos in a box meant to hold a hundred sheets of photo paper left a lot of empty space for the post office to mash in.  But the box was neither cracked nor dented.  He made a note on another sheet of paper.  He needed to find a box big enough for mailing away all the Christmas presents for his nieces.

     “Matt?” called a voice from the doorway.  “Am I going to a party tonight?  What should I wear?”

     Sighing, he set the binder back on the shelf.

FICTION FRIDAY: Red, White, and Ballyhoo

     “You around, Uncle Jack?”

     “Down here.”

     “So, Happy Quarter Mill…wow!”

     “Looks different, huh?”

     “What happened?  Your lab used to be filled to the walls with bins and baskets of spare parts and broken handles and….”

     “Got rid of ‘em.”

    “That must have been a truckload or two for the recycling center.  Except for the radioactive….”

     “Well, no.  I painted ‘em red, white, and blue.”

     “And sold them as Quarter Millennium collectibles?  I would have thought you were getting on that bandwagon kind of late.”

     “I know a trick worth two of that.  Labelled ‘em ‘Bicentennial’, so people would think they’re extra collectible, being fifty years old.”

     “Brilliant, as usual.  How much did you make on your Bicentennial bookcase studs?”

     “Not as much as I thought, considering the trouble the research was.”

     “Research?”

     “Wanted to make ‘em more authentic by tossing in some Bicentennial napkins and popcorn boxes and empty wrappers.”

     “I’m not surprised you had some of those around this lab.  I always wondered….”

     “Used that time travel bicycle I came up with a while back and headed to 1976 for Bicentennial discards.”

     “I thought you scrapped that bicycle because the controls were touchy.”

     “So they are.  Wound up shopping in 1876.  Saw some interesting Centennial souvenirs, but bell bottoms and three-button cuffs made me kind of stand out.  Luckily, they thought I was part of the entertainment.  Except for Great-Great-Grandpa Zeke.”

     “You met one of our ancestors?”

     “Bicycle doesn’t travel distance, just time.  So I was right here in the neighborhood.  Zeke was one of these crank Victorian inventors.”

     “I don’t know how you’d talk to somebody you have so little in common with.”

     “Lemme write that down.  Remaking my will next week.  We got to talking and he thought I had a great idea.  He offered to buy all my painted patriotic doodads for forty bucks.”

     “That doesn’t even cover the cost of the paint, does it?”

     “That’s what I thought ‘til I saw those two twenty dollar gold pieces in his hand.  It was a lot of trips, hauling all that scrap on the bike, but I did it.”

     “And now you can put those two gold pieces up at auction.  Are they in good shape?”

     “Sort of.  Not exactly right for auction.”

     “How do you mean?”

     “This is OUR ancestor, kid.  He took two quarters, painted ‘em gold, gave me those.”

     “Oof.  Can you get the paint off?  I mean, at least two silver quarters from 1876….”

     “I could see right away getting rid of the paint would get rid of most of the quarters at the same time.  So I did the next best thing.”

     “What’s that?”

     “Painted ‘em red, white, and blue.  Sold one of ‘em yesterday.  Got SOMETHING out of it, anyhow.”

     “Do you think you can still sell the other one once the Quarter Millennium is over?”

     “Maybe.  I can set the bicycle for 2076 and see what someone’ll pay during the Tricentennial.”

     “Happy Fourth of July, Uncle Jack.”

Where the Flavor Was

     Keep reminding yourself, as we move into the fifth episode of a series on smokers on postcards which began with a statement that there AREN’T that many, that entire books can be written on smoking in the movies and on television.  So there.  Some postcard smokers were celebrities who needed tobacco to complete their look.  Uncle Sam here is enjoying a smoke by the fireside (and using his legs to block the symbol of England from the British hearth.)

     Comedian Bobby Clark’s cigarette holder was as much a part of his act as those (painted on) glasses of his.  He appears without warning, AND without identification, on a number of unrelated postcards.  We may investigate this in some future nother blog.

     Mister Jack, another bygone comic staple, was a roue in late middle age who would have been lost without a cigar (or a comely female, even one his own age.)

     Happy Hooligan was not always in the money enough to afford a cigar, but he WAS a tramp.  And as noted hereintofore, such men were heavily associated with thick, solid stogies.

     All of this, I think, supports our original point: that the cartoonists bothered to draw in a pipe, cigar, or cigarette only if it was important to the gag.  But they took it for granted that just about everyone smoked.

     Even, as seen in our last thrilling episode, young boys.  This is related to the postcard convention that having a kid make a joke was funnier or less confrontational than the same remark might have been from an adult.

     When the young man who is smoking is understood to be genuinely underage, reaction can be swift and violent.  (The gentleman creeping up is a truant officer, and our hero is in trouble NOT because he is smoking but because he is playing hooky.  Our ancestors were convinced anyone who skipped school was doing it to pursue forbidden, and thus more interesting, pursuits.  Remind me to show you the one where the two boys are eating stolen raw eggs just because it’s forbidden.)

     Parents regarded smoking as a definite step on the road to perdition.  No one knew what might come next.  Drinking coffee?  Memorizing jokes from Cap’n Billy’s Whiz-Bang?

    Cartoons that were blatantly opposed to smoking, however, are largely limited to recent postcards.  There were occasional anti-vice postcards for earlier generations, but these tended to be deadly serious, like this Dutch example from the free rack postcard tradition, “Death and Deadly Sins”, which labels the parts of the body tar and nicotine will attack.

   .  Because how many people would mail a Dangers of Smoking cartoon to a buddy?  (Well, yes, there are such people, but the rising price of postage has pushed them more into the realm of texts and forwarded videos.  Another drawback of advanced technology.)

LIKE A MIGHTY QUONKER, Chapter 15

     Not only had Matt had the joy of getting up late this morning, but in rushing to make a lunch, he had realized he had not picked up anything to replace the turkey he’d finally finished.  Today he had to make do with dry rye bread and even drier cheese.  The apple turned out to be mushy instead of crisp.  None of this would have happened to his brother George, who kept his refrigerator under in strict ranks, each package of cold cuts stacked in its proper pile according to meat.

     No notes for “Ascent of the Ruby Slippers” came out of lunch either, but this was only to be expected.  He was tired, and a bit jumpy about the way everyone called “Have a nice lunch, Matt” as he made his way out of Down.  Not every meal gave birth to deathless prose.  Sometimes he just sat with his chin on his fist, remembering that Danny Kaye was dead.  Anyway, Friday was always a bad day for productivity.

     With no reason to linger, lunch was over five minutes after he sat down.  He finished his Diet Coke and was pushing it and his sandwich wrapper into the trash when a voice called “Hi, Neighbor!”

     He turned to find himself being addressed by one of the two elderly regulars, the one everybody called “the Judge”.  The Judge called everybody “Neighbor”; he couldn’t remember names.

     Matt ambled back to where the man stood at one of the vending machines.  Yes, sir?”

     “This machine of yours isn’t worth shit,” the judge replied, with the easy familiarity of equals, one expert to another.  “I put my money in and nothing came out.”

     Matt came a little closer to study the machine.  “Put my money right there and punched this button,” the Judge told him.

     “What?  Nothing came out?” called his partner, already seated.

     “I’ll be right there,” the Judge called back.  “I put my money in here and nothing came out.”

     The machine was a new one, with a digital readout above the coin slot to indicate the item called for and the total amount paid.  The Judge was a dime short.  Matt shrugged, took a dime from his pocket, and dropped it in.  It was easier than explaining things and, with everything else going on, being out a dime didn’t add much.

     The Judge heard the sound and leaned in.  “Can you tell what’s wrong?”

     “I think that’s got it, sir,” Matt said.  “Try the button again.”

     The Judge punched the button with the second joints of two fingers.  A little envelope of maple-flavored Crunch-and-Munch dropped into the drawer below.

     “Say, you’re good, Neighbor,” he said, spanking Matt on the shoulder.  “You’re really good.”

     “No problem, sir.”  Turning to go, Matt nearly walked into Maryann, who had been waiting behind him for her turn at vendoland.

     “Sure,” she said.  “Sure.  Just run over me.  You’re too big to even see us little people, the way you run around with judges and famous authors.”

     Her smile was one of amusement, but Matt hastened to apologize anyhow.  “I didn’t see…authors?”  he frowned.  “Oh, Felicia Lowe: that’s right.  Heh.”

     “You probably go out with her so often you don’t think it’s even special these days,” she said, scanning the selection.  “She must like you pretty well for someone she just met yesterday.”

     Not knowing what else to do, Matt laughed, pretending he had entered into the spirit of this.  Besides, it was okay to head for the exit if you were laughing.

     “Hi, Judge.”

     “Hey, it’s Maryann!”

     Matt spent the afternoon mostly on chores that allowed him to hunker in the safety of his cubicle.  This strategy gave him no satisfaction whatsoever.  Hardly ten minutes could go by without Holly or Linda or Carleton Nairn accidentally walking past his door.  They had done this many times in the past, but today it struck them as perfectly normal to stop and chat: little innocuous Friday afternoon conversational fluff.  Had Matt had a good lunch?  How formal did Matt think dress would be for tonight’s party?  Was Matt sure he didn’t need a ride?  And how was old Matt these days, anyhow?

     Matt was not a social creature, but he was not unfriendly either.  So he tried to answer all these inquiries with a jocular remark and a chuckle.  That was not easy.  They were never looking at him, exactly, and he could tell they weren’t listening.  They were searching for something; there was an air of expectation about them.  It was like being back in high school, he thought, walking from class to class and you were the only one who didn’t know about the “Kick Me” sign.

     Not even half as stupid as Walter Prince thought him, Matt knew what the problem was.  Holly might say “Oh, I hope they’re wrong about mixed snow and rain tonight” or Linda could remark, “No, I don’t go out much at night myself these days”.  But they were really saying, “You were out with Marshall Silberwetter’s wife last night.  What are you up to?”

     At first, Matt was just annoyed.  Linda Szarkowski, at least, should have worked with him long enough to know he was never up to anything.  Then he recalled the possibility that someone at Down was Miss Skull: an extortionist at least, and possibly a killer, and might have serious reasons for wanting to know why he was dining with Ada Silberwetter, especially when she was flaunting that mystery author.

     He wiped his palms on his pants legs and checked his watch.  Two?  Hours more of this.

     Rummaging on his desk, he found half a dozen sheets of statistics he had meant to put in Maryann’s copy box.  There was no reason not to take them to the photocopy center himself.  That would get him out of the reach of prospective Miss Skulls for a while.  Maybe he’d have to wait to get to a machine: always a good bet on a Friday, with people restless and glad to get out of their cubicles for a while.  Maybe this could stretch to half an hour.

     Papers in hand, he tiptoed to the door of his cubicle and checked for obstacles.  The sight of two women at Maryann’s desk made him pull back at once; a second peek showed it was not investigating guests but Holly and Linda.  And they had their backs to him.  If he hurried, he could be out before they noticed him.  Especially if he was studying these pages as he walked.  That was it: preoccupied, busy.  He hadn’t even seen them, wouldn’t notice if they said something.  Busy, busy: work to do, you know.

     “And what do we get?” Linda was demanding.  “A poke in the pants!”

     Here came the tricky part.  Matt had to step lightly around, behind, just beyond peripheral vision, but not bumping into file cabinets either, and all while reading through these stats.  Fortunately, Holly seemed to be paying attention to whatever Linda was expounding.

     “I don’t see why seniority….”

     There!  Past the desk!  With his back to them, he had a clear shot at the door.

     “Going for a break, Matt?” Maryann called.

     The diatribe broke off; Holly and Linda turned to look.

     Matt couldn’t help himself.  Escape was right in front of him.  He could march on, pretending he hadn’t heard.  But he HAD heard, and a painful passion for accuracy made him want to explain this was not at all his motive.  Even as he slid up his sleeve to check his watch, preparatory to a reply, he knew he was lost.

   “Oh, ah, no.”  he fluttered the pages in his hand.  “Just, er, needed some copies.”

     Holly MacTaggart was closer than he’d thought.  She plucked the papers from his hand and folded an arm around them.  “I’ll do that, Matt.  How many do you need?”

     Maryann snorted.  Matt let his glasses slip to the end of his nose to study Holly while Linda grumbled, “Her grandfather.”

     “I was just headed out that way,” Holly went on, shrugging one shoulder just an inch too high.

     No one there believed this.  One of the signs of innate superiority at Down was the ability to have someone else make copies for you.  If nothing else, you dumped your documents in Maryann’s copy box before Walter Prince could catch you and remind you that Ms. Hoxey’s time, unlike yours, was of value.  Those who absolutely had to go make copies tended to do so by stuffing the pages under a garment and slipping out as if to the restroom.  Otherwise, the fiends lurking in the darkness, would intercept you, drawling, “As long as you’re going to the copy center, just make me a hundred of these, would you?”

     Holly MacTaggart knew this, but gave no sign of this as she repeated, “How many?” and added, without even blushing, “Maybe I could bring you back a cup of coffee as long as I’m out.”

     Matt’s face was burning.  “Um, no thanks.  That’s all right.  Just, er, one copy of reach.  No, er, rush.”

     “Oh, I’ll be back before you can say ‘knife,’ she replied, gaily waving the pages, more at Linda than at him.

     Shoulders sagging, he turned back toward his cell.  But Linda said, “Oh, by the way, Matt.”

     He clenched his teeth, unclenched them, and turned her direction.  She was smiling.  He had known she would be.  Holly, meanwhile, had reached the door of Down, but paused to look back.

     “I was just going to ask, Matt….” Linda rippled two fingernails along the edge of Maryann’s desk.  “Do you like music?”

     “Um,” said Matt.

     Linda blinked and went on, “I have two tickets to that concert next Saturday, in the afternoon, by the Early Music Consortium.  But now Tim says he can’t come.  Would you like his ticket?”

     Out of the corner of one eye Matt saw Holly’s knuckles whiten as she gripped the doorknob.  Her gaze spoke to Linda of death in its most protracted forms.  He tried to think of any possible excuse, any reasonable previous engagement he could plead for Saturday afternoon.

     “Oh.”  What a time to come up against writer’s block.  “I’m not sure….”

     “Why don’t I just give you the ticket?  Then if you can’t come, you could pass it along to one of your…friends.”  Linda took a step toward him.

     Matt took two steps back.  “Oh.  Okay.  Why not?  Thanks.”  A brittle little laugh came from the direction of the door before it slammed.  Maryann grinned.

     Matt wanted more than ever to creep back to his cubicle and hide under the desk.  He turned, and recoiled in terror.

     “Sure you don’t need a ride to that party, Benz?”

     Matt’s starting eyes were not on Walter Prince’s fixed smile but on the little pink pipe cleaner poodle attached to the pen in his boss’s lapel.