Our Town
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The Soupster finds the third time is the charm.
It’s a fact well-known by the people living in Our Town that other Our Town folk may play multiple roles in life and one never knows for sure what roles they might be. Your child’s skating coach could be also be your dentist. Your waitress, starring in the town melodrama, crumbles your pickup’s fender. Your elderly neighbor plays a swarthy villain in the same production and then bakes you Christmas fudge.
This is why Road Rage is not as endemic in Our Town as in other burgs. It’s just too fraught to hurl unkind words and gestures at someone who might turn out to be your sister’s boyfriend’s brother. The immediate release of tension does not feel good enough to overcome the dread of possibly making an enemy of someone you might badly need some day. You don’t want to flip any kind of bird at all at your cardiologist.
One fine summer day, the Soupster strode into a local hardware store, where he spied Carol Worthington buying towel racks for her bathroom. Worthington owned the local jewelry store and the Soupster needed to do some business with her. Carol was a serious recluse – she hired charismatic young people to run the front of the store, while she crafted sparkles in the back room.
Should the Soupster say hello? Certainly, if Carol was looking at him. But she wasn’t. Should he tap her shoulder? Before the Soupster even knew what he had decided, Worthington’s shoulder was tapped by him.
But it wasn’t Carol Worthington at all.
“Pardon me?” said the woman, a stranger.
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” said the Soupster, moving on.
At the clothing store, the Soupster thought he saw Carol Worthington again. Not wanting to make the same mistake, he regarded the woman from a distance. Carol’s medium-length brown hair, the same bangs. The same mid-length kind of dress that Carol always wore, running shoes she called “trainers.”
The Soupster was both more confident in the details of his sighting and put aback by his recent case of mistaken identity. This time he didn’t need to tap. The instant he entered the woman’s personal space, the Soupster knew it wasn’t Carol.
“Can I help you?” said pseudo-Carol. “Do I know you?”
The Soupster slunk away. He kept his head down, lest he see another false Carol. His head felt light, as with a low blood-sugar level. He stumbled into the soda shop and grabbed a brown padded stool by the counter. He had no sooner ordered than a woman sat down next to him.
“Hi, Soupster,” said the real Carol Worthington, patting the Soupster on the arm. “We have business together, don’t we?”
Carol ordered a confection from the young man at the counter. She turned to the Soupster.
“What’s wrong with you?” Carol said. “Why do you keep looking at me like I’m a ghost?”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster speaks of movie stars among us.
“Kudos to our local movie theater!” a smiling Soupster thought as he emerged from the out-the-road cinema. He stepped out of the dimly lit lobby and squinted at a near-Midnight Sun. It was a beautiful Our Town summer day — at 10 o’clock at night.
The Soupster had just seen the very latest in end-of-the-world-blockbusters. Bringing top movie hits to Our Town at the same time they were being promoted in the South 48 was an accomplishment for which theater management should be thanked, he thought.
Back in the day, only a limited number of expensive film prints were made. The big and heavy reels of actual celluloid film made a slow round of theaters all over the country, starting with the huge population centers and working downward toward smaller towns – say one with 9,000 souls perched on a rock.
Those big and heavy films didn’t make it as far as Our Town until weeks — sometimes months – after all the promotions for that film had ended. It seemed then like the theater got the film right before it was due to be released on DVD (VHS tapes in those days). Now, practically as soon as a new movie is announced, the film is being shown in Our Town.
That’s because movies today are most often distributed over the Internet, just like other information. They can also be shipped in preloaded onto a storage device. Theaters then download the film for exhibition via a digital projector.
“Hey, Soupster!” called Lucy Coral, a well-known local cinephile. “How did you like ‘DinosaurNado: Apocalypse”?
“A whole lot of drooling and big, sharp teeth,” the Soupster said. “But I liked the film.”
“I think that Liam Helmsworth is hot,” Lucy said, referring to the film’s lead actor. “Wouldn’t mind if he would show up on a cruise ship and I could follow him down Lincoln St.”
“Did you ever notice that Don Freed, the pharmacist, looks like a lot like a 45-year-old Helmsworth?” asked the Soupster.
“Noticed?” said Lucy. “Let’s just say when ever my doctor prescribes medicine for me, I perform my happy dance.”
“Is Don Freed the Liam Helmsworth of Our Town?” the Soupster asked.
“I prefer to think of Liam Helmsworth as the Don Freed of the rest of the world,” Lucy said. “We have the original.”
“So when I say that Grace Greenwald is the Scarlett Johansson of Our Town, I should be saying that Ms. Johannson is the Grace Greenwald of the rest of the world.”
“That’s it,” said Lucy. “You got it.”
“For a long time I have surmised,” the Soupster surmised, “that what we have in Our Town is 9,000 originals that are replicated all over the world. Whereas we have just one of each of the 9,000 types of people. Your Helmsworth-Johansson theory dovetails perfectly.”
“You have quite a lot of theories,” said Lucy.
The Soupster tapped his forehead. “I have a mind like a steel trap,” he said.
“True, Soupster,” said Lucy. “An old and very rusty steel trap — but a steel trap nonetheless.”
Keep Reading
The Soupster hears relatively bad puns.
It wasn’t easy to make the Soupster feel like the stuffy serious one, but Cousin Rob had always had just that effect on him.
“The great ferry Malaspina,” Rob pronounced, as soon as the first-time visitor to Our Town stepped off the ramp to meet up with Cousin Soupster. “The name derives from the Russian word for `bad spine’ right?”
“Actually, Malaspina is named after a glacier which is named after an Italian explorer named Alessandro,” said the Soupster.
“Then why isn’t the ferry named `Alessandro?’” asked Cousin Rob.
“That’s his first name,” said the Soupster.
“Anyway,” said Rob. “It’s so good to be in Alaska. `Alaska,’ that’s probably Italian, too. Italian for `everyone should ask.’”
The Soupster had been trapped in this routine before. His parents were very close friends with Rob’s. Cousin Rob was eight years older and, when enlisted as the Soupster’s babysitter, would torture him with bad puns. “Protuberance,” he remembered Rob saying, “It’s Latin for `professional potato-eating insect.’”
They passed the spiral white warning sirens along HPR and the Soupster heard himself falsely answering Cousin Rob’s innocent question of “What are those?”
“They’re fluorescent streetlights,” the Soupster jived. “They save a bunch of electricity and they last five times as long as a regular streetlight.”
They passed Maksoutoff St., which Rob guessed was Russian for “to force a businessman to remove his suit.”
At the airport, Cousin Rob had such crazy definitions for everything that the Soupster lost it.
When Rob pointed to the flashing yellow light the airline used to tell passengers their luggage was coming, the Soupster said, “It’s a tsunami warning beacon, Cousin Rob. This is important. If you ever see it go off, start running for high ground.”
“Tsunami, that reminds me,” said Cousin Rob and asked directions to the men’s room.
As he waited for his cousin to return, the Soupster thought about how churlish he had been. Cousin Rob was just excited and interested in Our Town and who wouldn’t be? The Soupster just needed to calm down and play the good host.
As if on cue, the rotating beacon starting spinning, spilling a yellow strobe light on everyone and everything. Cousin Rob ran up and grabbed the Soupster’s arm.
“Tsunami,” said Rob. “A Boston term meaning `take Norman to court.’
Keep Reading
The Soupster hears about eating with your hands.
The Soupster watched his friend Rory chew raw broccoli with his mouth wide open. Then, Rory used his hands to pick up another piece of broccoli, dip the stalk into a reddish brown spicy sauce and add the morsel to the slurry he was already working in his mouth.
“Rory,” said the Soupster. “You are one disgusting eater.”
The two men stood at the island in Rory’s kitchen, grazing on the ingredients that would be their broccoli beef in about an hour. Rory was showing the Soupster how to cook it. “I come from a long line of disgusting eaters,” Rory admitted. “My grandfather and my great-grandfather were notorious for eating with their mouths open. And burping very loud. My great granny used to make my great grandpa eat in a separate room from the guests.”
“Hard core,” said the Soupster. “I noticed you left your father off that list. How did he eat?”
“My father was a gentle man,” said Rory. “The mouth breathers were all on my mother’s side.”
“Yup, my mother was the colorful one in my family,” he continued. “I was a little ashamed of my quiet father. No, not ashamed. Just that I never expected very much from him.”
“What do you mean?” the Soupster asked.
“I had a lot of friends growing up and their fathers always seemed to loom large in their lives,” said Rory. “They might love their fathers or fear them or both, but they worried about how their fathers were going to react to something they did. I never worried about what my father would think of what I did.”
“Maybe you thought your father was fair and you didn’t need to be concerned,” the Soupster said.
“No,” Rory said sadly. “I just never thought about him.”
Then he got animated. “There was this one time I remember being really proud of my father. At a chicken dinner.
“My little league team took first place one season and all the kids were invited to an awards banquet to get their trophies. Me and my Dad went. My family didn’t belong to a country club or go to a lot of weddings, so the whole get-dressed-up-to-eat thing was off my radar.
“The shindig was held in the dining room of a fraternal organization – I forget which animal. A bunch of long tables — everybody sat grouped with their coach and team. The first course served was your standard fruit cup and the headman of Little League welcomed everyone while we ate the cubes of canned pears and peaches with little spoons. Next came an invocation, more speeches and a course of soup with large spoons.
“Then they served the oven-baked chicken course. We were wearing ties, so naturally we all thought we had to eat the chicken with a knife and a fork. But none of the kids and only about a third of the adults managed to eat. Most of the kids just flailed around.
“My father watched all this in his quiet way. To the left and the right of him, people struggled with their knife and fork. And then my father reached down and picked up the chicken with his hands – he had a thigh, I think – and he chomped down. Etiquette said you only have permission to eat fried chicken with your hands. But my father didn’t care. Within three minutes, everybody in that banquet hall was happily chomping on the baked chicken in their hands.
“My father was a pretty good guy,” he concluded.
Keep Reading
The Soupster overeats.
In all the events in Our Town’s long history, few went as unnoticed as the Soupster’s arrival in the final decades of the 20th Century.
After much research and creative shopping prior to his arrival, the Soupster had largely succeeded in his quest to resemble a bona fide inhabitant of Our Town. On Day One and Day Two he blended in like a chameleon. On Day Three, however, the Soupster made a fatal mistake: he stepped out of his apartment in blue rubber boots.
How could the Soupster have realized before he got to Our Town that nearly half the population would be wearing brown boots? Was there a brown boot cult? Were people really staring at his boots or was it his imagination?
In those early days the Soupster absorbed many new words and phrases. “Way out the road” referred to a place that was no more than five miles away. “Skookum” meant either “awesome” or “fitting” or both. “Butt cheek” might refer to a human posterior or a savory delicacy found on a flatfish’s face.
“That there is a new one on me,” the Soupster frequently thought.
On one of those days, the Soupster noticed a banner outside a waterfront hotel beckoning in the breeze. “Sumptuous Buffet Lunch Brunch” it promised. The price was stiff, but the Soupster calculated that he could get several meals down on one sitting and come out well in the end. (ed. note: T.M.I.?)
Once inside, the Soupster saw that “sumptuous” had not been an exaggeration.
Crab legs, king salmon, prime rib, Eggs Benedict, abalone – and that was only the protein! The richness of the Alaska food chain was more than represented on the L-shaped table covered completely with silver food warmers.
The Soupster paid the stiff price and found a seat. He wanted to collect his thoughts. To get three meals out of one sitting required a strategy to succeed. You couldn’t just fill up on mashed potatoes and water and hope to escape hunger pangs 36 hours later!
The Soupster joined two people already filling their plates and starting doing the same. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. With his plate, he returned to his seat. But he chanced a glance back and noticed a sign that he read as: “One at a Time Only.”
This was strange. Buffets are designed to accommodate numerous people grazing at once. Why the limit? But there had been a lot of strange things the Soupster had seen and heard on his first few days in Our Town.
So the Soupster waited until the buffet line was empty and then he went up and filled a plate again. A waitress looked at him quizzically. Three more times the Soupster waited until the line was empty and then hurried up before anyone showed. Three times the waitress glared at him.
As he sat down with his fourth refill, the waitress walked up to his table.
“Nice boots, unusual color,” she remarked. “Get enough to eat?”
The Soupster nodded, his mouth already full.
“You read the sign that says `One Time Only,’ right?” she said.
“One Time Only?” said the Soupster, sputtering out baked red snapper. “I thought it said, `One At a Time Only.’”
“Well, I thought I’d heard it all,” said the waitress, ‘but that’s a totally new one on me.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster experiences the perfect combination.
Originally published May 17, 2007
The Soupster’s head throbbed as he tried to remember what it was he had just been thinking about. He was walking down Lincoln Street, happy with himself and his thought, when it took flight. “I hate when that happens,” the Soupster said, quoting television.
Crossing the street ahead of the Soupster, coming at him from the opposite direction, a young man and woman held hands as they walked. With his free hand, the man pushed a baby carriage and the care he took with the little chariot indicated that the low-slung seat was occupied.
In the shadows, the Soupster couldn’t make out who they were. Just another fresh-faced couple trying to find shelter and employment when the old fogies like himself already owned everything, he thought. But that wasn’t what he was trying to remember.
“Soupster!” the man called out and the Soupster knew immediately who he was. Like nails on a chalkboard, amplifier feedback, hyena screams and removing rusted lug nuts, the tenor of this man’s voice carved the listener a new gullet. The Soupster already had a gullet, but he had no choice but to answer back.
“Gene!” the Soupster said.
Gene’s voice was famous in Our Town. He was a local Gilbert Gottfried, the voice of the AFLAC duck. But he was the duck with a megaphone – Gene’s voice was grating, hearty and LOUD. Gene once told the Soupster that in all his hours on the water, he had seldom seen any marine mammals. With the sensitivity of the great beasts’ hearing, the fact seemed to the Soupster to make sense.
But when Gene came into view, the Soupster experienced the man’s other distinctive feature – he was easily the best-looking guy in Our Town. He was handsome in a way that made other men want to work for him or have him on their team. What Gene made women think and feel, the Soupster knew he could not grasp.
Gene was with his wife Audriella, as they were inseparable. Audriella was as acutely homely as her handsome husband was spectacularly not. Many in Our Town asked what had made this striking man choose this unmemorable-looking woman? Then, she opened her mouth and people knew. There was her charisma and obvious intelligence, of course. But there was also her voice. What a voice! In it was the song of birds, the rich sweetness of honey, the promise of the sky.
“Soupster!” Audriella called out with her lovely instrument.
The Soupster could see their faces clearly now. The Soupster knew his own face and voice were good enough for government work — mid-range compared to these two on either extreme. He wondered, which would it be better to be? Great-looking and sounding like a wounded goose? Or the plain-faced owner of angelic pipes?
“Come see Katey,” Audriella said, as Gene smiled, and with that voice and that smile the Soupster could not refuse. Ahead, the Soupster could see the blanketed bundle in the stroller squirming. Which parent would be baby take after?
Audriella pulled the blanket aside, revealing the most beautiful baby the Soupster had ever seen. Little Katey opened her mouth and the Soupster stiffened, expecting the worst. But the child’s coos were pure music.
That’s what I was trying to remember! the Soupster thought. That sometimes it all works out in the end.
The Soupster encounters an old saying in real life.
Standing in the line at the bank, the Soupster watched the lone teller, who was taking a few minutes straightening out some thorny issue with Cary Russ. So, to pass the time, the Soupster nudged Spring Ford, who was standing in line, too.
“Hey, Spring,” he whispered. “High finance, huh?” he pointed his chin at the counter, where the teller and Cary were still murmuring in a huddle. The Soupster could only make out a couple of words — “identity” and “authorization.”
“Complicated negotiations,” said the Soupster, who was in an impatient mood. “Hope it’s not identity theft.”
“Oh, I was on the wrong end of some identity theft a few years back,” Spring said. “The credit card company called to ask me if I had made any purchases in Hungary. My card people straightened it all out and it didn’t cost me a penny.”
“But if they hadn’t,” she pointed at the counter, “there, but for the Grace of God, go I. Or, would’ve gone I.”
The Soupster peered sadly at Cary, assuming the worst. But Cary, standing straight, didn’t look like the victim of anything.
Spring started speaking again. “It’s ancient history now, but when I divorced my first husband there were financial complications. All of the money and property was intertwined and it took our Houdini of a bookkeeper to figure it all out.”
“A big mess, huh?” the Soupster commiserated.
“But you know, Soupster,” she said, “we weren’t really mad at each other. Lawrence was a reasonable guy. When I would listen to some of my divorced friends, I heard nightmare after nightmare story about them or their former partners making things impossibly difficult. Things that should have been easy.
“I’d hear their stories and I always thought, `there, but for the Grace of God, go I.’”
As if on cue, a satisfied growl emanated from Cary Russ at the bank counter. He slapped the teller a high five and turned with an ear-to-ear grin.
“It’s been transferred – my inheritance,” Cary told the Soupster and Spring. “I didn’t want to celebrate until the money was in the bank. My Aunt Doris. You’re the first people I’ve told.”
“How much did you inherit?” asked Spring.
“Too much!” Cary laughed. “Much too much!” He flew out of the bank, almost literally.
The Soupster looked down at the bank statement in his hand, with its meager sums. He stared wistfully in the direction of Cary’s exit.
“There,” he told Spring, “but for the Wrath of God, go I.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster’s argument is decimated, but it does good.
When Trudy Frost saw the Soupster approach her downtown, she emitted a groan. He had that stumbling roll to his gait that made Trudy think her friend’s mind was someplace else. She had a lunch date with him and wanted his attention.
“Look up, Soupster,” Trudy yelled. “There’s a whole world around you!”
“You’re right,” the Soupster said as he neared his friend. “Wake up and smell the coffee or whatever it is you drink in the morning.”
“Oolong tea,” she said.
The two friends exchanged pleasantries. They decided to lunch at Sea Dog, both opting for franks smothered in chili, cheese and onions.
“Do you make lists?” Trudy asked the Soupster when they sat down to eat. “Me and Warren make lists like crazy. We keep the list on the kitchen wall and review it each night before bed to see what can be erased and what needs to be added. It’s become a ritual between us. Checking the list.”
“And?” asked the Soupster.
“Other than that, Warren never really talks to me anymore,” she said. “His voice is always so flat and then I hear my own voice sounding the same way. Our communication is decimated.” Trudy ended with a sad sigh.
The Soupster knew he should express sympathy for his friend. He looked down at his food, speared a pinto bean and ate it. Then, for reasons not even the Soupster understood, he decided to play the part of a pedantic idiot.
“Well, you can surely do worse than losing 10 percent of your communication,” he said.
“Say what?” Trudy asked.
“The word decimate means to reduce by one tenth,” said the Soupster. “These days, everybody is using decimate to mean `destroy utterly.’ But it’s based on a Roman military punishment. To punish the group, every 10th soldier was executed.”
“Lighten up, Soupster,” Trudy said. “People have been using decimate to mean destroy a huge part of for a long time. In fact, if I wanted to be a pedantic idiot I might comment that there is another theory that the word has its roots in taxation and the religious practice of tithing and that it was only applied retroactively to the describe the Roman practice.”
“But I have to tell you, Soupster,” Trudy continued, “tussling verbally with you feels really good. To engage with somebody after Mr. Two-Word-Sentences.”
“Maybe you should pick some fights with Warren?” said the Soupster, straying again into dangerous territory.
But Trudy only laughed. “Yeah,” she said, “I should put `Have an Argument’ on the list!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster inspires a flurry of activity before a dinner date.
I was strolling past the post office in Our Town when I heard,“Gosh darn sunbeams!”
I turned and scurrying by in a terrible hurry was my neighbor Linda.
“Excuse me, but what did you say? I thought I heard you say, ‘Gosh darn sunbeams.’”
“Kurt, I did say it. Darn sunbeams. I just can’t stand them; they are everywhere.”
“Now Linda, why do you have a problem with sunbeams? You are usually a pretty laid back, upbeat person and generally everybody in Our Town is happy to see sunshine.”
“Oh Kurt, I’ve invited Soupster to my special pickled herring and borscht dinner tonight and I am so rushed.”
“Why? You have made that wonderful meal dozens of times. I especially like the ground fresh garlic you always sprinkle on top. You have served it so often I should think you could cook it while practicing your Yoga.”
“Well, back during Our Town’s usual darkness I thought I was all caught up on my work around the house, but now the sunbeams have shown me that my windows are filthy. I just thought it was dark out like always, but all that bright light is showing dirt that I didn’t even know I had. There’s kitty hair all over the sofa, cobwebs decorating the corners, dust everywhere and little motes floating willy nilly about the room. I can’t entertain in those conditions.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, don’t worry about the Soupster. His glasses are always so dirty he won’t notice a thing.”
“Kurt, it is not only inside my house that’s a problem but outside too. I noticed the paint on the porch has faded and there is a streak of mold on the front door.”
“Now Linda, don’t despair. Lots of us have the same damp weather problem.”
“And look at my clothes! When did my best sweater get little balls all over it? And there are spots on my Levis I never noticed before. And the very worst part – I cleaned my glasses and my husband actually has grey hair and wrinkles. I’m sure they were not there last fall. The poor old soul. I can’t wait for a return to the nice dark rainy days of November.”
“Oh Linda, please, please be careful what you wish for.”
“I have to be on my way now, Kurt. I am going to clean until dinner time.”
“Or, Linda, my friend, you could just pull the curtains closed.”
Submitted by Rose Manning
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Keep ReadingThe Soupster recalls three invasions from his childhood.
The Soupster sat on a small hill, watching the world flow by. He saw a brand new VW Beetle and marveled how little the car’s cute, round exterior had changed over the decades since it had been introduced into the U.S. in the 1950’s.
Buying a Beetle was not an uncontroversial purchase in the years closer to the Second World War. After all, the car had been designed in Nazi Germany by auto guru Ferdinand Porche, on orders from Adolf Hitler to produce a “People’s Car,” a Volkswagen. The Soupster’s father had seen them in Germany during the war and said they gave him the chills.
“I hate these beetles,” he had repeatedly said.
By the early 1960’s VW bugs were becoming more common – and so were the Soupster’s father’s disapproving snorts. But the Soupster’s mother had no time for such foolishness. She had a real invasion on her hands.
Japanese beetles had taken hold of her prized weeping willow tree and were eating it alive. Hundreds of half-inch long, copper-and-black-colored insects worked at the willow’s leaves. The inundation was so total that the Soupster’s mom had enlisted a platoon of 10-year-olds to mount a desperate counterattack.
She hired the kids to pluck the beetles off her plants and place them in glass milk bottles filled with soapy water. The bugs would drown. The children earned 25 cents per bottle – a fortune at the time. Twenty-five cents could get a kid into the Saturday matinee. Twenty-five cents could buy a slice of pizza and a coke.
The Soupster remembered his mother, arms folded across her chest, regarding her young troopers with a steely glint. “I hate these beetles,” she said.
Within a year, another onslaught had reached the Soupster’s world – this time on the ears.
Four mop-topped troubadours led the British Invasion on stateside AM radio. Most kids heard that these Beatles only wanted to Hold our Hand and Please Please us, Oh Yeah. The adults heard a horrible caterwaul, presaging the end of the world.
At the height of the British Invasion, the Soupster’s parents received a message from his grandmother. She would be coming for a visit. She would be taking an airplane for the first time in her life. Please be at the airport when she arrived.
Flying on a plane was a big deal then – people dressed up, acted civilly and paid through the nose for their tickets. Granny Soupster was counting on a genteel trip. How could she have known the Beatles would be arriving at her airport just as she departed?
Thousands of screaming young girls crammed every inch of every corridor at the airport. The Soupster’s grandmother pressed forward through the ecstatic teeny-boppers, getting bopped along the way. At one point, she thought she might not make it and actually started to cry. Airline workers apologized for the chaos and blamed the Fab Four.
After a cocktail and a warm towel aboard the plane, Grandma calmed. When she saw the Soupster’s parents waiting for her, she calmed further and gratefully accepted help carrying her suitcase to the car. After kisses all around, she settled in the back seat, between the young Soupster and his sister.
“Want to hear a song, Grandma?” the kids asked. Hardly waiting for an answer, they launched into a spirited version of “Twist and Shout” right into the old lady’s ears.
“This is terrible!” cried Granny. “What is this horrible song?”
“Why, Grandma,” they said. “it’s the Beatles!”
“Beatles? Beatles?” Granny shouted. “I hate these Beatles!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster encounters a man and beast who won’t talk with their mouth full.
Big and tall, and perpetually chewing a carpenter’s pencil, Hank Waterstone epitomized the 21st Century American fashion of very large men owning small dogs. A generation ago, men like Hank would have been no more likely to be seen with a Chihuahua-terrier mix than they would tote a floral purse.
But here they were, the 12-pound Jupiter straining against his leash and pulling the 240-lb. general contractor along Our Town’s downtown sidewalk.
Jupiter, known to yip-yip-yip quite vigorously on occasion, was silent. He had to be – stuffed in his mouth was a yellow octopus plush toy. Five of its eight tentacles hung from Jupiter’s jaws, while the dog held three of the legs and the head in his teeth.
Coming the other way, the Soupster spotted the yellow toy first and he had a wisecrack ready as he sidled up to big man and little hound.
“Jupiter’s octopus is as bright as those lime green reflective jackets the smart cyclists wear,” the Soupster said. “Is that to increase the little fella’s visibility?”
“It’s to decrease his audibility,” Hank said. He reached down and pulled the octopus out of Jupiter’s mouth. Jupiter immediately launched into his staccato yip-yip-yipping. It shocked the Soupster how loud a sound could come out of such a little dog. Hank replaced the octopus and the yipping stopped.
“An on-off switch,” Hank said tersely and chewed on his carpenter’s pencil.
Gretchen Greely walked up to the two men. “Afternoon, Gents,” she said. “Cute dog.”
Hank mutely chewed on the pencil, so the Soupster interjected, “His name is Jupiter. He has an on-off switch.”
Gretchen made a puzzled face, so the Soupster reached down and grabbed the yellow octopus from Jupiter. Yip-yip-yip, Jupiter protested. The Soupster gave the dog the toy and the yipping stopped.
“Works every time,” said the Soupster.
Jupiter started making little “grrr” noises and a big drop of drool fell to the sidewalk. Hank, chewing vigorously on his pencil, plucked Jupiter up and cradled the dog against one side of his chest.
“How are you, Hank?” Gretchen asked.
Hank said nothing, just chewing his pencil.
Gretchen lurched forward and plucked the pencil from between Hank’s lips.
“Hey,” said Hank, “what are you doing! I was chewing on that!” He followed his words with a litany of unprintables.
Despite Hank’s complaints, Gretchen addressed the Soupter. “I just wanted to see if the on-off switch worked for him, too.” She pointed to the sputtering Hank. “Evidently, it does.”
The Soupster laughed. “Like man, like dog,” he said.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster allows a friend to vent about her colorful, frustrating sibling.
Annabella and Adeline – the dueling sisters. If there had been a women’s fencing team while they studied at Our Town high school, the two girls could have comprised the main elements of a perpetual motion machine. Now, even with the whole of the Pacific Ocean as a buffer zone, they’d regularly raise sparks on Skype.
In her mid-thirties, Annabella moved to Sydney, Australia and worked for an Asia Pacific entertainment consortium. She was the one with the personality. Adeline – two years younger – stayed put in Our Town and anchored herself with a house, a husband, a kid, a bookkeeping business and several city advisory committee appointments. She prided herself on her calm, smooth-running household.
Despite these differences, Annabella and Adeline were so closely joined that neither could imagine a world without the giant irritant of the other person. They needed each other like salt needs pepper. And to keep the spicy interchanges going, the sisters spent about an hour a week talking to each other over the video link.
For nearly a year, Adeline’s youngest, Katie, had taken to sitting on her mother’s lap during the Skype sessions. For a time, the two women tried to include the child in their conversations or to censor what they said to spare tender young ears. But the girl was so content to sit quietly at the computer monitor and listen that her mother and aunt soon forgot that she was there.
When Adeline asked young Kate what she thought of her Auntie Annabella, the child said “she’s funny and little.” Annabella felt encouraged every time she heard her niece’s tinkly giggle.
But what made Katie giggle made her mother cross. Over Skype, once a week, Adeline was able to stomach her sister’s larger-than-life personality without much complaint. The die was cast, though, when Annabella announced she was coming home to Our Town for a visit and arrived the following Wednesday.
Little Katie was not prepared for her Aunt Annabella in real life mode. The two sisters locked horns immediately and constantly.
They gave each other awful looks, making Katie put her hands over her eyes. When voices were raised, she put her hands over her ears. Katie said nothing, put her hands over her mouth and ultimately called to mind the statue of the three monkeys on her daddy’s desk.
After one tussle, an exasperated Adeline needed to go for a walk alone to cool off and asked Annabella to watch Katie. Adeline planned to call the Soupster and vent.
“Don’t worry about your mother,” Annabella told Katie after Adeline had left. “She’s been like this since she was your age.” She handed Katie a doll. “Do you like my coming to visit?” she asked.
“I like the little you,” said Katie, taking the doll. “Better than the big you.”
“The little me?” asked Annabella.
“The little you,” said Katie, her exasperation making her appear slightly like her mother. She ran over to the desk and pointed to the computer – “the little you.” She pointed at her aunt – “the big you,” she said, and pointed again to the computer – “the little you.”
“I like the little you way better,” she concluded.
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The Soupster hears a theory about the former owners of discarded items.
Rosemarie wouldn’t have ever noticed the famous last name printed on the nametag, if Timmy’s hadn’t barfed all over his sleeping bag during a sleepover. Four kids sleeping on the floor of Timmy’s room. Timmy’s three friends took well to the macaroni and cheese casserole she had served them before the ice cream cake at dinner. Despite the menu being two of Timmy’s favorites, he hadn’t done as well keeping his mac and cheese and cake to himself once things got too rambunctious upstairs. But that’s probably all anyone wants to know about that.
The next morning after the boys had gone home, Rosemarie felt sanguine about Timmy’s accident, thinking that’s just what old sleeping bags obtained at garage sales were meant for – occasional laundering in a lot of soap and hot water. And that’s just the treatment the bag got.
Rosemarie removed a clean and fresh-smelling sleeping bag from her clothes dryer, located in the corner of her kitchen. The tumbling had turned the bag outside out. And then she saw the label bearing the name of one of Our Town’s most famous sons – a politician now, but a pro baseball draft pick in the years before that.
The sleeping bag must have been owned by that august individual as a child. Back when he was Timmy’s age – even though it was hard to believe the now-grown up and oversized famous former owner had ever fit in the smallish bag.
Rosemarie thought of all the things she had discarded, sold at garage sales or donated to the thrift store. Garments and household items that then rotated through how many Our Town families before finally coming to rest. How many spirits intermingling? Did these items retain any of their former owners? Does anything transfer to the new owner?
The phone rang. “Hi, Rosemarie!” It was the Soupster. “Want to go to some garage sales? Find some bargains?”
So, Rosemarie told the Soupster her theory that discarded items may carry with them some of the spirit of their previous owners. She watched a light snowfall through the kitchen window and waited for an answer.
“You know, I’m a fan of crazy theories, but this is a stretch,” the Soupster judged.
They chatted, but Rosemarie was still distracted. “Well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave you alone right now, but I better get out to the sales before all the good stuff is gone.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rosemarie chuckled. “Happy hunting!”
Timmy came in next, bounding into the kitchen and grabbing a banana even before he stopped moving. “No wonder you’re hungry,” Rosemarie said. “You didn’t keep down any of your dinner.”
“Sorry, Mom,” said Timmy.
“S’ok,” said Rosemarie.
Timmy noticed his rejuvenated sleeping bag. “Oh, Mom, you got it so nice and clean.” He rubbed the bag to his face and took a deep appreciative sniff.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, without a pause, “My class is having elections next week and I was thinking of running for class officer.”
“That’s great,” Rosemarie said.
But Timmy was looking at the snowfall outside. “I wish it was spring,” he said. “I can’t wait to play baseball again.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster spends time at the edge of generational change.
In her years of teaching history at Our Town High, Mrs. Frost never had a more annoying student than Caine McDuff. He didn’t act openly disruptive in class, but somehow still managed to disrupt. Mrs. Frost operated a lot on instinct and Caine had always made her feel off-balance.
Lord knew Caine had been bright enough – too bright, maybe, for someone whose goodwill other people doubted. He asked a lot of questions – most of the bright kids did – but he always seemed to know the answer already. It was as though he was testing her knowledge and, frankly, it gave her the creeps.
Caine didn’t seem to have friends — there was an invisible fence that put off others, as it did her. But he was not disrespected. In fact, when Caine spoke no one else did until he was clearly finished. Caine often had the last word on things.
Caine graduated and moved on, like they all did, and Mrs. Frost proceeded to instruct scores more Our Town High students over the decades. She did not ask about Caine, as she did so many others.
Nevertheless, she thought of Caine more than once, usually when some annoyance set her off balance in that familiar way.
Mrs. Frost retired from teaching. Mrs. Frost’s husband, Mr. Frost, snagged an engineering job that meant two years in Guatemala. Mrs. Frost did not like humidity and decided she would stay behind. He needed the adventure and she looked forward to the peace and quiet.
But she did not count on the boredom. Not long after Mr. Frost departed, Mrs. Frost felt at loose ends. Maybe it time to step up to the plate – citizen-wise? On her best friend Gladys’ suggestion, Mrs. Frost joined the Planning Commission.
Now Mrs. Frost knew there was nothing more interesting than history – the twists and turns the human animal has used to scheme his or her way through the millennia. And she enjoyed the commission’s small canvas – decisions that affected just one or two people, a neighborhood.
At a Planning Commission meeting six months into her term, Mrs. Frost listened as the Soupster and a few others came to support a neighbor who wanted to build a greenhouse and sell vegetables. Mrs. Frost liked the smooth, pleasant neighborliness of the proceedings – most of the proceedings went the same. But the meetings didn’t dislodge her boredom as much as she had wished when she joined.
Lost in thought, she did not notice the coolness that descended on the proceedings as two competing attorneys representing two property owners moved to the front of the room. The first attorney was from Juneau. The second attorney was a newly minted Caine McDuff, Esquire.
Commissioner Brick Takamata, who sat next to Mrs. Frost, leaned over. “Looks like one of your old students is here. Isn’t he the one you said gave you trouble.”
“Trouble, yes, but interesting trouble,” Mrs. Frost whispered back. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster learns that three simple letters can protect a man from doom.
Originally published November 6, 2003
“I was saved, Soupster, but by which I do not know,” said Charles, a former college professor who now drank a lot of coffee. He had four tiny espresso cups arranged in front of him, two of them empty.
The Soupster looked around the empty coffee shop. Besides the barrista, washing mugs out of earshot, the men were alone.
“You know Bluto, the pompous blowhard?” Charles said, blowing pretty hard himself. “I owed that man $1,000. You’d have thought it was the Hope Diamond the way he pursued me around Our Town. Showing up at social occasions with that ridiculous `I’m going to bite you’ look on his face.”
“Bluto has bitten people,” the Soupster remarked. “He almost bit me once.”
“I considered that,” said Charles. “Anyhow,” he continued. “Bluto was on my tail in a major fashion and I was doing my best to stay one step ahead of him. Which is not hard, Bluto being Bluto.”
“He’s not stupid,” said the Soupster.
“Nonetheless,” said Charles. “On a proverbial `dark and stormy night’ he finally caught up with me. Right outside the fishing supply store. There I was face-to-face with Bluto’s ugly visage. He held a bag, bulging with orange nylon and I thought he was going to brain me with it.”
Charles chugged the third of his espressos. “Bluto grabs me with his giant paws and squeezes hard,” Charles continued. “`Where is me $1,000, you barrel worm,’ Bluto thunders. `I don’t have it,’ I say weakly. `What’s that in your pocket?’ says Bluto. `That’s me, er, my mail,’ I say.” “So Bluto grabs the mail and rifles through. `Ahoy,’ he cries, holding up my Permanent Fund Dividend check. `This will do,’ Bluto says. “`But, Bluto,’ I muster the courage to ask ‘I owe you a $1,000, but that PFD is worth $1,100,’ I say. And Bluto, he agrees with me. Could have knocked me over with a feather. `An eleven hundred dollar PFD,’ the ogre says and laughs and thrusts his bulging orange bag into my chest.”
“And walks off,” Charles continued. “So I’m left there standing in the pitch-black cold rain, minus one PFD. I stare into the bag. And what is in there? A life vest! I take it out and put it on. It’s a nice life jacket, the kind with the big ring behind your neck and the large reflective patches on the shoulder so the Coast Guard can find you at night and pluck you out of the water.
“And as I’m admiring the jacket a car comes screeching out of the dark. And – this I swear – the car’s headlights pick up the reflective patches and the vehicle veers a second before running me down.”
“I see your dilemna,” said the Soupster. “You were saved by either a Permanent Fund Dividend or a Personal Flotation Device.”
“Yes, Soupster, yes,” Charles cried, lurching for his remaining coffee cup. “Which PFD saved me?”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster recounts strategies for dealing with an annual financial windfall.
Originally published October 20, 2005
“I’m going to become a parent,” Mick said to the Soupster as both met up outside a Lincoln St. bank. “And I’ve been thinking a lot about the problems and responsibilities of raising kids. I don’t think I’ll have any problem with religion, issues of brotherhood or with kids and crime – I know right where I stand and I know what I’m going to say. But how to deal with my kid’s Permanent Fund Dividend? That totally mystifies me.”
“I mean, it’ll be the kid’s money, won’t it?” he continued. “But it’s a lot of money for anyone to manage well, let alone a kid. A parent has to have a plan. What do you think?”
“Well,” said the Soupster, “There was this one family — despite the fact that they’re not rich, they put every PFD dollar for the kid into mutual funds. During the go-go 90’s. The family had some awful expenses, but they never, ever touched the kid’s PFD. When she was 18, the family had a big pile of money saved up for her and she ended up starting a rug business in Wrangell where her favorite Auntie lives. She’s doing very well there.”
“Sounds great,” said Mick. “But what if her family really got in a hole and they were going to lose their house or if somebody got really sick?”
“Well,” said the Soupster. “I know another family. Every PFD the kid’s whole life went into paying for the continuing, everyday expenses of the family. With the PFDs and everything else, the father was able to get his college degree from distance learning. The mother took a year off to volunteer for her church in South America, which was her lifelong dream. When college came around for the kid, there was no money, but everybody pulled together and now both father and son have their degrees.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” said Mick. “I’ll want to make absolutely sure my kid has a leg up, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to take chances with such a valuable resource.”
“Well,” said the Soupster. “Then maybe this family’s story will help. I mean I’m not endorsing this, but this family just handed the cash over to their kid and let her do anything she wanted with it. From when she was about six years old on, anything that got into this kid’s head, she was able to finance. This is when the PFDs were $1,200 and $1,500 a check. One year this kid bought more than 100 stuffed animals, one for everyone in her grade. Another year, she spent her whole thing at Save the Children. She sent her parents on a cruise ship cruise and when her neighbors said they’d love to do the same, the kid sent them on a cruise the following year.”
“Well, I hope you don’t endorse that, Soupster,” said Mick. “What a wasted opportunity and a reckless plan for handling that poor child’s money. A poor investment in the future.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Soupster. “That kid is now making a fortune designing fantasy-based video games in Seattle. And she just bought her parents a new boat!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster learns there’s more than one kind of happiness.
The Soupster saw Linda Zapatos ahead on the downtown sidewalk near the Post Office. Seeing Linda always made the Soupster smile because her name, in Spanish, meant “pretty shoes.”
But it was Linda who wore the more noticeable smile today – a broad grin with a lot of teeth showing.
“Soupster,” called Linda.
“Pretty Shoester,” the Soupster answered.
Linda was a Pretty Shoester. She had delicate, feminine features – big eyes. Cupid’s bow lips. Wavy auburn hair. But her tough skin revealed she had weathered 20 years or more fishing with her husband.
“Why the devilish grin?” asked the Soupster. “Eat a canary?”
“It’s my husband, Eugene,” Linda said. “He’s the best.” Linda poked the Soupster in the ribs. “Did you know that no matter how tired he is from fishing, my Gene always helps me with the housework.”
“A noble fellow,” agreed the Soupster.
“But that’s not why I’m happy,” said Linda.
“Do tell,” said the Soupster. “Did you make a new friend?”
“No, that’s my husband’s department, too,” said Linda. “I would be a lonely Betty if it wasn’t for that man. You know those kids who are always bringing home a stray puppy or kitten?”
“Uh, huh,” said the Soupster.
“Gene is like that. He can’t talk to somebody for five minutes without cooking up plans to get together. I won’t tell you all the times he’s bought folks home for dinner and I’d find out at the last minute and we’d run out of food. Now, I cook for an army every night and if Gene doesn’t come home with anybody, then we have leftovers for later in the week.”
“I like casseroles,” the Soupster said. “But doesn’t Gene cook? Didn’t he used to be a chef for the cruise ships?”
“And there’s the rub!” said Linda. “That man is an artist with a knife and a frying pan, but he will not cook for me! I beg him to cook for me and he says `Meh.’”
As Linda recounted this to the Soupster, her smile grew wider, Cheshire cat-wide.
“Only one day a year will my Gene cook for me,” Linda said. “Once in a whole year. Only on my birthday.”
The Soupster couldn’t help notice her smile creeping wider still.
“Linda,” he blurted out, “you’re husband will only cook for you once a year? Then why are you so chipper?”
“Tonight’s the night!” Linda said and skipped off. “Tonight’s the night.”
The Soupster stood stunned as he did the mental math. “Oh, right,” he said, then called out, “Happy birthday!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster Visits A Mad Scientist.
Old Steve Parks lived in a dilapidated wooden structure facing a road that was a logging trail not long before (as opposed to New Steve Parks who lived in town). Folks wondered what went on, not so much in Old Steve’s house, as in the equally-dilapidated accessory building he called his shop.
The Soupster rolled up on the long gravel driveway, gave his bike’s kickstand a boot and knocked on the door. “Old Steve!” he called.
“Soupster!” called Old Steve from inside the shop. “Come on over!”
Old Steve met the Soupster at the shop door, wearing goggles and leather gloves. “I’m glad you’re here,” Steve said, “I need a hand.”
Steve’s request gave the Soupster a start – but in a good way. Old Steve, old irascible Steve, was brilliant and anyone who talked to him for even a moment knew it. Word was that Steve had a PhD in aeronautical engineering and electronics. Word was he had worked for NASA. Word was he had flamed out, took the proceeds from his patents, and moved out the road in Our Town.
Old Steve knocked his goggles onto his forehead and showed the Soupster deep into the spacious shop, which looked like a combination metal shop and chemistry lab. An eight-foot tall, conically-shaped object covered by a tarp was next to a ladder that reached up to the ceiling.
“It’s a retractable roof,” said Old Steve, pointing to the area above the ladder. “I need your help to open it.”
He posted the Soupster next to a large metal hand crank, then climbed the ladder and starting banging with a hammer.
“Metal is so unyielding,” the Soupster said.
“Not as much as some people,” Old Steve called.
“How so?” the Soupster asked.
“Well,” Steve drew a long breath, “you can bang on metal and you can reroute electricity, but with people sometimes you’re stuck with what you have.”
“You’re on to something, Steve,” said the Soupster. “Scientists used to believe that it was tool-making or something technological that caused the brains of our far-ago ancestors to grow big. Now, a lot of them theorize that it was navigating complicated social relationships in those ancient groups that caused our ancestors’ brains to grow.”
With a last slap of the hammer, Steve forced the mechanism loose. “Now turn the crank,” he called, which opened a four-foot square in the shop roof.
Old Steve clambered excitedly down the ladder and grabbed the tarp. He pulled it off to reveal an eight-foot tall silver cylinder.
“You going to space, Steve?” the Soupster asked.
“Not in this,” said Steve. “This is a model for testing. I’m having a problem modulating the temperature of my liquid oxygen fuel, and the pitch-and-yaw controls are all screwy. Any suggestions?”
The Soupster looked blank.
“But don’t let me waste your time, Soupster,” said Old Steve. “You save your big brain for those social situations. I can handle this.” He lifted a screwdriver and started opening a panel. “After all, it’s just rocket science!”
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