Our Town
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The Soupster shouldn’t believe everything he reads.
The truth is, the Soupster was already in a terrible mood when he stopped at the store on his way home. And when he walked from his car to the front door of the grocery store, the Soupster made the mistake of looking up at the big roadside message board. He froze, muttered to himself and jumped to conclusions.
“Don’t,” the sign read and the Soupster, absurdly, took the message personally.
“Don’t what?” he growled. “Just spewing negativity with complete abandon? Typical. That’s the trouble with the world. Everywhere it’s `don’t’! “
The Soupster took hold of the door handle, but then let go of it, took a step back and turned to face the sign. Like a person with one of those cell-phone earpieces, he spoke to the air.
“Look at that,” he said his voice loud enough for passersby to hear and pointing to the empty ladder up to the road sign. “Nobody is even there! They just put `don’t’ in your face and then they walk away – probably on one of their frequent breaks. `Don’t’ what?’ I’d like to know.”
The Soupster stopped spouting long enough to see a woman carrying a grocery bag give him a pitying stare and a wide berth.
Inside the store, he tried to ignore the “0 trans fat” and “Gluten free” signs. The “fortified with Omega-3″ and “Acidophilous added” did not make him feel any more positive. A funk is a funk is a funk.
The Soupster tried to raise his spirits by remembering a pretty little city park he had once come across during travels in the Lower 48. A sign at the entrance had said: “Picnic, fly a kite, rollerblade, sunbathe, jog, dance” and so on. All the things you were supposed to do, instead of the “No dogs!” and “Keep Out!”
And his mood did lighten, buoyed as well by the checker’s friendly interest in what he was buying. But when the Soupster walked out the door, he saw the road sign had changed. “Don’t Go Home,” it now said.
The Soupster got back into his car, stunned. “Don’t Go Home?” He was going home. Until now, he had been perturbed. But on the road back to his house, the Soupster felt angry.
“What kind of sick joke is that store playing on people?” “Is it even possible the sign was meant specifically for me?” “Why shouldn’t I go home?” The Soupster’s mind raced. Two doors from his house, the Soupster pulled over to the side of the road.
“Even if the sign has nothing to do with me, it is irresponsible to make people wonder if something is wrong at their home, “ the Soupster stewed.
“That’s mean,” he decided and turned his car around in the direction of the store. The Soupster wasn’t sure who he was going to talk to or what he was going to say to them, but he was going to say something to somebody to straighten the responsible parties right out!
But as he neared the store, he realized at once that he would do none of that. For the sign had changed again.
Now it read: “Don’t Go Home Until You Try One of Our New Mango Shakes!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster observes serious business at the White E
Originally published April 10, 2008
At 6 p.m. Monday I was standing in line behind Secondhand Rose, Soupster and a dozen other regulars at the Church of the White Elephant waiting for it to open. We were singing “Praise be to the ladies of the White E, Jan and the holy clan, Lori of the hallowed window and Jeannie of the Monday ministry.”
Well it is not really a church but it does border on a religious experience to many regulars in Our Town.
One of the stalwart volunteers came around the corner with an armload of free books. She told me they have about 75 volunteers with an accumulated age of just over 64,000 years. Each one has a specialty such as pajamas, jewelry, t-shirts, men’s boxers, Barbie dolls, books, front window display, and so on.
“The good gentleman that tests the electronic donations is prematurely gray. He had some bad luck working on home appliances rewired by an amateur. Now we call him Sparky. And did you know that this place has been in business for over 50 years now and all the proceeds go back into Our Town?”
“Yes, Soupster told me that. Just what kind of donations have you been getting lately?” I asked.
“Well last week I found 11 cents in the watch pocket of a pair of levis, a moose hip bone, an African Masaii necklace, a Lionel Hampton T-shirt, a souvenir spoon from Toledo, a wig, and a half a loaf of bread. When folks are making a run to catch the ferry we get everything that won’t fit in the trunk. A coffee pot was donated with a little coffee and the grounds were still warm and a roaster complete with turkey bones.
“One of the boxes was like an archeological dig. The top layer was a big, frumpy housedress, followed by big men’s T-shirts and blue jeans, under that was a layer of toddler clothes and then baby clothes and then maternity clothes and on the bottom a size 6, red fringed, shimmery, sequined, strapless dress, high heeled shoes and frilly under things. It is fun to speculate on the history of some donations.”
“Does the really nice stuff get snapped right up?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. If it is too glam or razzle dazzle for Our Town or too big to fit in small spaces or has only a decorative use it can hang around a long time. But they are the most fun to put on display. The Xtra Tufs last about a minute,” The informative volunteer offered.
“I hear you can sometimes get original Gucci bags, Waterford crystal, White Stag sweaters, and leather biker pants for ten cents on the dollar.”
“Oh, those are rare but it happens. Dumpster diving is the only place you can get things cheaper. Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?” she asked.
Oh, I have a list of things; a piece of fake fur, a teapot and a helmet.”
“You shouldn’t have a problem finding those.Do you need a yarmulke? One came in yesterday.”
The doors were opening so we couldn’t talk unless I wanted to be trampled. This was serious business.
– Submitted by Rose Manning
Keep Reading
“Do you know,” said Rocky to the Soupster, whom he had trapped in the supermarket’scanned-beans-and-tomato aisle, “that when they recently measured the major U.S. cities to see which was the laziest, they counted how many people wear sweatpants?”
“Couldn’t those people just be returning from the gym?” the Soupster asked.
Rocky reached forward and vigorously snapped the elastic waistband of the navy blue sweatpants the Soupster wore. “Were you just returning from the gym?” he asked, pithily.
“Well…” said the Soupster.
“Wearing sweatpants may be a sign of the decline of the American Century,” wailed Rocky.
“You’re taking this extremely seriously,” the Soupster told him. “They’re just cheap, comfortable pants.”
“You’ll see,” said Rocky, turning the corner and heading for the dog food aisle.
Rocky had his effect. The Soupster suddenly felt naked in his sweat pants. He wore the indelible proof of his sloth, visible to everyone. And what was worse, the place where Rocky had snapped his waistband did not go back to its normal shape. Now his pants felt like they were starting to slip.
The Soupster had stopped wearing sweatpants until they fell apart (although he was still tolerably tolerant of sock holes). He had stopped wearing light blue or gymnasium grey sweats, figuring black and navy were more respectful.
Respectful! So he did feel apologetic. And as the idea formed in his brain, it felt as though the waistband of his now-cursed pants slid down another half inch.
The Soupster cradled the can of beans and two cans of tomatoes in one arm and yanked his waistband up with the other hand. But as even the Soupster knew, yanking upone side of a pair of sagging sweatpants does not help them stay up – it may even be counterproductive.
Those who know, know that the worst sweatpant accidents occur soon after trying to yank the pants up by one side. The Soupster would take no chances. He held up the sweatpants at the waist with one hand, while he paid for his groceries and carried out the bag in his other hand.
There’s a walk you can do to minimize the pants’ desire to slip and the Soupster did it. Yet, by the time he reached the side of his car, it was but his hand that held the pants aloft.
He should have put the grocery bag down and used that hand to fiddle with the car doorhandle. He should have kept his grip on his waistband no matter what. And he certainly should have looked around before he embarked on any plan to get the groceries into the car and keep his pants up. But he didn’t.
The Soupster let go of his waistband to open the car door and his pants slid all the waydown to his ankles.
Rocky, who had left the store behind the Soupster, walked over and stared wordlessly. Finally, he spoke. “Soupster,” said Rocky, “Even for you, this is low.”
Keep ReadingOur Town resident Chauncey Whelan was riding his bicycle down Lake Street when he happened to glance over and saw a large dog chasing the ducks at the lake. “For Heaven’s sake,” he thought. “I need to go over there and break that up.”
Being a good citizen, Chauncey stopped, got off his bike and started to walk towards the commotion. The dog saw him and suddenly turned its attention away from the ducks, growled and glared at Chauncey with a look that made the young man tremble.
The ducks, in the meantime, had apparently forgotten about the dog and had wandered over to Edith Goodrich who was throwing leftover bread on the ground nearby for them. “Thanks for distracting that dog, Chauncey! You’re doing a great job!” Edith shouted.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Goodrich,” Chauncey said, trying not to make any sudden movements that might escalate his precarious situation.
A group of people soon appeared and Chauncey breathed a sigh of relief, but they didn’t seem to notice what was happening and walked past him on their way to the wooden pier. They stood there, looking at the lake and talking among themselves for a few minutes, then turned and headed back to the street. “Pardon me,” Chauncey said politely, “Would you mind helping me with this dog?”
One member of the group smiled at him and said, “We have this area reserved for our fundraising event this morning. You’re welcome to come, but we’d appreciate it if you left your dog in your car.”
“But it’s not my……” Chauncey’s words trailed off as the group walked away. “It’s not my dog. It’s…..it’s…George Clooney’s dog.”
Just then, one of the women in the group wheeled around and shrieked, “Are you serious? That’s George Clooney’s dog? Is he in town? Oh, my God!”
The whole group was excited by that time and rushed back to Chauncey, ignoring the dog, whose demeanor had magically improved with the arrival of more humans. “Why, yes”, Chauncey went on. “I heard that Mr. Clooney is in town on his yacht and that he’s been desperately looking for his dog because it ran away this morning.”
“I just love George Clooney,” one of the women sighed. “And he has such an awareness of pressing social issues.” The others in the group nodded in agreement.
“So,” Chauncey said, “You know that he’s also a big supporter of….what is your group called?”
“Society for Bluer Lakes,” one of the other women replied.
“Yes, he’s a big proponent of bluer lakes,” Chauncey explained. “I hear he’s quite a contributor. Maybe he would even agree to be your spokesman!”
“That would be awesome!” they all agreed.
So, off the group went with the dog, giving Chauncey an opportunity to walk back to his bike.
The Soupster had come out of the dentist’s office across the street about the same time this was happening and observed the conversation between Chauncey and the group. “Well, young man,” he said, “looks like they just couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
– Submitted by Mary Ann Jones
Keep ReadingOnly 25 and Tim felt he was in a whole second life. He, alone, had to take care of 16-month-old Hazel as a single Dad for the next three days. Three days could be 30 diapers that would need changing. Could be more than 30. He shuddered.
That morning, Tim’s wife Gretchen left town on business. There was no question but that she should go – even if that meant leaving Tim with the baby. Gretchen had the real job with real pay and good benefits– she had to dress up, travel on business and make sure she had an admired cell phone model (she was in tech).
When they were first married and Gretchen was in school, Tim had the job and there was no baby – that’s what he now thought of as his first life. Back then, Tim had a retail gig, which was fine and paid okay, as long as it was just Tim and Gretchen. No benefits, but they were healthy. Tim would have preferred working outside building things, but retail was fine. Until the store closed.
For a while Tim felt sorry for himself. Gretchen felt sorry for him, too. It was she who suggested he take some construction training and raise the whole family up another economic notch. Hazel generated a lot of bills and whole slew of new worries. And she generated a lot of dirty diapers that needed changing.
After Tim graduated from the training program, he put the word out with friends and filled out applications all over Our Town. But there were no jobs for him that were outside and involved building things. Tim had really liked the idea of moving the family up a notch. But they were stuck in the same notch.
Tim had even complained to the Soupster a day earlier, as the two chatted while waiting for milkshakes. The Soupster agreed that Gretchen had to go and leave Hazel with Tim. Normally an angelic child, Hazel had decided to test her father’s mettle the minute Gretchen’s plane took off skyward.
A list too long to make (and who wants to castigate an innocent child?) but Hazel’s transgressions were many. Tim felt himself losing his grip on his second life. He also was losing his grip on a seriously soiled diaper. The phone rang. Cindy at the placement office for the training program said there was a big project coming up that would require a lot of people who liked building things outside. The employer had Tim’s resume and the program’s recommendation, and Tim should expect a phone call from the employer shortly.
This was a notch-raising opportunity.
Tim celebrated by opening a brand new package of baby wipes. Hazel picked up the vibe and stopped being such a little poop. Gretchen would be home before long. Hooray, second life!
Keep Reading“Emery!” the Soupster called, glancing up from the outboard he was hunched over.
The cyclist screeched to a halt. “Hey, Soupster! How’s it going?” she asked cheerfully.
“Havin’ trouble with my starter,” the Soupster said, standing up with one hand on the engine and the other supporting his lower back. ”And this drizzle ain’t helping my mood none,” he complained. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“An inspiring, scenic location to write in the rain,” Emery announced.
“Write in the rain?” the Soupster echoed.
“That’s right, I’ve got a new notebook and pen that you can use in the rain,” Emery said.
“Yeah, I know the ones,” the Soupster nodded. “Official types of people use them.”
“And that’s why today I officially declare myself to be a local,” Emery replied.
“Why today?” the Soupster asked. “You’ve clocked up at least 5 years in Our Town, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but as you know, becoming a local is a process,” she said. “It doesn’t happen overnight. First you’re a tourist, wandering down the main drag, wearing your new fur boots and hat.
Hang around a few more days and you realize you’re gonna need some rain gear. So, you get the cheapest you can find.
Then you start doing the wilderness thing. Before long, you discover you need gear that’s breathable, waterproof and indestructible, so you go back for more — more expensive this time.
You learn that cotton kills and start stocking up on wool and polypropylene. The variety of gloves, mittens and liners seems overwhelming at first, but you focus on your size and get a pair of everything. Wool, fleece, leather, Gor-Tex and neoprene all have a use.
Before you know it, you have your very own Alaska Sporting Goods Emporium. Then, just when you think you have everything you need for life in rainforest Alaska, your Xtra-Tuffs start leaking.”
The Soupster took over. “So you patch them with duct tape, till you realize that even duct tape has its limits. Time for new boots. The old faithfuls are converted to slip-ons, used for taking out the trash, quick trips to the grocery store and camping.”
Emery laughed. “So, just when I thought my emporium was fully stocked, I discovered a line of ‘Outdoor Writing Products for Outdoor Writing People’ that can all be used in the rain.
There are even these pens that’ll write under water, upside down and in temperatures ranging from -30 to 250 degrees Fahrenheit. They’ve actually been used on a manned space flight.
So, I’m now the proud owner of a new notebook and pen. My adventure barometer tells me that ice climbing is going to pale in significance compared with things to come,” Emery predicted.
“Let the adventure begin!” said the Soupster. “And congratulations on becoming a local,” he added, extending an oil-stained hand to shake her neoprene glove.
“But before you go, a quick question: do the words ‘cheechako’ or ‘sourdough’ mean anything to you?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
– Submitted by Lois Verbaan Denherder
Keep ReadingBorn into the Real World in the first half of the last century, Renny was the youngest of an extremely large brood – 11 kids all told. And though the oldest brother was practically out of the house by the time Renny arrived on the scene, the remaining siblings kept their four-room family apartment chock full at all times. Renny did not suffer loneliness in childhood.
In fact he craved loneliness – or rather, time alone.
It wasn’t to be, not where Renny grew up. Like when periodically Renny’s parents took him and a half dozen or so of his brothers and sisters to the beach to experience the great outdoors. On a holiday or during a summer heat wave – that meant that the blankets, towels, folding chairs, coolers, umbrellas and the bodies of a million beachgoers covered the sand so thoroughly that Renny had to pick his way on tiptoe between the sprawled out families to get to the surf.
When his 7th grade class studied Alaska, Renny’s takeaway was glorious, open spaces. He started putting aside a grubstake that year. He got serious about building up the account in high school with his wages from pumping gas evenings and weekends.
Soon after he graduated City High, Renny had enough for a bus ticket to Seattle and a boat ticket to Our Town. But when he reached his final destination, he was shocked.
Our Town was crowded – not nearly the boundless space Renny had daydreamed about. Surrounded by endless forest, he nonetheless found the residents of Our Town pressed cheek to jowl.
Renny weighed his options. This was back in the day when you could lay claim to land, just about, by living on it and filling out some paperwork. So Renny took a skiff north of town and set himself up a sweet little homestead at an unused spot on the beach, facing Mt. Edgecumbe.
Renny loved his quiet lifestyle, reading, hiking, listening to the birds and the wind. But civilization did not stop for Renny – one black day, a road was built and the cars and trucks started whooshing by.
And this is where the Soupster, who was visiting Renny’s place, joins our story.
“Renny? The noise from those big trucks doesn’t bother you?” the Soupster asked. “The last truck shook the whole house.”
“I used to care,” answered Renny. “I used to care a lot.”
“But now you don’t?”
“That’s a hard question to answer,” said Renny. “I still cherish my boyhood fantasies of living away from it all. And it’s great to imagine that giant sundae you had with a dozen scoops of ice cream and eight different syrups. But who’d want to eat something like that again? Not an old man like me.”
“Huh?” said the Soupster.
“I like my quiet,” Renny said. “But I like having people nearby.” He pointed to Mt. Edgecumbe, which filled most of the living room window.
“It’s all wild, out there – all of it,” he concluded. “I love that it’s wild. And I also love it that Our Town has my back!”
Keep ReadingOriginally Published October 21, 2004
The Soupster’s rump itched. He squirmed in his seat. Pay attention! he told himself.
On the stage at the packed political meeting the Soupster attended, two familiar Alaskans debated the future of Our Town. Everyone was rapt to what was happening on stage, but the Soupster worried people could see him squirm and that they knew why.
At the right, standing at a podium, was a female brown bear, so tall she could reach up and knock the klieg lights above her head. To the left, behind the other podium, or rather perched on it, was a sleek raven.
“Ferry service!” squawked the raven. “Much better than roads.”
“Easy for you to say,” countered the bear. “You can fly. My constituents need roads.”
The crowd, all human, murmured in assent or dissent.
“Technology for medical care,” the bird called out. “Long distance docs!”
“Your doc should be close enough to look in the eye,” said the bear. “Of course, the last time a human looked me in the eye I ate him.”
The raven appeared momentarily worried.
“Hrrumph” said the bear.
The Soupster’s itch made him squirm again. This time he was sure it was noticeable. He wondered if he could slip out the back door, make it around the corner of the building and have a good scratch.
“You believe in large classrooms,” squawked the raven. “Lots of kids, too many kids.”
“I believe in the sanctity of the den,” said the bear, looking momentarily majestic.
“I believe in taking the chance at opportunity,” said the raven.
“And I believe in staking out your claim and never having to say you’re sorry,” said the bear.
The moderator banged his gavel and put forth the final question.
“If one animal could be said to represent the Alaskan spirit, which animal should that be?” said the moderator.
“I’ve been on license plates,” said the bear. “And on the “Made in Alaska” sign, although that’s my cousin actually. Representing Alaska, should, of course, be me.”
“My visage sells products from coffee to radios to football teams. Everyone knows a poem about me. Is there a poem about a bear that comes as easily to mind?” the raven posed sarcastically.
The bear became angry and clawed chunks out of the sides of its podium. The raven flew around the bear’s head in circles. The moderator banged his gavel repeatedly.
The Soupster used the fracas to cover his escape. By the time everyone had calmed and the debate resumed, the Soupster was slipping out the back door. Politics was the future, the Soupster knew and one had to pay attention to the future. But, he thought, passing out of sight around the corner, sometimes, there was more pressing business at hand.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster and his friend Greta sat face-to-face on two hemlock stumps, chomping on jars of her latest batch of smoked sockeye and shooting the breeze.
“So you didn’t vote in the primary,” Greta said accusingly.
“I forgot,” sighed a sheepish Soupster. He chewed his fish silently. “It’s sometimes hard to remember that politics matters.”
“Oh, politics matters, all right,” Greta said. “What if I was to tell you that your vote could affect that very fish you are eating right this second?”
“I would say `how?’” said the Soupster.
“Glad you asked me that,” Greta said, standing, stretching her arms and cracking her knuckles.
“Now, I’m not going to use any names, in order to protect the innocent, but see if you can follow me,” she said, settling back on her stump.
“All right,” said the Soupster.
“Okay,” Greta started. “Say there was a guy running for the US Senate from Missouri who made some very unfortunate comments about pregnancy that got him in a big heap of bear scat.”
“I think I know who you mean,” said the Soupster.
“Well,” continued Greta. “His opponent in that race, the incumbent, is a big critic of some special breaks Uncle Ted got for Alaska Native corporations that have allowed them to score lucrative government contracts.”
“Okay,” said the Soupster.
“Now the sockeye you’re scarfing comes from a bay that a Natïve corporation is asking Congress for,” said Greta.
“But they say they’ll always allow public access,” said the Soupster.
“I’m sure they want to keep the public access – they understand the value people give to harvesting their own food,” said Greta. “But let’s say the lucrative federal contracts dry up and they start hurting for money.”
“Just then some gazillionaire comes forward and offers to buy a piece of land that the corporation wants even more than your favorite sockeye bay – in exchange for your favorite sockeye bay …”
“You make good sockeye,” said the Soupster, lifting a jar. “But your fish tales stink.”
“It’s no tale,” said Greta. “At least, it’s not impossible.”
“So if I wanted to keep eating this fish, how should I vote?” asked the Soupster.
“You can figure it out,” said Greta. “You’re the Soupster!”“
Keep ReadingAfter enduring a somewhat sketch marriage in her twenties, 34-year-old Annie was basically glad she had the romantic gumption to follow her heart and a charismatic fisherman to Our Town. But it gnawed at her that she had left a job as a retail store manager and could not find the equivalent employment here. Especially after the fisherman moved on — after different fish, she surmised.
To Annie, becoming a saleswoman again after so many years as a manager felt even worse than the simple demotion it was. Worse still was the cut in her pay. Our Town certainly didn’t feel any cheaper than where Annie had moved from. But in Our Town she had about a third less to make do with.
Bemoaning her fate is where the Soupster had expected to find his friend when he stopped by to pick up some flower bulbs that she was giving away. It was typical of Annie to be generous.
The Soupster smiled at the thought of generosity of so many people in Our Town. There was no better reason to be wealthy, the Soupster thought, than to be able to be generous with your time or your money. And here was Annie, struggling, yet using her time to give away her precious bulbs.
There are those who come to Our Town to take high-level jobs and, for them, financial discomfort may not be an issue. Others come for the mountains and the clean air (or a fisherman!) and cobble together several jobs to survive.
But that’s just money, the Soupster thought. A lot of life comes from family, friends, tradition, and belief – not to mention a good subsistence halibut or three. There was little sadder, the Soupster thought, than the old miser alone with his stacks of gold coins. And little more triumphant than someone thriving on modest means, surrounded by life and love.
And just as the Soupster had that thought, he looked up to see Annie’s face filled with life and love. She stood in her doorway beaming.
“Soupster,” she cried out, loud enough to startle a crow, “My manager decided just this week that she wants to move back to Idaho to be nearer her parents. The Assistant Manager’s boyfriend is being transferred to New Orleans and she’s going with him. So guess who’s going to be the new manager?”
Keep Reading“I love this `Coast Guard Alaska’ show,” Zach said, sprawling in the magnificence of his basement man-cave.
The Soupster generally avoided subterranean structures of any kind, but he had to admit Zach’s man-digs were powerfully comfy. Heavily stuffed chairs and a still more heavily stuffed couch. A wet bar, a microwave and a big stocked refrigerator. And you couldn’t argue with the 46-inch TV screen – unless you had to move it or pay for the electricity.
“Check out this episode,” Zach said, motioning toward the glowing behemoth as, onscreen, a Coast Guard Jayhawk hoisted a stranded boater. “I know the flight corpsman, the co-pilot and the guy they rescued.”
“Wasn’t the flight corpsman’s picture in the newspaper yesterday?” the Soupster asked.
“Yep,” said a further vindicated Zach. “Nice that we’re on the list of Alaska shows, eh, Soupster? `Deadliest Catch,’ `Flying Wild Alaska,’ `Man vs. Wild,’ and `Man vs. Food.’ And that’s not even counting the Canadians, who have quite a few shows of their own.”
“The granddaddy show was “Northern Exposure,” the Soupster said, referring to the 1990’s television sit-com set in the quirky fictional Alaskan town of Cicely. “I was in Mesa, Arizona buying a light fixture at the time and the merchant checked my ID and said, `You’re from Alaska! I love that show!’”
“Now it’s true,” said Zach. “Now totally true. Alaska is totally a television show.””
“They should set more TV reality shows in Our Town,” said the Soupster. “We’ve got a million stories around here.”
“Eagle Rescue Alaska?” said Zach.
“No, you have to create more tension, as the TV guys would say. “Like “Ravens: Scared Straight.”
“You mean delinquent ravens subjected to Tough Love over golf-ball-and-grocery theft?”
“Yeah, said the Soupster. “Or an Our Town housepainter waiting on pins and needles for a dry spell to do this work. That should be good for six or eight weeks of tense episodes.”
“Might be too tense,” said Zach.
“I’ve got it,” said the Soupster. “What about `The Growingest Road’ about the Olympian task of state highway guys trying to cut down alder and salmonberry bushes faster than they can grow back.”
“Good,” said Zach, “Or one where they get up close and personal with one salmon. The star of the series would have to weather dry spells and sharp rocks, dodge bears and not get snagged by someone stretching the fishing rules. All for a disquieting ending.”
“One salmon’s struggle,” mused the Soupster.
“Or, `The Slug Whisperer,’” said Zach, suddenly very pleased with himself. “What about that, Soupster? `The Slug Whisperer?’”
Keep ReadingOne Sunday morning in Our Town Mollie Papillion woke up thinking, “I’m in the mood for pancakes.” She walked into her kitchen and began looking for the ingredients, but soon discovered that she was out of eggs. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was only 6:00 a.m., which seemed a little too early to borrow from her neighbor, so she decided to drive down to the grocery store. “It’ll only take a minute,” she thought.
She threw her rain coat on over her pajamas, put on her indoor/outdoor slippers, grabbed her mug of coffee and started to walk outside, but realized almost immediately that her pajama bottoms had somehow gotten caught in the door behind her. She yanked at the fabric a couple of times, but it refused to budge, so she gave it one last firm tug. The material gave way with a loud rip, causing her to lose her balance and fall off the porch into the mud below. “At least I didn’t spill my coffee,” she sighed, getting up slowly and brushing herself off.
Not one to be easily deterred, Mollie continued on with her plan. She climbed into her car and drove about a block when, suddenly, a dog appeared in the road a few feet in front of her. She gasped and slammed on her brakes just in time to avoid hitting it, but, in the process, spilled her coffee all over the front of her pajamas. She tried to gather her wits about her and wipe as much coffee off of herself as she could using the old McDonald’s napkins from her car’s glove compartment. “Oh, my goodness,” she fretted, “I almost hit that dog!”
Rattled but still determined, she headed down the street again, turning on her windshield wipers so she could see through the torrents of rain that had begun to fall. She arrived at the store, got out of her car and walked towards the door, pulling her coat closed in an effort to hide the coffee stains and mud. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she walked down the aisle towards the dairy section, but the sound of her wet rubber shoe soles on the newly waxed floors made such a loud squeaking noise that two customers in the produce section were startled and looked up to see what was happening.
She stepped up to the display where the eggs were usually located and stopped dead in her tracks, staring in disbelief. There were no eggs. At that moment, the stress of the morning’s events finally proved to be too much for her and she shouted in desperation, “I JUST NEED SOME EGGS!”
Her words were still echoing through the store when the Soupster himself magically appeared. He quietly handed her a carton of eggs from his shopping cart and disappeared around the corner into the cereal aisle.
“Thank you, Soupster,” Mollie managed to utter as she started to cry, mascara running down her cheeks. “All I wanted this morning were some pancakes!”
– Submitted by Mary Ann Jones
Keep ReadingCarrie told the Soupster he talked too much and her criticism stung. The Soupster knew he could go on and on – maybe a tiny, little bit? — but he didn’t know his friend had been suffering. And for “quite a while,” no less.
“I bet you can’t keep your conversation to a minimum even for one day,” Carrie threw down the gauntlet. “Not even for one whole day.”
“I can,” the Soupster insisted. “And I will!”
Today was the day. The first mission of the new, zip-lipped Soupster was to check the mail at the post office. As the Soupster strolled downtown, he had to duck into a few storefronts to avoid fellow chatterboxes who might stress-test his mettle.
“Soupman!” The call came from Charlie, a hiking buddy who, unfortunately, happened to be in a store the Soupster had judged free of customers. “Tell me what’s new with the Man in the Can?”
“Not much,” said the Soupster, wishing he could have thought of a one-word answer. “Gotta go,” he said slipping out of the store.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire? Two busfuls of visitors hit the sidewalk and poured around the Soupster like a human wave.
Hide in plain sight? The Soupster pulled his cap low on his forehead and attempted to avoid eye contact with the cheery migrants surrounding him.
No use! The Soupster felt his lapels being patted and looked down into the face of an older man wearing a tag that said, “Hi! I’m Horace!”
“Hi, I’m Horace,” he stated the obvious, grasping the Soupster’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I’m new to these shores.”
“Hi, Horace” said the Soupster.
“Yup, this is some different place,” Horace said. “Where’s all the big box chain stores?
Don’t you have any big box chain stores?”
“Nope,” said the Soupster.
“Our bus driver said he was taking us all over town but we only went five or six miles one way and then seven or eight the other. That can’t be all the road you have.”
“Yup,” said the Soupster, zipping his lips so tight he could taste metal.
“And this rain I keep hearing about,” Horace plunged on. “It’s certainly not raining now.
Is it going to rain soon? Am I going to get wet? I mean, isn’t this town too nice to be built by people who get rained on every day?”
As the Soupster moaned silently, a beam of sunlight illuminated a break in the throng of tourists ahead. “Yup,” said the Soupster, shaking Horace’s hand. “Nope,” he added. And then the Soupster escaped.
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“Dear Great Uncle Arthur,” wrote the Soupster. “I hope this letter finds you in the best of
health.”
The Soupster stopped writing. Great Uncle Arthur was always complaining about his
aches and pains. He might take the bland greeting as minimizing his suffering or, worse
yet, sarcasm. The Soupster scratched out the previous line and wrote instead: “I hope
you’re feeling tolerable.”
Despite his great uncle’s last decade-or-so performance of “The Ornery Contrarian,”
the Soupster loved Arthur and remembered him fondly. Younger than the others of his
generation, he was often put in charge of the Soupster and other nieces and nephews and
led them in memorable shenanigans.
At their last family gathering, the Soupster made the mistake of asking if Great Uncle
Arthur had learned to use a computer and had an email address.
“I’m just fine without one,” the older man snapped. “Write me a letter.”
The Soupster turned back to his work. “It’s been a damp and cool few weeks and summer
is approaching hesitantly this year,” he wrote. “So far, this is the kind of summer that
makes me wonder what the tourists must think our winters are like.
“But it is so green ! Even soaked with dripping greyness, everything that grows is
growing full bore, so the overall color is green.”
The Soupster knew this was too sappy, so he veered back into Arthur Country. “The
leaves, thick on the trees and the bushes looking bigger every day cover a million sins,
like bad paint jobs, strewn trash and now-stationary vehicles. Overall, Our Town looks
better groomed in the summer.”
The Soupster remembered that his great uncle was the first to teach the Soupster what
he called “The Garage Sale Rule.” The rule states that as the best items in a garage sale
are sold, the next-best items move up a slot in desireability. Stuff that wouldn’t have
interested anybody arriving early may look like the best stuff there – a find! – by the end
of the day.
And the Soupster remembered the sweet little house with the little garden he saw poking
from a corner, just the other day. The house was mostly behind a really big house and
he’d never noticed it before. But the view of the big house was now blocked by the lush
alder and salmonberry growth in front. And – voila! — there was the little house and the
sweet little garden.
“Your Garage Sale Rule works in real estate, too,” the Soupster wrote, hoping to either
get his uncle’s goat, pique his uncle’s interest or both.
“And if you write back to me, I’ll explain how,” the Soupster wrote. Your Loving Great
Nephew S.”
A seagull plunked a white gift on the dock railing near where the Soupster rested his arm – a near miss. “If humans could take a cue from the seabirds and be that casual about our process of elimination…” the Soupster thought out loud.
“Then there would be no “American Idol” or “Survivor,” said Sarah, stepping to the scene.
“Fine day,” the Soupster answered in greeting. “Whatsoever bringeth Miss Sarah harborward?”
Sarah laughed. “I was looking at boats to buy. I’ve got the boat bug.”
“Hole in the water where you throw money,” cautioned the Soupster. “And that’s after you throw a big wad to begin with.”
“I know, I know, she said. “I thought I had figured out how to beat that first part through magic, but it just didn’t work out.”
“Magic?” asked the Soupster, definitely interested.
“Well, positive thinking anyway,” Sarah said. “My crazy friend Ward got this book about positive thinking and he went around thinking positively about everything.”
“Oh, I definitely couldn’t do that,” said the Soupster, conscious of the depths of his cynicism.
“Ward appointed himself my fitness coach,” she continued. “My mental fitness coach.”
“It started with me wanting to lose five pounds to win a bet with my buddy, Jill,” Sarah said. “This was last winter and losing even five pounds is hard. Ward told me to imagine myself in a size 12 dress, so I did. I even went down to Lincoln Street and held a few up in the mirror and just ignored the stuff leaking out from the sides.”
“But it worked!,” she said to the Soupster’s questioning glance. “Then I told Ward I was getting behind on my bills and he said to imagine going up to my boss and asking for a raise. So I did that day and night for a month. And my boss just gave it to me, I didn’t even have to ask!”
“What about the boat bug?” asked the Soupster.
Here, Sarah chuckled and shook her head. “I told Ward and he had me studying brochures to envision exactly the boat I wanted. I figured 27 feet would be sweet with a forward berth. Good visibility. I wanted to sit up high in the pilothouse and have a stand- up head,”
“Not together!” joked the Soupster.
“Hah,” said Sarah. “Seriously, I named my boat Sarah Too. I imagined going out after work for quick spins. Picnics on islands, Fresh salmon steaks. Rocking to sleep on a gentle tide.”
“And one day, there was Sarah Too. The exact boat I had been imagining. Parked on a trailer in my neighbor’s driveway.”
“What did Ward say?” asked the Soupster.
“He blamed me,” said Sarah. “He said I was supposed to imagine the Sarah Too in my driveway!”
Keep ReadingThe 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 kind of 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 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 voice was pure music.
That’s what I was trying to remember! the Soupster thought. That sometimes it just all works out in the end.
Keep Reading“Coffee delivery,” the Soupster announced, as he approached the four men sitting and standing outside Giant Gene’s auto shop. Indeed, he carried a cardboard holder with four paper cups.
“You’re a good man,” Giant Gene told the Soupster, taking the holder and distributing the cups. Charlie, also called Red, raised his in salute. Billy, called Kid, gave an elaborate bow of thanks, almost spilling his. Miguel drank greedily. He was, understandably, sometimes called Santana, since that was his last name.
“Pretty slick,” the Soupster told Gene. “I call you to see if my alternator is ready and you rope me into catering your morning staff meeting. What are you guys doing standing out here, anyway? Don’t you have cars and trucks to shorten the lives of?”
“Shhhh,” said Gene and turned to the other guys. “I think today is definitely the day. It’s my day.”
“Today is what day?” asked the Soupster.
“The day Gene thinks Leonard will finally take his snow shovels inside,” said Red. He pointed across the street to a neatly kept home surrounded by a white picket fence, against which was balanced a silver snow shovel, a black plastic scoop and an ice breaker.
“We think Leonard is the last person in Our Town to put them away,” added Billy.
“We bet on it,” said Giant Gene. “Miguel thought it up.”
“Whoever picks the day Leonard puts the shovels away has to buy lunch for the rest of us for a week,” explained Miguel.
“That’s the first prize?” said the Soupster. “The winner buys lunch for everyone for a week?”
“No,” said Miguel. “The prize is the honor of winning.”
“We call it the Santana Ice Classic,” said Giant Gene.
“Look,” said Billy, “Leonard’s coming out!”
Leonard stepped out onto his cute front porch and took a breath of the morning air. He came down the stairs. The tension at Giant Gene’s was palpable.
When Leonard got to the shovels he paused slightly, looked up in the general direction of Giant Gene’s, walked out the gate and got into his car.
“Darn!” said Gene. “I thought I won!”
“It’s been getting pretty warm,” the Soupster said. “Do you ever worry that Leonard knows what you’re all up to and he’s leaving his shovels out there on purpose?”
“Soupster,” said Billy. “That would be crazy!”
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