Our Town
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The Soupster hears about charlatans, wrongly accused.
The Soupster stepped out of the rain and into the lobby of Our Town’s airport to pick up an express shipment. He hoped that someday the animal heads and fish lined up along the front beam could be made animatronic, like something out of Disneyland. Visitors would take it as noteworthy, the Soupster surmised, if a 70-lb. king salmon winked at them and said, “Welcome to Our Town!” or “Please come visit Our Town again.”
The gangway swung open and passengers spilled out. The serious travelers flowed right out the front door, having whittled their fashion and toiletry needs down to carry-on size. The rest of the crowd oozed slowly toward the luggage carousel. At the front counter, the Soupster was told he could retrieve his package in a few minutes.
“Hi, Soupster!” said Skye Claire, sideling up next to him. Skye was a professional entertainer who holed up in Our Town periodically to hide from her adoring fans. “How’s my favorite purveyor of miscellaneous items soaked in rainwater?”
“And my best wishes to you, Miss Skye,” the Soupster said with a barely perceptible bow. “What’s new in the entertainment business?”
“I met a talking dog,” said Skye.
“I’m listening,” said the Soupster.
“So, I’m in the office of a talent agent in Seattle who’s trying out new acts for the annual Rainier Review,” she recounted. “I’m standing by the door filling out some contract forms, when the agent lets in the next act for an audition.
“’Spartacus, the Wonder Dog!’ trumpets the owner of a speckled black-and-white, longhaired medium size hound. ‘Spartacus will now answer three questions.’”
“What was the owner like?” asked the Soupster.
“A bit forgettable,” said Skye. “Plus, me and the talent agent are busy staring at the dog.
“’Spartacus,’ says the owner. ‘What do you call the material on the outside of a tree?’
“‘Bark!’ yelps the dog enthusiastically. The talent agent raises his eyebrows.
“’Spartacus,’ says the owner. ‘Name a three-masted wooden cargo ship from the 19th century.’
“’Barque,’ yips Spartacus. The agent crosses his arms and looks stern.
“’Spartacus,’ the owner says a third time. ‘What is the best brand of root beer?’
“’Barq’s’ Spartacus says.
“’That’s enough, you charlatans!’ says the talent agent, who comes out from behind his desk and scoots both man and dog out of the office. I slip out with them. The agent goes back inside and slams his door.
“Spartacus looks up at his owner. ‘Henry Weinhard?’ Spartacus says. I almost fainted.”
Keep Reading
The Soupster mulls politics.
“Tighten that line, would you Soupster?” said Sara Paley, leaning out of the cockpit of her 25-foot cruiser, Knot For Naught. She climbed up on the deck, leaped and planted her Xtra Tuffs on the dock. She checked the line aft.
“Nice boat,” said the Soupster, who was in the harbor aimlessly boat-gazing.
“Knot?” Sara said, temporarily confusing him. “Yeah, I love Knot.”
“The name of your boat – I mean a lot of people associate that with Sarah Palin. She said during her 2008 campaign that she hoped all her efforts were `Not for naught.’ And do you spell naught with an `o’ or with an `a’?”
“Either,” said Sara, “or both. Anyway, it steams me up.”
“What steams you up?” asked the Soupster.
“I got Knot in 2000, long before Palin said anything about being naught,” said Sara. “I didn’t get the name from anyone.”
“Well,” said the Soupster. “Your own name, er, Sara Paley, kind of gets people thinking of Sarah Palin.”
“Well, I’m older than her – so even my name is older than her! I’m tired of being accused of stealing her line.”
The Soupster rocked back on his heels and sought to change topics. “How about those Millennials on the Assembly,” he said.
“That some religious group?” Sara asked.
“Millennials,” recited the Soupster from his mental Wikipedia. “People born between 1980 and 2000, roughly. The two new members of our Assembly are Millennials.”
“Should I be alarmed?” asked Sara.
“Maybe,” said the Soupster. “Millennials are supposed to be open-minded, confident and tolerant.
“That sounds like the good news,” she said.
“Well, Millennials are also supposed to be narcissistic, with a wicked sense of entitlement.”
“Sounds like my cat,” said Sara. As if on cue, Fancy Pants, Knot For Naught’s black-and-white splotched resident feline, jumped up on the railing. Sara scratched Fancy’s black-and-white splotched head.
“Millennials are supposed to be pragmatic idealists,” the Soupster continued. “So we may be hearing more talk about things like generating energy from the tides. They’re called `digital natives’ – born to computers – so I wouldn’t be surprised at electronic voting.”
“How do you know all this?” said Sara, eyeing the Soupster up and down. “You look like a Baby Boomer to me.”
“Well, I’m no Millennial,” the Soupster said. “I took an online quiz that said you had Millennial values if you scored at least 73 out of 100 points.”
Keep Reading
The Soupster does monkey business.
“Books about monkeys?” the Soupster asked Bobbi Lincoln, who was walking out of Our Town’s relief pitcher library while our starting pitcher library undergoes renovations.
“Indeed,” said Bobbi, an animated wisp who seemed to switch perches effortlessly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about monkeys. Monkey see, monkey do.” She held three books about monkeys.
“Have you ever heard that if you put enough monkeys at enough typewriters, one of them will type the Sitka phone book?” the Soupster quipped.
“I’ve heard they type King Lear,” said Bobbi. “Besides, what’s a typewriter?”
“Ha, ha,” said the Soupster. The Soupster liked Bobbi, which he indicated with a broad smile. Bobbi indicated her mutual affection by quick head movements. She switched perches again.
“We are so lucky to have a back-up library,” said the Soupster.
“I just found out the library moved,” said Bobbi. “I don’t know how it escaped me. I’m spending too much time online, obviously.” She tilted her head.
“The news must have reached the hundredth monkey,” said the Soupster.
“What?” asked Bobbi, standing on one foot.
“So there was supposedly this group of islands, each island with a different group of monkeys living on it with no contact between any of the groups,” explained the Soupster. “And the monkeys had to eat dirty sweet potatoes – don’t ask me why. And then one of the monkeys on one of the islands figured out how to wash the sweet potatoes. The other monkeys on that island imitated the first monkey and washed their potatoes too.”
“According to the theory,” the Soupster continued, “when the hundredth monkey on the first island washed his sweet potatoes, monkeys on the other, unconnected islands started washing theirs, too.”
“Sounds like a fruity theory,” said Bobbi.
“You’re right,” said the Soupster. “The theory is hockey pucky scientifically. But it does have an element of truth. When ideas reach a critical mass, they do seem to take on a life of their own and emerge at the same time from seemingly unconnected groups.”
“Of monkeys?” chirped Bobbi, switching perches.
“Could be monkeys,” said the Soupster.
“I gotta go,” said Bobbi. “Lots of monkeys today,” she called as she flew off.
“That’s why we measure ‘em in barrels!” the Soupster called after her.
Keep Reading
The Soupster discovers new uses for seawater.
As he strolled up the uneven causeway to the seaside home of his new friend, Warren Peece, the Soupster thought, “My friends have funny names.”
It was a dark and stormy night. The Soupster trod carefully around the potholes that filled with rain in just a few minutes.
The kind of big-drop rainfall that another of the Soupster’s friends, Rex Havick, thought came down too hard on Our Town to be just falling and had to be the result of somebody throwing it at us.
Warren’s home was a snug-looking place, but on a night like this, perched precariously on some rocks the ocean could shift with a mere shrug, disappearing between sea spray and downpour, Warren’s abode looked awfully alone and the Soupster felt a pang of concern for his friend.
So, after greeting Warren, before even shedding his Tufs, the Soupster got right to the point.
“I would worry about being out here all by myself,” he said.
“Nothing is going to happen to me,” Warren said.
“What if a bad person came out here while you were sleeping?”
“No one’s coming out to bother this old man,” said Warren. “Seawater will protect me.”
The Soupster figured Warren was right – who would trek out to this lonely spot on the ocean? There were more convenient places for mischief.
Warren went into the kitchen to check on the dinner. As his friend bunked around in the other room, the Soupster couldn’t help but salivate. He had heard that Warren was a consummate cook and waiting for tonight’s fare – some kind of family-secret-wine-and-herb-poached halibut – the Soupster felt like a kid who couldn’t wait a second more to start eating.
But as the Soupster looked around the living room, he had to laugh. Warren might be top chef, but he was no housekeeper. Newspapers and books in waist-high piles made impromptu tables for Warren to pile other stuff and he did, and then piled more stuff on top of that.
Warren came back into the living room and handed the Soupster one of his famous homemade brews. The Soupster noted a recent cut on Warren’s forearm.
“Nasty,” said the Soupster, pointing the bottle neck at Warren’s wound.
“Not to worry,” said Warren. “Seawater took care of it. Ready to eat?”
Warren brought plates to the table and the Soupster noticed they were sparkling clean – despite the messiness of everything else. Warren doled out the halibut only slightly faster than the famished Soupster scarfed it down.
Sated finally, the Soupster leaned back in his chair and patted his bloated belly. “Just delicious,” he said. “And I have to compliment you on how clean you got the dishes.”
“As clean as Seawater can make ‘em,” said Warren. The Soupster chuckled at the thought of his thrifty and unconventional friend.
There were still a few slivers of halibut and dollops of sauce on the Soupster’s plate.
“You going to finish that?” Warren asked.
“I couldn’t cram in another bite,” the Soupster said.
“Not to worry,” said Warren and put the Soupster’s plate onto the floor. “Seawater!” Warren called out and for the first time, the Soupster noticed an ancient hound sleeping on a blanket by the stove.
The old dog roused himself and went to work on the plate.
“See?” said Warren. “Not to worry!”
Keep Reading
The Soupster helps rename Autumn.
“Wet enough for ya’?” the Soupster asked his friend, Rex Havick, who was shaking off rainwater like a dog in the mudroom, before hanging his slicker on a peg.
“It’s water torture,” Rex countered, as he stepped into the house. “One drip is fine, but a billion’ll drive you crazy.”
“I like the sound of the rain,” said the Soupster. “Remember our culture’s brief flirtation with negative ion generators?”
“Negative ions,” said Rex, “that are produced by things like waterfalls, rainbows and whiskers on kittens.”
“You remember the song!” said a delighted Soupster. “Hey, Rex, come over here by the window and sit down.”
The large window faced the ocean, wild that day, churning and absorbing the billions of gallons of rainwater. The two humans stood transfixed at the flurry of whitecaps whipped by the wind, but the ocean was unimpressed. “Meh,” it said.
The Soupster cranked open the window and bid Rex sit down in the wicker chair by the table with the potted calendula. “Shhhh,” he said, as Rex took his seat. The Soupster sat beneath the philodendron.
Outside the window was a porch covered with stiff, thin fiberglass panels. The rain hitting the porch roof sounded like a high-medium tom-tom drum, which varied in speed and pitch with the size of the raindrops and the velocity they were falling at.
“Cool, huh?” said the Soupster.
“Very negative ion,” said Rex and the two men lapsed into silence.
A passing squall kicked up the volume and speed of the downpour and Rex grunted with appreciation. The amount of rain overwhelmed the gutters of the Soupster’s house and water fell like a curtain from the edge of the porch roof. The men had to raise their voices a little to be heard.
“So much water,” said the Soupster. “Meanwhile, my friends tell me the drought is so bad where they live, people are painting their burned lawns green.”
“Like everything else, those that got enough already, get more,” Rex said, “and those without don’t,”
“Why is that?” asked the Soupster, but Rex’s answer was drowned out as the rain fell even harder and even faster and much, much, louder.
“Rain like this can’t just be falling,” said Rex, “it’s got some kind of propulsion behind it. They call the season Fall, but they really ought to be calling it “Throwing it at us.”
“What?” asked the Soupster over the din.
“I said they should call the season “Throwing it at us!” yelled Rex.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster participates in an annual ritual.
Originally published Aug. 23, 2007
The air was thick in Harrigan Centennial Hall for Our Town’s annual lottery. How could it not be? The choosing of nine people to have the worst luck in town for one calendar year? The lottery had been a local feature for longer than anyone remembered.
These were the thoughts the Soupster thought, shared by his fellow townsfolk, as he sought a seat in the crowded auditorium to wait for the drawing of the unlucky nine.
The Soupster knew his name was in the black box on a stand in the middle of the stage, under a spotlight. As were the names of all the adults in Our Town. Mr. Summers, the moderator, droned on in his official voice the lottery’s rules.
Then the Soupster spied Hutchinson, the new news reporter, holding back in the shadows, his long notebook open and his pen poised.
The Soupster motioned the scribe into the empty seat beside him. “You know you’re not part of the lottery until you’ve been through a winter,” the Soupster whispered to Hutchinson. “So you can relax.”
“What do you all do to the people whose names are picked?” Hutchinson whispered back.
“It’s nothing we do,” answered the Soupster. “The bad luck just happens. They wash their car and it rains. Things get busy at work and a bunch of relatives will descend on them. If there’s a nail in the road, they’ll drive over it. The store will run out of milk five minutes before they arrive.”
Hutchinson looked alarmed, so the Soupster continued. “The unluckies know enough to avoid firearms, fishing hooks and jetskis for the duration, so serious injuries are rare. It’s more the annoyance. They’ll forget to make important phone calls. They’ll put their garbage cans out after the truck has already passed. Their arm will hurt after their flu shot. They buy decaf by mistake. That sort of thing.”
“Shhhhh,” said Mrs. Dunbar, turning around in her seat in the row ahead of the two men. “Mr. Summers is about to start reading names.”
Hutchinson lowered his voice. “You ever picked?” he asked.
“1998,” said the Soupster. “Don’t make me think about that miserable year.”
Mrs. Dunbar turned all the way around this time. “Will you please pipe down!” she whispered emphatically.
“What’s the rush?” asked the Soupster.
On stage, Mr. Summers cleared his throat into the microphone. He reached into the black box and read the first name. “Susan Ripley.”
“Oh, no,” Ripley said as she stood, before mounting the stage steps. “I’m remodeling my kitchen!”
“Stu Sharansky,” Mr. Summers said.
“My boat’s in the shop,” Sharansky moaned as he moved to the stage.
“Dorothy Dunbar,” said Mr. Summers.
Mrs. Dunbar turned around and gave the Soupster one last stern look, before making her way down the aisle.
The Soupster frowned. “See, she was in a big rush for nothing,” he said to Hutchinson. “Her bad luck started already.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster sees it all work out in the end.
Originally published Aug. 9, 2007
“Alby,” said the Soupster to his older friend, Alastair Byington III. “Forget your better half?”
Byington tapped his foot on the dock and peered into the distance. “She’ll meet me,” he huffed. “I’m hoping she actually shows up!” He folded his arms.
Alby Byington was known around Our Town for his stinginess, his skill at repairing an outboard motor and his enduring love for his wife, Mary Barbara – all three attributes intricately entwined and forming in a DNA-like triple helix, the story of his life.
He was also well known for being afraid of going out in the water in anything under a 30-foot boat, while his wife loved tooling around in skiffs. Alby was more content on land replacing a clogged fuel pump in a 200-hp honker than he would be running the big engine at sea. Mary was the opposite – she drove a quick little sports car all over Nevada when she was young.
For a few minutes, Alby and the Soupster waited quietly on the dock for Mary Barbara – “Babs” — to join them. Behind the two men, a gleaming 60-foot double-decker catamaran filled quickly with people taking the trip to the hatchery for the annual Salmon Head Chili and Fry Bread Cook-Off. A tourist woman holding the hand of her young son stood at the gangway and asked each person if he or she had two extra tickets – the popular event had long been booked up.
“That catamaran’s plugged,” noted the Soupster, who was not going that day. “You’ll have to go aboard soon.”
The deep wrinkles in Alby’s forehead deepened. “Babs went down to Redoubt every day all this week to dipnet sockeye with her crazy friends,” he said. “‘Got enough salt in my hair already,’ she said. Said she didn’t want to go out on a boat again so quick. I like these big boats. You don’t get a free ride on them every day. And free fry bread and chili is hard to turn down. I told Babs I’d be waiting with her ticket and she should meet me at the dock,” Alby concluded.
“What did Babs say?” asked the Soupster.
“She said not to expect her,” said Alby. “”I should go without her just to spite her.”
Then, a loud sob, a child’s sob. The murmur of a mother’s soothing. No one had an extra ticket and the tourists would be left behind. The boat’s motor fired up and the crew untied the lines.
“Alby,” yelled the Soupster above the engine noise. “You know the story “The Gift of the Magi”? He motioned his head toward the woman and her sad, sad son.
“Okay, Babs, you win,” said Alby, frowning. He walked over to the woman, and the Soupster clearly heard, “Oh, Sir! Thank you!” as he watched his old friend give her his and Babs’ tickets.
“Okay, Alby, you win,” the Soupster heard from the other direction as Babs Byington hurried down to the dock. The Soupster watched the tourist woman and her now-happy boy hurry up the gangway. Alby and Babs stood in deep conversation, touching each other’s arms.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, the Soupster really wanted to make sure Alby knew just how perfectly the Magi story fit the current situation. But he decided to leave the two lovebirds alone.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster hears strange murmurs.
“There!” Mike pointed out the tiny purple star of a fireweed blossom, opening high on the stalk. “When the blossoms reach the top, summer is ending.” The Soupster regarded his friend bending over the plant, growing alongside the totem path.
“The raindrops have been getting bigger lately,” he said in agreement. “And starting to angle sideways, a little. Season’s a-changing, Mike.”
The two men walked on in silence. The soft forest floor muffled the sound of their steps and they passed by the totem poles without waking them.
“Do you miss having four distinct seasons?” the Soupster asked his friend, who hailed originally from Back East. “Real hot weather and real cold weather?”
“I don’t.” Mike answered. “I like Our Town’s three seasons better. Three seasons: light all the time, dark all the time and exactly half and half.”
“And exactly half and half occurs twice a year, right? Between dark all the time and light all the time.”
“You got it, Soupster,” Mike said.
They were quiet again. All around the two men, still dripping from that morning’s rain, much of the vegetation was deep in cogitation – probably chemically – laboring to decide whether it was time to start switching over to “dormant” or whether they could wrest a little more benefit out of this summer.The Soupster thought he could hear them murmuring
“You hear that?” he asked Mike.
“Hear what?” Mike said.
Then they both heard it, on the breeze, sounding like: “esaelp dens…”
“I hear it,” said Mike and the two men looked around them.
The next breeze brought the murmur again: “esaelp dens su nair, dens su nair.”
Mike and the Soupster quickened their pace. In an open area around the next turn a lone man stood looking at the sky and saying “Esaelp dens su nair, dens su nair. Stol fo nair!”
The man realized he was being watched.
“May I respectfully ask what you are doing?” said the Soupster.
“My sister is getting married on the 23rd and she’s terrified it’s going to rain and ruin everything. I promised her I’d do what I could to keep it from raining that day.”
“OK, but in what language were you asking for it not to rain?” asked Mike, stepping forward.
“English,” said the man. “And I was asking for it to rain, not not rain.”
“I thought your sister didn’t want it to rain?” asked the Soupster.
“Oh, I’m asking for rain backward,” said the man. “I thought if I asked for rain backward…”
“Then it wouldn’t rain!” said Mike.
“I don’t know how well your plan is going to work,” said the Soupster, with a sympathetic tone. “Maybe you could do something else also. Like a Plan B?”
“Last week, I tried doing a rain dance backward,” said the man. “But I hurt my leg.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster ponders the fate of aquatic plants.
“Nice view from up here,” opined the Soupster.
“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” I replied modestly, high above the lake in the dental clinic break room.
The clear cutting of the lily pads was underway; the Soupster and I were like a couple of kids, watching the big boys at work, operating the big boy machinery.
“You know,” I said, sipping my French dark roast, “I really didn’t mind those lily pads so much. They added a certain `je ne sais quoi’ to the lake. And they always sank to the bottom in time for ice skating.”
“I know what you mean,” agreed the Soupster. “It’s too bad we couldn’t have found some use for them.”
“Yeah, like maybe fish food for the aquarium trade? Fixing potholes?”
“No, let’s think bigger, doc. We’d have to appeal to the overseas market — that’s where the money is.”
“I know, we could plant a story on the internet that lily pads grow hair and increase virility. I can see it now,” I said, giddily warming to the subject. “We’ll start in our garage, like Jobs and Woz, processing the pads into pills, attractively bottled and packaged, of course. Once it really takes off, we’ll build a plant out at Silver Bay employing dozens of Sitkans.”
“Whoa, cool your jets there, Mac!” interjected the Soupster. “How are we going to harvest all those lily pads, assuming we can con anyone into buying this worthless product in the first place?”
“Well, let me think,” I mused, popping a sugar free xylitol candy into my mouth. “OK, first we’ll have to figure the allowable cut, so we won’t deplete our resource. We’ll get the Forest Service to do those calculations for us.”
The Soupster shot me a quizzical look.
“OK, maybe rethink that,” I allowed. “But once we set the harvest numbers, we’ll work out the harvest method.”
“Helicopter?” queried the Soupster, smiling.
“No, too noisy,” I said, ignoring his sarcasm. “I’m thinking more along the lines of an underwater Roomba, programmed to creep through the muck, severing the stalks as it goes. Then, when the product floats to the surface, we can just scoop it up like free money. What could go wrong?”
I could see a concerned look forming on the Soupster’s face as he eased my second cup of coffee out of reach.
“Okaaaay, and how about obtaining ownership of this priceless vegetable?” asked the Soupster.
“Possession is nine tenths, Soup. And once the city finally notices, we’ll be too powerful to stop.”
I could see the Soupster had heard just about enough of this fantasy. He rose to his feet, still admiring the view of the lake.
“That’s a delightful pipe dream, doc, but I’m just looking forward to reclaiming the lake. If what Our Town head honchos say is true, we’ll have a healthier lake, safer residents and a lily pad-free view.”
“You think a little dredging will exterminate them, Soupster? You’re the dreamer. I’m betting on the lily pads.”
Submitted by Tom Jacobsen
Keep ReadingThe Soupster learns that bravery comes in many forms.
Prince Little, the chihuahua, huddled under a salmonberry thicket, hiding out. He was only a few blocks from his home, but little creatures don’t have to go far to have big adventures.
How to explain how he ended up in the salmonberries? First, the front door was left open, then the fence gate. He spotted a stunning poodle-corgi mix and before he made any kind of decision he was already in hot pursuit. He scarcely realized he was running, even as he was getting lost.
Mademoiselle Corgi was fleet and Prince Little could no longer see her. But he did see the two big cars that came very close and one honked angrily. Bicycles swished by, spraying him with drizzle. A jogger. A really big dog who smelled like teeth. Prince Little was an inside guy, and the salmonberry thicket seemed the closest thing to inside that he could find.
Only a few blocks away, Jennifer Boveen, Prince Little’s owner, paced her house with grief and worry. Tomorrow was the big parade and she was marching with the summer school band and had to practice her flute. But how could she? Prince Little was her practice partner, always listening, sitting quietly while she played, his thin tail swishing back and forth like a metronome. Where was Prince Little?
Jennifer couldn’t bring herself to even open her flute case. Her parents offered her all sorts of bribes, but nothing could dispel the dark cloud of Prince Little’s disappearance. She went to bed early, dreading having to march and play her flute, when all she wanted to do was pull her blankets over her head.
Morning – parade day. Jennifer had breakfast with her parents, who treated her gently. They told her they’d be cheering from the sidelines and they were proud of her. They watched their daughter leave, wearing her band uniform and carrying her flute — a brave little soldier.
Jennifer arrived at parade lineup and disappeared among the excited cacophony of band members. Her friends were so wired, Jennifer’s gloominess went unnoticed. The bandleader called for the musicians to take their places. And off they went, Jennifer doing her musical best as they played the song she had practiced for hours in her room, Prince Little wagging his tail at her side.
Two blocks ahead, inside the salmonberry thicket, Prince Little’s ears perked up. For the last hour, the street in front of the bushes had filled with chattering strangers, and the chihuahua had slid further back into the thicket. The crowd started making a lot of noise and Prince Little shivered.
And then a sound coming down the street, the blaring summer band belting out the tune that Jennifer had practiced for hours with Prince Little at her side. As the band got closer still, the dog’s small, keen ears recognized the familiar sound of a particular flute playing a familiar song in a most particular way. He picked up Jennifer’s smell, sealing the deal. Prince Little tore out of the salmonberries, ran past the Soupster and into the middle of the band, and danced around Jennifer’s feet. In celebration, she played her heart out.
The very next day, when they announced that the school summer band took first prize for musical acts, Prince Little’s dancing was awarded a special mention.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster discovers a diner can know too much.
“I hope you’re hungry, Harold,” said the Soupster, as he picked up his friend for their bi-weekly dinner.
Harold put on his seat belt. “Indeed I am,” he answered. “Where shall we go?”
“Out the road,” said the Soupster. “You know — the restaurant that has all those good appetizers.”
“Beer battered shrimp, yum,” said Harold, as the Soupster steered the car out the road.
The Soupster and Harold had kept up their ritual dinner every other Tuesday for going on three years now. After Harold’s divorce, the Soupster proposed the meals as a way to make sure his friend stayed socialized.
The two men had gotten about half a mile when Harold practically shouted, ““Halibut Britannica!”
“Is that the stuff with mayonnaise?” asked the Soupster.
“That’s Halibut Olympia,” Harold answered. “Britannica has bread crumbs, cream, spinach and capers.”
“The place by the dock,” Harold said. “Turn around.”
As the two men headed toward the dock, Harold said, “Or maybe I should get Butter Butt `But.”
The Soupster knew of Harold’s love for the rear end of a halibut, poached in white wine and butter – the older man ordered the dish regularly. It sounded awful good to the Soupster right then, too. The Soupster’s stomach had burbled suspiciously when Harold had said “Britannica.” Poached halibut had to easier on the system than Halibut Olympia, Halibut Britannica, Halibut Pax Romana or any of the other dishes that used mayonnaise or cream.
Without a word to Harold, the Soupster turned off the road setting a new course for the seafood place downtown.
There was the rub. Our Town featured enough restaurants to take care of the Soupster’s tastes, but their number was limited enough that – without meaning to – the Soupster had memorized all the menus.
The good news was that the Soupster could spend a lot of time pondering his choice for the evening without someone waiting impatiently to write his order on a pad and get going in the kitchen. In fact, he often decided what to order when he was dressing at home.
The bad news was that – like this night – that same advance knowledge could lead to a lot of wasted gasoline or futile pedaling.
“It can be hard deciding what you want when you already know every item that’s on every menu,” said the Soupster. “I love Our Town, but sometimes I just want to desert.”
“Dessert!” Harold called out. “Mt. Edgecumbe Mocha Mallow Meltdown at the sweet shop. Turn around!”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster makes a new friend in an usual way.
Originally published June 27, 2002
Gosh!, the Soupster smiled inwardly smiled at the sheer mass of humanity lightering off three cruise ships in the bay and flooding Our downTown.
In a perch below the O’Connell Bridge, the Soupster entertained himself watching the tourists mill around and a bunch of bridge workers doing repairs.
At last, the main disgorging of the great ships was completed. The football crowd of people that had jammed the debarkation area had all left in busses and vans and on foot. Even the bridge workers had disappeared. The scene of intense activity minutes before was now devoid of all humanity.
Save one. A lone man, older and a little stooped. He walked to the edge of the road and peered down. To the Soupster, the man looked exceedingly lost and maybe just a little confused. Fifteen slow minutes crawled by.
The Soupster rose from his perch and ambled down to the tarmac.
“Hello,” said the older man. “Are you Malcolm’s friend who was going to meet me here? Everyone left and I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
The Soupster started to tell the truth, then stopped.
“Malcolm told me not to take a bus tour, to be sure to wait for you and you would give me the extra-special tour. He said not to take a walking tour, either, because we would be walking plenty,” I’m Malcolm’s Uncle Jerontis.”
“I’m Lee,” lied the Soupster, shocked at himself. “And the grand tour is about to begin!”
The small angel on the Soupster’s shoulder had said into his ear, “What if Malcolm’s real friend shows up and is disappointed not to meet his friend’s uncle?” But the small devil on the Soupster’s other shoulder said, “Malcolm’s friend is not coming. Why not have some fun and take the man on a tour?” and, as he did occasionally, the Soupster agreed with the small devil.
So the Soupster and Uncle Jerontis took the grand tour of Our Town together. They went to the Russian Bishop’s House and the Sitka Kwaan Na’Kahidi. The Soupster borrowed a skiff for an at-sea tour of the harbors and stout fishing vessels and sleek pleasure craft. They watched a silver carver work and then a Soap maker. A girl playing a violin gave each man a peanut butter cookie from her sack lunch after Uncle Jerontis placed $5 in her opened case. He and the Soupster sat on Siginaka Way and watched the eagles floating effortlessly over the tidal flats on gusts of warm wind. They shared salmon and halibut nuggets. Jerontis turned out to be a careful shopper and even the Soupster was impressed with the gifts the older man amassed for the friends back home, including Malcolm.
“Lee, I hate to leave, but I must,” said Jerontis, as the Soupster returned him to the bridge for the lighter trip back to his ship. “When you come to Cincinnati, you must come to see me. But I suppose you’ll want to visit Malcolm as soon as you get there.” Jerontis wrote his name, address and phone number on a piece of paper.
“I have a better idea,” said the Soupster, taking the paper and relieved to be ending his ruse without being discovered. I’ll come by your place first. Then, we’ll go see Malcolm together!
Keep ReadingThe Soupster is Inspired by Spring.
Jan’s cell phone beeped. A message from the Soupster. “Just got home. Was that your out there would have been a beach on a table?” it said.
“What the heck?” Jan frowned and picked up her garden hose. Immediately, the phone rang – the Soupster again.
“Sorry – my phone makes up its own thing sometimes. I meant: ‘Is that you out there watering a bedside table?’”
“Sure is,” Jan replied, reaching under the shelf to peel off a soggy Bangkok city map.
“I know it’s been unusually sunny weather an’ all but aren’t you taking spring fever a little far?” the Soupster asked.
“Ha ha” Jan replied. “Doing some spring cleaning…decided to sand my bedside table and give it a new ‘shabby chic’ look. Figured spraying it was the best way to get the sawdust off.”
“What? You took a piece of furniture with a perfectly good paint job and wrecked it?”
“Get with the times, Soupster. It’s not wrecked, it’s ‘fashionably weathered.’ Not everyone likes furniture made out of wooden palettes and ammo crates. By the way, what were you doing sweeping your face over the seedlings in your garden planter yesterday? Nearly crashed my bike trying to figure out what was going on.”
“Aaahh… Yes. Singing chromatic scales to my seedlings. Exhaling carbon dioxide on them is like feeding them a Thanksgiving meal; the vibrations of my voice energize them at a cellular level. Should help them grow faster.”
“O-kaaaay….oh, and hey, I read on Facebook last night that microwaved water has been proven not to kill plants.”
“Interesting. Must remember that. Need all the help I can get when it comes to gardening” the Soupster admitted.
“For one thing,” he said, “I’ve given up trying to start my own seeds. Last year, I tried to give my flower seeds a head start by sprouting them in a moist paper towel on the windowsill. They did sprout but I couldn’t get them off the paper towel so I ripped it apart and planted the bits. Unfortunately, only a few plants made it out of the soil and they spent the rest of the summer struggling to become anything more than two small leaves at the end of a stalk. These days I go for seedlings. I say let someone else get them through the Neonatal ICU stage.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Soupster. This is Alaska. I figure if we manage to grow anything at all, that’s a bonus, given the challenging weather conditions.
“True,” the Soupster agreed.
“Sorry, gotta go. Need to get this bedside table into the sun so it can dry. Bye…”
Right away her phone beeped a message. “Sudden dry in the same sentence music Tim I hears,” it said.
The Soupster called again. “Sorry, that was supposed to be; ‘Sun and dry in the same sentence – music to my ears.’ Yeah, I gotta go too. Time to sing a few octaves.”
Submitted by Lois Verbaan Denherder
Keep ReadingThe Soupster copes with unpleasant memories.
“You hate my dog!” Laura overheard through the library stack. “You revile my pooch.”
Laura the Librarian, with an armful of books, turned the corner, “Soupster?” she said “Is that you?”
“Uh, oh,” the Soupster said. “Was I talking out loud?”
“Something about dogs?” said Laura. “Something about hating dogs?”
The Soupster reddened. “I am a confirmed animal lover,” he said guiltily. “I actually like dogs third best, right after cats and Australians.”
“Then why did you say you hated your dog?” said Laura.
“It’s just an expression I use to control my bad thoughts,” the Soupster answered.
“Stay there,” said Laura, as she tipped the books in her arms onto a nearby empty shelf. She smoothed her blouse and gave her shoulders and head a little shake. “Now,” she said to the Soupster, “Tell me what on Earth you are talking about.”
The Soupster looked around to see if anyone else was listening. “Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “When I say, `You hate my dog,’ it really has nothing to do with dogs, or hatred, or even you, for that matter.”
“You know, when a person has a memory of something that didn’t turn out so well?” the Soupster went on. “And when they figure out what they should have done that would have worked out fifty times better? Or when they remember something somebody once said and only now can they think of the perfect thing they should have said back then?
“I don’t have these problems,” said Laura,
“Consider yourself lucky, then,” said the Soupster. “But my mind sometimes gets locked in kind of negative territory. My saying, `You hate my dog’ breaks me loose.”
“Tell me Soupster,” said Laura. “how did you come up with saying you hate your dog… er… my dog? Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Well,” said the Soupster, “It started a long time ago with the old saying, `Love me, love my dog.’ That morphed into `Hate me, hate my dog.’ Finally, just, `You hate my dog.’”
“Fascinating, your noggin,” said Laura.
“Show me the noggin what ain’t,” said the Soupster.
“Well, your noggin, especially, ain’t ain’t,” Laura said.
“You hate my dog!” said the Soupster.
“Wait just a minute,” said Laura. “Didn’t you just finish telling me that all this had nothing to do with me or dogs or hatred or dog hatred or anything?”
“Ooops,” the Soupster said.
Keep ReadingThe Soupster sees people who bite off and chew.
Sitting with Chavez outside Harrigan Centennial Hall Building, the Soupster could feel his friend’s distress radiate out like static electricity. Chavez shook a Funny Times newspaper at the Soupster with vigor. “How dare they `dis’ Our wonderful Town!” he said. “Look at this!”
Chavez pointed to a particular cartoon in the newspaper. Funny Times is a monthly collection of cartoons and humorous essays from all over the country. Chavez’s finger tapped a four-panel job that “dissed” the federal government for making embarrassing announcements only in places so remote, so forgotten, that no one would ever hear. Places like Minden City, Michigan; Bellows Falls, Vermont; Skaneateles, New York; and Sitka, Alaska.
Sitka, Alaska?? A place so forgotten, so remote that the federal government could make a major announcement and no one would ever hear? Our Town? Chavez didn’t think so!
Nor did the Soupster. “That’s troubling,” the Soupster said. “Because Our Town is about as famous as you can get for its size.”
“James Michener announced that he was going to write his novel `Alaska’ right here,” said Chavez.
“Well, how about October 18, 1867?” countered the Soupster. “The whole Castle Hill thing. People have sure heard about that. This is definitely not a place so forgotten and so remote that no one ever hears anything.”.
Chavez tried to agree, but he was drowned out as the main doors on the Centennial Hall Building swung open and about a dozen people poured out. Some held Rib-eyes, some held Sirloin Tip, some held T-bones and one held a Porterhouse.
“Who are they?” asked the Soupster.
“Steakholders,” Chavez said proudly. “These people are discussing the thorniest issues that face Our Town and coming up with creative, collaborative solutions.”
“The meat?”
“Symbolic,” Chavez said. “They’re not afraid to get into the meat of issues, right down to the gristle and bone.”
“A little extreme,” opined the Soupster as the Steakholders disbursed, “nonetheless admirable.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster discovers the secret to aging gracefully.
Living in Our Town as he did, the Soupster had experienced many, many rains in his lifetime. Nevertheless, he hadn’t seen a rain quite as intense as the one that had been showering Our Town for three long days now.
The Soupster stared morosely out of his car as he rolled down his street, fat raindrops hurling themselves onto his windows. Even before the rain, he’d been having a miserable week. He kept finding gray hairs in his hairbrush, he could see more wrinkles on his face every time he looked in the mirror and he’d forgotten the names of three people that he’d talked to today alone. He’d never thought of himself as the type to be paranoid about aging, but he couldn’t stop worrying.
As he turned into his driveway, a small figure – wearing a hot pink raincoat and dancing vigorously – caught his eye. Stepping hard on the brakes, the Soupster unbuckled his seatbelt and leaped out of the car.
As he got out, he could hear the figure’s high, clear voice joyfully yodeling, “-rious feeling, I’m hap-hap-happy ag- Oh, hi, Uncle Soupster!” The freckled face of Winter, his nine-year-old niece, grinned at him, brown curls poking out from under her raincoat’s hood.
“Winter, what are you doing here?” the Soupster asked.
“I’m staying with you while my parents are on vacation, remember, Uncle Soupster?” Winter told him, speaking slowly and carefully.
“I know that!” the Soupster exclaimed, exasperated. He wasn’t that far gone yet. “I mean, why are you dancing in the driveway?”
Winter shrugged. “I was inside, and I was bored, and I’ve heard about dancing in the rain, so I decided to try it, and it’s really fun! Do you wanna do it with me?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” the Soupster replied, heading for his front door, eager to get out of the rain. “I’m a bit too old for that.”
“Aw, c’mon, Uncle Soupster!” Winter blocked his way, her big eyes staring at him pleadingly. “Mom says you’re never too old to have fun!”
Her words struck a chord in the Soupster. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought. Lately, he’d been wallowing in self-pity about getting older, but there was really nothing he could do about the aging process. All he could do was try to age gracefully – and enjoyably.
Submitted by Abigail FitzGibbon, Age 12
Keep ReadingThe Soupster asks if there is ever anything new.
“Always the same, this town,” the Soupster muttered, reading the newspaper. “Always arguing over the same things. Paving the same roads, painting the same walls. The same people day after day. Can’t anything be surprising?”
With decades of residency under his belt, the Soupster didn’t entertain illusions about Our Town’s complexion being blemish-free. But what great lover is put off by a few zits? While he might moan in private, publicly the Soupster deflected criticism from outsiders like any loyal lover of a place (or person).
But today the Soupster was bored and instead of taking ownership of his boredom, he decided to blame Our Town. “Same, same,” he moaned. “Same, same, same.”
Fresh air sounded good, the Soupster thought. “Shake off my cobwebs.” This being herring season — hence, herring weather — the Soupster dressed in layers in case the present spectacular sunshine turned instantly to pounding hail.
Out the door down the road to the park went the Soupster, looking over the same sites he’d spied for years. He greeted a familiar face. He turned onto a trail he knew as well as the big vein on the back of his left hand.
While the herring spawn along the ocean’s edge was a mere fraction of that 20 or 30 years ago, the air still reeked with a salty, springy maritime smell. “Uncle Milt,” thought the Soupster. It was too early for new shoots, but the ground felt softer – ready to do something very soon.
A man leading a small black-and-white dog on a leather leash turned the corner of the trail. A strange dog – small and prowling like a cat. The closer the Soupster got, the stranger the dog looked – especially the prowling.
The small dog on a leash turned out to be a rather large cat on a leash.
“I trained him as a kitten,” the man said as he went past. “Now he loves it!”
“That,” said the somewhat delighted Soupster, waving, “is new to me. Yup, tomcat-on-a-leash is a new one for me.”
The sound of wheels turned the Soupster’s attention to a woman pushing a high-tech stroller. The stroller contained an extremely hairy baby. The closer the stroller approached, the hairier the child looked.
With relief, the Soupster realized the hairy baby was a dog.
“She hurt her leg playing Frisbee and she really misses her walk,” the woman said to the Soupster’s puzzled expression.
“Thank you,” said the Soupster.
“For what?” she asked.
“I was thinking everything in Our Town was `same, same, same,’” said the Soupster, more to himself. “I stand corrected.”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster hears about the powers of the mind.
“Not everyone in Our Town had fun last Saturday,” Ashley told the Soupster sadly. “In fact, you were probably out hiking as I lay glued to a dental chair, plastic retractors stretching my lips to oblivion. Put it this way, childbirth is probably not for me.”
The Soupster laughed, choking slightly on his coffee. “Yep, the myth of the ‘one size fits all’ retractor,” he said. “We aren’t all related to the largemouth bass, that’s for sure.”
“Trapped there and unable to speak, I had time to think,” said Ashley. “Oh, the other things I could have done with that money! The causes I could have supported, the places I could have gone – they all taunted me. But then, I began to panic as saliva welled up in my mouth and I realized my trapped tongue wasn’t going to be much help.”
“Ah, karma..,” the Soupster chuckled. “Maybe you shoulda donated the money to a worthy cause after all, like the Save-the-Soupster’s-Boat Fund.”
Ashley rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, I was still trying to figure out how I was going to swallow or whether it would be a slow death by drowning, when I remembered a documentary I saw about Navy SEALs. Inspired by the SEALs’ amazing mind control, I set out to follow suit. Presently, I was trudging across the desert in full combat gear. A sore mouth was the least of my worries in this OPSEC.
“I was gazing at the late afternoon sun hovering lazily above the dunes when it morphed into a huge pineapple. I blinked and the diamond-patterned light over the dental chair came into focus, but I willed myself back to tropical delights. Soon, the dentist’s spiky gelled hair became palm fronds swaying in the breeze.”
“Starting to feel like I’m in Hawaii,” mused the Soupster.
“Exactly!” said Ashley. “Then, suddenly, I heard a voice. ‘Your wisdom teeth – they totally threw me,’ said the dental assistant.
“A barrage of questions flooded my mind, headed towards my mouth and stopped abruptly at the retractors. What? Why? Aren’t wisdom teeth sightings in a dentist’s office as common as whale sightings in Our Town’s waters? Realizing the futility of my questions, I zoned out again, my mind drifting to alternative uses for the common lip and cheek retractor.”
“What did you come up with?”
“Well, as I lay there, it came to me, Soupster – I had no options – no responsibilities at all but to shut up, listen and croak an occasional, agreeable ‘aah’. That’s right – no questions, no opinions and no lip!
Ladies and gentlemen, rejoice all ye with opinionated friends, argumentative partners and whining kids, for today is the day of the lip retractor!”
“Hmmm, that’s very… creative?” the Soupster ventured. “Well, good luck with the braces!” he said, zipping up his jacket and pulling on his gloves.
“Thanks,” Ashley said, flashing a metallic smile and gulping one last big, tongue-rolling swallow of coffee.”
Submitted by Lois Verbaan Denherder
Keep ReadingThe Soupster eats dinner despite difficulties.
The Soupster peered through the curtain in his kitchen as a February squall barreled in, dropping visibility to zero and dumping an inch per hour of heavy, wet snow.
“T’ain’t fit for man nor beast,” he muttered.
The Soupster was supposed to head to his friend Bob’s house for dinner with him and Janet, another friend. A crackerjack cook, Bob always crafted a feed the Soupster could feel himself remembering fondly for days afterward.
“But not tonight,” he moaned to himself. “Don’t make me go out tonight.”
The Soupster peered out the window again. The snow seemed to be falling faster. Bob’s house wasn’t far, but it was up a hill. Over his stomach’s protests, the Soupster let his body flood with a low-energy dysphoria.
Bob always went to so much trouble – it was rude to cancel because of a little snow. But the more the Soupster looked outside, the lower he felt. He actually felt physically ill.
He called Bob. “I’m just miserable about canceling,” he said, “but I can’t face the weather tonight.”
“It’s okay,” said Bob. “Janet just called and cancelled, too. She said she’s been sick all day. We’ll do it another time.”
The Soupster tried to sound wretched as he said goodbye. But as soon as he clicked off the phone, his dark cloud dissipated. He didn’t have to go out! He could hunker down with a book and a blanket and comfort food. The attractive choices seemed limitless!
But the wind had other plans. A big gust blew a hemlock onto an electrical line along the Green Lake Road. The Soupster’s house — with the rest of Our Town — went dark.
He grabbed a flashlight and lit two oil lamps. Next on the Soupster’s agenda was to find out what had happened and if anybody knew how long they would be out of power. He retrieved his portable radio, but the batteries were dead. So he put on his boots and coat and went out to his car to use the radio there. After a few minutes, the announcer – his station powered by a generator — reported the downed tree and city-wide blackout. No estimates yet.
Sitting in the car, the Soupster’s stomach spoke louder than his desire to hunker down. Cheese, chips, bread, salad, grapes – none of them needed cooking and all available a few miles down the road. His stomach convinced the Soupster to turn on his car and carefully, very carefully, drive to the supermarket where – due to generators — the store shone like an island of light.
As the Soupster trundled inside, he was struck by the number of people gathered around the front counter. A couple of shoppers walked the aisles and one of them turned out to be Janet.
“Feeling better?” the Soupster asked sheepishly and Janet nodded sheepishly back.
“As soon as I cancelled, I felt cured,” she said.
Just then, Bob turned the corner, clutching a bag of charcoal and can of charcoal lighter fluid.
“Well, lookey here!” he said, smiling. “You co-conspirators look pretty healthy to me.” He jiggled the bag in his arms. “Anyone for barbecue by candlelight?”
Keep ReadingThe Soupster can’t escape Sitka in the movies.
“Whaddaya wanna watch?” Dorothy O’Dean asked the Soupster.
“Something fantastic, Dottie” said the Soupster, settling into the second-most-comfortable chair in Dorothy’s living room, which was still pretty darn comfortable. Dorothy handed him a bowl of popcorn.
“Something that really carries me away,” said the Soupster, cramming his mouth full. The week had been a frustrating one. “Something that makes me forget reality.”
“I got just the thing!” Dorothy said, pulling a recently-rented DVD of “Pacific Rim” off her coffee table. “How’s about skyscraper-sized sea monsters threatening America? Earth’s only hope an elite cadre of aces piloting equally gigantic robot-warriors?”
“Okay, okay” said the Soupster. “Let’s give it a try, Dottie.”
They settled in to watch the film, passing the popcorn bowl back and forth.
In the film, Raleigh Beckett — a robot pilot and our hero — is working construction on the “Wall of Life,” a towering barrier meant to repel the skyscraper-sized monsters. The grizzled commander of the gigantic robot pilots tracks Raleigh to the Wall of Life which is being built … wait… in Sitka, Alaska.
“Our Town!” sputtered the Soupster, gesticulating at the screen. “I don’t want to be reminded of anything having to do with Our Town. Please take it off!”
“Okay,” Dorothy said, ejecting the disk. “Oooh. oooh, ooh! Got just the thing!”
“What?” asked the Soupster.
“It’s perfect,” said Dorothy, walking over to her shelf of DVDs. “It’s a classic French adventure story.” She flashed a CD in the air. “Aha, Soupster! Jules Verne’s `Journey to the Center of the Earth.”
“Pat Boone and James Mason, Dottie? Didn’t they go into a volcano in Iceland?”
“And Arlene Dahl,” said Dottie. “But this is a newer version of `Journey.’ Stars Ricky Schroeder. I’ve been wanting to watch it.”
In the film, an all-grown-up Schroeder portrays an American adventurer enlisted by a wealthy woman to find her husband, who had disappeared on a journey to the center of the earth via an old Russian mine in Alaska.
But before the Soupster could say “Alaska” Schroeder and his crew rolled into a late 19th Century Sitka – complete with a replica of St. Michael’s Cathedral.
“No, no!” wailed the Soupster.
“Well, I can see you’re in no mood to hear my idea for the movie that I wanna make,” said Dottie. “About millions of communist fish pouring into Our Town all at once?”
The Soupster said, “Don’t tell me you’re going to call it…”
“`Red Herring!’” Dottie said.
Keep Reading