The King Is Risen

Potatoes: A Cautionary Tale

Buried deep, inches below the surface of North Dakotan soil, 3.8 million potatoes lay growing. Spuds, their colors a symphony of brown, soaking in nutrients of the middle western summer soil. Papa Reyes sits on his porch admiring the glorious pock-marked brown fields which expand without limit ahead of him; a universe of tubers, constantly growing, expanding, stretching their roots to the edges of their capacity.

Tammy Pampon had glorious dreams for her future. She longed to see her name in lights, her delicate features projected upon the silver screen like so many actresses who came before her. In her tiny Lincoln Heights apartment, shielded behind a vintage shoji screen, she would sit in her silk robe, hair set in curlers, rehearsing lines for auditions. So many dreams contained inside of the four walls of her studio apartment.

The Dali lobster telephone rang twice, a clanging headache of a ring. Miss Pampon set her smouldering cigarette in the ashtray, exhaling a raspy “hello?” into the receiver.”

“Hey Baby, it’s Buckles,” said Buck Finkle, her nasal-voiced beau of 15 months.

“Hey Doll,” she cooed, “what’s shaking?”

“My dick. How about dinner? Meet me at Papa Caliente’s. Be there at 8 or I’ll know you’re a chicken.”

“Chicken? You boneless pussy. Go on.”

“Good. See you there, babycakes.”

The North Dakotan sun had already fallen below the horizon. Bodies ached from hours of back-bending, sun-burning work. Children slept, widows watched T.V., and lovers pulled each other close, kissing the day into memory.

“Get off my eleventh finger. Now,” Papa Reyes said as he pushed Frangelica Boobles off his lap. “I’m tired.”

Frangelica, mere minutes from satisfaction, rolled over to her side of the bed. She lit a cigarette and opened Fifty Shades of Grey. At least she could attain some mental satisfaction, since physical was out of the question.

Papa Reyes awoke to the clanking engine of the truck that hauled in the early morning laborers. “Ain’t  nothing like the sweet scent of starch in the morning,” he joked. His cup of Folger’s sloshing stormily over the side of the cup.

Frangelica batted her clumped lashes at Papa. Even after all these years, after all his indiscretions, she still believed in that sweet clod of a man.

She was known to extol his virtues any chance she could get. At cocktail and block parties she was known to say things like, “he may be dense as a rock but he gets all mushy when he’s in hot water,” or “even when he’s deep in the grease, he comes out tender in the end.” She was a sweet, bubbling fountain of prune juice for her lover.   Frangelica Boobles, the hopeless romantic.

“Well, how long are you planning on sticking around? It’s the first day of harvest. I have places to be,” Papa Reyes complained.

“I’m  going, I’m going. Can’t I stay for breakfast?” Frangelica inquired.

“Not today, toots. Here’s a five. Go get yourself a cup of joe down at Marty’s."

“Such a thoughtful man you are, Papa. I could gobble you up.”

Tammy Pampon checked her reflection in her compact mirror, clapping it shut and stuffing it in her purse when she noticed her lover approaching. It was a hot afternoon and the L.A. August sun made her skin glint with moisture.

“You look like Hell,” Buck remarked as he took her clammy hand in his.

They entered Papa Caliente’s together. Papa Caliente’s was the hit potato bar in town. Its name came from one of the largest potato growers in the U.S., the restaurant’s supplier, Papa Reyes. Papa believed that growth was the key to his success and had opened restaurants in all the important cities, from New York to San Francisco, and many places in between. “The more people who know the name Papa, the better,” he was known to intone.

Tammy and Buck opened their menus, though by now their orders were as routine as their morning bowel movements. For the sake of tradition, they acted interested in what the other was ordering.

“Potato Leek Soup and French Fries? Excellent choice, dear. Oh, I think I’ll go with the Garlic Mash and perhaps a few slices of Potato Rosemary pizza.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, hon.”

In the heartland, something had altered. New life had found its way into the planet. A change was coming, though it would be a change that no one could have anticipated.

What was it that old Darwin had always said? Diversity was key to evolution? Perhaps a lack-thereof would prove to change history as well. But to what effect? Only time would tell.

“The great thing about potatoes is, there’s always gonna be a mouth to stick them in. It’s the basic staple of all mankind. A little salt and you’ve got yourself a real piece of heaven,” Papa lectured the workers. Who knew if they understood. Who cares? he thought. If Frangelica had been present, she would have oohed and aahed his pompous postulations. Instead, he was attended to by the lowing of the cows and the flatulence of his unimpressed staff.

Busily expounding upon the virtues of his crops, Papa failed to notice the pallor on the faces of the laborers. He also failed to notice the vibrations of the ground beneath his feet. The humming of the potatoes, barely audible, but steady, and strange.

Tammy and her lover awoke, legs and arms tangled with sheets and clothes. Tammy, with smudged eyeliner and streaks of mascara down her cheeks. Buck, with the sweet smell of potato vodka on his breath, his hair full of flaky white bits of dried gel. They felt the pounding of their livers, they were bloated with edema, and they experienced the most profound longing for more potatoes.

“Papa Caliente’s for breakfast? I’m dying for their home fries.”

“Me too, just let me fix my face first.”

“Good idea. You don’t look very good.”

“You’re such a charmer.”

Tammy looked at her face in her magnifying mirror, examining her enlarged pores. Was it her imagination, or had she grown browner and puffier than the night before? Had her smooth white skin turned a little rougher, a little more textured? I have to quit drinking so much, she reasoned.

After breakfast, bellies satisfied with greasy starch, Tammy and Buck returned home to relax. Neither of them had ever before felt so exhausted after a night out together. While surfing channels, they each thought about the ramifications of their ever increasing ages.

Papa Reyes began to wonder what was going on with his staff. With each day, there were fewer workers showing up. Those that did show up kissed rosaries and burbled prayers in muted tones, crossing themselves after each potato picked. Papa had himself begun to sense something was not right with his crops. His enthusiasm for the harvest was hindered by an ever increasing fatigue, by a slowing of his thoughts, and a swelling of his body. He wondered also if it was merely the sun that was turning his caramel skin to russet. Frangelica, who never ate potatoes because she was watching her figure, wondered why Papa had ceased with his lectures. She missed his instruction and salt of the earth demeanor. Perhaps part of her attraction to him was owed to his drying-up well of confidence.

Tammy, Buck, and Papa weren’t the only ones who were experiencing the changes. All over the world, every person who consumed the generic russets of North Dakota began to feel, look, and behave differently. The term “couch potato” was abandoing its metaphoric significance for a more literal meaning. What could it be attributed to? Certainly logic, science, and even religion could offer no explanation. Only Michael Pollan, an influential food philosopher, had something to say about the matter. Pollan felt strongly that the changes occurring in the human gene pool had something to do with the consistently beautiful, lengthy golden wands that we know as the McDonald’s french fry. He had no specific explanation for the mechanics of the transformation, but cited frequently the Potato Famine of the late 1840’s, attributing fault to monoculutres. He urged the world’s inhabitants to follow the wisdom of the first potato culture, descendants of the great Incan Empire, the happy potato people of Peru. “There are over 5,000 varieties of potato in Peru alone. Why are we so obsessed with the nutrient-lacking Russet variety?!” he would angrily inquire.

The strange thing about the changes occurring throughout the human race, was that along with increased lethargy and pants sizes came increased cravings for the potato. No one could get enough! Business was booming at Papa Caliente’s, but as the staff’s dependence on the species Solanum Tuberosum amplified, so too did the instances of internal company theft. Within days of the worldwide outbreak of Potato Fever, potatoes had left the shelves of grocery stores. The demand for potatoes was so great that Papa Reyes was only able to supply potatoes to his restaurants. It escalated to the point where his employees would stuff their backpacks, pants, purses, and faces with potatoes to feed to their families and to sell on the black market.

One day, about two weeks after the New York Times had coined the term “Potato Fever,” a terrible discovery was made.

Tammy Pampon had gone out to Papa Caliente’s for ten orders of tater tots. Arms loaded with the delicious morsels, she knocked on the door repeatedly with her foot. “Buck? Buckles! Buck! Hey! I’m here, open the door!”

She heard nothing inside the apartment.

“Buuuuck??” she called, lowering her brows in concern.

Tammy reluctantly set the bags of tots on the floor, knowing that at any time some filthy urchin could swipe them when her back was turned. She unclicked the locks on her door and peered into her apartment. Her now russet complexion instantly turned to yellow, the palest shade her skin could muster. She forgot the tots laying in the hallway. She picked up her phone, pausing briefly to find the words to describe the scene that lay before her.

“MAN TURNS INTO POTATO!”

“POTATO FEVER CLAIMS ITS FIRST VICTIM!”

“POTATOES NOW ILLEGAL IN 25 STATES”

“INTERNATIONAL CRISIS - PEOPLE COLLAPSING LIKE SACKS OF POTATOES”

The headlines were confounding. Even Michael Pollan could not explain the phenomenon. His famous quote, “To the extent that you can put yourself in the place of these other species and look at the world from their point of view, I think it frees us from our sense of alienation from nature and we become members of the biotic community,” had become chillingly literal.

In a matter of days, every consumer of North Dakotan potatoes had fallen victim to the potato fever. Where once stood Tammy Pampon, Papa Reyes, and Buck Finkle, there now towered massive tubers. Tubers which were ever ripening, turning green, sprouting, growing poisonous. Frangelica Boobles had no idea what to do with the hulking forms. One doesn’t bury potatoes, one unburies them. Isn’t that what Papa had taught her? And yet, she wondered, how else should I honor the memory of my sweet Papa Reyes?

Frangelica grew lonely, aching for human contact. She snuggled up to the starchy bulk of her former lover. She kissed his rough skin, licking the dirt from her lips. She caressed his sprouts, the parts she imagined had once been his reproductive anatomy. She hoped it would comfort him in some way. “If only I could hold your eleventh finger, one last time,” she whispered, blinking away the tears.
One morning, Frangelica awoke to the sound of whirring blades. Assuming it was a helicopter, a sign of human life, she peeled herself hopefully away from her lover and ran outside. Though it was before noon, the sky had grown dark. Squinting, blinking in disbelief, Frangelica tried to understand the object which filled the sky. Descending to earth, she eyed a giant food processor. Slick metal contours. Wireless. “What the...” she mumbled.

The food processor landed with a dull thud in the fields of dirt, outside the former Mr. Reyes’ home. Frangelica double-knotted the belt of her robe. She put her hand to her hair, remembering how long it had been since she last showered.

A door on the food processor opened and out walked a thin, bald-headed, bespectacled man. Her first reaction, relief, was quickly followed by panic when she noticed this man was followed by dozens of identical men. A ship of Michael Pollans, flooding the North Dakotan plains.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” she shrieked.

“We have come to clean up the mess,” Michael Pollan replied.

“What mess? What do you mean?”

“Your people, greedy with lust for the perfect french fry, were on the verge of destroying the only thing of value on this planet,” said Michael Pollan.

Another Michael Pollan approached the first, adding, “we have infiltrated your planet through the object of your passion, the russet potato.”

The first Pollan remarked, “How easy it was to get you humans to eat the alien potatoes. How blind you all were to the tell-tale signs of alien life.”

“Wh-what are you going to do to me?” Frangelica stammered.

“Don’t you even care to know where the true value of your planet lies?! Selfish beast!” shouted the first Michael Pollan.

Frangelica Boobles whimpered submissively.

“Michael Pollan explained this all to you people weeks ago. You could have stopped the process, but you chose to ignore our warning. You had the chance to follow in the ways of the Peruvian potato people, but you did not.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Diversity is what I mean! You were all so busy finding the perfect french fry that you abandoned the most nutritious, delicious, hearty and satiating varieties of the potato crop. Foolish, foolish humans!”
 
“So, you turned us all into potatoes?”

“Yes! So that you may truly become members of the biotic community.”

“I see. And what about me? I am not a potato.”

“We knew that there would inevitably be survivors. That is why we have come. We will throw each and every worthless potato hull of a human into our ship, creating a nutritious meal of mashed human potatoes for you to survive upon and feed to your progeny. With this nutrition, you will create a race of people who can harvest more than five thousand varieties of Solanum Tuberosum. To put it simply, we are here to reproduce with you. Please. Contain your excitement.”

Again, Frangelica’s hand went to her hair. She felt something stir inside of her. A strange mixture of fear, disgust, and... arousal? Who was this outgoing alien, this presuming Pollan, this confident creature? She couldn’t help but admit it. He reminded her of the dearly departed, Papa Reyes. She bit her lip, her mind raced.

“Well?” she huskily inquired after a few moments of silence. She stepped toward the alien, softly asking him, “what are you waiting for?”

The Dream Home

Alder left the meeting feeling nauseous. Looks of shock and anxiety on the men and women he had worked beside for the past four years triggered his panic. He had just bought a new car and worried about how he would afford the payments. The market had crashed and Countrywide was closing its offices all over the country. Jack and Alan had been picked up by Bank of America, but the rest of the office had been let go with several months of pay and no future prospects. He didn’t want to tell Laurel.

On his last day at work, Alder felt positive. He’d made a plan. He’d bought The Efficient Carpenter, Building Your Own Home For Dummies, Housebuilding: A Do It Yourself Guide, and a plot of land on the outskirts of town with his severance package. Amidst the panic and planning of the weeks that followed the announcement, he’d remembered a dream that he and Laurel once had, long before the realities and distractions of the daily grind had sapped his ambition. He would build their dream house. He would spend a year outside, cutting lumber, laying wire, caulking, carpeting, digging, sanding, painting, doing everything himself, the way that he and Laurel dreamed about.
When she heard the news, she exhaled through the pinpricks of adrenaline that shot through her fingers, chest and nose. She held his hand. She kissed the tear on his cheek and told him they would get through it together.

The land Alder bought came with a dilapidated cabin. A small kitchen with a stove that wouldn’t hold a turkey and nowhere to put the toaster or the french press. A living room. A bedroom. A bathroom, with no bath.

“It’s only a year?” she asked.

“It’ll be done before you know it!” He squeezed her shoulder gently and let the February wind sweep them inside.

The walls contained her. Boxes stacked to her head, blocked her view. Boxes and walls and acres of trees between her and the life they had known.

It wasn’t long before the doubts formed; fermenting, ballooning, and spraying their spores into his blood. Heavy, filling him with leaden dread. The walls of the cabin, like an unwanted nurse with cold hands and a cot in the living room, kept him inside. The project was immense. He was a child with tinker toys.

And Laurel at the loveseat. Laurel by the stove. Laurel and her magazines. On her hands and knees, scrubbing the grout between bathroom tiles. Patiently waiting.

She knew he wasn’t on schedule. In six months he’d only managed to scout a plot to build the house on. He told her that this was the hardest part. There had to be good light. There was a view to think about, an energy to comply with. The cabin creaked under the weight of his dream and she was trapped behind its yellowed, cracking paper and weathered boards. She was almost 33 and she felt the years that stood between her and children.

She couldn’t recognize him anymore; a quiet twin with shadows in his eyes. Dream walls erected above his reach. He knew how to process a lien, how to identify the market niche, but construction was beyond his ability. He couldn’t tell Laurel. She had been so supportive, a model of patience, but he sensed that a shift was occurring. A contractor wouldn’t fit the budget. Friends in construction? Perhaps classes to take. An apprenticeship, or a course at the J.C.? He would become lost, weighing the possibilities.

A monotonous job at Cuppola Insurance became the highlight of Laurel’s days. Immersed in the office drama, she could forget about the ghost back home. She spent the shrinking evenings of fall in the kitchen with a mug of tea and the phone. Complaints collided with rafters as Marie Callender’s lasagna heated in the oven. One night, while talking to her mother about how much she missed living in town, she discovered that the latch to the kitchen door had broken when it swung open and refused to shut. Something had loosened. The latch wouldn’t slip into the hole in the strike plate. As if the cabin was telling her, “You’re free to go now.”

Little bits and pieces of the cabin gradually gave in. A leaking pipe under the sink, dead bulbs just out of Laurel’s reach, clogged gutters, cracked window panes, stains and holes.

“Can’t you at least keep this cabin from falling apart around us?” Laurel asked.

“I’m trying! Can’t you see how much I have to do? I have a house to build.”

“Trying? You do nothing all day while I go work a dead end job I hate. I’m the one working to pay for this disaster. The foundation isn’t even done.”

“Don’t you think I would work faster if I could?”

“I don’t know what to think! But this isn’t my life. This isn’t where I wanted to end up. This wasn’t my plan.”

The fights happened more frequently. She needed him to understand how unattractive his apathy was. He needed her to listen patiently and suggest solutions.

The week leading up to Valentine’s Day was cold and wet. A winter storm was passing through, pushing wind through gaps in the walls, piling eucalyptus leaves on the roof, rattling against the window panes. Laurel had been standing in the kitchen, chopping up carrots and onion for a roast, thinking about the past year. A whole year had gone by since they moved in, with only a freshly laid foundation to show for it. She had watched Alder transform into a quiet, still fixture in her life; as if here were merely an appliance inside the cabin.

She turned on the gas and struck a match, feeling weighty love for her missing husband. She knew it was time to leave, with or without Alder. As she bent toward the stove, a gust of wind rushed through the crookedly closed window, blowing out the flame. She struck another match and it was immediately extinguished. Laurel felt heavy and could barely lift her arm. She wanted to get the food started so she could lay down with a book and a bottle of Pinot, but the wind was mocking her and she couldn’t get the stove to light. Each of four matches was extinguished just before the flame could ignite the gas. Tears pressed their way out of her eyes, blurring the spokes of the range top. She choked on her breath, feeling cool wet trails winding their way to her chin. She set the matches  on the counter, poured a tall glass of wine, and headed for the couch.

Had the cabin guessed at her mood? In awe, she stared at the couch, at the pale blue and white stripes which had turned dark in a growing circle. Drops of water fell from ceiling to sofa, making a muted pat-pat upon the fabric.
 
It took Laurel only four days to find an apartment in town that would hold the two of them, but that she could afford on her own. It took two more days to work up the courage to talk to Alder. On February 13, she found him sitting on the couch in the dried tears of the cabin.

“Hon, can we talk for a minute?” she nervously asked. Her breath was shallow, pushing its way out, around the huge words that she didn’t want to speak.

“What’s up?”

She exhaled. Blinked. “I can’t do this. I can’t live here. I can’t watch you spend your days staring at the wall, or wandering the property. I’m 33. I want a family, and this isn’t the place to raise one.”
“We’re not raising kids here, we’re raising them in the house! You wanted this, too!”

“I want a house, not a cement square! How long am I supposed to live like this? I’m miserable.”

“I am doing my best.”

“It’s not enough!”

He stared at her slippers. She nervously shook her heel.

“I found a place in town,” she said. “It’s small, but it’s clean and warm and safe. I already put down a deposit and I’m moving there tonight. I’ve had it with the cold and the wet. Alder. I love you. I want you to come with me.”

This is the time to tell her, he thought. Tell her about how much harder it was to build than you’d realized. Tell her you didn’t want her to hate you for moving her out here, spending so much on an impossible dream. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Tell her.

“Well,” she straightened her posture, “I’m leaving. Call me when you snap out of this.”

 She put on her shoes and grabbed her purse, slamming the door behind her. The roof creaked under the weight of wet eucalyptus leaves and years of neglect. Alder thought he saw the walls shudder. His throat was tight. He couldn’t breathe, but his heart was slamming blood into his arteries. He heard the car door slam and the engine turn on. The cabin groaned. The roof cracked, bending metal supports, splitting beams, shearing off screws, water pouring through, loud like the blood in his ears, crashing down upon him.

the Mail and Frank

The Mail

The cats are all crowded near the window now. Two of them are looking at the same spot and the other one is looking at a different spot. Now they're all looking at the same thing. They're bending the blinds. The metal blinds are bent because they're pressing their noses to the window pane. The sun is coming through the blinds. It looks like it's the middle of the day but maybe it's just before the middle of the day. It's hard to know. Christmas feels like it was two months ago. The tree is gone. I don't remember what people gave me. I think that means the days are getting longer. I think that means the sun is rising earlier. I think that means it feels like the middle of the day before it's the middle of the day. It's hard to be sure.

But the cats are really looking at something. I'm sure it's something and not just shadows or bugs or an outdoor cat or a dog or someone just walking by. I'm sure they're looking at someone right outside the window, by the mailbox. But I'm not entirely sure so I have to keep looking for clues.

I'm pretty sure I just heard a metal sound, a small sound, fast, dull, a sound like a small metal door being slammed shut. I'm pretty sure the mailman is here.

I am also pretty sure I just heard another metal sound coming from the kitchen. I am guessing it was the frying pan hitting the wok because the frying pan and the wok go together and when they go together they make that same sound. I'm not sure but I think there might be someone in the kitchen. I think that shadow on the ground looks like a human shadow. I'm pretty sure it's not mine because it's so far away and it's moving and I'm staying still. I think someone is in the house with me.

The cats have moved so I think that means the mailman came. I'm not going to go out the door and check. Not this time. I got locked out last time and some strange guy had to let me back in and I don’t want to see that guy or get locked out again. So this time I'm going to go out the window.

There's a screen on the window. I don't know what else to do except to use my house key and saw through each metal wire of the screen. It's really hard work and I'm getting impatient, but I'm pretty sure the mail came and I'm not going through the door and I heard another sound in the kitchen, like the fridge being opened, so I also think I should probably get out of here because there's definitely someone in there. It smells like bacon.

It's not very far between the window and the ground so I guess I'll just jump. Hopefully I can jump as high as I can jump low, because that's how I plan to get back inside. By jumping.

My ankle made a cracking sound and it hurts a lot so I'm crying a little, and I know I must have screamed because my ears feel like they just heard a loud sound. They kind of echo and it feels like someone stuck their fingers inside them pretty deep. But it's okay, because I am right in front of the mailbox and all I have to do is get the mail and jump back up to the window.

I knocked on the door of the mailbox with my knuckles and I'm pretty sure I bumped it hard enough that it moved the envelopes inside, and the little whoosh sound I heard means there are letters in there. I remembered to bring my fishing line and hook and now all I have to do is slide the hook through the slot where the mailman drops the letters, snag the letters on my hook, and pull them out one by one.

"Frank! What are you doing?"

            There's a man looking out my window and he knows my name.

Frank

When Jim arrived at Frank's apartment today, Frank was sitting in the gray armchair by the windows as usual. And, as usual, Frank didn't turn his head when Jim entered the room. Frank's habit of pretending he was alone didn't bother Jim in the least. In fact, it allowed him to get through his morning duties much faster.

            First, the bed would have to be made. Frank liked to get out of bed slowly. He would go under the covers and make his way to the foot of the bed. He would then untuck the sheets and slide himself onto the floor. The bed always looked essentially unused, but if Jim didn't retuck the sheets, Frank would get very upset.

            Throughout the course of the morning Jim fed the cats, picked clothes up off the ground, watched TV, read a little bit of In Watermelon Sugar, and opened a window to air out the apartment. During all of this, Frank remained silently in the armchair, looking at the closed blinds. It never ceased to amaze Jim that someone could be so interested in something so unchanging.

            Around noon, Jim moved to the kitchen to prepare Frank's favorite lunch, a BLT with extra B. He hated making BLT's because for the remainder of the day he smelled the rancid scent of cooling fat on his hands, his shirt, and everywhere in the house. He hated the smell so much that he imagined it sticking to the skin of his hands and his face. He felt it there even after a long scrub with St. Ives.

            After the bacon had cooled on paper towels and the bread had been toasted, Jim constructed the sandwich and set it on the kitchen table for Frank to eat when he was ready. He then walked to the bathroom to wash his face and hands, inspect his ever receding hairline, and to floss the remnants of breakfast from his teeth.

            As he was drying his hands he heard Frank shout. Jim went to the living room to see what was wrong and saw that the window had been opened and the screen had been ripped to shreds. Not again, Jim thought. Recently, Frank had discovered that there is a man who goes from house to house delivering mail. He discovered this fact one afternoon when Jim came inside with a post card addressed to Frank from his brother.

            "Hey Bud, how ya been? Warm wishes from Cancun. –Al"

            "How'd you get this?" Frank had asked.

            "The mailman brought it here. He comes by everyday."

            "When?"

            "Near the middle of the day."

            Jim stuck his head out the window and looked down. Frank had his ear to the mailbox and his fishing line in his hand.

            "Frank! What are you doing?"

            Frank looked up at him, his eyes and mouth wide open as if he didn't know why anyone would be up in his apartment calling down to him.

            What a waste, Jim thought. It was Sunday, and the mailbox was empty.

Man of the Year

Dataw Island is a different place. The honey air is thick with Laurel Greenbrier, sweet-shrub, and light-purple Tamarisk. Canals weave their way around the island, a gated community, home to golf lovers, retired couples, alligators, and caretakers. Dolphins jump and crash from one yard to another. It’s March, the month for The March of the Elders. Waves lap against the the dock, like the mouths of connoisseurs in a cigar bar, small kisses, unsure, uneven smacking, wet, and sticky. The men of Dataw Island tread upon the stained vinyl decking, their hulking bodies bouncing in the rhythm of their movement. Their heads don black top hats and their bodies are clad in traditional swimwear; black spandex speedos, snug above the shoulders.

One man will reign supreme, and for the entirety of the following year he will have his pick of Tee Time, his table of choice at the clubhouse, and he will inherit his seat as the chairman of the Homeowner Association. It’s a time-honored tradition, going back to the days when Dataw was first established as a settlement for the elderly.

The contest consists of one simple test: the catwalk competition. The men promenade along the docks which connect their backyards, past the women of Dataw. Once they reach the evaluation center they stand with their feet shoulder-width apart, bend their knees as deeply as their muscles can support, and hold their arms straight in front of their chests, parallel to the ground. The women are meant to choose the most hulking and powerful of the men, though admittedly their own personal biases sometimes color their decisions.

The men have begun their march. Mr. Johnson walks in the rear, with a prime view of his competitors. He has spent the year in preparation for this day, though he knows it’s unnecessary to worry about the outcome; he’s been the champion each year for the past three years. His dimpled cheeks shake with each step. He has not one chin, but six. His movement is ponderous; he bends powerfully with each step, his rhinoceros legs sleek with baby oil. He is thankful for the baby powder that he liberally sprinkled between the folds before leaving home this morning.

He surveys his competition. To the left, Mr. Grimes, who has, if anything, lost some girth. The unfortunate seem to shrink in old age. Bones eroded by Coca Cola and acid reflux, skin covered in hair, hangs limp like drying pelts after the hunt, pitiful. To the right, Mr. Palmer, who has gained some heft but his skin seems to be too weak to support it. Parts of his thigh hangs down by his knees. If they were being judged by scales, the incumbent might fear for his reelection, but the winner of the march must be robust, virile, impressive and Mr. Palmer’s figure impressed only upon one's sympathy for Mrs. Palmer.

The men turn a corner, approaching the Dataw Island Clubhouse. Through a gap between his neighbors, Mr. Johnson spots an unfamiliar rear end.

“Who’s that?” he asks Grimes.

“Him?” he asks, pointing toward a pale and spotted mass. Mr. Johnson nods. “Jack Lacasse. Moved in the old Wright home a couple months ago.”

“What do you know of him?”

“That’s about it, Rich. Worried he’s gonna knock you off your throne?” Grimes asks, a smile chiseled into his face.

Mr. Johnson grunts and keeps walking.

They’ve reached the presentation platform. Wind wriggles through the folds. The men are lined in a single row, six inches between each shoulder, facing their women. A squirrel rustles through Peppervine. A woman blows her nose. A whistle is blown. The women form a circle and the vote is cast. Mr. Johnson can feel blood flush through his fingertips and he catches his breath.

“Jack Lacasse, please collect your smoking jacket, you are to be Dataw Island’s Man of the Year!”

Mr. Johnson blinks. His wife approaches him, a smiling sympathy on her face and his robe in her hand. He is suddenly aware of how much skin he has exposed to the chilly March air.

Mary

When Mary stepped onto the porch of the white farm house which she called home, she held open the door for her friend to follow her to school. The September morning was dry; she felt hot wind against her cheeks and through her hair, carrying with it the scent of Oklahoma Hackberry, freshly mowed and watered grass, and the plains.

Mary was never without her friend. Not since two years ago. She was eleven. Her parents had stopped at a gas station late one night in Comanche County. She needed water, and after she insisted her way through Stephens and Jefferson County that her spit wasn’t enough to swallow, her mother released a sigh of exhaustion and told her husband to stop at the next exit; she needed to pee anyways.

There had been shouts, she remembered. The doors locked, the sound of her mother’s heels on the asphalt of the parking lot, grunting, begging. She didn’t feel like going into it.

Her friend had been there. All those hours, waiting. Holding her in her arms. And after that night, during their time at the orphanage, and then with the Foleys, and now with the Rupps; Bumps had been there for Mary.

“Come on Bumps, we’re gonna be late,” Mary said.

The walk to school was nine blocks long. Past the manicured lawns of Cassius Barnes, and the pink flamingos that perched outside Miss Hammon’s cotton candy pink and white trimmed split-level. They stopped at a park which had overgrown grass that Bumps nibbled on for her breakfast. Mary held Bumps’ hand as they crossed NW Euclid onto NW Homestead and headed to Tomlinson Middle School.

Children sat on the patchy lawn below the flag pole in the front of the school. Some read magazines, some whispered in close circles, some smoked cigarettes in the driveways of neighboring homes. All the girls seemed to have their circles of friends to gossip with about the changes they were experiencing. Mary and Bumps stayed together, not bothering to make any new friends, and told their own stories to each other while they waited until it was time to go to Miss Belle’s homeroom class.

“Umm, what are you doing?” asked a tall and attractive girl who looked and acted much older than thirteen.

“I’m just waiting with Bumps for Miss Belle’s homeroom,” replied Mary.

The girl threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my god, what a freak,” she cawed to her friends. Her name, Mary later found out, was Landry Lane. Landry was into pageants, social status, pink jumpers, and public mortification.

“It’s okay, Bumps. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names will never hurt us.”

The warning bell rang through the halls and Mary gladly took Bumps’ hand and led her to class. Miss Belle taught Pre-Algebra. The first day of the semester, she asked the class to forgive her for sitting down instead of chalking the equations on the blackboard. Her toe was broken but she was wearing stilettos, on the off-chance that a reporter from the Lawton Constitution might come and present her with a teacher-of-the-month feature. She was wearing a slightly sheer purple leopard print blouse and a black pencil skirt. Her hair had silver highlights and her skin was hard with tan.

Mary found two spots in the middle of the room for herself and Bumps. The middle was the best place because teachers always tended to pick on the ones in the back, and the front of the room required a great deal of eye contact. Mary had Bumps sit right in front of her, so she could pass notes and keep her in sight.

“Um, can I sit there?” asked a girl named Shellei. Mary remembered her because her name was so unusual. Her father was in the army, so her mother had had ample time to come up with a unique name for her daughter.

“Sorry, but my friend is sitting there,” Mary replied.

“Class is about to start. I don’t see anyone.”

“She’s right there. Look there’s a seat back over in that corner.”

Shellei laughed through her nose and left Mary, responding with only a what.everrr, and a toss of her hair.

The class bell rang and Miss Belle called the class to order, took attendance, and read through the morning announcements. “Alright class, today we’re going to work with graphing simple equations.” She began drawing an x and y axis on the board and Mary turned to a fresh sheet of paper in her binder.

As Miss Belle’s lecture proceeded, Mary noticed that on either side of her, the other children were heatedly whispering to each other and pointing at Bumps, and then at Mary. She was not unfamiliar with the situation of an outsider and at first thought nothing of the attention.

Halfway into graphing y=3x+1, though, Miss Belle took notice of the commotion. “What is goin’ on?” she asked of a suddenly silent class. “Shellei, honey, I see you’ve been whisperin’ with Landry. Why don’t you share with the class this urgent news that can’t wait until the end of my valuable and relevant lecture this mornin’?”

“Well, Miss Belle, I was just commenting on how it smells like somethin’ died over near where Mary’s sitting. We think it might be that ratty old lamb backpack she always talks to,” Shellei cooly replied.

“Her name is Bumps and she’s not a backpack. She’s my best friend.”

The laughter started slowly; they were uncertain whether Mary was joking. Soon, though, Mary’s injured and intent glare at Shellei revealed that she wasn’t kidding. Some of the kids tried to hide their laughter, shaking slightly, faces turning red with the effort to keep quiet. Others turned to each other and laughed out loud; unashamed of their callousness. Mary looked around in confusion. Ricky, a short, tan boy who lived a few houses down from Mary, went over to the backpack and opened it up. Inside were dried pieces of grass, rotting chicken, hay, and moldy carrots.

“NASTY!”Ricky cried. “Look at this!”

The children, and even Miss Belle crowded around the backpack in wonder and disgust. It made the children laugh and play to see the lamb at school.

Sand CrusheR

The same thing had happened 20 years before. Walter stood below the fresh growth of blue-eyed grass and watched the children fighting on the beach. He felt the years of sun upon his back, layer upon layer, like their annual rounds of back to school shopping. The air was thick with salt, sand, kelp, the drying and cracked shells of horseshoe crabs, mussels, and other mollusks, as if all the days between then and now had been packed into this one day.
The day that Walter went to the beach was warm. The sky was cornflower blue, sparse white clouds feathered across its expanse. His mother’s dress beat against her shins and flapped like fins in salt water wind. The blanket fluttered as they held its corners, lifting it and letting it arc and fall onto the sand. Gulls sat upon the calm waves, bobbing up and down before they hit their apex and crashed into themselves, turning from slate blue to white, the foam dispersing along the shore.
The beach was an unpopular one. Not due to any deficiency of the fault lines. The cliffs which loomed about the sand and water were severe. Seaside daisies clung to their sides with sisyrinchium bellum, the blue-eyed grass which kept eternal watch over the shores below. If sis could speak, she might tell passersby to direct their attention to the northwest where a boy plays near the alkali sink, anchored in the dunes.

Walter sat on the blanket and dug his toes under the sand, patted it smooth, and wriggled them to watch the granules break apart and slide down the sides of his feet. He tried to grab ever larger handfuls of the dry top layer, feeling it rush through his fingers as they curled in towards his palms. He waited as patiently as any boy could for his mother’s call to get dropped so she could dig into her purse and give him the sunscreen. The lesson to wear sunscreen was fresh on his skin, and he waited anxiously for her, thinking about how it had stung when he peeled himself off the sticky hot leather of the the car, and how much hotter the warm water had felt on his back than it had felt on his hands.

As he waited he noticed a girl and her brother playing near the shore. The girl’s back was to the ocean and she let the water rush up and touch her skin for an instant before it rolled back and down into the sand. With a trowel, a bucket, and a plastic cup, the girl was building a castle. The castle was well-crafted. The sand she used was packed tight and damp, built with wide bases and narrower turrets. She cried as she built, wailing when her brother would take a running start and long jump into her castle. Walter noticed the boy’s swim trunks were pulled too high, as if his mother had lifted him by the seat of the pants and said ha!

He probably deserves it. Walter thought.

Walter’s thoughts on the matter concluded there, however, because at that moment the wind picked up his mother’s cell phone signal, and carried it out to the Farallon Islands. At the same moment that his mother started screaming, a gull called down a warning to the people on the beach; more to come, more to come. Walter jumped up and pulled his mothers arm as he bounced up and down and asked for the sunscreen and his trowel and pail. He smeared a thick coat of sunscreen over his arms, chest, face, and what he could reach of his back. He tossed his tools down the warm dune and rolled down after them, standing up at the end covered in sand. It was the only way to make sunscreen fun. Covered in sand, pausing to pretend he was a statue, he slowly made his way to the water, where the sand was wet and malleable.

It was there that Walter made his masterpiece, though no one would ever see it. It was there he toiled, there where the water lapped at his legs, and the sun beat down on his back, and the sand fleas jumped to higher ground. When it was done, Walter stood back and admired his work, and, surveying it’s magnificence in comparison to the coastal scenery, he fixated upon the California Oat Grass, and ran to get some to use as flags upon his castle.

Time is not linear. Hours can pass without a major event and feel as long as an eventful minute. While Walter ran to get the grass, a wave followed his lead and crept up farther than his predecessors. The wave crashed, spreading foam and water towards Walter’s castle. The water lapped at the edges of the castle and eroded the base, causing the roof to cave. The castle which had only just been miraculous, had now turned into a mushy puddle of sand.
Walter returned to the castle, at least, he returned to where he thought the castle should have been. A moment passed in shock, until he looked up from the sand towards the girl and boy he had seen playing when he first got to the beach. The boy was skipping back towards his sister, dragging a stick and acting careless. Walter was filled with rage. His vision filtered out all but the back of the boy’s shoulders. He dug his toes into the sand and pushed himself off, fists full of grass raised in the air and screaming his war cry.