AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY - AU Digital Research Archive |

SUGAR COAT

By

Ryan Stayton

Submitted to the

Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences

of American University

in Partial Fulfillment of

the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Fine Arts

In

Creative Writing

Co-Chair/,.J. Levy

Co-ChaicrJeffrey I liddents

Dean orCAS

Date

2005

American University

Washington, D.C. 20016

AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

89u>i-

Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.

UMI Number: 1432686

Copyright 2005 by

Stayton, Ryan

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© COPYRIGHT

by

Ryan Stayton

2005

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


SUGAR COAT

BY

Ryan Stayton

ABSTRACT

Sugar Coat is an original novel about Hitch Hocumb, the only professional

optimist in the small Midwestern town of Little Bontemps. His radio show, “The Glass

Five-Eighths Full,” is the town’s most popular program, and he’s one of its most popular

residents, until Hitch’s optimism causes him to make an error in judgment that costs him

his job, his friends, and nearly destroys the town. Sugar Coat is the story of how one

optimist deals with a streak of bad luck and his search for happiness in a depressed

society, asking the question, Though healthier for morale, is optimism always the best

outlook? Sugar Coat explores the limits of optimism and questions the pursuit of

absolutes in a world full of variables. It also challenges the limits of the written word,

using metafiction to look at the differences between the author’s reality and the illusion

his words create for his reader.

ii


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Every writer must hope their first go at that first novel is flawless from page one,

requiring little revision and producing a natural, but sadly those are few and far between.

I’m no exception, and thus no amount of gratitude could ever do my trusty advisors, E. J.

Levy and Jeff Middents, justice. Their suggestions were given with intelligence and

graceful candor, and Sugar Coat and I are all the better for it.

Special thanks to Susan C. Vaughan, whose book Half Empty, Half Full:

Understanding the Psychological Roots o f Optimism helped me develop my main

character, as did Jane E. Gilham’s collection of essays, The Science o f Optimism and

Hope. The Richard Swinson et al edited Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: Theory,

Research and Treatment also served me well.

And of course, no one would ever get anything done if not for their family, and to

them I am forever grateful. You guys are the best.

in


TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT..............................................................................................................................ii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS................................................................................................. iii

MY INTRODUCTION........................................................................................................1

DAY #1............................................................................................................................... 7

DAY #2............................................................................................................................. 26

DAY #3............................................................................................................................. 51

DAY #4............................................................................................................................. 67

DAY #5............................................................................................................................. 76

DAY #6............................................................................................................................100

DAY #7............................................................................................................................101

DAY #8............................................................................................................................123

DAY #9............................................................................................................................137

DAY #10..........................................................................................................................140

DAY #11..........................................................................................................................148

DAY #12..........................................................................................................................152

DAY #13..........................................................................................................................164

DAY #14..........................................................................................................................166

DAY #15......................................................................................................................... 167

DAY #16..........................................................................................................................168

iv


DAY #17..........................................................................................................................169

DAY #18..........................................................................................................................190

DAY #19..........................................................................................................................191

DAY #20......................................................................................................................... 200

DAY #21......................................................................................................................... 211

DAY #22......................................................................................................................... 220

DAY #23......................................................................................................................... 226

DAY #24......................................................................................................................... 230

DAY #25......................................................................................................................... 240

DAY #26......................................................................................................................... 247

DAY #27......................................................................................................................... 250

DAY #28.............................. 257

DAY #29......................................................................................................................... 262

DAY #30......................................................................................................................... 301

DAY #65......................................................................................................................... 314

DAY #76......................................................................................................................... 322

DAY #77......................................................................................................................... 323

v


MY INTRODUCTION

It devastates me to tell you something went wrong today. Something big.

Something bad. Something I don’t know how to resolve. That’s why I need your help.

Here’s what happened:

%A} :>!}${>: {% $»A{ *>{ A>{ AAAAAAAAA&} $ {>A%{ }%A>} {A%{ :A%>?}: {%A>}

&>:})(*A&*&%*&%@#$%A@#&*(»)*&A%$#(«)$%A&*(*&A%$#$%A&*(&A%$#$%A

&*(&A%$%A&*(&A%$A&*(&A%&*(*A%o($(&$A%#%$##@&%$#%$#*A%$A&%(*)

&%(&A$%$#@&%$#«&%$$*A*$(&%*\ /&A)/*&A)*&A)*&%(&A%&A$*A%$A%$

$%#%$#$@#«&%$#&%$*A%$*A%&A%(&A%*?*&A_(*&_(&C|tJ(*(*&*&_(*&_(*&&

A?$#%??$%#$.

Okay, that’s not what happened, but it is an example of what can happen when

something goes wrong. It can be anything. Computer malfunction, font accidentally set

to Wingdings, or maybe someone fell asleep while typing, and when their head hit the

keyboard it typed this mess and broke the delete key. I can’t say for sure because I typed

it on purpose, but I’m also not sure how I got myself in the mess I’m in, and that’s why I

need help sorting it out. Can you help me make sense of my messy life?

While I could write a 4,347 page description of it, there’s no substitute for

showing it. Take the gibberish above: I could tell you it’s a few lines of ampersands and

brackets and dollar signs, but no amount of words would prevent your imagination from

taking liberties with my description, and I can’t afford discrepancies like these

1


2

compromising my story because how can we possibly solve my problem if we aren’t

addressing the same problem and the same circumstances? We can’t, and thus I promise

to do everything within my power to paint you as detailed a picture as possible. Here

goes:

It happened at work. I work as a professional optimist at a local radio station. I

host my own show. It’s in the small, Midwest town (Lake Bontemps) where I live, which

means it’s a small station. Without lots of people in our listening radius, we’ll never get

the big money advertisers would pay if there were lots of people, which means ours will

always be a small station. We broadcast out of a strip mall on the edge of town, where

our plain, black KBON sign hangs above our fa?ade in between Mr. Fixit’s Appliance

Repair Shoppe and Mrs. Fixit’s Electronics Repair Shop. We’re the only three groups

there, and nobody gets much traffic, so I always get a good parking spot.

Behind the display window of our office is the broadcast booth, which is much

simpler than what you must picture when I say radio broadcast booth. There’s a table

with a microphone sitting in front of where I sit facing out into the parking lot, a few

equalizer controls to my left, and a phone with three lines to my right. There are no

producers or engineers, I do it all myself.

This afternoon I arrived my usual two hours before my evening show went live. I

was in the booth listening to the oldies a computer played daily on the air when Lizzy

Libby, my boss and the station’s owner, came in.

“Hey, Hitch, mind if I take a seat?” she asked me.

“You know I love your company,” I said.


3

She’d brought a folding chair with her and parked it in the doorway. She looked

like a seven-year-old dressed up as a seventy-one-year-old because of her abbreviated

height and childlike petite frame, but her long, straight gray hair wasn’t a wig, her

wrinkles weren’t the result of carefully placed scotch tape, and her glasses were

prescription.

I swung my chair around to face her and our knees almost touched it was such a

small room. I couldn’t remember ever having seen the always smiling Lizzy not smiling

in all the thirteen years I’d known her, but she was crying before she said another word.

What’s a professional optimist to think when his boss and one of his best friends

cries? If that optimist is me, he thinks he wishes his best friend were also an optimist,

because as an optimist, the last time I cried was when I insisted on tasting mom’s

pudding fresh off the stove when I was seven and burned my tongue. That really hurt.

Sure optimists feel sad sometimes, but we put it in the context of a bigger picture. Bad

things happen, but it’ll be okay.

I was surprised to see Lizzy cry. I believed optimism increased with age. The

more life one lived, the more experience one would have, and the more experience one

had the better prepared one would be for dealing with life’s frequent hiccups. This must

not have been one of those hiccups, and because of that, I was super worried when I saw

Lizzy’s tears tearing down her face. Something bad had happened.

“Something bad’s happened?” I asked her.

She nodded, but it turned out I was way off, which was a big relief.

“You’re... fired,” she finally coughed out between sobs.


4

Whew. Lizzy was going to be okay, and I assured her I would too. I told her this

would blow over in no time. I told her that even though this was the only job I’d had

since finishing college three short years ago, it’d been a great experience and I’d have no

problem getting another.

Getting fired wasn’t a problem. Heck, Lizzy didn’t even have to tell me why.

We both knew. It was all very syllogistic and can be boiled down to these simple points:

1. I told a secret on the air.

2. The secret was considered a secret because it was meant to be secretive.

3. Hundreds of people listen to my show each night.

4. When those hundreds heard the secret, the secret ceased to be a secret.

5. The secret subsequently caused many problems with many people in Bontemps.

6. Causing problems wasn’t conducive to hosting a radio show.

The problem was timing. I felt like a superhero stripped of his powers and I

didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t, even though I’ve had a few hours to think it

over.

Let me explain something about our cozy, quaint little town here. It’s just big

enough that we have one of everything. There’s one library. One firehouse. One police

station. One grocery. One hardware store. One gas station. One hospital. One dentist.

One glassblower. One plumbing company. One big industry. And one optimist. It’s

like living in an allegory.

But now we have no optimists, and with the “many problems” I referred to a few

paragraphs back multiplying daily, this is a time when optimism is desperately needed.

Without a positive attitude, nothing positive happens and these problems only mount.


5

Now let me explain something about me in relation to our cozy, quaint little town:

I’ve lived here my whole life. Literally every minute. The people suffering are my

friends, the only friends I’ve ever had, and the only friends I’ve got. Optimism is the

only way I know how to help them.

Of course, I wouldn’t be writing all this if I weren’t still optimistic, but it doesn’t

feel the same, which makes me think something’s wrong with it. The key to optimism is

knowing you’re in control of your life, knowing that when something goes wrong you

have the power to fix it, but without my role as town optimist, how can I help?

Now, you don’t need to tell me that all sounds, well, pessimistic, but I still think

we’ll get out of this, I just don’t know how, and that’s why I’m talking to you. Optimists

believe the best way to address a problem head on is to talk about it. Optimists also take

moods seriously, and if I’m admitting that optimism isn’t working for me right now, you

know I’m serious as the current situation in Bontemps. Optimists are more goal-oriented,

and I think I’ve already mentioned my goal here about forty-eight times.

Which brings me to my confession. It’s something that upsets some, but it’s also

what makes optimism’s glass half full: optimists have a skewed version of reality. Critics

call this living in a “fantasyland” and claim it will cause us to make a costly err, but it’s

the reason optimism works. Where a pessimist sees a bad grade that will lead to failure,

an optimist sees a bad grade that will inspire the greater effort to make a better grade.

Did you know optimists live longer than pessimists? I can’t think of a better argument to

being optimistic than that, can you?

Unfortunately no illusion’s strong enough to get my job back or right the good

ship Bontemps, and even an optimist needs a sense of perspective, and that’s why I


6

invited you here. You’re my straight man and when I talk to you, I’m going to tell you

exactly what’s happened down to the smallest detail in the hope that by looking at every

detail under a microscope, we can figure out what’s gone wrong. Think of yourself as

my glasses; by putting the problem on paper I hope you’ll help me see everything more

clearly and understand what’s gone wrong. I want you to question me. If I’m not

shooting straight, I want you to tell me.

Granted you’re an illusion, but aren’t we all to some extent made up of the

perceptions of others and our perceptions of ourselves? And anyway, you’re a prime

example of a healthy illusion. You force me to take a step back and catch an objective

glimpse of myself, and together we’ll figure out what’s going on. Is it okay if I call you

Lenny? That’ll make this feel a little more friendly and I could use a friend right now.

I’m not very popular these days, but at least summer just started, which means a few

months of nice weather.


DAY #1

Lenny, I’m so, so sorry. I just read through yesterday’s entry and realized I didn’t

introduce myself, and what the heck’s an introduction for if not to say hello? I’m awfully

sorry. I guess I’m still getting used to this writing thing. Excuses aside, without further

adieu:

The name’s Hitch. Hitch Hocumb. It’s really great to meet you, partner.

Would you believe that getting fired could be the best thing that ever happened to

me? Granted, I should’ve stressed could, but that’s what professional optimists do: we

focus on the positive. We can find something positive in the most heinous atrocities

imaginable. Don’t confuse this with turning negative into positive; to do that you just

have to multiple by -1.

Okay, so that is how you swap negative for positive, but that’s math and we’re

talking about life. Optimists are level-headed people. I won’t sit here and tell you that

after a good night’s sleep I’ve come to the conclusion that yesterday was the best day of

my life, but we optimists know you’re better off learning how to deal with days like that

instead of ignoring them, because you can’t always steer clear, and if you aren’t prepared

for it, forgetting to jelly your PB&J might just feel like Krakatoa. Knowing you’re here I

feel prepared, and I feel like we’re going to lick this thing. I’m still an optimist, and that

means I’m still going to talk and act like one. If we don’t think this will work, it won’t,

so I think this is going to work famously, how about you?

7


8

So how does a professional optimist get fired, you might ask? I’ll tell you, but

I’ve got to warn you: it’s a doozie and I won’t skimp on the 411. To solve a problem we

need to know its exact nature, and no, I wasn’t let go because of a pessimistic, out of

body experience. If anything it was because I had a temporary bout of super-optimism,

“super” as in over the top, not super duper. Sadly, the town didn’t think too much of a

good thing was a good thing.

Whew! I’ll tell you, this writing thing’s a tad more demanding than I’d

anticipated. It took me all morning just to write these few paragraphs, but that’s okay;

every little word’s just as important as the biggies. Since I worked (here’s a brilliant

example of optimism in play: I actually typed “work” originally, as if I hadn’t been fired

yet—what a difference two little letters make!) in radio, I’m used to rambling, but here I

can’t have the slipups and spontaneity my host’s chair allowed, and that’s why I decided

to write. Thinking on the fly I could never give you a one-hundred percent crystal clear,

accurate picture of anything. At my computer, however, I can scrutinize every word, and

delete words I don’t want and add words I might not have thought of in the moment. My

level of detail’s gone through the roof.

It’s important you understand that optimism was not the culprit. I’ve no intention

of retiring just yet, especially since I only finished school a few years ago, so I don’t want

to badmouth what got me here. I know I’ve got a lot of years left in me once I get back

in the game, which I’m sure will be sooner than later!

But now it’s lunchtime, and I could use a break. One nice thing about my new

boss-which is to say me-is that he’s very accommodating. And very handsome.

I’ll be back in a few hours.


9

Good golly, talk about a few hours. It’s been nine hours and eight minutes. I

threw a quick PB&Bacon together for lunch and was going to walk it down to Central

Park and enjoy the nice weather we’re having, but cooler heads prevailed and I decided

it’s too soon to confront my friends and neighbors, and it’s a good thing too because I

ended up spending all day in Little Bontemps.

Little Bontemps is a big, gigantic part of my life, and in fact I’m the mayor, so it

warrants mentioning.

You said you’ve lived in Lake Bontemps your whole life.

A fantastic point, Lenny, and I understand why you think I’m already flirting with

fantasyland, but give me a chance to tell you about it.

I have, like I said, lived in Lake Bontemps my entire life. Today I represent just

over .01% of the town’s total population. Mayor Ernie Wiggles (mayor of Lake

Bontemps) hopes we finally break 10,000 people by next year, which is important

because a town’s success is measured by the number of its inhabitants and the direction

it’s fluctuating. I guess it’s circular logic that works like this: if people relocate here, it

means they think Bontemps is doing well. Similarly, if they decide to stay here and have

kids, they must think Bontemps is doing well, and when the population goes up as a

result, it’s tangible evidence to everyone else that Bontemps is doing well.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Ha, ha, good one, Lenny. It is fascinating how obsessed society is with whole

numbers. Rarely does anyone use anything but round numbers and multiples of five

when quantifying anything. Why make an estimate of twenty to twenty-five? Why not


10

say it’s about twenty-two or twenty-three? Why sacrifice accuracy for the sake of

numbers that are aesthetically pleasing.

Milestone anniversaries come in multiples of ten, with multiples of fifty and one-

hundred getting extra special attention. Oh, it’s your twenty-sixth anniversary? You

should take your wife out for a nice dinner and buy her some scrumptious chocolates. Oh

my, your friends are celebrating twenty-five years together? Fantastic! Despite you and

your Mrs. having made it one more year than them, I hope they have a lavish vacation

planned on the beaches of France. And he better buy her a diamond... it only makes

sense. Why should 10,000 people mean more than 9,932 did?

The same goes for time. You’d think our lives were broken down into fifteen

minute intervals the way we schedule appointments on the half hour or quarter hour. If a

movie starts at 7:05, you’re likely to say, “Let’s meet at seven,” and if it starts at 7:10,

you’ll still say, “Let’s meet at seven,” but why? Today’s watches and clocks are plenty

adept at keeping time to the nearest minute (and often to the nearest second!).

All settling for round estimates does is sacrifice accountability. The reason you

say seven o’clock is because it’s taken to be an approximation. “Seven” actually means

“seven give or take a few minutes,” and if you made plans at the outlandish hour of 7:08,

the specificity those eight minutes implies you better be there at 7:08.

I don’t doubt such approximations were valuable back in the covered wagon days,

but given how far technology’s come in the weights and measures department, why waste

it?

I choose not to. Call me a pioneer, but no number or time or measurement I give

is a multiple of five. It’s all exact, and that’ll help our cause, Lenny, because the more


11

exact I am the more you’ll understand what’s happening in my world. I shouldn’t tell

you it takes me five minutes to eat a sandwich if it only takes me three minutes twenty

seconds. It’ll already be to my large intestines by the time you think I’ve just swallowed

the last bite.

I know it doesn’t make sense, but we have to have some quantifiable way to

measure the town’s success. I buy it, because take it from me, Ernie’s a sharp guy, not to

mention an all around great guy and a real gentleman, making it no surprise that he’s

been mayor for as long as I can remember. I’ve voted for him both times I’ve been

eligible to vote for him, and I’ve had dinner with Ernie and Mrs. Wiggles more times

than I could count.

Little Bontemps starts, however, eighteen years ago, during a year when Lake

Bontemps showed fiscal responsibility the likes of which no local had ever seen. To

commemorate the budget surplus, they decided to spend it on something that would pay

tribute to the town they loved so much. Citizens submitted dozens of ideas, most of

which symbolized our prominent apple orchards, and Town Hall whittled those down to

three. With “Swing Sets For All” (old folks politely declined that one) and “A Year’s

Supply of Haircuts For All” (old, bald folks had no use there) out of the mix, everyone

voted on their favorite idea from these finalists:

1. Turn the water tower into a giant, glow-in-the-dark apple.

2. Matching mailboxes shaped like apples for all.

3. Build a scale model of the town populated with guinea pigs.

The first two must have split the apple orchard vote, because the third won by a long

shot. What can I say? We’re a tight-knit community.


12

Since it had miniature apple orchards, folks figured it would honor the orchards

and all the great non-orchard things in town. Why shouldn’t Bill’s Bank and Chip’s

Chocolate shop get publicity too? Everyone knows Lake Bontemps and fruit distribution

go hand in hand, but if it wasn’t for Harry’s Barbershop people would be tripping over

their lengthy locks. Tourism expected a big boost, though improving on nothing

wouldn’t necessarily require adding another wing to Kara’s Comfortable Inn. And if

nothing else, guinea pigs are mighty cute.

People who have only heard vague descriptions of Bontemps think it sounds like

the old cliche of a one stoplight town, but I’ll have you know that Lake Bontemps has

exactly seven traffic lights. There are a bunch of stop signs, but only the seven traffic

lights. I guess population indicates success and traffic lights indicate size, but in theory,

if the town’s success goes up, and the population goes up, we’ll ultimately need more

traffic lights, so really it’s all related. Anyhoot, the moral of the story is we’re a small

town, but we do appear on most state maps.

Little Bontemps was to reside on the property of the Mayor’s Mansion, next to the

museum where the Wiggles had a nice, open chunk of land. The building allowed for a

seventeen-meter by twenty-three-meter reconstruction, making it 17212th the size of the

real thing. I should warn you that I’m a metric system user. The system traditionally

used here strikes me as being overly precise, weather in particular. Celsius is more

effective and more efficient. With Fahrenheit, do you care if it’s going to be eighty-two

or eighty-three degrees? You don’t because you can’t tell the difference. But with

Celsius, each degree carries a wider temperature load, so you might actually feel the

difference between twenty-two and twenty-three degrees, so why bother with Fahrenheit?


13

I guess it goes back to our fixation with using nice, friendly, convenient round

numbers. By not being metric, we never have to say twenty-two degrees Celsius, and we

can get away with eighty or eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit when it’s really eighty-three

because being a few degrees off doesn’t make a difference.

Back to Little Bontemps: every building, house, street, street sign and tree would

be reproduced. Excluding anything would’ve suggested favoritism. Even every person

would be accounted for as they intended to include one guinea pig for every

Bontempsonite, but there was one problem: guinea pigs weren’t in the budget, and

everyone wanted to be there all the time. At least in spirit.

The quick fix? Gerbils.

Gerbils were cheaper, but they were also smaller, which would give them more

room to roam, folks argued. They would also more accurately represent people, since the

guinea pigs would have been too big to fit through their accurately scaled tiny front

doors.

The project was remarkably expensive. Eight-thousand-two-hundred-seventeen

gerbils were purchased, and I felt bad for any kids who tried to get their own within a

hundred-twelve-mile radius of us that month, but the finished product erased any and all

misgivings, and since another way to quantify a town’s popularity is tourism revenue, we

were sure our town’s popularity would skyrocket. We could, after all, lay claim to the

only gerbil town within a town in the world.

I’m sure you’re antsy to hear a vivid description of Bontemps with every detail

down to how many pieces of grass there are in my front yard, and while it might seem

like the best way to do this would be to take you on a driving tour to see it for yourself, I


14

suggest something unconventional but plenty effective: I’ll show you Little Bontemps,

which is such an accurate representation of our town you’d be crazy to want the real

thing. Plus, I’m more comfortable giving you Little Bontemps because it allows me to

see the whole town at once. Driving around would take a few hours, and what if after we

stop by Shep’s Slophouse I get a flat tire? That’ll put me in a grumpy mood for the rest

of the tour, which will make the latter part of the trip different from the beginning since a

change in mood causes a change in perspective. Like I said, accuracy is the most

important detail of all.

Think of Bontemps’ layout as being like a sketch of the aftereffects of an

earthquake. At the epicenter the circles are close together, but the further out you go the

more the circles drift apart. That’s like the building density here. Our epicenter is the

courthouse, the biggest and tallest structure in town that sits on its own square block,

taking up its entire width and half its length. It’s made entirely of Indiana Limestone, and

the stairs leading up to it stretch a half block wide and two stories high, at the top of

which visitors enter into a giant dome. It wouldn’t be outlandish to suggest the structure

looks like a Roman era planetarium. I’ve actually never been inside since I’ve never

been involved in a court case or been arrested (the jail’s in the basement).

The business district downtown fills the four square blocks around the courthouse.

These are small businesses in small, one story buildings lined up like a strip mall. That’s

where Shep’s Slophouse is. And The Copycabana, Sew What? and Hunter’s Hunter’s

Haven.

The next eight or so block ring is mostly residential. Everyone has enough land

that it takes an hour or two to mow the lawn, but some have tiny houses and others are


15

mansions, which means the smaller ones look even smaller relatively speaking since they

sit on the same number of acres.

Outside of town lie all the big land operations. Nature’s Candy dominates the

west edge of Bontemps. Saunders College sits south of town. The rest of the outskirts

are the apple orchards with homes on giant plots of land, or smaller industries who

mostly support what Nature’s Candy does.

With the model, folks saw just how much their produce distribution center had

grown; they already knew it was figuratively enormous since it was the state’s primary

source for fresh produce (and thus the reason for the surplus), but now they realized

Nature’s Candy literally took up an entire comer of town. Lake and Little Bontemps

were built on the fruits of fruits and vegetables, which is why the company’s current

struggles were so problematic. Sales were down and so was morale.

For decades business had gotten better and better, mostly due to the steadily

increasing geography it served and general population increases, and this always meant

good, good things for Lake Bontemps. More business meant more money meant more

jobs meant more people meant more people with jobs meant more people with money

meant more people with smiles on their faces.

Money, of course, doesn’t buy happiness, but it does buy things that make kids

happy, and if the kids are happy, it usually means the parents are too.

Nature’s Candy got so big that just about everyone in town depended on it to

make a living. It’s always been our biggest employer, and that doesn’t include the dozen

or so small businesses it supports. There’s Mr. Henderson’s Truck, Truck, Goose, which

handles a healthy portion of produce transportation both into and out of town. There’s


16

Bert’s Belts, which is run by Mr. Levine and manufactures and repairs what looks like

miles and miles of conveyor belts in Nature’s Candy distribution plant. And don’t forget

Mabel’s Labels, Mrs. Stevens’ printing company that provides all the little stickers that

go on each piece of fruit or vegetable showing their checkout codes.

The fun didn’t stop with produce-related places. We have three of the best dang

soup ‘n sandwich joints you’ll ever find (one with hot sandwiches, one with cold cuts and

the last with soup and sandwiches), and there’s no way we could support all three without

so many people living here, and so many people live here because of Nature’s Candy.

Nobody could afford luxuries like a night of bowling and/or roller-skating at Big Earl’s

Roller Balls and Bowling Skates if they didn’t make a good living elsewhere in town.

You could even call Little Bontemps a little business; there wouldn’t have been that

budget surplus without better than expected earnings from our favorite place for produce.

But the biggest small biz it spawned might seem like backwards logic. You’d

think our orchards helped lure Nature’s Candy to us, but it’s actually the other way

around. Nature’s Candy was founded by the Howells. They started it to help their

cousins, the Friendly’s, whose Friendly Shopper grocery chain was quickly becoming

one of the biggest chains in the Midwest. They prided themselves on their fresh produce,

but as their stores became more spread out, it became difficult for them to supply every

store in a timely and cost-effective manner. By the time cauliflower got all the way out

to Topeka it already had that dirty look it gets right before it turns.

The Howells, who’d lived in Lake Bontemps all their lives, swooped in to the

rescue. They worked with their cousins as if they were brothers and sisters, and together

they built a produce distribution operation that to this day supplies dozens of Friendly


17

Shoppers with the not quite ripe bananas and almost Anjou-yielding pears they expect

from the brand they trust.

Nature’s Candy is still a family operation and it’s still as well-run as ever. Their

run of recent bad luck is due to consumers’ shifting tastes: people gradually started

buying less produce.

Fruits and vegetables have never gotten much airtime, even here. Why pay for

advertising when they already have the best bunch of spokespeople on the planet: parents

and teachers? I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t know the four food

groups, which means I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t know I should be

eating a whole bunch (or bushel, or head) of fruits and vegetables.

Considering they were referring to the health and well-being of every person on

the planet, you wouldn’t think publicity would be necessary, but you’d be wrong.

It could have been that people were relying more on those fancy natural vitamins

pharmaceutical companies manufacture. It could have been that people lost their taste for

nature’s candy; it wasn’t like we could offer a new flavor. Heck, maybe canning

technology has really taken off in the past few years and fresh is no longer worth the

extra money. (I never understood why fresh costs more. The canned people still needed

to grow it and harvest it, but they also had to put it in a can and slap a label on it. It’s the

same plus more, which equals less. How’s that work?) Whatever the reason, purchasers

weren’t purchasing and produce production suffered.

And that means every last soul in Lake Bontemps suffered.

It was more like taking a dip than a full blown plunge, but these people’s

livelihoods depend on Nature’s Candy. Not only do they rely on it to support them now,


18

most of them have their futures locked up in it. Nature’s Candy (NYSE: NAT) had

always been a safe bet, and bet on it Bontempsonites did with most of their savings and

investments.

All the corporate-types assured us they had many solutions in the pipes, but

whatever they were, they weren’t sharing, and that made us understandably nervous. We

can’t trust a solution we can’t see.

Now jump back to seven years ago and better times. Little Bontemps had brought

many a smile to many a delighted visitor’s face in the years since its ground breaking. It

was deemed a “success,” a “huge success,” an “unrivaled success,” and an “unbelievable

success.” Tourism got more of a nudge than a boost, but out-of-towners still ended up

covering Little Bontemps’ annual maintenance costs. If there are any other gerbil cities

in the world, ours is certainly the most highly regarded, and for good reason; such a grand

vision involving so many live beings needed constant supervision, and fortunately, back

when it was founded, we didn’t have to look any farther than next door to find Little B’s

curator: Mrs. Maureen Wiggles. The First Lady was the First Little Mayor.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but the upkeep she kept up there was flawless. Since

the idea was to have visitors, the most grueling part of the job was keeping it clean. Little

rodent waste wasn’t going to clean itself up. She also kept the little fellas happy, making

sure they had enough food and water. A few thousand gerbils go through food like you

wouldn’t believe. Her last and most challenging responsibility was to ensure Little

Bontemps accurately represented Lake Bontemps. That meant if a building was built in

the real town, she added a model for it. Sadly, it also meant the population of Little

Bontemps was the same as Lake Bontemps, and as a gerbil’s life expectancy isn’t quite


19

that of a human’s (imagine a one-hundred-six-year-old gerbil to represent good old Mrs.

Schafer), she dealt with a lot of death. When one of those poor guys passed on, she had a

reserve batch in the back room and she added one into the mix. Lucky for her, Little

Bontemps didn’t seem to have a very effective Planned Parenthood program, so new

additions were easy to come by. They were also the biggest seller in the gift shop.

Seven years ago Little Mayor Wiggles stepped down and I stepped up. Would

you believe I ran unopposed? Our election day was the same as Mayor Ernie Wiggles

reelection day that year, and we actually put up voting booths and “Vote for Hitch” signs

in Little Bontemps. I gave a victory speech that night and promised, “My fellow Little

Bontempsonites, these are prosperous times, and I promise you will not go a day without

all the food and water you can consume. I will get rid of homelessness and

unemployment by my next term, but you may have to start wearing clothes if you’re to

find gainful employment. Honestly, you’re all naked, get with the times.” I also picked

one gerbil to represent myself. I dubbed him Hitch I and put a little gerbil blazer on him

so I could keep track of him. Six Mayor Hitch’s have already died in office, so today

we’re on Hitch VII.

Today’s visit went longer than usual.

The Wiggles land is behind my place, so I can walk through both of our

backyards to get to their place. They had a giant greenhouse (what’s a city without

sunlight?) on their property that Little Bontemps called home. The glass, bam-like

construction was where a detached garage might have been, had their garage not been

attached to the house.


20

Mayor Wiggles was mowing his lawn on a riding mower. I laughed every time I

saw him doing household chores. Who’d have thought a big powerful man like the

mayor was just like anyone else at home?

I stopped and said, “Hi ya, Mayor Wiggles.”

Having traveled outside the county line since then, I think it’d have felt odd to call

adults by their first names if I’d grown up anywhere else. I still remember when Mayor

Wiggles told me to call him, “Ernie, like the handsome, orange, eyebrowless fella on

Sesame Street who hung out with the unibrowed, yellow guy.” Being in such a small

town with everyone connected to Nature’s Candy in one way or another makes us all feel

connected to each other, so we try extra hard to be as super friendly as possible. We

don’t want to think our future might lie in the hands of someone we don’t like or

someone who doesn’t like us.

I know inconsistencies are a writing no-no, but in the text here I’m still going to

call adults by their formal names. It seems like the polite thing to do. Oh and I’m also

going to give everyone fake names. I know that teeters on the edge of fostering an

illusion, but on the off chance we have that cliched moment where someone who’s not

supposed to read this does, I don’t want them to think I disrespected anyone in town by

talking about them.

Mayor Wiggles waved and continued driving through his yard.

In Little Bontemps, my eyes were immediately drawn to an enormous barrel-like

object just west of downtown. I’d visited so many times than any new addition, be it a

business a house or a plastic bush, was easy to pick out and I often learned of new


21

restaurants in our gerbil-supporting sister city from requests to build new models before

seeing the real thing.

The barrel looked like an oversized gerbil feeder that the gerbils could eat out of a

long, thin metal straw extending from its bottom. It was made of glass and was slightly

taller than me. That made it many times taller than the model homes, which only came

up to my knees and all shared the same two-story design; accurate depictions of

everyone’s houses proved too costly and Bontempsonites knew where to draw the line.

Still, the model did and still does most homes in the area justice; they all look fairly

traditional.

I couldn’t tell what was in it, but it wasn’t water. I didn’t realize we’d be feeding

the gerbils new food and curiosity may have killed the cat, but it would end up killing

much more today. There wasn’t a lid on top of this feeding contraption presumably for

easy access to add more, and I decided to stick my hand in it to sample the goods. I was

glad to have all six feet one inches of myself to reach it. I leaned up and as you can

guess, one has to walk gingerly through Little Bontemps to avoid the thousands of Little

Bontempsonites. Guests have to stay outside of city limits and observe from afar. Well

as I stretched up on my tiptoes, dozens of gerbils shot under my legs and I braced myself

on the barrel. Turned out the barrel wasn’t too sturdy and it fell over.

Then the glass barrel was taking up a half block stretch of Center Street that was

two blocks from Nature’s Candy’s processing plant (a.k.a. “The Food Processor”) and it

was leaking a molasses like liquid. Since it was flowing so slowly, I figured calling the

Wiggles to help would be more efficient than me jumping into it myself.


22

I ran outside and signaled to Mayor Wiggles to come in. Within forty seconds he

and his wife both ran in the entrance, and by then, there was a four-block area from the

disaster’s epicenter that looked like it was covered in water. Now it didn’t look wet,

mind you; it looked shiny and almost translucent, as if it had a thin layer of water over all

of it.

“Is the chemical dangerous?” I asked the Wiggles.

“Not afraid of bees, are you buddy?” Ernie said.

“Oh, stop that, Mr. Mayor,” Mrs. W snapped at him. “We wouldn’t let you

anywhere near it if it was; it was only made by bees, honey to be exact.”

I walked around the open end of the barrel and gasped. “The gerbils are dying!”

As fast as those petite pets can zip around town, not all of them survived the Great

Spill. The glass bottle toppled onto a handful of the curious critters, and the slow-mo

flood drowned a few more, like quicksand dribbling down a mountain. I stuck my hands

into the deeper areas of honey and pulled out bodies, tossing them clear of the mess. The

Wiggles checked their vitals and put them back on the ground if they were breathing and

in a trash bag if not. Most of them weren’t breathing. One of the last gerbils I found was

Hitch VII.

Ernie proposed a plan. “Quarantine and clean” he called it. He had firewood that

would quarantine the “infected” gerbils, boxing them into the west side of town so they

didn’t get their healthy compatriots or more sterile parts of town sticky. You’d think a

creature as tiny and defenseless as a gerbil would steer clear of unfamiliar territory, but

that honey must have been as delicious as advertised because the sweet smell and sweeter

taste caused mess hall overflow. With so many contaminated critters, we only


23

quarantined the worst of them; the rest cleaned themselves and were happy to do so (I

swear I can see those little guys and gals smile sometimes).

We washed well over 1,242 gerbils. The three of us were a washing machine and

it still took us almost five hours to scrub all umpteen-hundred of our friends. We used a

three-part assembly line, with Ernie rinsing, and Mrs. W and myself as washer and dryer

respectively. First, Ernie showered them with a light rain from the hose. Then, he

scooped them up and passed them to Mrs. W, who gave them a good massage with a

damp cloth, and finally, I sealed the deal with a comfy hug from a nice, dry towel.

With the most important part of town good as new (I’ve always said land’s only

as good as its owner), we went to work on the town itself. The spill ended up being a

direct hit on Nature’s Candy and its surrounding orchards. We quarantined that area to

keep the clean kids out of the dirty sandbox and used spray bottles and paper towels to

shine the town’s shoes. It’s a shame Lake Bontemps didn’t really have a lake (as the

story goes, the town’s founder, Maurice Bontemps, named the area with hopes of luring

his childhood crush there, where he was convinced she would fall in love with him, lake

or no lake) , or we could have rinsed the stickiest landmarks off in it.

Nature’s Candy was in rough shape. “The Food Processor” is the biggest of their

two buildings and the biggest in all of Lake Bontemps. The honey struck it first, and it

was so big that it acted like a makeshift dam, protecting their headquarters and the

orchards behind it. The honey almost hurdled the roof before wrapping its shape-shifting

arms around the building and flooding everything beyond it.

The apple trees were ruined, their Styrofoam design having absorbed too much

honey. Most everything else was plastic or wood. Touching it all felt like touching


24

double stick tape, and I ended up touching my fair share of it. I had the skinniest arms,

and they fit perfectly inside the buildings, so I helped us salvage those and most of their

furnishings from the wrecking ball. By the end, we were proud of ourselves. Little

Bontemps was so sparkling it looked like it’d been shrink-wrapped.

Sadly, our good times that day ended with a funeral. On top of drowning, some

of the poor guys and gals slurped up more than their two-ounce frames could swallow.

Ernie presided over the impromptu ceremony we held out back for the dearly

departed. He said some beautiful words about how well those youngsters represented

town, and about how it was too soon to for them to go, and about how hard it was for us

to say goodbye under such sudden circumstances. Their presence wouldn’t soon be

forgotten, though there were replacement gerbils in town within minutes.

We laid twenty-seven of our fallen comrades to rest. I remember the exact

number because we needed to know exactly how many newbies to add. The last thing I

did was inaugurate Mayor Hitch VIII. It was a new era for Little Bontemps.

While I was at it, I also picked a Lenny I. I figured you might as well be included

in Little Bontemps, since technically you’re not with me in Lake Bontemps. You wear a

sharp little light blue gerbil-shirt. Hope you like it.

I’m thinking I’ll spend a few days cooped up in my apartment, which should give

me plenty of chances to get you up to speed on all things Hitch. Since my local friends

and I are temporarily estranged, I figure you and I can keep each other company.

Consider it a front row seat to the triumph of positive over negative. Positive numbers

are already greater than negative ones, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.

This’ll work well.


See? Things are already looking up.


DAY #2

This morning started with my daily trip to Little Bontemps. Because the model of

Nature’s Candy was ruined in the spill, I had to build a new one. Mrs. Wiggles gave me

a lengthy tutorial on how to make the buildings out of a stiff, cardboard-like material. All

it took were some scissors, paint, and most of the morning, but it looks brand new and top

of the line, just like the real thing.

Obviously I haven’t been a “professional” optimist my entire life, but I’d like to

think I earned “amateur” status at a very young age, when with a mere twelve-years of

life experience on my resume, I started my very own summer business. Maybe business

is the wrong word. I didn’t really need money at that age, but I was already a people

person and it was a good excuse to get out and get social. I knew most everyone in town

by then, but they were all super-nice and being around them was a hoot. I called it Por

Favor and my job title was “Favor Specialist.” I offered favors to help folks needing

help, and I didn’t even charge anything, though everyone was too nice to let a twelve-

year-old head home empty-handed.

I learned at a young age that if someone smiled at me, I’d smile right back.

Seeing how fun smiling is, I decided Hitch should do everything in Hitch’s power to

make others smile, because if that was all it took to make Hitch smile, it was worth the

effort, right? It almost sounds selfish when I put it like that, but as a kid I always felt like

26


27

my sole purpose in life was to please adults, and if I got a smile out of them I’d done my

job.

The first couple summers, my entrepreneurial efforts attracted a healthy supply of

work. I watered Mrs. Hoover’s azaleas. I washed Mr. Elliott’s Mazda. I painted the

Phillips’s mail truck-shaped mailbox. I tutored the Williams’ twin girls. I jarred Mrs.

Hamilton’s homemade preserves. My regular customers were the most social, and they

were also mostly women. I did most of my work during the day, and they liked my

company as much as my goodwill. Eventually, their jobs became odd jobs, and mostly

excuses for me to come talk to them. I gave the Miller’s gerbils haircuts (she insisted

their natural coats were too hot). I organized Mrs. North’s coupons by grocery aisle and

expiration date. I rearranged Mrs. Roosevelt’s glass menagerie (she thought the lives I

gave her precious collection were charming).

When you’re talkative and you spend a lot of time with someone, you’re bound to

run out of everyday things to say. Talk of what was going on slowly turned into what

was going wrong and my role as a listening ear slowly turned into confidant. For many

the change was so gradual I didn’t notice, especially considering the same attentive

approach worked for both. Others were less subtle, like Mrs. Weaver, who cried on my

shoulder for two hours when Elton John’s tribute to Princess Di, “Candle in the Wind,”

came on the radio. I contend that I was just in the right place at the right time, but they’ll

tell you I was the right person in the right place at the right time. One time I wasn’t the

right person in the right place at the right time was when Mrs. Steeplechase greeted me in

her foyer wearing a bath robe, which as she later claimed “accidentally” fell off, making

her the first naked woman I ever saw and the first appointment I ever ran out on.


28

Even the odd jobs finally dried up (except for Mrs. Curtis, whose sewing needles I

polished for years), and by the time I finished high school, many of my dearest customers

didn’t even bother putting me to work. In fact, they went to great lengths making sure I

was as comfortable as could be during my visits. I wasn’t to lift a finger, I was to sit in

the fluffiest chair in the house, I was to partake in the homemade pastry of my choice,

and I was to wash it down with whichever cola my little old heart desired. The only

favor they needed was some good old positive thinking. Don’t get me wrong,

Bontempsonites are an upbeat bunch, and if I’m around any of them I’m bound to be

smiling, but like most non-optimists, it’s hard for them to keep smiling when trouble hits,

so when they need a pick me up they turn to me.

I told Mrs. Foxhole she was bound to have a sub par carrot harvest every few

years, and she certainly shouldn’t blame herself when there were so many factors she

couldn’t control, like the weather and pesky parasites. Besides, without occasionally

tasting the bad, how would she know a good carrot when she ate it?

I told Mrs. Flugelhom that Bontemps had one of the best veterinarians in the

world, and that her Mr. Spiffy was in good hands.

I told Mrs. Mercurial that even though she lost her two front teeth to gum disease

and couldn’t afford replacements, she still had thirty teeth that looked just dandy, and any

man who disliked her for her lisp probably wasn’t worth a second date anyway.

I told Mr. Triceps that the Xavier’s, her next door neighbors, wouldn’t put life-

sized sculptures of themselves in their front yard spelling out their name cheerleader-style

if their neighbors asked them nicely. And at my next stop not an hour later, I told Mrs.

Xavier that though her neighbors would love to see her family’s shining faces every time


29

they looked out the window, they already knew how lovely the Xavier’s were, and they

certainly didn’t need statues to remind them. Among other things, I got to play gossip

filter, which helped me play peacekeeper. I was like a moral sheriff.

The first secret sharers told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend, and I

grew so popular that even when I wasn’t on the job I was working, if one can call it that.

I was a professional conversationalist and my office new no bounds. It was hard to keep

any kind of itinerary because I couldn’t walk past someone without saying hello. It was

especially hard because I could never stop at saying hello.

My cousin Enid’s fifth birthday party was an especially sticky situation. I had

two responsibilities: One was to pick up ice cream and one was to attend. I left myself

more time than it could ever conceivably take someone to purchase ice cream and got to

our local Friendly Shopper with time to kill. I eyed gallon after gallon. I scrutinized my

decision. I took so long I had to run back out to my car and put my sweater on because

I’d gotten cold.

Vanilla was a no-brainer, so I grabbed a gallon. Before I could pick out some fun

flavors, Mrs. Jacoby spotted me and came over for a chat.

“Triple-H, is that you?” she shouted from the frozen peas. “Happy” Hitch

Hocumb was a nickname that spread so fast I’m still not sure who started it. I’m not even

sure if it was started because I’m always happy or because I’d made someone else happy,

but I like it and it gave me a good stage name to use when my radio show went on the air.

I asked Mrs. Jacoby how her quiche turned out a few nights back, and she raved

that adding two tablespoons of butter made it divine, just like I told her. Her guests

raved. We each gave quick summaries of what had happened in our lives since we last


30

saw each other, and we each gave quick commentaries of the other’s descriptions. There

were lots of “Wows,” “Geez,” and “Oh my goshes,” said.

Don’t forget that I was holding a gallon of ice cream this whole time. I think I

just switched it from arm to arm as it got cold, but I was so wrapped up in our

conversation I didn’t even notice it. It was at least forty-five minutes before Mrs. Jacoby

pointed to my pink forearms and asked if I’d gotten poison ivy.

That set off a chain reaction of not-so-hot happenings. Ice cream meant birthday.

Birthday meant I was late. And my vanilla had melted. All of it. It looked like spoiled

milk. When people shake my hand they often tell me I must be warm-blooded, and my

ice cream melting abilities seemed to confirm this.

I quickly grabbed some festive-looking flavors. I figured the ones with long,

alliterative names would be the most fun. I added another vanilla because nothing short

of a week’s vacation in Antarctica would save the first. I still bought the melted one

because putting it back wouldn’t have made me a very Friendly Shopper.

Enid was crying when I got there, like any five-year-old with cake and no ice

cream would. I asked if she could wait a little while for it so I could refreeze it, but like

any reasonable birthday girl, she wanted it now. When I poured her some runny ice

cream she cried some more and I was relieved of ice cream purchasing duties the

following year. And by the end of that party I had a bad case of the sniffles. Dr.

Oglesby, whose child was at the party, told me to take a nice, warm bath and get some

sleep. It’s a good thing I did, otherwise I might’ve been sick for two weeks. As it was, I

was only sick for a week.


31

I’ll tell you one lesson I learned that day: the fine folks at Eddy’s have developed

one heck of an ice cream container; it more than makes up for its lack of insulation with

an airtight seal that could put astronauts in space.

Going home was no escape. I spent hours a day on the phone. I didn’t need to

worry about having a girlfriend; I already had dozens of girl friends.

When did you have time to play with kids your own age?

Well, that was the catch, but it was a catch I didn’t mind. I’ve never had close

friends from my demographic. Generally speaking, I always had more in common with

adults than kids my age. I don’t mean to sound snooty. It wasn’t like I was more mature

or anything silly like that. I wasn’t interested in youth sports and school dances or

talking about sports and school crushes. I didn’t have the energy my classmates had and

when I spent time with neighborhood kids, I ran out of energy before them and ended up

back at home hanging out with my parents and any guests we had. It didn’t bother me. I

was by no means friendless. I was a happy kid.

After building Por Favor into a successful franchise, disaster struck: my sweet

sixteenth birthday. The problem wasn’t the party, it was becoming work eligible, and

though Por Favor was a success, it wasn’t a financial success. Chatting my summers

away wasn’t going to pay the bills after college (even though it has), but a taxed income

sure was.

It sounds kind of lame to say radio found me, so let’s just say it was Mrs. Libby

who found me. Mrs. Libby ran the AM station in town and thought I had a nice voice.

Not for being on the air, mind you, but to field calls for The Bert Blabbermouth Show, an

evening talk show exposing and dissecting society’s ills.


32

Call volume for The Bert Blabbermouth Show tripled within two weeks of my

start date. Por Favor’s regulars found fake reasons to call. As my girl friends figured out

where to find me, this caused two problems: Bert obviously didn’t care to tell Mrs.

Sandberg why he thought her tulips bloomed a week later than the previous year, and call

volume was so bad I couldn’t field calls either. I talked to each caller for as long as I

could, but as soon as the next line rang I had to answer it, and so on and so forth until all

eight lines were tied up.

Nobody was happy and a petition was passed around to make my decision more

difficult. I heard lots of puns on “Por Favor” as my girl friends begged for my return.

They offered everything short of their shares in Nature’s Candy. I could’ve had

homemade cookies delivered to my door, a lifetime supply of piano lessons, or enough

homespun sweaters to make Antarctica a viable relocation option.

I felt awful. While it’s nice to feel wanted, it’s less nice to feel wanted by more

people than I could keep happy. Mrs. Libby was about the sweetest boss a guy could ask

for, but nothing brought a smile to my face like the smiles on my girl friends’ faces. I

was in some pickle.

Would you believe Mrs. Libby never got nervous? She didn’t become KBON’s

owner without knowing how to keep her listeners listening. “If all them folks just want

to hear your voice, it won’t take you shouting into a megaphone standing in the back of a

pickup truck with me at the wheel. All the toys we need are right here.”

And with that, a host was bom. To this day Mrs. Libby jokes that she got tired of

telling all her friends over and over what a special guy I was, so she gave me my own

show to buy herself some free time.


33

The show was called “Hitch’s Happy Hour” and I was on for two hours each

weekday evening. Optimism wasn’t the name of this game. The sentiment was there, we

just didn’t bother qualifying it. Mrs. Libby knew demand was high, so she wasted no

time hustling me into my new slot. With no more direction than to do what I’d been

doing, calls were very informal, like listening in on a conversation from the comer booth

at Shep’s. There wasn’t much of a format.

Everyone was pleased, myself included. Call volume exceeded capacity so I took

appointments each afternoon before going on the air. That way I was sure the folks who

really needed to talk were the ones who got to talk.

During school I still managed a few hours each week, but when college came I

could only moonlight. Even though I was still in town (Saunders College), school dished

out plenty of work to keep me busy.

With the little optimism-training I’ve had and with my career path seemingly

paved at that point, you could optimistically guess that I studied radio. I’m so, so sorry to

have to say this, but I actually studied engineering, mechanical to be exact. Now wait,

wait, don’t empty your glass half full until you hear me out. Being wrong doesn’t make

you a bad optimist. I’m wrong all the time. Heck, just because I haven’t used my degree

a lick doesn’t mean it was a bad decision. I studied engineering because I was good at

math and science, and why wouldn’t I choose something I excelled in? I like movies as

much as the next guy, but I don’t have the eye to make them so I didn’t consider it as a

career. While I like solving concrete problems with math and science, when it came to

making a career of it I realized I preferred people to textbooks. We’re amazing creatures.

Just look at me typing: if I had to figure out how to get my words up onscreen, it would


34

involve an old TV and a dry-erase marker, so it’s lucky for us some clever biped thought

up a computer.

When I finished school I was a top prospect in my field. Unfortunately it wasn’t

the field I’d studied. My listeners counted down my four years in school like a hungry

bear waiting for the rest of his family to wake up form hibernation, and come graduation

I was faced with a Catch-22 so big I called it my Catch-23. I wanted to stay in

Bontemps. I was happy here, my friends were here, and I knew everyone’s names. But

Bontemps is a town with one of everything. It’s like a biosphere; we have exactly what

we need to get by.

My return to the airwaves was front page news in the Good Times Gazette. I

guess it was a slow news day.

With so much talk about how I got here, you must be wondering how on earth

optimism joined the party. Since this go around was no trial run, Mrs. Libby and I spent

a lot of time making this go a little cuter. The more appealing we were, the more

listeners we’d have and the more people I’d help.

My first tour of duty went great, but now I’d have to fill four primetime hours,

and “The Listening Show” was too passive a pitch for the long haul; Mrs. Libby was

looking for a more market-friendly approach with a clever catch phrase. Anyone can sit

and listen. I needed to offer new listeners something others couldn’t, a fresh perspective

(to sneak in a cliche).

We weren’t looking to change the product so much as its packaging, and by our

fourth or fifth brainstorming session lightning struck. We’d come up with a handful of

ideas that were a little too catchy. “Get Hitched” sounded too nuptial, “Son of a Hitch”


35

too PG-13, and “Hitch a Ride” too dangerous. In the middle of this meeting we were

interrupted by Mrs. Libby’s weekly ratings call. She always got the most important

numbers over the phone. She scribbled a few things in her notebook, and finished by

putting one number on its own sheet of paper, circling it and tearing it out. She hung up

and put it between us.

“Ninety-one’s pretty great,” I said with a smile.

“Ninety-what?” She didn’t return my smile.

“Ninety-one.”

I pointed at the number on the paper and she looked at it.

“Well, looky there, it’s upside down.” She spun it. “It says ‘sixteen,’ Hitch, and

it’s our market share during your timeslot. We do need to improve, but ninety-one!

Geez, that’s probably overoptimistic.”

“Oh, stop, Lizzy, surely you don’t believe in such nonsense.”

I’d like to paint a pretty picture in which we share a silent moment, each of us

knowing what the other’s thinking as crafty smiles conquer our faces. Instead, Mrs.

Libby’s light bulb blinked on and she said, “No, but if I did, you’d be my Kris Kringle.”

We had our spiel. We had a heck of a time coming up with it, even though it

sounds like an obvious choice. My glass is always half full, but to call my glass the only

half full glass in all of Bontemps would be a joke worth telling, because people would

laugh. Since we weren’t developing a comedy hour, we called my show, “The Glass

Five-Eighths Full.” We thought it set me apart nicely.

Optimism breeds confidence, but despite being convinced the show would do

well, my first few shows were shaky. I was a little rusty, and I quickly learned there’s a


36

fine line between optimism and utter foolishness. It’s not as easy as telling people what

they want to hear. If someone’s having a sugar cube sculpture competition over in

Central Park tomorrow afternoon and the forecast calls for rain, I can’t very well tell

them gray skies are gonna clear up. Before optimism, my goal was to cheer folks up, but

I was no longer a naive, young kid having fun with his new toy. This was my career and

I was expected to make a snap difference in these callers’ lives, plus the lives of who

knows how many others listeners, and if that’s not pressure then the meaning of life’s not

happiness. There’s time for an all-nighter with something like homework, and as much

as I’d like to think everyone in the area catches every minute of every show, which would

make it more deliberation-friendly, the numbers don’t back that up.

I had a label to live up to now. I wasn’t “Hitch,” I was the “professional

optimist.”

The most troublesome call I remember was one poor man, Mr. Jacoby, who’s

about the gentlest creature I’ve ever met. His wife, the woman from the ice cream

incident, was out and about running errands, errands and more errands. Since the two

retired from being Bontemps’ co-head librarians, he spent most of his days sitting on

their front porch offering fresh strawberries to passersby and she zipped around town

making daily stops at the grocery, bakery, gas station, hardware store and wherever else

caught her eye. It was like they wanted to be extra-sure nobody forgot them, even though

they no longer checked our books out.

Mr. Jacoby called my show minutes after drinking a glass of milk. He told me

that it wasn’t until after he finished it that he noticed the expiration date on the carton

said the 8th. Today was the 9th.


37

“Were the Mrs. home,” he explained, “she’d have had me calling Dr. Oglesby

before the tiniest molecule of Calcium got anywhere near my bowels. But I’ll tell you,

Happy, that seems a little extreme right about now, and I don’t think a cup of milk’s

worth getting poked and prodded over, do you?”

Now, I’ve never had any medical training so it’s not my place to be playing

doctor, and that was my first mistake, but just like Mr. Jacoby said, it all sounded so

innocent. Heck, I’ve done it dozens of times. I’ll sometimes pour two or three day old

milk over my Glucose Grahams; the sugar hides any sour aftertaste that may or may not

be there.

“How’d it smell, Joe?” I asked.

“Well, okay I guess. I sure didn’t recognize anything out of the ordinary.”

“Then it must have tasted okay, huh?”

“I suppose I’ve had better, but I suppose I’ve also had worse.”

“I think in all likelihood that milk wasn’t so bad, and I think you’ll probably be a-

okay for years to come. Worst case, if your tummy feels upset, just give Dr. O a call or

head on over to Washtenaw County General and they’ll take care of you in a jiff. In the

meantime, if you’re sure to eat the stuff you usually eat, your body might not know if that

milk was supposed to expire yesterday or twenty days ago.”

It turned out that the milk was supposed to expire thirty days ago, and the worst

case was that Mr. Jacoby contracted a bacterial infection that put him in the hospital for

nine days, and after those nine days they declared him dead, only to revive him minutes

later. The milk’s expiration date was indeed the 8th, but unfortunately it was the 8th of


38

last month. Apparently Mr. Jacoby was a little more senile than we thought. And his

sense of smell had left him years ago.

As you might expect in a town that can be crossed by foot in under an hour, it

didn’t take the front page story in the Good Times Gazette to spread word of “The Glass

Three-Eights Empty.”

Forgiveness is, of course, a virtue, and this virtuous town of ours ultimately

forgave me. There was a lengthy on air apology, and I got so carried away it ended up

lasting two commercial free hours. I insisted Mrs. Libby deduct the lost revenue from

my paycheck.

But you know what? Everything turned out to be a-okay. If he hadn’t gone to the

hospital, his doctors might not have realized he wasn’t taking the correct dosage of one of

his medications, and they might not have corrected it before something really bad

happened. Drinking that milk was about the best thing that could have happened to my

good friend Mr. Jacoby, and before we knew it, he was back to being the same old Mr.

Jacoby who’d checked out James and the Giant Peach to yours truly no less than thirty-

seven times.

Mr. Jacoby’s health was without question my only concern, but the show turned

out a-plus-okay too. Controversy’s been known to stir the spot, and though I hate to

think the ratings spike we got was caused by that mess, it probably didn’t hurt. But those

listeners who jumped on board hoping for a train wreck stuck with us through thick and

thin, and I’m happy to report we’ve had mostly thin times since then.


39

Any optimism training I got was on the job. If I have to teach myself to feel a

certain way, those feelings won’t be sincere, they’ll be manufactured. I knew from day

one I was an optimist. The shoe fit, but it still took some breaking in.

Where I’m sitting, optimism is the attitude that makes you happiest. Too many

people mistakenly think us optimizers only focus on the bright future, but if I’m driving

down Pickle Avenue, no matter how optimistic I am I can’t suddenly be on Plum Ave.

It’s just not realistic. The best thing about optimism is that it’s infectious, just like

smiles, and that’s where I come in. I can’t change how things are, but I can change how

things are perceived. It’s not advice so much as interpretation. I’m like a U.N. translator.

And then three years later I was fired from my job as a professional optimist.

Geez, I’m really sorry, Lenny. I’m getting a little longwinded here about better

times. It’s hard to focus on the here and now since the here and now’s not so happy-go-

lucky, but we’ve got to do it, so let’s.

Remember the secret I mentioned in the introduction? When I heard that I was

ecstatic, and the reason I was ecstatic was because I was optimistic.

This was fifty-seven days ago. I remember what day it was because it was the

first day I ever had a girlfriend, and I wanted to be sure and remember anniversaries

th th(while I may not put a lot of weight in the 365 day of something compared to the 366 , 1

know girls, and especially girlfriends are especially keen on the 365th day, and I wouldn’t

want to jeopardize an entire friendship on principle).

Her name’s Rosie, we were the same year at Bontemps High and both went to

Saunders College, but only recently became close friends. She’s recently been appointed


40

director of HR at Nature’s Candy. The position kept her well abreast of the inner

workings of the company and she was privy to plenty of top-level info.

What happened was after one Picnic in the Park, a monthly gathering I hosted at

Central Park, Rosie was there with her parents and thought she recognized me. After the

broadcast portion of the picnic finished she said she enjoyed the show and her parents

were nice enough to invite me to dinner at their house that night. Rosie and I got along

well, and Rosie said we should do it again, and we did, but this time it was just the two of

us on a running date. Running is healthy and romance is healthy, so it seemed like the

thing to do.

During our run, we had this conversation:

HER

Everyone at Nature’s Candy is on edge, it’s

awful.

ME

It’ll turn around, and I don’t just say that as

an optimist. This whole town’s behind you

all.

HER

I wouldn’t go that far, but we’ve got a new

product brewing that should help.

ME

Did you crossbreed some kind of new fruit?


41

HER

No, but it is new to the industry.

ME

Tell me, tell me, tell me.

HER

Come on, Hitch, most of our employees

don’t even know it.

ME

Aw, you don’t trust me?

HER

I didn’t say that.

ME

Tell me, tell me, tell me.

I’m not usually so childish, but even I was starting to wonder about Nature’s

Candy’s rebound possibilities? Even if you’re convinced something will happen, every

day it doesn’t you grow a little more skeptical, and my one-hundred-percent conviction in

their recovery was starting to decay like a fossil losing its carbon content. Call me an

obsessive optimist, but I needed that one-hundred-percent conviction. It was getting

harder and harder on my radio show to convince callers that their NAT stock would

swing back skyward, and even if I couldn’t share the secret, I could share the confidence

that resulted from it.

HER

You can’t tell anyone.


42

ME

Can I tell you?

HER

Only me. Okay, it’s called Frosted Fruit.

Catchy name, I thought. Good for business. I liked it already.

ME

It’s a cereal?

HER

It’s fruit that’s been dipped in sugar. Like

the outside of a gumdrop.

ME

That’s the greatest idea I’ve ever heard.

HER

Thanks. We’re trying.

She smiled and said she was glad she’d told me. I made her feel better about it

because there were some skeptics. I told her it was all in a day’s work for a professional

optimist. Almost as important as learning Nature’s Candy’s plans was that she’d shared a

big secret like that. I had a full blown crush on her by then and I felt secret-sharing got

me across a bridge I’d never crossed, and even better was that after our run, we hugged

(our first!) and promised to see each other soon.

Holy heck!


43

Sorry I jumped ship so quickly back there, but I heard an abnormally loud

collision downstairs, and abnormally loud noises usually mean something’s wrong. It

could’ve been anything: a large chair falling over, a person falling out of a large chair, or

a large chair exploding.

I shouldn’t have said I was completely friendless. I live in a one-story house split

into two apartments. I got the upstairs, which I was thrilled about, when the old guy

who’s lived downstairs the last forty years and owns the place passed on upgrading. He’s

a retired doctor and my current landlord. People in town call him Dr. Universe, though

they rarely have to worry about calling him much of anything considering he rarely

leaves our place. He lets me call him Hilarious.

Dr. Hilarious Universe specialized in gastrointestinal medicine. Our local

hospital never had the budget for research, so Hilarious lived below his means and

funded his own extracurricular pursuits.

He’s the smartest person I’ve ever known, though it’s hard to say that for sure.

I’m amazed by our efforts to quantify everything we can, and even things we can’t. This

is the difficulty with accurately describing my world to you with mere words. I can tell

you Hilarious is one smart fella, but how smart is he? I could give you his IQ, but does

that really answer the question? It’ll tell you how book smart he is, sure, but it won’t tell

you how creative he is. Isn’t creativity a sign of intelligence? I’d say it’s more difficult

to create something out of nothing than to prove theorems about the way the world works

considering the world works the same after the theorem was proved. And practicality’s

the third side of the intelligence triangle, but some of the smartest, number crunching,

theory-of-relativity-knowing scientists I’ve met don’t even know their pants size, and


44

that’s why they’re the only people who know what their IQ is, because it only reflects

well on their type of intelligence. A housewife doesn’t bother testing her IQ, and you

never hear your car mechanic talk about how his IQ is 160, probably because he doesn’t

know and probably because it’s not that high, but who’s to say your car mechanic’s any

less intelligent than the guy who invented the toaster? Not me. Intelligence testing has a

long way to go before I’ll buy into a one number representation of anyone’s intelligence.

Suffice to say he’s well-educated.

People warned me my rent was so cheap because of “that bizarre character in the

basement,” and they insisted I look elsewhere, or at least crash in their guest bedroom for

as long as I needed. Hilarious and I ended up being a good fit because he was friends

with no one, I was friends with everyone, and everyone included him. Now we’re a good

fit because I’m the first town outcast since him.

While that last sentence sounds a tad harsh, if you think about it, it’s an amazingly

impressive stat considering it spans four decades, and it’s yet another testament to how

friendly Bontempsonites are. It’s also why I know my condition’s temporary: this

community barely furrowed a brow when a couple of armed bandits cleaned out

Piggybank’s Savings & Loan, so how could they possibly stay mad at little old well-

intentioned me.

Hilarious’s fallout with folks was personality driven. He’s never been too

receptive to the kindness of strangers, so when he first moved in and everyone within a

three block radius stopped by to welcome him home, it made him uneasy. Of course

Hilarious has also never been receptive to the ill will of others, he just prefers to keep to

himself. It’s his nature.


45

His social death sentence was handed down by Mrs. Shaughnessy, but it was all

an unfortunate misunderstanding. She brought him ajar of her county fair first prize

sweet pickles, “her specialty” she told him. Since his specialty was the GI tract, he

offered her a complimentary once over of her small intestines as a thank you. He was

kidding, but his delivery was all wrong and she thought he was getting fresh.

Hilarious’s empty social calendar didn’t bother him. In fact, it suited him nicely

because it meant he rarely had to get colloquial with people. Better yet, his patients

didn’t mind his sterile approach to work. Talking about waste removal didn’t inspire

much small talk.

The door between my place and his has a lock on it, but we’ve never used it. He’s

getting old, and, well, old things can happen anytime. As he constantly reminds me, “I

plan to do my deteriorating in a nice box six feet under, not in this microscopic box ten

feet under.”

I hustled down the stairs and into his apartment.

“Hilarious!”

“Hello, the good doctor welcomes Mr. Hitch.”

His voice sounded labored, but that’s how he always talks. It sounds like English

isn’t his first language, but he doesn’t have an accent and I know he doesn’t speak

anything else. He just picks and chooses his words carefully and has a dry vocabulary.

He also speaks only in the third person, because he says, “The good doctor does not trust

these pronouns. How is the good doctor supposed to know his listener knows what he

refers to if he does not just refer to it. This is easier.”


46

Anyhow, he was tip top, and he was stacking his non-perishables. He leaned over

the spill and give me a high five, his usual greeting for me. He was just old enough that

he was starting to show his age, so the five we shared was gradually lower for me each

time, and since he’s short and stocky to begin with, these days he can barely reach up

past my chest. When his prescription changed last year, his glasses were so thick they

looked bulletproof and they made his eyes look startlingly large. Speaking of scientists,

don’t you find it odd that Einstein had an afro. Why would he waste valuable science

time doing his hair up? Well, I’ve got an answer: he didn’t. Hilarious has the same

uniform, spiky hemisphere of white hair on his head, and I know for a fact he does zero

primping. It’s natural. He always wears O.R. scrubs, and on him they don’t look like the

casual, around the house attire worn by youngsters; he still thought of them as work

clothes and he wore the loafers to prove it.

Whatever you picture when you picture his non-perishables strewn across the

floor, multiply it by seventy-one and you’re close. Remember, I thought it might have

been all two-hundred pounds of Hilarious that hit the ground. The house we share is

modestly sized and was built almost one-hundred years ago. One-hundred years ago,

when people decided to build modestly sized houses, they rarely decided to include

basements, and when they did those basements were even more modestly-sized. If

Hilarious had ever gotten married, which he never did, he’d have had to move because

his place was too cozy for even the coziest newlyweds. It was little more than an average

room split into a kitchen a living area. My unit upstairs is at least twice the size of his,

and it’s plenty small on its own.


47

I stayed on the bottom step. To my right was his kitchen, which had a skinny

fridge, a skinny stove and a couple cabinets. The only table in his whole place was an old

elementary school desk. It came with a wooden chair and sat in the middle of his

kitchen. He kept the few dishes he had inside the desk.

To my left was what Hilarious referred to as his “research facility.” He has a

giant wooden desk. It’s the sturdiest thing he has and looks cartoonishly large against the

small wall on that side of the apartment. It’s where he does all his reading, writing and

calculating.

The far wall is where he keeps his “laboratory equipment.” There’s a book shelf

mounted near the ceiling with textbooks, medical journals, some beakers, graduated

cylinders, pipettes, and a Bunsen burner. Underneath was his “medical science pantry.”

It didn’t fit the traditional definition of a pantry, and on first look you wouldn’t guess

there was anything medical or scientific about it. It was all food, and it was usually

stacked five feet high from wall to wall. Cans and boxes of fruits, vegetables, grains,

pastas, cereals and most anything that mold and bacteria don’t fraternize with.

“Looks like your bomb shelter’s well-stocked,” I always joked.

“Mr. Hitch may one day be in need of a bomb shelter, and if that day should

come, Mr. Hitch will be a much happier Hitch if this experiment is a success.”

He’d been working on the same experiment since he first moved here. His goal

was to design a perfectly efficient diet, and by perfectly efficient he meant waste free.

“Why must humans put these compounds in their body if their body is only going

to end up rejecting them and spitting them right back out. Because it can be determined

the makeup of excretions,” he explained, “the good doctor must simply determine what


48

humans can ingest that will not cause the body to produce those substances, and then Mr.

Hitch and the good doctor will not have to concern ourselves with where to put the wash

closets in the mansion we will build.”

He plays doctor and patient and the whole thing consists basically of him

monitoring what goes in and what comes out.

“The good doctor is close, Mr. Hitch. One roll of toilet paper. That is all that I

have required for myself the last two months. Twice per week. That is the average of

how often I must flush my system of unneeded particles.”

“You know I’m pulling for you. I think you’ll figure it out.”

That put me in another minority. When word got out about the nature of

Hilarious’s work, he was a laughingstock. You can imagine the nasty names people

thought up, so I’ll keep them to myself. Maybe when Hilarious does figure it all out and

we can get rid of bathrooms, we’ll get rid of bathroom humor with it.

It defied my limited knowledge of physics, but the entire medical science pantry

had fallen over. It was chaos with a whisper of order. It looked like his apartment had

been flipped onto its side, with the neatly stacked food moving from their spot against the

wall to the floor.

“Let me help you clean this up.”

I leaned down from the bottom step and picked up some fallen food, carving a

path for myself between the stairs and the food’s rightful place.

“Mr. Hitch is a friend. The good doctor expresses his thanks. It brought the good

doctor great sorrow to learn that Mr. Hitch’s comforting voice would no longer be on the

radio box.”


49

“It’ll blow over,” I said.

“That is true. Those people and their Nature’s Candy must learn not to place

blame for problems they create themselves onto the shoulders of others. This means Mr.

Hitch will begin looking for more employment not with the radio?”

“No, no, not just yet. You know how some people get temporary employment?

He nodded.

“Well, this is my temporary unemployment. I really do hope and think I can

clean this up soon enough that I’ll be able to just go back to talking with my friends.”

“Those people, they are not Mr. Hitch’s friends.”

“Oh, stop.” I laughed. Hilarious was protective of me and I knew he enjoyed

trying to make me see the rest of town as the self-serving, unfriendly bunch of

antagonists he thought they were. “It’s a difficult time for everyone, and that doesn’t

always bring out the best in people.”

“It is not difficult to bring out the worst in these people.”

“Someday you’ll see them like I do.”

“This is not likely after forty years.”

“I know you think that, but I still think you don’t know them like I do.”

“You are right, the good doctor only knows their bottoms.”

He got a kick out of his joke and I got a kick out of him. We cleaned his place up

in no time. Before we said our goodbyes, he offered me a position as his assistant, “at

least until those foolish friends of yours screw their heads back on straight,” he said. I

politely declined but told him I would keep it in mind. I had a feeling “assistant” meant

test subject and I’ve got a sweet tooth that wouldn’t be happy with the Hilarious Diet.


50

He insisted I at least continue to drop by frequently. “The good doctor enjoys

your company, so perhaps that could fill some daytime.”

Can you believe so many people dislike him, Lenny?

Me neither.


DAY #3

Sorry it’s taking so long to get me fired, Lenny, but how do you think I’m doing

so far? Are you getting a good picture of what I’m describing? I’m still concerned I’m

not doing it justice. I don’t quite feel like I’m in total control of what you see when I say

something. Take this line for example: “I washed Mr. Elliott’s Mazda.” That could be

any kind of Mazda. Did you picture an old, beat up, two-door junker, or a brand new,

sporty convertible? Honestly, I don’t know cars too well, so I have no idea what model it

was, but I can say it was a newer car. Two doors. Mildly sports, but no spoiler. And it

was forest green.

See that? I just opened a whole new box of Problem Puffs. Forest Green could

be any number of shades. John Locke wrote a parable about a blind man who tries to

figure out what the color scarlet looks like. After interviewing people about it, he

concludes, “It is like the sound of a trumpet.” Huh? I sure hope you’re not blind, Lenny,

because telling you that Mazda’s paintjob was “like the sound of a trombone” wouldn’t

make me feel any more comfortable. I’m giving you as much detail as I see fit, but

there’s always more. I can tell you Hilarious said something “playfully,” but what about

when I talk to you? Should my descriptions have a tone? When I told you, “And with

that, a host was bom,” yesterday, should I have said, “And with that, a host was bom, I

say proudly,”? This is all very troubling. I can’t over think this or it’ll be day one-

hundred-six that we finally get to the end.

51


52

On that note, let’s get to the end today. Today we get to the end because

tomorrow I’m reacquainting myself with this beautiful town.

Okay, that felt good. I was getting worried my optimism might be in trouble.

You’ve been excellent company, I promise, and I’m sure I’ll need you around here for at

least a little while longer, but not having you around here-around here isn’t easy. I’m not

used to this recluse thing. I know it’s not for me, and I figure it’s high time I start putting

smiles back on the frowny faces in town.

I know we’ll get to the end, because how far we get is entirely up to me. I know

that to tell my story only requires I press my fingers against the right letter keys. And I

know that to get to the end only requires I press my fingers against a certain number of

letter keys. And I know that if I give it the effort and time I’m capable of today, I can

push the right letter keys the right number of times and get us to the promised land.

See? Optimism is that simple.

And optimism had been easy for me for seven whole years. We’d just celebrated

our anniversary with great fanfare (this was about seven weeks ago). We broadcast live

from a tent in Central Park all week, and the celebration culminated with a Friday night

party and concert open to the public. Wang Chung sang “Everybody Have Fun Tonight,”

and everybody did. It was the Wang Chung, too, not to be confused with their area cover

band, Wung Chang.

Obviously we weren’t celebrating how miniscule our ratings were; the show was

doing fantastic. Listenership didn’t waver much since leveling off at well over half of

everyone with a radio on. Everyone was thrilled, especially your trusty host.


53

I was even more thrilled with the results. Like any relationship, the more I talked

to my friends the stronger our friendship became. Those first few months we might have

only discussed little Johnny not doing his homework, but down the road we talked about

little Johnny’s learning disability. People were so candid we ended up investing in a

digital voice disguiser to hide our more sensitive callers’ identities, though I heard them

unfiltered. I always joked, “Didn’t you just call?” since everyone sounded the same, not

to make fun of them, just to lighten the mood.

The only drawback was that I was still constantly cornered in public to talk shop,

but this time it was to dig for dirt on who was calling about what, and on this I wasn’t

talking.

It was a ton of fun.

Before we get into my dicey times with the show, let’s linger a little. After all,

the more familiar you are with the show, the more familiar you are with me, and the

closer our friendship will be. I wish I could include the actual audio from the show, but a

transcript will have to do. You won’t be missing any physical descriptions of what the

caller was wearing and what they looked like because none of my listeners knew that.

Regardless, get a feel for it. You won’t very well understand how one show went bad if

you don’t understand how a show went well. One of my all-time favorite calls went a

little something like this:

ME

Happy Tuesday to you, caller.

CALLER

That you, H-Cubed?


54

ME

You bet. Is this who I think it is?

CALLER

It always is.

ME

You know what, I saw you out and about the

other day and you were looking fantastic.

You been hitting the gym?

CALLER

Aw, shucks, that’s awful nice of you.

ME

It’s nothing but the truth. So we know

what’s not bothering you, why don’t you tell

me what is on your mind?

CALLER

Okay, here goes. You’ve got to believe me

when I say I only ever had people’s best

interests in mind.

ME

And that’s all you should have in mind. But

where’d it go wrong?

CALLER


55

It’s my daughter. You see... she’s not really

my daughter. (SOBS)

Holy heck! Now that’s a primetime, made-for-TV-movie confession, and that’s

exactly why we got the voice disguiser. I might have known who it was, but nobody else

in town would, and under no circumstances would I be sharing.

ME

I’m your friend. You can talk to me.

CALLER

It all started years ago when my wife and I

got married. See, she already had a

daughter, but her daughter was still a

newborn. We met right after some jerk got

her pregnant and skipped town. A truer love

I’ve never seen, not even at the Super 4

Cineplex. I didn’t have reason one to

second guess raising the youngster of

another fella, but me and my lady spent

many a sleepless night figuring out what

exactly we’d tell the apple of our eyes. We

teetered and we tottered on it, but in the end

we decided it might just be easier if we told

her that I was her daddy. It didn’t even feel


56

so bad because daddy’s just a word, and I

was raising her like she was my own.

ME

And you’ve done a mighty fine job of

raising her.

CALLER

Yeah, well she may not be agreeing with

you pretty soon here. She’s ten-years-old

now, and a few weeks back she stumbled

upon some of the letters I’d written to my

special lady way back before she took my

last name. Girls will be girls, and we

certainly weren’t mad at her for taking a

peek. She thought it was real sweet at first,

but then she read a few lines about how I

couldn’t wait to raise her daughter and two

and two weren’t adding up to four if you

know what I mean.

ME

I follow you loud and clear.

CALLER

She goes crying to her mother asking what’s

what and who’s who, and her mom doesn’t


57

know what to tell her and says of course I’m

her daddy. They come to me and we stick to

our story that I’m her rightful dad and that

she shouldn’t let my funny use of language

let her think any differently. We didn’t want

her to lose faith in us. If she can’t trust her

own flesh and blood she’ll have no one.

Well, apparently we didn’t say exactly what

needed to be said and she did lose some

faith in us, and she demanded a paternity

test. Girls will be girls, and as you can

imagine, her mother and I weren’t happy,

and in our unhappiness we panicked and

took the test.

ME

Uhoh.

CALLER

That’s what I said. What’ll we do? What’ll

we say? If she was mad when she thought

we’d told her one little lie, what’ll she think

when she finds out we’ve been feeding her

lie after lie for the last month? I don’t think

I can save my family.


58

ME

It’s not too late, caller.

CALLER

It’s not?

ME

Does your daughter love you?

CALLER

She used to.

ME

Now you cut that out this instant. Deep

down in her heart, where it counts, does

your daughter love you?

CALLER

I suppose she does.

ME

Do you remember what Machiavelli said?

CALLER

Look at this neat ceiling I painted.

ME

Wrong guy, but Machiavelli said the end

justifies the means, and I couldn’t agree

more, so long as the means don’t harm

anyone, and in your case you acted in your


59

daughter’s best interests, you said so

yourself. And when she thinks about the

big, big picture, do you think she’ll

remember something that happened before

she popped into your lives, or will she

remember the guy who taught her how to

ride a bicycle? And helped her with her

math homework. And read her stories

before she went to bed, and made smores in

the family fireplace. She’s won’t think

about her genetics, she’ll think about

jumping rope with her dad.

CALLER

But she’s never jumped rope with her—oh, I

got you. I suppose you’re right. She’ll

forgive us eventually.

ME

If by eventually you mean in fifteen

minutes, then let me be the first to say I

couldn’t agree with you more. Talking to

her is a splendid idea.

CALLER

Now?


60

ME

You’re only halfway home. Focusing on

your positive past instead of worrying about

a future that hasn’t even happened is the first

step, and now all you’ve got to do is channel

that positive energy into taking control of

your situation. You agree that you have lots

of good things you can talk about with your

daughter, and the truth is the truth.

Nothing’s going to change between now and

two weeks from now. You’re the same

person you’ve always been and she’s the

same person she’s always been. I just don’t

see any reason to wait. Do you agree that

the daughter you know will realize you’re

still the dad she knows?

CALLER

Yeah.

ME

And does that make you feel better about

talking to her?

CALLER

Sine does.


61

ME

Caller, I don’t mean to sound like a name

caller, but you’re sounding like the expert

optimist in the room right now.

CALLER

You’re not half bad yourself. Thanks,

Hitch.

ME

Keep your head up and your glass half full.

With that problem solved I took the next call, but ten minutes later the first caller

called back. Listen in:

CALLER

Oh, Hitch, she wants to meet her real dad.

She’s crying and says she’ll run away and

find him if we don’t tell her where he is.

ME

Hmm, don’t like the sound of that. We

don’t want that, so here’s what we do. You

tell her that her father was a great war hero.

Before he left for war, he made you promise

to take care of his daughter like your own if

anything happened to him. Sadly, months

after she was bom, he was killed heroically.


62

CALLER

Which war?

ME

Just pick one. Remember: the end justifies

the means.

If there’s one thing an audience likes, it’s closure, and you’ll be thrilled to know

the story doesn’t end there.

The caller called back to tell us how their powwow went. It went fine, even better

than expected. Their daughter understood where they were coming from, and they all

agreed they could continue to be one big happy family. “A war hero?” she said.

“Awesome!”

A few days into the calm after the storm, they got a phone call from the paternity

test people. Dad told them they didn’t need the results, because everyone already knew.

“From the tone of your voice, I’m guessing you’re the father. Congrats,” was the

response he got.

Scientists, sit tight, this isn’t a case refuting the fact that everyone has unique

DNA. It’s not even a case of a long lost identical twin or a drunken hookup. I’d say it’s

an optimist’s dream, except it really happened.

Before they met, Mr. and Mrs. Caller were middle-aged and lonely. They were

all but convinced they’d be spending the rest of their solitary lives in the comfort of their

own homes in the company of their pets. The future Mrs. Caller decided her guest

bedroom needed a guest, so she tracked down an area sperm bank and was inseminated

with a sample of those squiggly characters.


63

Shortly thereafter she met Mr. Caller, but years before Mr. Caller decided his

squiggly characters were going to waste, and that if he couldn’t find someone to raise a

child with him, he could at least help someone have a child without him, so he tracked

down an area sperm bank and donated a sample of his squiggly characters.

When the future Mrs. Caller met Mr. Caller, she regretted her desperate decision

and figured she was taking the easy way out by giving a more generic, normal scenario.

Mr. Caller likewise was thrilled with the chance to raise a child, but didn’t see any reason

to mention his desperate act.

His desperate act had also happened a long time ago. Apparently they can freeze

the stuff forever, and Mr. Caller’s stuff wasn’t a New York Times bestseller. Mrs. Caller

picked his squiggly characters based on his short bio, which described a man she might

one day like to meet.

The best part of the story is that they didn’t even need such an outrageous stroke

of luck; they put their lives in order with a new attitude and a new approach using tools

they already had.

That’s some payoff, huh? Most calls don’t pack quite the punch that gem did, but

each one comes with its own special something. Heck, if they were all like that one I’d

have been nationally syndicated years ago (and there would be lots more drama in Lake

Bontemps—most talks lack the gravity that one had, like helping Mrs. Phelps feel

confident that she was taking the quickest route to work).

That notwithstanding, we had a lot to celebrate after our first seven years, and the

timing was perfect because folks needed a reason to celebrate with Nature’s Candy funk

we still hoped would prove temporary.


64

With all their baggage stowed on the same bus, even a small speed bump feels

like driving into a brick wall. So who do people turn to when the slide of life feels like

it’s lined with sandpaper?

Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner: the optimist.

That’s where optimism gets tricky. It’s not a guarantee, it’s a mentality. It takes

the same info everyone has but draws different conclusions. Politics shouldn’t play a part

in it. I never considered telling people to sell shares in Nature’s Candy because that

would have been bad advice and bad for morale, not because it would have been

unpopular advice. It would have said, “Let’s give up, we’ve lost faith,” and things

weren’t quite that bad. Folks were more concerned with what might happen than what

already happened. Nature’s Candy had done so well for so long they were easily scared

by the company’s fiscal hiccup. They just wanted to reverse current trends.

It was a big enough concern that we reached a point where all my calls on the

show were variations of the same question.

“Why isn’t Nature’s Candy doing as well as it was?”

“What can I do to help Nature’s Candy rebound?”

“Should I be nervous that my kid’s college tuition is starting to look more in state

than out of state?”

“Help, Hitch!”

I felt like a professional sports coach: how can I give slightly different pep talks

before a hundred games and expect them to keep working? If I mix it up too much, I’d

be inconsistent. But if I play like a broken record, it’s bad radio.


65

I made sure everyone remembered that it was our friends and neighbors running

Nature’s Candy, and we trust our friends and neighbors, don’t we? I made sure everyone

realized that even the best of the best hits a lull every now and again. And I made sine

everyone remembered that the only reason Nature’s Candy got where it was is because of

the support of the community, and that they just might need a big boost from all of us to

get back on top.

Still, as powerful as optimism is, I only managed to dull the pain. I felt like I was

using Tylenol® to cure a broken leg: the pain went away for a little bit, but it still hurts

when you wake up the next day.

I still couldn’t tell you exactly why I said what I said. Maybe I’d grown tired of

spinning my answers ever so slightly to say the same thing again and again and again. Or

maybe I thought people weren’t getting the help they needed from me if they kept calling

with the same problems. Whatever it was, I shouldn’t have done it.

Hmm, I’ve got a little problem here. My clock just played its digital rendition of

“When You Wish Upon a Star,” which means it just struck midnight and tomorrow just

became today.

For us it means we didn’t get to the end. Or more specifically, / didn’t get to the

end. We’re right there, too. I mean, literally the next sentence is, “This is exactly how I

got fired.”

I won’t lie (heck, I could have just finished all this tomorrow and said it was still

today and you’d have been none the wiser, but I can’t very well expect us to stay friends

if I don’t respect the pen pal-ish nature of our relationship), I’m disappointed.


66

I’d like to push through into the wee hours of the night so I can stay on schedule

and go public tomorrow, but it’s already getting late for this one and the story would

suffer. I can’t imagine it makes much different to you anyway. It’ll end up being the

same number of pages, you’ll just have to negotiate another chapter break. If it kills

continuity, keep on keeping on and pretend it’s not there. If you need a break like me,

take as long as you want. Sleep on it.

But, surprise, surprise, I don’t think our delay’s necessarily a bad thing. A little

more time couldn’t hurt, especially if it means getting the story right, not to mention

giving my friends more time to look past the past.


DAY #4

It was bound to happen. I’ve got a beastly case of writer’s block today. You’ve

got to believe me when I say I can barely manage a sentence. Here’s a sample: Getting

fired left me feeling like I had third degree bums over my entire body.

One, it’s a touch dramatic, and two, it’s insensitive to bum victims. Since two

wrongs are worse than one wrong and a lot worse than no wrongs, I deleted it.

It’s a good thing writer’s block is an everyday thing (well, we wouldn’t be too far

if it was every day, but you know what I mean), or I’d be feeling a touch inadequate. I’m

sure I won’t need the “Backspace” key nearly as much tomorrow. Seems like that’s all I

did today. I woke up per my usual bright and early routine (I’m an early riser—sunshine

brightens my day so I hate missing an ounce of it), but skipped my morning run for the

fourth straight day. I didn’t, however, skip the personal breakfast buffet I make myself

every day. I have a hard time deciding what I want when I know there are so many

fantastic options. I hate pouring milk over cereal flakes because cereal flakes make me

think of cereal flake-encrusted French toast, which makes me think of a nice, sizzling

piece of turkey bacon dripping with homemade maple syrup. By the time I realize I

already have a restaurant-quality bowl of cereal, my flakes are soggy and breakfast

becomes breakslow.

My buffet starts with a half bowl of cereal. Follow that with half a banana, then

67


68

one egg and one piece of bacon, and my grand finale is one piece of French toast, one

waffle, or one pancake. Think I was going to say and there? Come on, I’m not a glutton.

Oh, but don’t forget half glasses of OJ, milk and hot cocoa.

I gingerly tiptoe my way through the whole operation because I don’t want to

wake Dr. Universe. It probably looks humorous to passersby, like I’m breaking the rules

of some fancy diet to make a feast of deceit.

Going to non-buffet restaurants with me frustrates some because I tend to be the

deliberating/question-asking type, but if I don’t do it I feel like an explorer making a car

trip from Michigan to Kentucky with people who refuse to stop in Indiana; I know there’s

lots of great stuff within reach, but outside forces prevent me from enjoying all these

wonderful options. It’s a cheat.

I’ve spent so much time writing from my room I haven’t stopped to take a look

around and give you a tour. It’s a triangle. Imagine a big house. Now imagine that

house with everything below the roof line removed and that’s what our place looks like.

We live in a roof. The slanted sides are shingled like any roof, and the flat front and back

are made of aluminum siding. Instead of a chimney we have a lightning rod so the house

doesn’t get struck. Walking in the front door puts you in my kitchen, the fridge and stove

to your left and a small dining table for two to your right. Six lengthy strides puts you in

my living room (our house is foyer-free), where I have a loveseat, a coffee table made

entirely of coffee mugs glued together and a small AM/FM radio that sits on the floor in

the comer. I don’t have a TV, because they’re visual distractions, and a gathering’s not a

gathering without companionship. A movie theater full of people can’t be called a


69

gathering because if you went over and started chatting up a stranger across the room,

they’d call you a jerk.

A stereo’s a gathering enhancer. I use it to set the tone of my happenings. If I’m

having some intellects over for a fancy dinner gathering, some light guitar work keeps the

conversation high brow. If it’s tea for twenty with my girl friends, classical times keep

the mood friendly.

There are two doors on the right wall, one to a bathroom and the other to a closet.

The closet is filled with mostly folding chairs and card tables that I like to use as often as

I can to host social soirees.

The door to my bedroom is in the ceiling. It looks like a trap door, and it swings

down and a ladder folds out from it when I want to go up there. Given the shape of the

house, my room is triangle shaped and feels like a long, tall tent. The door opens in the

middle of my floor, and my twin bed’s on one side of it with a dresser on the other. The

dresser doubles as my desk, and a simple, old-fashioned (at least five years old) computer

monitor and key board sit on it. It’s where I’m sitting right now type, type, typing away.

Luckily I have an extra-large skylight, so my good friend Sunny Shine keeps me

company while I’m quarantined in here. I rarely spend much time in my bedroom.

Usually I’m either cooking myself a multi-course meal or entertaining guests.

Most people claim the quality of a home is proportional to the number of square

feet it boasts, but for my dollar, my place is perfect. If I had any more room I wouldn’t

know what to do with it.

That notwithstanding, I had a brilliant interior design idea to make it feel bigger: I

covered the walls in mirrors. You know how when there’s a mirror in front of you and a


70

mirror behind you it looks like you’re standing in a never-ending hallway? Turns out the

effect also works if there are mirrors everywhere. It was disorienting at first to see

thousands of reflections of myself out of every comer of my eyes, but once I got used to

it I loved it. It looks like my living room stretches six miles.

Today I sat at my desk until mid-afternoon. It felt like I was trying to do a paint-

by-numbers after going color blind, and by lunch I felt like I was completely blind. Of

all the stories I can tell, mine should be easiest, right?

Hilarious came up for a visit after listening to me pace back and forth and back

and forth for at least an hour, and he gave me some encouraging words. He said, “If

things are always looking up, as Mr. Hitch says, things will not always see where their

feet are going, and sometimes these things will need to look down and see their feet to be

sure they know where they are going to.”

So true! They don’t just make anyone a doctor, eh?

Hilarious offered to cook me dinner. All of his meals are drinkable, but they

aren’t diet shakes or artificial stuff like that. It’s real food. He thinks part of the reason

our bodies produce so much waste is because we have to work so hard at digestion. In

pureed form, it’s all ready for absorption into our body. I’m not sure it’s necessarily fine

dining per se, but it has its advantages. Us clumsy eaters don’t have to worry about peas

dribbling off our forks onto the floor. You also don’t need to invest in plates or

silverware. The biggest adjustment is if you want to savor the taste of a particularly

delicious dish, you kind of have to swish it around in your mouth for a while, like

mouthwash. It’s the closest you can come to chewing.


71

Chef Universe introduces his nightly menu by putting three or four full glasses of

curiously colored liquids in front of me and saying something to the effect of, “This glass

has your fruit and your vegetable selection. This one has protein and dairy servings. The

third includes some egg, grains and more vegetables. The last is for the beverage.” He

never shares his exact recipes. “It’s not a matter of trust,” he says, “it’s the difficult

process of protecting intellectual property.”

He always calls the next day to ask how things settled. I’ve never noticed any

difference, but I try to keep his spirits up. “Next meals on me considering all the toilet

paper you’re saving me.”

Our dinner this evening was cut short (I’m sure I missed a nice dessert drink) by

my phone ringing. I had a decent idea who it was before I answered. Since most of the

people I know live in town, I guessed it was the exception: my folks.

Finer people than ma and pa Hocumb you won’t find. They’re classic

Bontempsonites, having worked all their lives at Nature’s Candy (she was a shipping

coordinator and he a foreman in the loading area) and they’d most certainly have had a

more traditional response to my firing (i.e. curse words, grudges, depression) had I told

them about it. I didn’t because they’d just worry and there’s no sense in burdening their

retirement with my problems, which amount to nearly nothing anyway.

My parents were never optimists. I’d describe them as practicalists; they’re

rational and strive to always make sense. Because they never let themselves get too

optimistic or too pessimistic, you can count on them to make educated decisions. Even

during hard times, like when my grandparents passed away, my parents calmly helped


72

plan their funerals, we hopped in the car, drove a day to see them and came back. My

parents steel reserve never wavered.

It’s not like they could do anything, seeing how they live way out in Fort Karl.

Two years ago they retired and shipped off to the big city a couple hours down the road.

“Big” is speaking relative; it’s much smaller than any of New York’s five boroughs, but

it’s still much larger than our spot here, and they said they’d need more to do during the

forty extra hours of free time they suddenly had to fill each week.

“Son, what the daisy is going on with Nature’s Candy?” It was Mom.

“I’ll tell you what’s not up: Nature’s Candy.” That was Dad. They’re big

speakerphone fans.

These days, their calls didn’t differ much from calls in to my show. Much of their

retirement was still invested in Nature’s Candy.

“You and I know they’ll turn things around.”

“Regardless of what will happen,” Dad said, “we’re concerned with what is

happening, so we pulled out.”

“What? Mom, you didn’t.” Dad had always been a kidder, but he always gave

his jokes away with his lively laugh, the kind that oftentimes drowns out the punch line.

He didn’t laugh after his last comment.

“We’re retired, son.”

“And we plan to stay retired. Roger Hocumb is not going back to the docks.”

“But these are your friends and family we’re talking about.”

“And they’re good people,” Mom said.


73

“It’s a handful of people a little further north on the chain of command over there

who are causing the problem.”

“So you’re giving up?”

“Keep your pants on, boy, we haven’t given up on anyone or anything. We--“

“Sure have a funny way of showing your support.” I was a little angry when I

said that.

“If you won’t stop jumping to conclusions and hear us out so you can steadily

stroll to more informed conclusions,” Dad said, “we’ll call you back when you’re ready

to do a little more listening and a little less of that talking you’re known for.”

“But you’re choosing money over—“

For a millisecond I hoped the click I heard was a Morse code dot, but true to dad’s

word they hung up.

I understood when they left town to retire; they’d lived here their whole lives and

still made it back almost every week, so it wasn’t like they were gone-gone. Nature’s

Candy helped them avoid tough times, the least they could do is return the favor, but

honestly it didn’t surprise me. They’d always been more practical, hard nosed realists

than I, and it had rustled the leaves on our family tree before, most notably when I turned

on four years of engineering in favor of optimism. “All that for nothing?” Dad asked.

“Engineering’s sure to provide stable work from now until forever, but that’s not good

enough?”

I explained my decision at great length. On top of optimism’s people appeal,

engineering lacks the individuality I wanted. With an engineering problem, I used

proven equations to find exact answers, and when my answers matched up with the ones


74

in the back of the book, it was thrilling. I’d done it right. I’d done a good job. I was

one-hundred-percent correct. But most of my classmates also got the answer in the back

of the book, so what did it matter if it was me in that engineer’s chair or someone else?

Dad still didn’t exactly understand, but at least he stopped bugging me about it. And the

success of my radio show eased his and Mom’s concerns.

My phone rang again in the time it takes an older man to hang up and push ten

buttons. Dad’s a real message sender. As he says, “If it’s worth saying, it’s worth

doing.”

I answered. “You’re choosing—“

He hung up. Apparently it was worth doing twice. This time he must have

counted to ten before calling back.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“We’ve saved ourselves a few hundred dollars in the last two days alone,” mom

said.

“We’re not giving up, we’re taking a short-lived vacation,” dad said. “Just like

you said, we have unquestioned confidence they’ll fix this sugar coat mess and turn

things around, and when that day inevitably comes we’ll be right back beside them.”

“Even you can admit that things are looking a lot worse now than they were when

things were looking bad,” mom added.

“A little patience never hurt,” I told them.

“But too much Nature’s Candy has given us quite the bellyache the last few

days,” mom said.


75

What a cheese ball. Even I had to laugh at that and my parents joined in the tun.

I told them they better get back in with a quickness or their craftiness would end up

costing them. They pooh-poohed my confidence and assured me that they had nothing

but the best of intentions and that there’d be a huge celebration not too far down the road,

which they would attend, in honor of Nature’s Candy’s mind-boggling recovery. I told

them they better be there and we gave our love and said we’d talk soon.

I took my parents to be of better faith than everyone else. They’re the last people

I’d have expected to jump ship. It’s troubling.

Their outlook notwithstanding, I guess I did end up getting a few words on the

page today. That’s good news. But tomorrow it’s back to business. I don’t care if I have

to squeeze twenty-eight hours of work into one day.


DAY #5

Well, I’ll do my best to keep yesterdays to a minimum. That was no fun for either

of us, Lenny.

For some reason, leaving the house still doesn’t feel like the thing to do. I’m a

little nervous. Nature’s Candy is struggling more than even the pessimists in town

thought it could. My stomach’s a good indicator of how it’s doing, and every morning I

pick up my Good Times Gazette it sinks a little further. They say some folks might be

losing their jobs soon (they don’t mention that one already has). I hope I didn’t start a

fad.

My ax started dropping weeks ago, and it was a sluggish process. Like a

guillotine dropping through high quality molasses. It started with a call into my show

that I was all too familiar with. Unfortunately I didn’t give my all too familiar response

that day. It went like this:

CALLER

Happy Hitch, I’m a Gloomy Gus.

ME

Well shucksters, ma’am. I know that voice.

CALLER

Oh, you always do, you clever, clever man.

76


77

ME

Of course I’ll keep your identity hush-hush,

but I saw you out at the movies last week,

and I’ve gotta say you were looking mighty

fit. Is that diet you must be on working as

well as it looks like it is?

CALLER

My, what a nice fella you are. And here I

was thinking of starting a diet. Thank you,

that’s sweet.

ME

It’s only the truth, ma’am. Now what’s got

you gloomy?

CALLER

It’s the little engine that can’t. That

Nature’s Candy always could, and it did for

me and my whole family my whole life, but

both my husband and my raises this year

were a lot less than they were last year, and

my boss wouldn’t even hire our baby junior

for the summer. Said he didn’t have room

for him. They always had room in the past,


and it’s got us all a little scared. How

should we start preparing for the worst?

ME

Shoot, caller, you know me better than that.

I can’t very well tell you how to prepare for

something I don’t think will happen.

CALLER

But even you can admit it’s not looking

good.

ME

But it’s also not looking bad. You yourself

said you and the mister still have your jobs,

yes?

CALLER

Yes.

ME

And you both got raises this year, correct?

CALLER

Yeah, that’s right.

ME

And I’ll bet junior still got a summer job,

didn’t he?


79

CALLER

Well, no, that’s not entirely true. He ended

up taking a summer school course, which is

costing money instead of earning it.

ME

Two out of three’s a heck of a lot better than

zero out of three.

CALLER

I suppose, and that’s all fine and dandy, but

truthfully, it’s our retirement fund we’re

worried about. If we don’t do something

about it, and it keeps shrinking, I won’t be

able to retire until I’m one-hundred-sixty

years old, and I hate to sound pessimistic,

Hitch, but I don’t think I’ll last that long.

ME

Are you a regular listener, caller?

CALLER

You bet.

ME

Do you know what my reply’s gonna be?


80

CALLER

I know market fluctuations are as natural as

a baby’s collagen-free lips, and I know even

the best of the best have had some Scoops-

worthy dips, and I know those very same

proven companies rebound if investors have

the patience to give them a chance to, and

that all makes me feel worry free.

ME

As it should.

CALLER

But then I remember that Nature’s Candy is

not like all those other proven companies.

In economics we learned supply and

demand, and when demand goes down, the

only way to get it back up is to make your

supply look more attractive to potential

demanders. Nature’s Candy can’t do

anything to boost sales. All we can do is

bring in the best danged fruits and

vegetables the middle western part of this

fair country has seen, and by golly we’ve

been doing that for ages. And we can all


keep doing the above-average-to-excellent

work we do, but if our consumers up and

decide to stop eating our product, they’ll

stop buying our product, and there’s nothing

we can do about it, and then there’ll be

nothing we can do because we’ll all be

looking for jobs.

ME

My, oh, my. Out of all the calls I’ve gotten

on this touchy subject, you’d think one

person would’ve thought of that, but I’ve got

to tell you this is a first. You raise an

interesting question.

CALLER

It’s got me stumped.

ME

Well, let me ask you this: remember a

couple years back when the Friendly

Shopper considered opening a second store

here?

CALLER

That was a real ripe idea.


82

ME

But they’d never considered doing that

before. Why do you think they thought

about it all of a sudden?

CALLER

It got a little crowded until they added onto

it. There were too many people.

ME

And don’t you think that’s happening all

over the country? More people means more

mouths means more fruits and vegetables

needed to fill those mouths.

CALLER

But if people are eating less fruits and

veggies, it’s not going to be their kids who’ll

save us. Their kids’ll eat like their parents.

ME

What if those kids you’re talking about had

more options in the fruits and veggie

department?

CALLER

You mean like a new fruit?


83

ME

Not exactly, but what if they could choose

between a piece of fruit and a piece of

candy?

CALLER

Unless my kids are loony, they’ll pick the

candy every time.

ME

Bingo. Now what if they had to choose

between a piece of fruit and a piece of

candied fruit?

CALLER

You mean Nature’s Candy? Is that a pun?

You’re using that clever language you use, I

don’t follow.

ME

I happen to have recently been the

benefactor of a nugget of information that

just might be the piece of gold we’ve been

waiting for. All you skeptics out there

might be surprised to learn there actually is a

rather brilliant idea in the works, exactly like

they’ve said all along.


84

CALLER

You serious? I work there and I haven’t

heard a word about anything like this.

ME

I can’t make this stuff up. Now you’re

going to have to trust me on this one and

before you know it we’ll be throwing a high-

five party.

CALLER

Aw, Hitch, don’t tease me, tell me. I need

this. Do it for my kids, will you?

ME

You sure this is all it’ll take to cure what ails

you?

CALLER

Pretty please, Dr. Hitch. My lips are sealed.

Why was I going to do it? This was eight full days after Rosie spilled the secret,

so it wasn’t like I couldn’t keep a secret. I made a conscious decision to share it. If it

was a mistake, which I soon realized it was, it was a mistake of over-optimism, because

optimism and optimism alone made this decision. As an optimist, I knew what the secret

did to my attitude, and I also knew my listeners, because they weren’t optimists, would

have a tougher time improving their outlook, and sure enough the optimism I tried to

impart to them over the air wasn’t working. It would take more than that. The secret was


85

more than that. The secret would cure what ailed them. Remember, optimism’s little

more than an illusion, but Frosted Fruit was a reality.

Then there was the cost-benefit analysis. Obviously I knew this wouldn’t go over

well with Rosie. We hadn’t kissed yet, but we were hanging out every couple of days. If

I wasn’t her boyfriend already, I was at least a boy friend, and I knew she wouldn’t like

me going back on my word like this. She would be mad... at first. Right? When she

saw the massive improvement in morale that resulted, she’d realize it was a worthy

sacrifice, wouldn’t she?

Again, I was optimistic she would, but I never got a chance to find out. Here’s

what I said next:

ME

Frosted Fruit.

CALLER

Frosted Fruit?

ME

On fruits. And certain vegetables.

CALLER

Frosted Fruit. It’s brilliant.

ME

Isn’t it?

CALLER

You did it again, Hitch. People are bound to

want something more if it’s sweeter, and


we’ll have the sweetest produce these lips

have ever tasted.

ME

But you didn’t hear that from me.

CALLER

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

ME

The you-know-what, wink-wink, hush-hush

I just-- oh, I’m with you. What were we

talking about?

CALLER

I’m sure it wasn’t important.

ME

Never is. I guess I’ll hope to see you around

town soon, Janet, you and-- oh my gosh!

I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was

thinking.

JANET

That’s okay, Hitch. Just an innocent slip of

the tongue.

ME

Whew, thanks.


87

JANET

Mister, that is the last thanks I ever want to

hear leave your mouth. Leave the thanking

to me. You’ve saved our town.

ME

I did nothing of the sort. You keep your

head up and your glass half full, you hear?

JANET

You got it.

And there you have it. Voila. That’s it. Innocent enough, right? Well-

intentioned? Optimistic? Encouraging? Uplifting? All of the above?

You got it.

In the best interests of Nature’s Candy?

Apparently not.

Early returns looked fantastic. All our phone lines were busy the rest of the show

and everyone wanted to talk about how much better they felt. The time in town was

instantly peppier, like a marching band playing an encore of “When the Saints Go

Marching In” after a month long rendition of “Taps.”

“I never lost faith!”

“I always knew they had something crafty up their sleeves!”

“I sure am glad I stuck with them!”

“I just purchased a few hundred more shares!”

“We’ll all be millionaires a million times over!”


88

And that’s just a best of sampler. There were lots of exclamation points and lots

of about-faces. Our little town was saved! Or so we thought.

Our phone lines were so tied up that the Nature’s Candy execs who were

frantically trying to call in and tell us to zip our lips couldn’t get through. They heard

what we were talking about because someone in the loading area was listening to the

show and ran up to tell them what was going on. One of them tracked down Mrs.

Libby’s personal number and got a hold of her.

“Shut [him] up,” is the PG-version of what he said.

Mrs. Libby immediately drove to the station (our phone lines were still jammed)

to put this cease and desist order into effect. Without waiting for our next commercial

break, she cut me off in favor of a pitch for Barney’s Boxes (“Best boxes in town or your

money back!”). She told me what I already knew: we couldn’t talk about what we were

talking about on the air.

When we got back from commercial, I gave a roundabout explanation of the

hush-hush policy we would all have to follow with our newfound information. I said it

would be like a game, and if we all protected what we knew, everyone would be a

winner.

I insisted we finish the show talking about other matters, but nobody wanted to

change the subject. They kept raving about the “wink-wink” and “you know what.” I

didn’t even take a call during the last ten minutes because it was so difficult to find a

caller who was listening to me; I finished with a monologue about making good decisions

by being honest with yourself. In hindsight it was pretty ironic.


89

I had a restless night of sleep thinking about my error, and the next morning I had

to go straight to the station for an urgent rendezvous with a couple higher-ups from

Nature’s Candy. It turned out to be Mr. Pants, who was CEO, and his son, Thornton,

who had a CEO-in-training summer internship. Mrs. Libby was there too, and when I

walked into our meeting room her face was the only one sporting anything remotely

smile-like. Nature’s Candy’s executive office must observe dress-down Friday, because

Thornton and his dad both had on khakis and baby blue collared shirts with an “”nc” crest

stitched into the left breast. Thornton was only fourteen years old, so his outfit was

smaller. They usually wore suits.

The station’s meeting table only sat six at maximum capacity. We didn’t have

many big meetings. Thornton and Mr. Pants sat on one side of the table and I sat next to

Mrs. Libby across from them.

Mr. Pants started: “Without getting into the politics of the business, you’ve really

put us in a tight spot with that stunt you pulled yesterday, Mr. Hocumb.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I told him. “That wasn’t my intention. And you can call me

Hitch.”

“We know that you didn’t mean harm, and I do want to be clear that I very much

enjoy your program, and I know how important it is to people in town.”

I blushed. Flattery is an employee’s best friend. Mr. Pants was one of the few

people in town I’d never met, though I’d seen him speak at a few town-wide gatherings.

As you might imagine, he’s a very busy man, always on the go, on the phone, or on both.

He’s been CEO for almost ten years and until the last few months, he was considered one

of the best we’ve had. His reputation pegs him as being friendly but fierce. He knew


90

exactly how to make you his best friend, but if you upset him, he’d let you know it. He’s

like a gentle giant: you want him as your friend because he’s a nice guy, and you also

want him as your friend so he won’t squash you. I’d clearly upset him, and I was nervous

about being squashed.

“It’s nice of you to say such kind words. Please don’t squash me.”

“No one’s getting squashed here. You can’t exactly help me clean up this mess if

you’ve been squashed.”

Like any good CEO, he was right.

“Contrary to public opinion,” Mr. Pants said, “some secrets are secrets for good

reason, not because the secret keepers are stodgy old men. Even if one or two of them

are stodgy old men.”

He winked and I smiled for the first time that day. The smile relaxed me; I’d been

sitting straight up with my arms on the table, like a criminal strapped into an electric

chair.

“I don’t want you to think I’m one of these stodgy businessmen, and you’ll have

to excuse my vague corporate-speak, but timing is everything with big ideas, particularly

when speaking to competitors and marketing. The success of this big idea of ours that

everyone, thankfully, responded so favorably to last night could potentially be

jeopardized by early exposure.”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

The worst part was I knew I wasn’t supposed to say it for that very reason.

Callers kept pushing and pushing me and when push came to shove I didn’t stand up and

say no, I fell over. No’s such an ugly word I thought I might sneak by without it this


91

time. Deep down I thought it would help, and I thought it was the right thing to do, but

deeper down I knew I should’ve remained sworn to secrecy.

And honestly, what really cracked my nut was the name slip. That I still can’t

believe. It was the first time I’d violated a caller’s identity in all my seven-plus years.

I’ve got no well-intentioned excuse for that except that I made a huge mistake.

“I know you’re sorry,” Mr. Pants told me, “but the future has two inputs, the past

and the present, and we can only ever fix one of them. I’m confident one-for-two will do

the trick with this one.”

I liked his optimism.

The only part of the past he brought up was asking me who told me about their

sweet plan. I didn’t tell him who it was, but I’m pretty sure he already knew. He didn’t

push me very hard for an answer and my friendship with Rosie’s no secret. I imagined

she would be treated to a sit-down similar to mine. I’d need to apologize. And probably

make her favorite delicacy, my homemade fried PB&J.

Mr. Pants explained that he and the good folks at Nature’s Candy were already

handling the business side of things, and that I would commandeer the public. He told

me I was the perfect person for the job since I’m so liked by everyone. Again with the

flattery. I was starting to think we’d have this thing licked by that afternoon.

My role was twofold. He dubbed it “Whisper-Scream.” “Whisper” because for

the immediate future, silence would be crucial. Though I’d already mentioned keeping

things hush-hush on the show, I’d need to follow through and do whatever it took to keep

Frosted Fruit local.


92

Then when time came for Frosted Fruit to go public, I’d need to get people as

loud as possible, spreading word about the product far and wide.

Mr. Pants finished by telling me I had my work cut out for me, because our

operation was already off to a less than ideal start. Apparently my newsbreak was front

page worthy in the Good Times Gazette. The night before, he’d called Mr. Lisicky at the

Gazette and politely asked him not to run a story, and Mr. Lisicky reluctantly declined his

request. On top of being in news, and therefore being expected to report on the news,

which this clearly was, he shared my opinion that a little good news couldn’t be bad

news.

Word was out. I needed to get word back in.

I started with my show. I reemphasized the secret status of Frosted Fruit. I told

them if we didn’t work together to keep Frosted Fruit between us, it could cause

problems we non-business types wouldn’t understand. I also told them that just because

an idea sounds like a good one, a lot of things have to happen for it to become a good

idea, and it’s still too early to classify this one.

My audience understood and assured me they’d do whatever they had to do to

make this thing work, but they also didn’t buy my suggestion that this brilliant idea might

not pan out.

“Why the change of tune?”

“Forget to put on your optimism boots today?”

“Did that Mr. Pants talk to you?”


93

I dismissed their wild notions and insisted the situation required cautious

optimism; we wouldn’t go from this stinking situation to being stinking rich in a measly

week.

Everyone’s response was overwhelmingly coy, which in this case was a-okay.

Not only did they understand there were some things they might not understand, but they

treated it like a top-secret operation starring them as top secret agents. They had as fun a

time doing nothing as one could possibly have doing nothing, like relaxing after a long

day of work, working out or working out at work (a bodybuilder for example).

The only not so quiet change was that folks started snatching up more shares of

Nature’s Candy. It was amazing to think one little old day was all it took for them to go

from thinking about jumping ship to being all aboard. My little “stunt” drummed up so

much interest that Nature’s Candy’s stock price started climbing back towards more

familiar territory. I privately (and quietly) patted myself on the back, but it wouldn’t be

long before I was kicking myself.

You know how when someone comes out with a fantastic product, lots of very

similar, not quite so fantastic products soon follow? I’ll bet after the first pogo stick was

sold, within weeks shelves were lined with “Bouncy Bars” and “Spring-Loaded Jumping

Contraption With Handlebars” that didn’t pogo nearly as high as the originals. I’ll bet the

only reason someone thought up unicycles and tricycles was because someone else beat

them to the bicycle punch. It’s amazing nobody went as far as quadricycles and

quintocycles.


94

The reason such phenomena happen is because a good idea’s a good idea, and

good ideas make money, and businesses are in the business of making money, preferably

in large quantities. Intuitively, if something works, something similar will also work.

Fortunately for the original good idea makers, they’re protected by these things

called patents. They basically say that if you make something new that does something

new, anyone else who wants to make something that does the same thing will have to

make something that does the same thing a little differently.

BUT, and this is definitely a caps-lock worthy “but,” because this was something

I didn’t know, patents expire. After twenty years, uncreative types can profit from your

idea without making the slightest change. Seems kind of arbitrary, like a small pox

vaccine you can only get once, even though it only last a little while. Still, some

companies don’t warm to the idea of sharing their secret. Coca-Cola®’s secret recipe has

never been patented. God forbid someone accidentally leaves that in their back pocket

before doing laundry.

This basically amounts to a roundabout way of telling you someone patented

Frosted Fruit before Nature’s Candy. Not only would Frosted Fruit not be available as

soon as we’d hoped, it wouldn’t be available at all. Or at least for the next two decades.

Because they’re temporary, it’s in a patent filer’s best interests to wait as long as

possible to file; that way it’ll be in effect as long as possible. So Nature’s Candy

(consciously) hadn’t filed yet. They were confident they could keep Frosted Fruit under

wraps for a few more months. Oops.

You’d think people would have better things to do than spy on little old Nature’s

Candy, or at least I’d think so, and that would make me wrong. When The Ripe Stuff,


95

their primary competitor, heard about Frosted Fruit, they rushed a patent app down to the

USPTO. From what we understand, it got there two days before Nature’s Candy’s

arrived.

When The Ripe Stuff got their good news, they decided potential investors might

like to hear about it. The “Scream” part of my plan would’ve been lucky to outperform

their PR blitz.

Good news for competitors typically means not so good news for you. Stock

quantity purchased tends to reflect the quantity of goods and services purchased (which

begs the question why we even bother with the NYSE since it does virtually the same

thing), but unfortunately when people stop buying your goods and services the problem’s

not that people stop buying your stock, it’s that they start selling it.

Our local investors were among the few who didn’t unload their shares. Like I’ve

said, we’re a tight-knit bunch.

And just like that we were back where we started. Performance drops, Nature’s

Candy reps promising bigger and better changes on the way, performance drops more. It

sounds bad until you remember Nature’s Candy had already wasted thousands of dollars

in developing an idea they had to scrap, and that sounds downright awful.

The Glass Five-Eighths Full also experienced backwards evolution. Ten out of

ten calls were about Nature’s Candy this and Nature’s Candy that. I, of course, was

distraught. Not because I wasn’t as optimistic as I was before my flub, but because I was

the cause of everyone’s pessimism. And that meant I wasn’t doing my job very well.

I explained to my listeners most people with great ideas don’t stop at just having

great ideas. I know Nature’s Candy is no one hit wonder and I couldn’t believe my


96

fellow Bontempsonites didn’t agree. I’m pretty sure they hung on in part because of my

confidence, but the stock price got low enough that it might not have even been worth

giving it up. But that didn’t stop my parents.

Ironically, the only business in town to prosper those days was my show. People

were desperate as ever for a healthy dose of optimism. Some may have even hoped I’d

be first to divulge Nature’s Candy next innovation, but heck, I wasn’t about to make the

same mistake twice.

Plus, the chances of my being told their latest brilliant concept were kaput. Rosie

was the first of what would become dozens and then hundreds of new fires. If my

mistake was the beginning of the end, the firings were the middle of the end. I felt sick to

my stomach when I heard Rosie lost her job, and by the time I was hearing about dozens

of jobs lost each day I was literally sick to my stomach. I had to frequently mute my

microphone on the air and keep a bucket nearby. Let me tell you, it’s hard trying to lift

people’s spirits while vomiting in a trash can.

Some of the newly jobless called the show. They weren’t afraid to say their

names and they weren’t afraid to say how they felt. I’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with

sad.

Yep, they were mad as all get out. Not at the company or all those lousy

investors, they were mad as all get out at me.

Never mind those idiot investors. Or all the groceries who dropped their Nature’s

Candy accounts over name association alone (they were getting the exact same fruits and

vegetables they’d always been getting). Even the US government escaped the slightest

flak (that patent application process is no friend of good business).


97

Some calls I received were surprisingly mean-spirited. These weren’t the good

people of Lake Bontemps I knew. Instead of asking me how to help them feel better

about themselves (at a time when they needed it most), my show was reduced to callers

challenging me to justify my outlook.

“Do you agree that your outlook is deluded?”

“If you never taste the bad, how can you really know what the good tastes like?”

“Should I think someone who lost my daddy’s job is a bad person?”

As outrageous as it may sound at this point, deep down I still believed this was

nothing but a little slump. Things were so close to picking up. And when they did, I

wouldn’t let even the cruelest caller apologize. These things happen.

It got harder and harder to justify my optimism.

“When will things pick up?”

“When will life return to normal?”

“When? When? When?”

I’m no Nostradamus, and I wasn’t about to blow smoke up my friends’

hindquarters. That would only make the situation worse. But, even without my help, the

situation got worse. More job losses meant more angry callers. Finally, even those who

still had their jobs at least knew someone who’d been fired, and darned near everyone in

town found reason to give me the cold shoulder. I flinched every time I answered the

phone at work and at home. I flinched every time I made eye contact with someone in

public.

The irony is that, amazingly, my ratings held steady. If people needed a punching

bag, I’d gladly play the part. It was the least I could do, and since ratings are the literal


98

measurement of any show’s success, I assumed the show was going okay, despite the

format change.

Even more ironically, Mrs. Libby disagreed. She thought the least I could do was

take a break, and that’s when she fired me. When she got her sobs under control, she said

I wasn’t an optimist anymore, I was a lightning rod, and she couldn’t bear watching me

get struck again and again, ratings notwithstanding. She was ignoring the show’s success

and apologized profusely. She clearly felt terrible about the whole thing. One more

person who felt bad because of me. Great.

She assured me that when the atmosphere grew more conducive to my presence

she’d have me back in the studio before I could fill my glass five-eighths full. I hoped I

wouldn’t have to wait long.

When I got home I vomited. It ruined my shirt. I didn’t ever want to think about

what happened the last time I wore the shirt, so I used it to clean up my mess and threw it

out.

After feeling bad most of the day and feeling lonely for darned close to the first

time in my life, I sat down and started writing. You pretty much know the rest.

I could wax nostalgic for pages and pages about why I did what I did. Wall

Street’s such a fickle beast and that seemed to be everybody’s biggest concern. It’s the

only way people can quantify how well their investments, and thus that company, are

doing. And what’s especially funny (I mean really hilarious) about it is that it’s based

almost entirely on expectations. People don’t care how a company is doing, they care

about how it will be doing. If value doesn’t rise, it’s not in an investor’s best interest to

keep their investment, and they’ll get rid of it. And if they don’t think it will rise, that’s


99

all she wrote for that company, it’s time to sell, sell, sell. Given that, optimists and Wall

Street don’t exactly jibe. I’d hate to think about any company not doing well, but I’d also

hate to think about a company doing well and then, well, you know. It’s another problem

with the chicken and the egg. Does a company’s stock go up because the company’s

performing well, or is the company perceived as doing well because the stock goes up?

In a world filled with optimists, stock could only go up. That’d be a world worth living

in.

In Bontemps, people were jumpy because they didn’t know if Nature’s Candy had

a plan to get them out of the red. When I learned they did, I was giddy, and I wanted my

friends to share in my giddiness. It would get expectations back up, which would get

investments back up, which would get spirits back up. I had no idea all that other stuff

would come into play. It’s no wonder I’m not in business.

There you have it, Lenny. What’d you think?

I think you made a mistake.

Ouch. I was afraid you’d say that. At least you can admit my heart was in the

right place. Any way you cut it, it’s an epic tragedy, so enough about that. Tomorrow

I’m going out. I need a firsthand look at how town’s doing, and then we’ll figure out

how we can help. And if nothing else, my cupboard’s looking a little bare so I’ll pick us

some food up.


DAY #6

I should be back soon with a full report. Talk to you then.

This’ll be good.

Here goes.

100


DAY #7

What a day, what a day. It was good to finally get out and see the town and see

people, but cost-benefit analyses may indicate I should’ve stayed home.

My itinerary was simple enough. It looked like this:

8:11................................................................... Fun Run

9:28 Little Bontemps

10:44.................................................. Friendly Shoppin’

12:17 Lunch at Shep’s Slop House

1:59...................... Say, “Hey!” to Mrs. Libby at KBON

3:42 Catch Some Rays (and Maybe a

Frisbee or Two) in Central Park

My fun run was fun. It’d been awhile and my body let me know it’d been too

long. Before I made it back home I lost my lunch, and by lunch I mean breakfast. But

what I really mean are some au natural Hitch juices, because I hadn’t eaten anything yet.

Sorry for the confusion, but a “lost lunch” seemed like a more palatable visual, though

it’s certainly no fun to lose your lunch.

Traffic’s light when I run for two reasons: traffic’s always light in a small town

(rush hour lasts a little less than ten minutes, and it never adds more than three minutes to

any commute), and most everyone’s at work by then. It’s an early workday here,

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102

primarily because Nature’s Candy has to receive its fresh product for the day, then sort it

and ship it back out. It also doesn’t hurt that no one has a long commute.

Still, when I did my usual loop around half of Bontemps’ perimeter before cutting

through its middle back towards home, I saw a few familiar faces. Mrs. Hoover was

watering her flowers. Mrs. Elliott was washing Mr. Elliott’s Mazda. I stopped at the

base of their driveway and cried, “Hi there, Mrs. Elliott. Beautiful day to wash the car,

huh?”

It took her a few seconds to realize I was yelling at her, maybe because she was

spraying the car with the hose, but she finally looked up and tried to wave, but with the

hose in one hand and a sponge in the other it looked more like a shrug.

“How’s Mr. Elliott?” I asked her.

“He lost his job,” she shouted.

I hadn’t known. That was awful news. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said.

Again she shrugged but didn’t say anything. After a few awkward seconds of

silence she asked, “Can I get you a glass of water?”

I never ran with water and often regretted it, so I was thrilled at her offer.

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Elliott didn’t invite me inside so I walked up and loitered around the car,

waiting for her return. I waited. And I waited some more. And I waited until my

muscles tightened up before I was concerned. Was she okay? I knocked on the front

screen door but heard nothing from inside. I knocked again. Should I go in?

Just then Mrs. Elliott turned the comer into their entryway and had a cordless

phone cradled between her shoulder and ear. “Gladys, that’s just terrible to hear—sorry,


103

Hitch, phone call—why on earth did she kidnap a cat?” It was odd that I hadn’t heard her

on the phone through the screen door, but unexpected phone calls do happen, so I

continued my run without rehydration. I’d make it home okay.

Moments later I got the mother of all cramps in my right quad. Stopping for so

long tightened my muscles and they didn’t like getting right back to it.

While I massaged my leg, Mr. Williams drove past me taking the twins to school.

He gave me a friendly honk tcf let me know they were coming, and I jumped off the edge

of the road and waved to them. I know Mr. Williams was a recent job-loser, and I wished

they’d pulled over so I could tell him things would be back to normal in a jiff. They

didn’t, but the girls did give me a quick wave in return, at least I’m pretty sure they were

waving. I don’t wear my contacts or glasses while running, so I couldn’t decipher their

gestures. What’s worse was that I landed directly in some poison ivy on the side of the

road, and Bontemps’ poison ivy is plenty poisonous. Right now my lower legs look like

someone mistook them for a pinata. I can’t wear pants without pain.

I did make the hike to Little Bontemps, and honestly, it looked like Hitch VIII

was a little more social than usual, and you know what? He got along famously with his

all the Little Bontempsonites.

At the Friendly Shopper, I bought more food than I’ve ever bought in one trip, but

it was my quickest trip ever. The store had its usual wealth of savings to pass on to us,

but conversation sure as heck wasn’t on sale (and neither was lunch meat for that matter,

as my honey glazed ham cost about twice what I usually pay; for a millisecond I thought

meat man Mr. McCabe accidentally pushed his finger down on the scale when weighing


104

my cold cuts, but then I remembered this was the same Mr. McCabe who used to sneak

me free tastes of my favoritest cheese ever, Colby Jack, when I was a youngster).

I saw a handful of old faces, every one of which I was delighted to see after so

long, but they were all either in a rush or shopping in a different aisle. I bumped into

Mrs. Gaslow and had a kind word or two with her, but she told me she had ice cream she

needed to get home. I told her I knew the feeling.

I spotted Mrs. Coleman when she and I turned down opposite ends of the same

aisle. I called out to her and thought she saw me, but she turned around and rushed off to

another aisle. Guess she forgot some toothpaste or new hearing aid batteries or

something.

I even bumped into good old Mrs. North, who was clearly having trouble getting

her coupons in order. I asked if I could help “por favor,” but she politely declined.

But the real gem of the trip was bumping into Mr. Stem. I’d never noticed before,

but he has a slight under bite that makes his lower lip stick out ever so slightly. It makes

him look like he’s grumpy, but in an endearing way, like a seventh dwarf. He’s an older

guy with a voice well-suited to an older guy: it’s a frail, quivering monotone that sounds

like he can’t quite muster enough energy to inflect his words with emotion. We

collaborated on this delightful exchange:

ME

Mr. Stem, hello.

MR. STERN

Oh, it’s you.


105

ME

I know, it’s been too long, hasn’t it? And I

must say, you are looking fit as a fiddle

today. Still hitting the pavement for some

A.M. power walking?

MR. STERN

Your job... what a terrible thing you did.

ME

I know, I can’t believe I lost it either. It

does feel terrible. Fortunately you don’t

know the feeling, being retired and all, huh?

MR. STERN

No. Not that it’s a shame. What you did

affected so many people.

ME

We helped a lot of folks over the years,

you’re right. I won’t let this change me, and

don’t you let it change you.

MR. STERN

Oh, stop this nonsense.

And with that, he took a swipe at the empty air between us with one hand, let out

a hearty, “Harrumph,” and walked away without saying goodbye. He clearly shared my

frustration with this nonsense. Such a nice man, that Mr. Stem.


106

How do you know he shared your frustration i f he didn 't tell you?

Hxnm, another gem from the gallery. You’re doing a standup job, Lenny. Keep it

up.

You’re right, I don’t know. After he walked away without saying goodbye, he

didn’t peek back around the comer of the toiletries aisle and say, “Hitch Hocumb, I share

your frustration with this nonsense that’s happening to you and this town.”

I could just let scenes like that speak for themselves, but I don’t want to do that

and here’s why: it was important that I go out yesterday to see what the town thinks of

me and see if I can do anything to boost everyone’s spirits, and the only way I can do that

is to see how they react to and interact with me. It may require some assuming, but at

least with Mr. Stem he gave me a dramatic gesture before he left, and gestures are

conversation’s qualifier. All I’ve got to work with is tone of voice, word choice and

gestures, and though the first was lacking in this case, the other two told me he

sympathized with me. There’s no way I can avoid having to interpret anything, but I’ll

try to keep it to a minimum and let situations speak for themselves.

When I got home from the Friendly, the funniest thing happened. One of my

grocery bags was filled with bags and bags of sugar-free sugar. I haven’t the faintest idea

how they got there, but they weren’t in my cart. Missy must have rung it up by accident.

I was going to return it since I didn’t need it (for every mile I run I allow myself half a

candy bar), but even though it might have led to the death of a kitty cat, curiosity got the

best of me and I’ll tell you what, that sugar-free sugar tastes eerily similar to sugar. I just

might stick with it. And worst case I’ll just dilute my sugar with it. Wouldn’t want it to

go to waste.


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I stopped by Hilarious’s and dropped off a copy of the most hilarious tabloid I

saw at the Friendly (“Hole in Ozone’s True Origins Uncovered: Skyscrapers/NASA

Pierce Valuable Atmospheric Layer”), a mildly competitive contest we have (funniest

headline doesn’t pay that month’s cable bill). Hilarious got a kick out of it. He declined

my invitation to lunch, and I promised I’d stop by his place later that week.

I left for Shep’s Slop House energized as ever. Though my morning adventure

wasn’t mini-series worthy, it didn’t go too badly and I was thrilled to be out of the house.

I felt like Columbus must have during his second trip to America.

Shep’s Slop House was here long before Nature’s Candy, if that gives you any

idea what kind of institution it is. Shep’s no longer with us, but his daughter, Shep (short

for Shepherdess, she hates to be called Junior, and for good reason: she’s not) has done

wonders to preserve his vision. It’s been in the same spot on Plum Avenue since it

opened. It’s in the heart of downtown’s business district, which only amounts to about

four blocks worth of what would normally be considered a strip mall if a strip mall was

built on city streets. It also doesn’t need a gigantic parking lot; street parking is more

than ample.

When I tell you Shep’s customers are 96.8% male, you’re naturally reaction might

be something along the lines of, “That’s some vision... a sexist one!” It’s really not like

that, men just happen to be their most frequent frequenters. It’s more like the men’s

locker room down at the public pool: there’s more reason for men to visit than women,

but sometimes a gal has reason to make an appearance, whether she’s part of the

janitorial staff or a little one escorted in by her father to use the facilities.


108

Of course, you wouldn’t want to bring your young girl into Shep’s. The language

alone isn’t PG, and I’d say it’s at least PG-15 or 16, if not R.

You know how women notoriously use sewing circles and bridge groups as

excuses for hosting lengthy gossip sessions? Think of Shep’s as a guy’s alternative. The

food is super cheap and super duper greasy; you get lots of grams of fat for your dollar.

The menu beget the company way back when, and most of the originals haven’t

budged, except to make room for their kids and their kids’ kids. No matter how senior

Junior’s daddy might be, every first timer at Shep’s gets teased. Some have to drink ajar

of jalapeno juice. Others have to eat three steak and egg platters, no small feat for a small

fifteen year old. Getting hazed at Shep’s is a rite of passage for young Bontemps males,

a substitute for hazing of the fraternal sort since less than half the local kids enroll in

higher education.

No matter when you stop by, the conversation is bound to contain, “Fives,”

“Tens,” “Fifteens,” and multiples of five up to the very rare “Thirty-Five” and more.

These conversations always end with someone yelling, “Domino,” because it’s the “arts

and crafts activity of choice,” as the regulars like to call it, and it’s yet another example

of our dependence on convenient multiples of fives and tens, as those are the only

combinations of dominoes that score. If someone wanted to make a challenging game,

all they’d have to do is change the rules of dominoes to only multiples of seven score.

Shep’s typically has anywhere from one to a dozen games in play and it can be

fiercely competitive. These are some high quality players.

Me? I get by.


109

Given the rowdy, scathing crowd it draws, I was a little more nervous going to

Shep’s than I was for the grocery. I’m a regular with the lunch crowd (six days a week-

ish) and felt safe testing the waters with that group, even though they won’t hesitate to

ask, “Why do you wear the same clothes you wore in preschool only bigger?” and tell

you, “Be a man and grow some facial hair.” I know it’s all in good sport, and I like to

play along so we chum it up famously. “Be a man and ask Mrs. Torres, your mother,

how to use a razor,” I once told Mr. Torres. I knew they’d be harsh, but it would be the

fun, brotherly love kind of harsh.

When I showed up yesterday it was a little more crowded than your usual

weekday afternoon, and the gentlemen in there were drinking a little more alcoholic

beverages than they usually did before sunset. There were close to twenty people in a

space that couldn’t fit more than thirty comfortably, and every year fits over fifty

uncomfortably for the Bontemps Annual Homemade Jerky Bakeoff.

When the little bell jangled on the door to announce my entrance, every head

turned my way. It almost looked like the wave as the guys in front saw me first and

recognition slowly crept towards the back.

All things being equal, these guys aren’t exactly all smiles, but based on the looks

on their faces I don’t think they’d missed me.

“Who the [heck] let that [feathersucker] in this [fine dining establishment]?” was

what Joe Richie yelled to explode the silence. I’ll clean the language up because curse

words grate on my nerves a bit. They’re unnecessary and meant for hip hop songs and

standup comedy routines. In this case, Joe said it with more of an exclamation point than

a question mark, but you get the gist. Really well done.


110

“Now you just sit your [oversized buttocks] back in that stool, zip your lip, and

keep away from that [feathersucker]. Leave the grilling to me: Who did let you in?”

That wasn’t me, it was Shep. As wild as her patrons are, she keeps them in line like a

first grade teacher chaperoning a field trip.

“Aw, he doesn’t necessarily have to sit his oversized buttocks back down, it’s a

good question and I’ll answer both of you crazy kids.” This time it was me. “I let my

good old dang self in this fine dining establishment, that’s who.”

Well he could have put that in his pipe and smoked it right there. If he wasn’t

already smoking menthols that is.

Everyone went back about their business, which apparently consisted of

sporadically glancing at me and snickering to one another.

Joe did grab a seat and I did the same. He was sitting alone at a table for four, so

I joined him. He dwarfed me, even sitting down. He didn’t look like he worked out, but

he looked naturally strong despite being in his mid-forties. It was like his genes were

programmed to power lift. Maybe I could answer his question a little more sincerely.

“Hiya, Joe. What the heck are you doing here, shouldn’t you be at—“

That was a mistake, and even though I caught myself, he knew where I thought he

should be.

“You [performer of sexual acts]. I suppose you also think Kenny over there

should be at work. And Daryl. Oh, and don’t forget Phil. Funny thing, working. I used

to love coming here for lunch. I thought it was because it’s a nice break from a busy

shift. Now I know it’s just because I like coming here. And I like the company of these


I l l

[donut] holes... save for a few very particular exceptions.” With that he gave me a look

that guys in westerns usually give right before blasting someone to bits.

“You don’t have to tell me. I barely know what to do with myself these days.”

Sometimes all tension needs is a connection heretofore unseen. Unfortunately, this

wasn’t one of those times.

“Yeah, then why don’t I see you out looking for a job like the rest of us?”

“Because like you, I fully anticipate getting my old job back in the immediate

future.”

“You [less-than-average-size reproductive organ having gentlemen of leisure]!

Your optimistic [bull plop] is what [had intercourse with] us all in the first place!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have winked at him after my last comment. Regardless, his

last comment caught the attention of everyone not already listening in. Enough of them

yelled in response to Joe that I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. Guess they

thought Joe was taking this hazing thing a little too far.

Fortunately, my pal Pete Guinness stepped in. I used to bathe his birdbath and

rake his gravel driveway, so he and I go way back.

“All right, that’s enough. Don’t forget that’s a friend of ours you’re talking to.

Let the man get his lunch in peace.”

It was nice that he calmed the crowd before they made Joe feel too bad.

If a peacemaker is someone who tries to make peace, show me where to sign (as

long as it doesn’t involve the armed forces; I’m not strong enough to handle a gun’s

kick). I had just the idea to lift Joe’s spirits. Dominoes!


112

My idea was bigger than dominoes. In a roundabout way, I wanted to put

optimism back in play. For an optimist, circumstances often dictate emotions, which

means when good things are a happenin’, good feelings are a prevailin’, and I had just the

way to get good things a happenin’ to my hard luck friend Joe, which I hoped would lift

the spirits of his buddies too. Nothing says good vibes like a victory, so if I let Joe beat

me at dominoes, really it would be a victory for me and him. It couldn’t fail!

“Hold on a sec, guys, everyone’s entitled to being in a social rut every now and

again, and right now it’s Joe’s turn. We should try to help him, not leave him be. Let’s

throw some bones.”

That got an even bigger response than Joe’s outburst. Pete pulled me aside and

said, “You don’t want to be doing this. Not today. Someone might get hurt. These guys

are mad as [Hades].”

My reply was drowned out by chants of, “Hitch and Joe!” You’d have thought

we were sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

My reply would have been, “Nobody ever got hurt playing a little old game.”

Pete’s response probably would have been, “Except when Joe lost to Steve Pepper

that one time and threw a tile at him, blinding him in one eye.”

You can always find exceptions, and Joe did take the game more seriously than

just about everyone, but this time I figured a little competition might help the atmosphere.

I was up for the challenge. If Joe really wanted to hurt someone, which he often did, he’d

pick on someone his own size. His fingernails were bigger than domino tiles.


113

Joe and I sat down at a table smack dab in the middle of Shep’s. Our audience

stood around the table, leaning over us as if trying to drop some fish food in a hard-to-

reach aquarium.

Shep brought order to the court. The gang parted as she walked in and gave us a

set of tiles. “You two go easy on each other, you hear?” she asked, and then she leaned

in and whispered something in Joe’s ear. He smiled and nodded at what she said. This

was going to be fun.

We each took some tiles and set the rest of to the side in the boneyard. I let Joe

go first. It was the least I could do.

He played a 2-3 to get five points, a nice move since no tile can score off it. The

gang erupted. It made me feel better. They sure were doing their darnedest to make Joe

feel better. I told you they were great guys.

Joe’s a good player. One doesn’t typically take something seriously unless one’s

good at it. I’m not too bad myself, but I don’t leave sleep over it, and I definitely don’t

dream about playing a double-five to make forty-five. It’s just a game, and that’s why it

was important for Joe to win. He needed it more than I did.

The tricky part was that I didn’t know how good I was at tanking. Anyone can

lose, but losing in a room full of experts (both on the game and my game) isn’t so simple.

I needed to be subtle.

We were nip and tuck until he threw the spinner, turning our short track work into

two intersecting tracks reaching for the edges of the table. We exchanged small leads

several times. When Joe’s scores each turn should have started growing with our ivory


114

landscape, I made sure my scores leveled off. He should have started scoring twenty or

more with each play, but instead his scores stuck with my tens and fifteens.

Despite the lackluster play, Joe’s fan club stuck by him. You’d have thought they

were watching their favorite racecar driver come around turn four trying to pass his

biggest rival for the championship. When he made a move, you couldn’t contain their

elation. When I countered to take the lead, they hissed and booed and cursed. Their

charade was hysterical.

Maybe Joe caved under the pressure. Maybe he was too distracted by the non

domino troubles in his life. Maybe it was because I ate my lunch while we played. (I

was starving and Shep brought my usual Club, but she also gave me twice as many fries

as usual and an entire plate full of steamed vegetables, which wasn’t standard operating

procedure, and when I asked her about it, she quipped, “Someone’s got to eat all the extra

produce Nature’s Candy is stuck with and I figured it might as well be you.) Whatever it

was, every time I made a mediocre move, Joe followed suit. When I dipped my play

below average, Joe somehow sunk lower. It was like my play was bringing him down.

As hard as I tried, I couldn’t shake the lead. I won. Oops.

Again, I can only speculate, but Joe certainly didn’t lose on purpose. He’s not the

type, and after he left he threw his chair against the wall as hard as he could, which was

hard enough that it almost bounced all the way back to him. Joe wasn’t happy. He

banged his fists on the table when my three point victory was tabulated. Tiles flew every

which way. Anyone wanting to take a picture of our final layout would have been

disappointed.


115

Almost as disappointed as Joe’s fans. You’d have thought each and every one of

them had just been fi—I mean had just simultaneously stubbed every one of their toes. I

wanted to tell them I tried to lose, but that might have made things worse.

As it was, nobody said a word to me. Except Pete, who recommended I quietly

make like salt and pepper and shake my way out of dodge.

Before I left I went over to shake Joe’s hand. He said, “If you touch me, I’ll

[bleepity bleep bleep] you.” He used some grade-A bad words that time.

I gave a wave and a salute to the rest of the crew. They stuck by their fallen

comrade and didn’t acknowledge me. Shep told me, “I don’t want to see you here ever

again.” She could barely keep a straight face, and neither could I. I left cash on my table

and included a big tip.

Optimism experiment number one failed, but not because of optimism, and

honestly Lenny, based on the depressed look on Joe and the rest of those guys’ faces, it

wouldn’t be outrageous to say optimism experiment number one was a market success

because if there’s one thing those guys need, it’s optimism. Enter me. I know my

optimism can help, whether it’s “professionally” or not.

I left with the conclusion I was hoping to leave with: I’m Lake Bontemps’

optimist and I better start acting like it. All in all it wasn’t a bad trip. Before I got there,

Joe was sitting alone. Now he was the most popular guy in the joint. That place’ll be a

barrel of laughs by the time everyone’s back on their feet,

How ironic that my next stop was KBON.

Mrs. Libby was part surprised and part elated to see me. We shared a great big

old bear hug. What’s great about Mrs. L is that when we exchange the everyday


116

pleasantries coworkers stoically exchange every day, it actually is pleasant for us. I care

how she’s doing. She cares how I’m doing. We both want to hear what’s up.

“You’re not running best of reruns of me, are you?” The station obviously had a

few hours in her program schedule vacated by my departure, and since my firing I didn’t

have the heart to tune in.

“Nothing but oldies, babe,” she said. “Sounds terrible on the AM. Dave Clark

wouldn’t be happy, and his Five would be disgusted, but they’re the best I can do right

now. We miss you, Hitch.”

My phone rang before I could tell her I missed her right back. I checked the caller

ID. “Sorry, could be important. Unknown caller no more.”

It was Deputy Smithberg from the LBPD. He asked me how I was doing.

“Oh, just dandy.”

Then he asked where I was.

“Back at the station.”

“You’re here. But I’m here. And I don’t see you.”

“Ha. Sorry, I meant the radio station, not the police station.”

“Thanks.”

Without another word, he hung up. It was bizarre.

“That was bizarre,” I said.

“Know who it was?”

“The police.”

“You apply for a job there, big stud?”

I laughed. “Officer Hocumb is not an enforcer.”


117

“Then what’s next for the great H-H?”

Her question made me blush. It felt like a girl I had a crush on asked me who I

wanted to date before I realized her inquiry was just a round about way of saying she

didn’t want to date me.

She said, “Nothing would make me happier.” It’s a start. “But seriously, have

you given any thought to what you’ll do next?” Not a good finish.

I don’t know, but it definitely involves creating hundreds of new jobs and

sextupling Nature’s Candy’s stock.

That’s when the squad cars pulled into the station’s lot, sirens blaring. We both

peeked out the window. There were two cars.

“Hey, it’s Deputy Smithberg,” I said.

“And a few others,” she said.

Four officers let themselves into the building and Mrs. Libby and I met them in

the small front lobby.

“Hi, Sheriff Sanderson, something we can do for you?” Mrs. Libby asked

Bontemps’ top cop.

“Hitch Hocumb, you’re under arrest for robbery.”

“?” What I said wasn’t much of a question, but it had the inflection of a question.

“What the hell are you doing, Sanderson?” Mrs. Libby asked.

“He dined at Shep’s earlier this afternoon and left without paying his tab.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” she said.

“We have a number of witnesses implicating Mr. Hocumb.”

“Give him a break.”


118

“Don’t worry about me, Lizzy, I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“We’ll let the law decide that, son. Now turn around and put your hands behind

your back.”

I did as I was instructed. Mrs. Libby remained peeved. “Grand police work,

Sanderson. You’re a real piece.”

“Maybe you’ll want to come and post bail for your star student.”

“Hitch, you call me if you need help. Everything will be okay.” I couldn’t have

said it better myself. Turns out there was still some optimism hanging around KBON.

I got arrested!

They “hauled” me down to the “joint” and “booked” me with “theft of services”

for “skipping out on my bill at one of Bontemps finer dining establishments.”

My first thought was they’d made an innocent mistake. I’m one-hundred percent

everything I left cash on the table with a more than ample tip. Shep knows I treat her

right.

My second thought was maybe inflation had hit Shep’s since my last visit. I

didn’t see the bill, but that’s because I already knew, or thought I knew what everything

cost. Now that I think about it, my meal was a little different this time. My Six-Inch

Club was more like four or five inches. I assumed maybe Shep was light on turkey or

tomatoes. Might hard times have hit Shep’s too? That would be devastating.

I assured Sheriff Sanderson I’d left money. He claimed nobody saw me leave

anything and when Shep went to collect my bill, there wasn’t so much as a single penny

there.

“Where on earth could it have skedaddled off to?” I wondered aloud.


119

“Maybe it skedaddled right back into your pocket, you degenerate.” He didn’t

have to call me names.

“I’m happy to pay for it again if that’ll clear me.” That seemed reasonable. It’d

be worth squaring things away as easily as possible. We weren’t talking about more than

ten bucks. And if the busboy accidentally ran my bills through the dishwasher, it was my

fault for putting them in a bad spot.

“’Again,’ huh? Of course you’re willing to pay now."

“What can I do to help?”

“Listen, punk, you can sit quietly and let the long arm of the law handle this.” He

extended his arm and flexed his bicep. It was sizable. And a clever pun.

I thought Sheriff Sanderson knew me better than that. I’m no punky degenerate.

And I did want to help, but I guess it’s part of his job to be a tough guy, so I understood.

I didn’t even get my one phone call. He said their “criminal line” was down.

He explained my situation. They were detaining me until some officers could

look further into my matter. I might be able to post bail, but I would be locked up until

Shep let them know if she wanted to press charges. Surely she wouldn’t incarcerate me.

Shep must have had dynamite evening plans with that boyfriend of hers, because

nobody could get in touch with her all night. So I spent the whole night in prison. How

awesome is that?

For once I was glad I didn’t have a job yet. Jail time would be considered getting

off on the wrong foot with a new boss.


120

Considering my adventure into the great unknown had gone all right until then, I

guess it’s only fair to expect one little snafu. The best laid plans, et cetera, et cetera. The

law of averages, as a statistician might say.

Honestly, prison’s not all it’s cracked up to be in the movies. I didn’t have to deal

with any illicit cigarette bartering or group showers.

I shared a cell with Monty Means, a frequent visitor to the county penitentiary. I

imagine if he ever decided to move, he’d rank possible destinations based on the quality

of their prison systems, like parents looking for good school systems. He wouldn’t want

to think about an unpleasant night in the can (our accommodations were reasonably

comfortable). Monty’s a great guy, he just has a problem respecting the law. Or maybe

it’s that he has too much respect for the Guinness Book of World Records; Monty hopes

to one day be the first person convicted of every misdemeanor in his town. There’s more

than you’d think. He’s through about half the couple hundred crimes he hopes to

commit.

Tonight he’s in for urinating in public, and I don’t mean in a public restroom; he

went wee-wee in an antique cannon next to town hall while it was being dedicated in

front of over a hundred guests. Much to his disappointment, he avoided an indecent

exposure charge because he’d pressed his hips flush with the outside rim of the cannon.

He was hoping to whiz out two birds with one stone. I’m not sure why the cops didn’t

just give him both. It meant there’d be a naked old man running through the streets in a

few weeks. Why not save themselves the trouble?


121

I was glad Monty was there. It reminded me of the first time I left home for

camp. I was scared to be in a new place, but boy was I lucky to bunk with Jimmy

Stevens, who’d been to the camp twice before.

Out night ended up being a lot like camp, too. We stayed up late swapping

hilarious stories, and if we tried to get up in the middle of the night a counselor yelled at

us to stay in our room. It was a blast.

By morning the LBPD’s fine detective work paid off. They got in touch with

Shep, who agreed to not press charges if I paid my bill. I offered to hand deliver it, but

Sheriff Sanderson said she wasn’t a happy camper and he recommended I let him handle

it. I reluctantly agreed. I’ll stop by in a day or two to personally apologize.

What happened with the cash you left?

Again, I can only speculate. Maybe Shep thought someone else left it. I honestly

don’t know.

After my release I headed home. I had a breakfast buffet to set up.

The rest of the day I was so excited about my immersion back into society I could

barely function.

Was it worth it to have to spend the night in jail?

You know, it’s hard to do a cost-benefit analysis for a day’s worth of events since

I can’t quantify the cost and benefit of anything that happened, so I can’t give a concrete

answer to that, though it’s a tip top question. Life would be a heck of a lot easier if we

could quantify life experience. Plus eight for finding twelve dollars at the bottom of an

icy lake and minus six for jumping into that icy lake would mean it was worth the effort

for twelve dollars.


122

I’m breaking my promise of providing concrete details again, which means I can

only tell you how I feel. At the Friendly I saw some friendly faces, at Shep’s I was

treated just like one of the guys, and at the station Mrs. Libby was happy to see me (and

still had a vacant spot in her lineup). The whole reason I stayed home so long was

because I feared everyone would hate me and be mean to me. As I read it on the page it

sounds absurd. Here I’ve been saying for pages and pages about how the fine folks of

Bontemps are some of the nicest people on the planet, yet I’ve been worried about them

holding a grudge for a simple lapse in judgment. What’s wrong with me? This thing’s

had a real effect on me, I guess. We’re not back to the good old days yet, but soon.

Soon.


DAY #8

After my morning routine, I invited Hilarious to join me in the front lawn for a

rousing, yet friendly, game of dominoes. I had the itch to play without the distraction of

trying to lose and he had the itch to play.

I set up one card table, two chairs and twenty-eight tiles. Our front lawn couldn’t

hold too many card tables (I can mow our front and backyards in fifteen minutes, nine if I

run), but it was perfect for the two of us.

Hilarious set up lunch for us. “The good doctor wants to try a new recipe on a

new subject,” he said, even though he didn’t need to I’d heard it so many times. Despite

the temperate weather, he was making a warm dish (i.e. glass) for us, so we started

playing while he heated it up.

“I had the most amazing day in the history of history yesterday!” I don’t need to

tell you who said that.

“Tell me what it is that makes Mr. Hitch speak of this day so highly.”

I told him about the thrilling details of the grocery, lunch, revisiting work and

prison. I sounded like a child who got everything he wanted from Santa. I was excited.

And distracted. I lost our first game.

“Mr. Hitch, this sounds to the good doctor like people were cruel to Mr. Hitch and

played a nasty trick on him.”

123


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“You’re thinking of a prank-like trick when it’s really more like a magic trick.

Doesn’t hurt at all if you’re in on the joke. And, in the bigger news department, I’m back

in the optimism game. I don’t have my show back, but I can still be an optimist.”

“Mr. Hitch will see someday that they laugh at him when he is not in their

presence, but it does make the good doctor happy to see he is made happy by his

optimism. The good doctor agrees Mr. Hitch makes a good optimist.”

Hilarious is a weird mix of optimism, realism and pessimism. Anything involving

me brings out his optimism and he always wishes me well, but with his own work and

life he’s a realist with all his experiments and such, and then with town he’s a pessimist.

I understood Hilarious’s skeptical take on my story considering all the major players in it

save for myself don’t care for him. I didn’t hold it against him, but I wished he could get

to know the real Bontemps.

Hilarious fetched our lunch and spread it out on the table. I could tell which glass

held his heated dish because it was in an oversized, thermal mug.

I proposed a toast before we dug in. I think I accidentally grabbed a side dish

instead of my drink, but the sentiment was there.

“To the best housemate a guy could ask for.”

“Mr. Hitch is also a very fine neighbor himself.”

Our glasses thudded together.

“Thanks a bunch for lunch, Dr. chef. What’s on the menu today?” I inspected

one of my four glasses, knowing full well he wouldn’t divulge his secret recipes. “This

one looks like a frog milkshake with white chocolate chips, am I right?” I laughed.


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“The frog parts are correct, but— Oh, do not fear, it is only a joke, but it is meant

to be friendly.” He motioned for me to lean closer to him. We formed a gossip overpass

over our lunch. “The green is mostly kiwis, but it also includes some pomegranate juice.

To this, there are small pieces of tofu added. Soy is good for the diet. Now Mr. Hitch

must promise never to make such a mixture until there is one of the good doctor’s

restaurants on every street comer and two of his cookbooks in every house.”

“Frog guts, you say?” I was practically shouting in case any rival gastrointestinal

researchers were hiding behind the bushes. “Most delectable.” I winked at my friend

and he smiled. “I can’t help but notice I have one less glass than you gave me with

dinner last week. Trying to tell me something,” I said patting my belly.

“Of course not, it is all for science. After each meal, the good doctor monitors

how much he gave versus how much, well, this has all been discussed at prior meals. To

use a topical metaphor, now it is time for the swallowing phase of the experiment.

Previously the good doctor chewed up the data he accumulated from previous

experiments and he adjusted Mr. Hitch’s diet to reflect his age, weight and response to

earlier treatments. Seconds are, however, out of the question. And please do not drink

anything for two hours. It will skew the data. Also, there will be no more cooking done

today.”

“We’ll have to picket the water and sewage plant to start charging by usage

instead of a flat fee with how little we’ll use their services.” Hilarious laughed and he

snorted some of his liquid food through his nose. It looked like it kind of hurt. I couldn’t

help but laugh with him.


126

“The picket will last all day because Mr. Hitch and the good doctor have no jobs

to go to.”

That knocked my laughter down to a chuckle. I was privately hoping Mrs. Libby

would at least give me reason to think I might have my job back pretty soon, but she

didn’t give me much hope for that. I wonder what I’d have to do to win her favor back.

She was happy to see me, so it’s not as simple as getting back on her good side. She

doesn’t even have a bad side. Maybe get back on the town’s good side? Sounds like a

winner, and after yesterday I think that’s easier done than said. And if I hurry I might

even be able to coordinate my return with the triumphant return of Nature’s Candy.

“You know, Mr. Hitch, if you ever are needing to play this contest of ours, you

feel free to come visit anytime. Don’t feel like you must always visit that dirty place

downtown.”

All others need not apply, because my star for the day has already been given to

my good neighbor.

That “contest of ours” was paused while we ate, and unfortunately eating was

paused shortly after we started eating when a striking yellow minivan screeched to a stop

in front of our house. Hilarious jumped out of his seat at the sight of it. “The good

doctor forgets the napkins. Excuse, please.”

I already had a napkin and he didn’t exactly make a quick escape, but I knew how

uncomfortable Rosie made him feel. He felt like a third wheel around us, and I told him

about her fighting with me the last time we spoke so I imagine he didn’t want to see any

tension.


127

This was the first time I’d seen her since she lost her job, which was the day after

I spilled her beans. She called me right after she lost it, and that confrontation was

anything but pleasant. There was lots of yelling and bad words. Neither was from me.

Rosie parked in front of our place. She popped out of her van so fast she

couldn’t have been wearing her seatbelt, something I used to bug her about. I couldn’t

bear to lose her in a car accident.

She was wearing jeans, a tank top and sandals, which concerned me because I

took it to mean she didn’t have a new job. It didn’t look like any uniform I’d seen. I was

thrilled to see her. She never gave me a chance to explain why I broke my promise to

her, and she was a charter member of my new “needs an optimist” club, and of all the

people who needed my help, she topped my list. Not that I play favorites, but I do feel

especially responsible for her job, and she’s a special, special person.

“Hitch!” Our last spat was the first time I’d ever heard Rosie curse. She must

still be mad about losing her job.

“That old coot didn’t run off because of little old me, did he?” She asked the

question like a naive, innocent child who knows the answer to her own question. She

bypassed my efforts at giving her a friendly hug and helped herself to Hilarious’s seat. I

sat back down in mine.

“Hey, Rosie, sure is great to see you.”

“Did I say hi? What I meant to say was, ‘Get your keys. You’re coming to help

me with some deliveries.’”

“What are we delivering? Babies?”


128

Her face said no, but her mouth said, “Yes.” Then her face said she wasn’t in the

mood for jokes and her mouth said the same. Rosie used to love my jokes. Once she

made me macaroni and cheese, and she doubled the cheese recipe. “To match your

personality,” she said.

“I guess congrats are in order,” I said.

“I said, no babies.”

“No, I mean you’ve got a job, right? That’s great news.”

“Right. And I’m utterly thrilled to be working as the, yes the, not a, Say Yes to

OTC Drugs delivery girl.”

“You’re a supplier for them? I love that place.”

“Yes, I supply the drug store in town. All of it. Make it in the basement.”

“I had no idea.”

“You idiot. I pick up prescriptions at the store and deliver it to the feeble-minded

old kooks who can’t take care of it themselves.”

She was being mean, meaner than she should’ve even if she was still mad, so I

tried to kill her (figuratively) with kindness

“Are you kidding me, that’seven better. It’s like charity work. Great job”

“Except it doesn’t fund my charity of choice.”

“The Washtenaw County General Children’s Hospital?”

“No, the R.O.Z. Foundation.”

“Urn, something to do with over-hunted zebras?”

“Ro-sie. Me.”

“Oh, I get it. Like a license plate. Nice.”


129

“Almost as nice as good old Hitch, my best bud within five feet of me, and my

best bud who’s making my afternoon deliveries.”

“Okay, I’ll help.”

“N ot‘help.’ You’re doing it. All of it. It’s the least you can do since it’s your

fault I’m doing this.”

“Sure thing. You have a doctor’s appointment or something.”

“I’m spending the afternoon with Jimmy.”

“Jimmy who?”

“Jimmy, the boy I’m having sex with, Jimmy. That Jimmy.”

Oh. That Jimmy. My heart sank. Now I didn’t want to help her so much. It was

her prerogative to do that, but she didn’t have to throw it in my face. She was being

purposefully cruel, but I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t claim to be an optimist or her friend

if I didn’t help, and there was no reason to think this wasn’t the result of her having a

hard time with her hard times. In fact, she’d be justified if that was the case.

“Okay, Rosie. Just give me fifteen minutes to finish up this nice lunch.

“These people need their medications by a certain time or they get mad, which

gets my boss mad, which will make me mad at you. You don’t want that, do you Hitch?

“Gee, no.”

“Then don’t worry, right? Things’U look up. Just have faith?” She was being

sarcastic. “Now come help me put these pills in your car.”

She gave me about a dozen deliveries to make that afternoon. Each delivery only

contained a few pills.

“You do this every day?”


130

“That’s the point. These people aren’t responsible enough to take their pills on

their own, so you have to physically be there to make sure they down all of them.

They’re completely worthless. Sometimes it’s like babysitting an ornery dog.”

“Oh, come on. I recognize a few names. Mrs. Cleveland’s an absolute doll.”

“A doll that belongs in a nursing home. Take this walkie-talkie so you can keep

me posted.”

“You use walkie-talkies for this?”

“Wally insists on keeping in close contact without using cell minutes. I

convinced him mine wasn’t working today. He might try to get in touch, but don’t

answer if he does. I’ll be on mine. It’s important that you always have it on and always

have it with you. Call me if you have any problems.”

“Okay.”

“And Hitch: don’t have any problems.”

“Check, mate.”

“Don’t call me mate. We’re not mates anymore.”

I miss her. I think of our break as the biggest speed bump our love bug’s hit yet.

If I know my Rosie, she’ll be back in my arms before long.

No sense in small drama slowing the afternoon down. I set off on my business,

and just like Rosie predicted I was happy to have something to do. And how excited I

was to think I’d be visiting all those neat folks.

My automobile’s the smallest car in town. It’s a two-door hatchback, and the

color isn’t rust so much as the exterior is completely rusted over. It was my parents


131

before I was bom, and since it’s never left Bontemps it never got too many miles on it.

Twenty-five years later, though, it has 189,142 miles. It’s a trooper.

After my first few drop-offs I felt like a veteran (a veteran deliveryman, not a war

veteran like some of the gentlemen I met). A number of my “patients” weren’t too aware

of what was going on, just like Rosie said. They needed extra special loving care from

me, and I was thrilled to give it. They weren’t much for conversation, but I talked to

them during my whole visit, telling them how great they looked and how sure I was they

were on the mend. I hope it made them feel better, because it sure made me feel better. I

radioed Rosie before every stop so she was well aware of how well I was doing.

Then I finally made it to a talker, Mr. McTwiggy. When I knocked on his front

door, he yelled, “Come in, it’s open,” so I did.

“Rosie, I’m swallowing these without liquid today, and that’s that.”

At first I thought he was blind, but I didn’t see him sitting in the living room and

it turned out he’d been having bowel issues, so he was on the toilet during my entire visit.

“Mr. McTwiggy, Rosie’s out today, but I’ve got your pills.”

“Thanks. Slide them under the bathroom door. Who is this?”

“My name’s Hitch, sir.”

“The radio guy?”

“Used to be.”

“No wonder. That show was good for nothing. Never gave anyone a lick of good

advice.”

Well that just wasn’t true. What was this guy listening to?

“How many shows did you hear, sir?”


132

“Enough. You caused nothing but problems.”

“Sir, it sounds like someone hasn’t heard the radio show someone’s talking about,

has someone?”

“Who? Is someone else here? Who are you talking to?”

Then my walkie-talkie clicked on.

“Oooooh. ”

“Mmm, hmm. ”

“Uhh, huh. ”

“Yummy. ”

They weren’t actually eating, but that’s the best I can approximate the sounds

Rosie and Jimmy were making. They were sounds of pleasure. Carnal pleasure. How

embarrassing for them. Who wants to listen to them get mushy? Not me.

“Boy,” Mr. McTwiggy shouted, “what are you doing out there? You find my

girlie magazines? I won’t stand for this in my house.”

“Sorry, no that’s not me. I accidentally turned your TV on. I’ll turn it off,” but

before I got it off, this Jimmy character said, “Turn around and touch your toes.” Then

he told her to present herself for an unnatural act.

“Listen, lad,” Mr. McTwiggy shouted through the bathroom door, “I told you I

don’t need help in here, and I’m not sure I can still touch my toes, but if you really want

to help I reckon the two of us can get these pants off and you can get to wiping.”

I switched the walkie-talkie off, said, “Sorry, I just realized I have another run to

make,” and left. How disgusting. I threw up on Mr. McTwiggy’s front lawn. I didn’t


133

clean it up because I thought maybe it would work like fertilizer. Excretions from the

other end of the GI tract do.

If Rosie has any intention of keeping this job very long, she’ll want to start acting

more professional. What if Wally heard? What if I heard?

Do you think she meant to leave the walkie-talkie on?

Egad, that’s even worse. Maybe. It’s one thing for her to still be mad at me, but

to subject me to listening to that, intentional or not, was heartless. She knows I still care

about her. Here I try to come out and help her, I try to be a good friend, and she uses and

abuses me. What a waste of a day. I’d have to have a talk with her to make her

understand she hurt my feelings and make her realize that if she’s going to hinder my

attempts at perking people back up, I just might have to get mad right back at her. I’d

still stress that I think we can be the best of friends again, but she wasn’t my friend today.

When I got back to my car, life didn’t get better. I turned my walkie-talkie back

on and Wally was calling on a different channel than what Rosie and I’d been using. He

sounded like he’d been trying for a few minutes. He sounded mad.

I ignored it for a few minutes. He wasn’t mad at me. I hoped Rosie would

answer. I couldn’t hear anything on our channel and she didn’t answer my calls.

Then I realized Wally didn’t sound mad, he sounded panicked.

“Rosie, you left Mrs. Trombone’s pills here. She needs them before she can eat

her dinner. Hurry back. ”

Uh oh. This could be a problem.

At least that’s what I thought, and I was right. I waited a few minutes, but still no

Rosie. I called her phone, but no answer. If nobody answered, Rosie would be in trouble


134

for being delinquent. If I answered, she would be in trouble for not doing her job, but at

least it would be a responsible delinquency. Her job was getting done, after all.

It was settled. I would save Rosie’s job, making me even-steven with her on the

job front.

“Wally, I’m here.”

"Who’s where?”

“I’m filling in for Rosie. This is Hitch Hocumb.”

"You ’re joking. Who is this really? ”

“Why would anyone pretend to be me?”

“Put Rosie on, will you, Jimmy? I t’s a good gag. Nobody wants to talk to her ex,

I get it. ”

Was he serious?

“Are you gagging me?”

"Cut it out, you guys, this is urgent. Mrs. Trombone needs these pills. ”

“I’ll deliver them, Wally. Something came up and Rosie had to go. I’m doing

her afternoon route.”

Silence. And then, in a serious tone:

"You listen up, Hocumb. You bring everything you’ve got back to my store. ”

“But I really don’t mind.”

"I’m only going to ask you nicely once: will you please stop what you ’re doing? ”

“Really, I’ve already done a few. I’ve got the hang of it.”

Silence. And then, in a furious tone:


135

“Does that [employee o f mine] understand the liability issues here? Do you

understand the liability issues? Forget the legal liabilities, having you represent Wally’s

right now could put me out o f business. Stop what you ’re doing right now, or I will call

the police and report the pills you have as being stolen. Do you follow me, you [s. o. b.J? ”

“Yeah, okay.”

Silence.

“Are you sure I—“

“I ’ve dialed the 9. I advise you to stop before I get to the 1-1. ”

“I’m sorry.”

I drove to Wally’s and gave him what I had left. I tried to tell him I was sorry in

person, but he insisted on silence. Then I tried to offer to clean up my vomit from his

store floor, but he still insisted on silence. I wasn’t there more than thirty seconds.

By then the emotions racing through my head were too many to list. Terrible

decently sums them up, but even it doesn’t begin to capture how I felt so I’m going to

institute a more unequivocal method of letting you know exactly how I feel. I’ll call it

the Emotion Quantifier. I know, I know, I’ve talked to death about how feelings can’t be

measured, but I’ve also mentioned how words are on a page, no matter how specific, are

left up to the interpretation of the reader, so we’re dealing with an imperfect system either

way and this way’s less malleable. Here’s how I feel:

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating


136

Disgust © © © ® ©

Irritation © ® © © ©

Anger © © ® © ©

Frustration © ® © © ©

Sadness © © © ® ©

Stoicism ® © © © ©

Happiness © ® © © ©

Optimism © © © ® ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.

3: I’ve felt less, and I’ve felt more, but it’s there.

4: Strong.

5: Total and absolute.

Why so much optimism?

I know one person, even if she’s an important person, can’t single-handedly

compromise my agenda, so in that respect, things could be a lot worse.

Would you look where trying to help a friend got me? All things being equal, I’d

just as soon forget most of today.

When I got home, I found my uneaten lunch sitting on the counter. It was the first

time I’d smiled in hours, and that’s why I’ve got a hint of happiness. I was hungry.


DAY #9

Yuck. That’s what today was like. Yesterday was plenty palatable compared to

today.

My phone woke me early, but I didn’t answer it. From my bed I could hear that it

was Mrs. Libby’s voice on the machine and figuring she was one person who’d been

pleasant to be around this week, I wanted to talk to her.

Fortunately, she helped me forget my nightmarish day yesterday. Unfortunately,

she made me forget because of another healthy dose of bad news: she’d just found that

replacement and wanted to let me be the first to know. Professional courtesy, I guess.

She’s sweet like that.

This new guy would have a show similar to mine, she said. She said over and

over how much she missed me, and how the station would never be the same. I said over

and over how much I missed the show, and how I understood and stood by her decision.

It was weird, because even though I said those things, I’m not sure I felt them.

Right when she said she’d replaced me, my heart gave a powerful thump, like it was

trying to pump my blood all the way out of my body; it wanted nothing more to do with

me. I think she said the new show was going on the air in the next few days. I didn’t

hear much else. My mind scattered. It jumped from wishing I hadn’t mentioned Frosted

Fruit to thinking about what the show would be like without me to thinking about what I

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138

would be like without the show. Then I distracted myself from all of it and timed myself

to see how long I could do one-legged jumping jacks. We’d hung up by the time I

snapped out of it. I got to one-hundred-sixty.

I wasn’t getting my show back.

What happens when an optimist is optimistic something will happen but it doesn ’t

happen?

Under normal circumstances, he’s disappointed for a split second before he

realizes he’ll make do. My problem is the way I was hoping to make do is with the radio

show, so what didn’t happen prevents me from thinking I can make do.

So you ’re no longer an optimist.

Of course not, are you crazy? What I am is an optimist without a platform, and

the platform was what made me effective. I need a big venue. It’s clear some people (i.e.

Rosie) still harbor a grudge against me, which I respect, and some of them aren’t ready to

forgive, which I also respect. If I’m reduced to going door-to-door to spread optimism,

time spent with these naysayers is wasted time and time that could and should be spent

with convert-ables. We don’t have time to tackle this problem one person at a time.

We’ll have to figure out a more effective way of going about this, but today was certainly

a setback. Now I feel like this:

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust ® © (D 0 ©


139

Irritation © © ® © ©

Anger © © ® © ©

Frustration © © © ® ©


Disappointment © © © ® ©

Stoicism © © © ©


Optimism © © ® © ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.



DAY #10

Your optimism these days is clearly based on an illusion, because i f Nature’s

Candy’s situation has gotten as bad as you claim it has, there can’t be realistic reason to

be optimistic for its recovery, so how can you expect people to follow your optimistic lead

without giving them just reason to do so?

Ding, ding, ding, and I don’t mean my doorbell’s ringing, I mean the figurative

“good idea bell” in my head’s a ringing. You, Lenny, are indeed earning your stripes,

and I think you’ve found our problem. I’ve been trying to help Bontempsonites see my

illusion to make them more optimistic, but they won’t see the illusion because they’re not

optimistic. Again, the chicken or the egg... could it have been a tie?

Regardless, I can’t expect these people to eat Optimism O’s that don’t exist, they

need something they can taste, and munch on, and most importantly enjoy.

The way to rekindle the old spark in town is to regain everyone’s confidence.

They lost confidence in me because they lost confidence in our job market, so the way to

do the former is through the latter. What I’m saying is I’ve got to prove to people there

are jobs for the jobless. And with jobs for the jobless, the jobless won’t be able to blame

anyone for not having a job because they’ll have a job. All it takes is a little snowball to

start an avalanche (a good, helpful avalanche, not the people killing kind).

I didn’t get where I am by being dumb.

My problem’s that I’ve been cooped up in my apartment waiting for people to

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learn to forgive and forget me on their own, and when I’ve gone out I’ve expected my

optimism to asexually breed more optimism, but unless optimism’s some new kind of

asexual plant, it requires engagement by both parties. Other ideas are craziness. I’ve got

to take control of my life and fill my glass back up. Maybe I’ll get it up to three-fourths

full this time.

What I’ll do is hit the pavement by foot and put my own job classifieds together,

which I’ll deliver free of charge to everyone in town and post on lamp posts and bulletin

boards. Even if it’s not a luxurious job at Nature’s Candy, there has to be cashier and

waitress and administrative assistant type positions, right?

See, if you’re not giving your optimum effort, you’re not being optimistic, and if

there’s one thing I am, it’s you know what. It’s amazing how fortunate I’ve been to be

liked for so long. I’ve been blessed. My firing was such a one in a million crapshoot I

might as well forget it ever happened. How often is a great town like Bontemps going to

hit a citywide snag and how often will my best intentions be taken out of context? I don’t

know, but safe to say it won’t be every few weeks.

Leashed in my domino rain check with Dr. Universe. I hadn’t given him the full

story from my Rosie deliveries. He came up and knocked on my door a few times to

make sure everything was okay, but everything wasn’t okay so I pretended to be asleep.

This morning, feeling like I was back in a-okay country, I knocked on his door

first thing and we parked our playing field back out in the front lawn. He was thrilled I

came calling.


142

I gave him the abridged version of the craziness I’d encountered the last few days.

No sense reliving every horrible detail. His furry eyebrows never left the top of his

forehead.

I told him my job plan. I asked if he thought it was a great idea. He did.

I told him how I thought that might put me back in good standing with people. I

asked if he agreed. He did.

I told him how I still thought Bontemps was overdue for a dramatic rebound, and

how everything would be back to normal in no time. I asked if he thought I was crazy.

“Anyone who thinks Mr. Hitch the victim of craziness, it is actually them who

would be showing signs of craziness by saying such crazy things,” is what he said. I

couldn’t have said it better myself.

I’m excited to get started on my job search. Do you ever wonder what would

happen if you got a second chance in life? With so many possibilities, it’s kind of

exciting to consider no matter how much you love what you’re doing. This is my second

chance. What will happen? Great things! I’m off to visit every place of business in

town. Back in many, many hours.

*

Oh my gosh, I got thrown in jail again!

I’m kidding, kidding. A metaphorical jail maybe, but not the county lockup.

Well that took exactly two hours forty-two minutes, much less than I expected.

Another rough outing. Considering I’ve shared more than my share of sob stories for the

week, take it from me there wasn’t much to take away from today’s search. With my

newly aggressive effort at effecting Plan Positive, reliving the monstrosities of


143

inconsideration I witnessed today would only set the movement back. I refuse to let a

few rotten apples infect me or my town. Let’s just say there was some booing, some

gestures and some not very nice things said (most were actually yelled). I stopped by my

usual haunts and saw most of Nature’s Candy recently laid off. Shep’s wasn’t hiring.

Don’s Donuts. Knight’s Hardware. None of them, so I went to some of Nature’s

Candy’s sister companies, like Mabel’s and Truck, Truck, Goose. More of the same.

The silver lining was they wasted no time telling (and again, often yelling) their

employment needs to me, and I just as quickly started thinking about my next plan.

When put in a tough spot, I’m great at distracting myself with pleasant thoughts. For

example, and again I don’t think anyone will benefit from great detail, Mr. Meanypants,

who runs our Goodwill store, used expletive after expletive to describe how you know a

town’s doing awful when people stop shopping the Goodwill, and he proceeded to give

me his take on why that was for many minutes. I didn’t want to be rude and leave before

he finished, so I thought of other ways to accomplish my goals while his face turned an

angry red. For all he knew I was listening; it was win-win.

If nobody will hire me, I can’t control it and shouldn’t feel bad about it.

But isn ’t lack o f employment the problem?

Keep your pants on, mister, I didn’t say I was giving up. That just means I have

to get creative, and creative I know I can get. With Mr. Meanypants saying nasty things

to me, I remembered how I dealt with not getting hired when I was younger. Yep, you

guessed it: Por Favor’s coming back! Why not hire myself? I know I’m still the same

Hitch I was a few months ago, and I know I’m plenty employable.


144

During one scolding today, I remembered a community event I used to sponsor

for the radio: Picnic in the Park with Happiness. Every Monday everyone in town was

invited to pack a lunch and spend lunch in the park with hundreds of friends. It was also

a chance for them to help Bontempsonites less fortunate than them because I made it a

combination food/clothing drive. People gave so much and I put it all live on the air.

Each week I picked my “Giver of the Week: For Giving Generously.” We had a lot of

fun.

Monday’s only three days away, so I’m hoping the new host hasn’t given up on it.

I think it’d be a great place for me to start phase two. I could set up a little table for

myself and extend an olive branch to the new host. Good sports never finish last.

Why should we think this will be any different?

Because, my friend, this idea has the two things we’ve been lacking: a concrete

recipe for how to make ends meet today and a crowd. Not only will my self-employment

provide proof that taking employment initiative works, there will be dozens of people

there to see it, so even if there are Hitch-haters the effort won’t be wasted.

It didn’t take many of my business visits today to have my entire plan hatched,

revised, re-revised and approved. With that distraction finished, another fun thing I

noticed I did when I felt uncomfortable was to revisit a fun little game I made up when I

was young. Nine was always my lucky number. Well, actually, my lucky number was

always my age, but by age nine I realized how ridiculous it was to change my lucky

number every year. Surely what’s lucky one year is lucky the next, right?


145

Because it was my lucky number, I liked when I found things that added up to

nine, and when I felt discomfort, I often looked for my lucky number. It always made me

feel better.

My best nine-supplier came from words. If someone said something to me or if I

read a sign or anything like that, I tried to dissect it to find what I was looking for. I did it

any number of ways, be it counting words, syllables, letters or any combination thereof.

Let me give you an example from something Mr. Meanypants said:

I [one word] would [one word] never [two syllables] hire [four letters] you [one word].

1+1+2+4+1=9

Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner, and his initials are H.H.

I know jinxes and black magic stuff like that don’t exist, but it feels good to play

the game. It makes me feel like I can find something positive anywhere, like there’s

always something good under there. And all because I get good vibes from the number

nine. I’ve been doing it for more than a decade and it never fails.

The more inquiries I made today, the more distracted I found myself, to the point

where the applications were distracting me from working on my new idea, so I hired

myself and hustled back to my new office, home.

I went straight to Hilarious and told him my plan.

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“I think you are a brilliant thinker, and I also think anyone who does not think you

have a great idea here is someone whom I will pity.”

He liked it. I was thrilled. I needed him to say exactly that.


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For the rest of today I’m going to give my apartment a long overdue once over.

Know how when you’re super busy, cleaning feels like a distraction from something you

really need or want to do so it doesn’t happen? Like filth and fun are better than spic,

span and less fun? I made today the welcome lull that finally gives you a chance to catch

up on playing maid.

Today was my first good day in a while.

Good?

It’s all about potential, Lenny, potential. See:

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

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Disgust © ® © © ©

Irritation © ® © © ©

Anger © ® © © ©

Frustration © ® © © ©

Sadness © ® © © ©

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Happiness © © © ® ©

Optimism © © © ® ©


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1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.



DAY #11

What excellent timing! The Picnic in the Park is still on, and it’s still on for two

days from now. I daresay the tides they are a turning, because that’s some grade-A good

news. Actually, make than A-plus news, because I don’t think I could’ve sat around

waiting to put Operation Elation into action. That great self-evaluation I had already

seems like it was years ago (what was it really, three or four days... a week?), and all I

want to do is run out and tell everyone, but it’ll be better than perfect to do it at the

picnic.

Now all I needed was a service for my idea. What successful business venture

could I offer my fellow Bontempsonites at the picnic? I made my daily trip to Little

Bontemps hoping for inspiration.

While I went about my business, I carried Lenny I in my shirt pocket, and you and

I discussed our options. First I check up on a situation we’d been having stemming from

the “chemical” spill. Ever since I rebuilt and replaced Nature’s Candy, the gerbils

haven’t gone anywhere near it. You’d think I sprayed it with gerbil repellant, and each

day I check it hoping they’ve warmed up to the new addition. It looked just like it did

before the accident, so I couldn’t explain their aversion other than thinking the fresh

cardboard and wood pieces had some distinct aura that turned them off to it. I wasn’t

sure what to do outside of waiting it out. I didn’t want to have to build the whole thing

again.

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Today was no different. I only saw one or two gerbil exploring the new land, and

when they did they quickly scampered off to the more popular hangouts in town, like the

campus of Saunders College and downtown. Soon I’d have to try baiting them to visit

the place.

Then it was time for picnic brainstorming, and I paced next to the model’s park,

picturing myself in various poses and imagining the results of each.

ME

What about a sandwich maker serving up

fresh deli delights at low, low prices? It is a

picnic.

YOU

What about the budget?

You were right, the low, low prices wouldn’t help as I’d be working on a tight

budget and couldn’t front much capital. It would be a nice secondary incentive to make

this a profitable investment since my bank account’s been on an unhealthy diet and is

starting to look sickly.

Then I saw the answer right in front of us.

ME

Beverages!

YOU

Water?

ME

Lemonade!


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I was refilling Little Bontemps’ water tower and realized one thing gerbils and

people both need is hydration. The forecast says it’ll be another hot, hot, hot one, and

what better way to cool down than with a chilly beverage? Answer: no better way, which

makes for a tasty business plan and a tastier lesson, namely that folks always need

something, and job or no job you can provide it if you make the effort, and look-see there

you’ve got yourself a job. Could it be any easier? A: another no. And if I’ve said it

once, then this’ll be at least the second time, but if happiness is infectious, a glass of

lemonade is as good a disease-carrier as any.

Is that a guarantee?

Whoa, slow down, cowboy. You said it, not me.

Here’s what I know based on my picnic experience:

Central Park naturally forms a slight amphitheater. In the stage area is where I set

up a card table, microphone and speakers. The crowd, which averaged ninety-six each

week, was my supporting cast. We had sing-alongs, dance contests, games and live

music ranging from a family bluegrass band to a guy who attached rubber bands to

household objects and played them like stringed instruments. His homemade piano was

something to behold.

We ended with the Giver of the Month. The crowd voted (via crowd applause) on

three nominees, and the winner got a free dinner in a nice restaurant, talked about what

they’d done on the air and had to karaoke their favorite song.

I’ll be mingling with a crowd I know. Because Central Park is only a block away

from Nature’s Candy, most of the crowd works there and comes by on their lunch break.

It’s a crowd I’m comfortable with, a crowd who’s charitable to the less fortunate, and a


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crowd that likes me. This is my crowd. These are the regulars who came ever month to

give, give, give, and receive a good time in exchange. And I know their hearts are much

too big to ever let negativity creep in, especially for such a great cause.

I know it’s hard to be mad at someone you like, but it’s even harder to be mad at

someone who’s being nice to you. And who could hate a Lemonade Entrepreneur,

especially when everything’s homemade and I’ll be selling glasses at drastically reduced

prices?

My parents interrupted my buzz with a call this evening asking what I knew about

NAT’s continued plunge. They were legitimately curious, they weren’t pulling an, “I

told you so,” on me.

I still didn’t share my current employment status, though unlike last time I

couldn’t just conveniently not bring it up because dad said, “Your ratings must be going

through the roof because of this.”

I figured I shouldn’t piggyback bad news on top of bad news, so I kind of lied, but

it was more like being intentionally, over the top vague. “The ratings are there.”

Fortunately, optimism and modesty go hand in hand, so my folks dismissed my comment

as a backwards way of saying the ratings were going through the roof.

You mean you created an illusion with the intention o f making someone feel

better?

They do feel better because of it, you know. It’ll be okay. Tomorrow’s a big prep

day. A lemonade stand doesn’t put itself together.

Still feeling fine.


DAY #12

Today’s plan:

9:06 Breakfast

10:18 Lemonade Ingredients/Friendly Shoppin’

12:21 Lunch

1:03 Test Lemon-Aid Stand in Little Bontemps

3:12 Prepare for Lemon-Aid

Twelve short days since I was fired. It seems longer, but my calendar tells me

otherwise. Did you know the theory of relativity states that time slows down the faster

you’re moving? And the farther you are from the center of the earth the faster the earth’s

rotation moves you. When I learned that I wanted to move into a tree house on top of the

Empire State Building, because that way I’d be slightly younger than everyone living at

more traditional heights and I’d accomplish slightly more in my lifetime. The problem is

the theory of relativity also states that for the person moving quickly, time is relative and

they won’t notice it. That means the only way living on top of a skyscraper would pay

off is if someone who lived at ground level constantly called and reminded me how much

younger I look relative to people on the first floor. The bigger problem is that the time

difference is so small they wouldn’t notice it. And the biggest problem is that Bontemps

skyscraper population is zero, so alas, those twelve days were just as long for me as

everyone else in town. Sigh.

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I may not be able to control time, but I did get everything I needed for my Lemon-

Aid stand at the Friendly. I bought every pitcher they had (thirteen) except one (in case

someone else needed one I didn’t want to take them all).

I also got a gigantic kiddie pool. Not only will this scream fun, it’s where I’ll mix

my ingredients. My customers will gain confidence in my product if they see it being

made firsthand. When I say no additives or preservatives, I mean no additives or

preservatives, and if someone doesn’t believe me they can watch me brew the stuff. My

stirrer will be two lengthy pieces of white plastic plumber’s tubing. They’re taller than

me and look like comically large coffee stirrers. A little humor never hurt business.

I got fifty gallons of high quality purified water, plenty for everyone to have firsts

and most to have seconds (I know Mrs. Weaver steers clear of sweet drinks, so she may

stop at one glass). I ended up buying three dozen dozens of fresh lemons. I’ve no idea

how many I’ll need per glass, but any I don’t use will spice up my presentation. The

checkout gal joked it’s a good thing Nature’s Candy’s in the tank, otherwise they

wouldn’t have had that many lemons in stock. I laughed at her irony. Of course it’s not a

good thing.

Ice is going to be tricky. It’s going to be hibachi hot, which is great for business

but bad for ice management. I bought three big coolers, and filling them up with ice will

be the last thing I do tomorrow morning before shipping out.

My glasses ice the cake, put a cherry on top, and tie a bow around the whole

package (a candy, edible bow that compliments the cake exquisitely). They’re novelty

margarita glasses with bendy straws, they come in many exotic, neon colors, and some

glow in the dark, though unless a solar eclipse is in the works, folks will have to take my


154

word for it until they get home and try it for themselves. How fun is that? Fun’s good

for business, and on the off, off chance someone doesn’t like lemonade, they can still

have a festive cup for their beverage of choice.

My cash register might be second only to the glasses. It’s a cheap old microwave

I got at Goodwill I’ve renamed the “Money Multiplicator.” I have fifty-three dollars to

start with (imagine if I couldn’t break my first twenty) and by the end of tomorrow, it’ll

be multiplied.

That trip did turn a lot of my bank savings into spendings in a hurry, but if I sell

three-hundred-twenty-one glasses at forty-nine cents per, I’ll break about even.

I almost forgot! Sugar! Remember weeks ago when I got home with all that

sugar-free sugar? Well it’s game time for that stuff, so not only am I offering a delicious

treat, it’s a healthy delicious treat. One more selling point. Nice.

When I got home I whipped up a trial batch (I mixed it in a glass, not the pool). I

poured half a glass, sampled it, and my right hand gave my left a high five because it was

sweetly spectacular.

I took the rest of my sample pitcher with me to Nature’s Candy. I figured if the

big guys in town deserved a treat, so did the little ones.

I set up camp in Little Bontemps right where I’d set up camp tomorrow, in

Central Park, on top of the hill overlooking the crowd and KBON’s table. My niceties

won’t stop at lemonade. Heck, anyone can make a glass of lemonade. I’ll also have a

jobless directory signup sheet. My directory will include every unemployed person’s

name, contact info and specialties, and it will give local businesses a chance to peruse all


155

the available talent we have the next time they have an opening. It’ll work a lot like

personal ads minus the roses but plus plenty of platonic hugs.

For little Bontemps, I obviously didn’t have a miniature lemonade stand, but I

filled a large water bottle and propped it upside down. I gave Hitch VIII first dibs (for

accuracy, not to play favorites) and he took a sip, his nose curled up toward his forehead

at the sour taste, and he went back for more. “Yum,” he squeaked.

When he had his fill, a second gerbil gave her a go and he, too, filled his tank with

my golden gasoline. As gerbil after gerbil drank their share, Hitch VIII loitered around

the gathering. Maybe he was waiting for his little digestive tract to take care of work so

he could go back for more, or maybe he sensed he was running the show.

A couple gerbils approached Hitch VIII and looked like they said something. It

could’ve been Mrs. Libby, one of the first to arrive since she’d help get KBON ready.

She’ll say, “Oh, Hitch, I’m so glad you came. I just couldn’t imagine doing the

picnic without you. I want you to come meet someone.”

“The new guy?” I’ll say, and the new guy will walk up to us.

“Hitch?” he’ll say. “Wow, I’m a big fan.”

“Do you want to play Frisbee?” I’ll ask him.

“I love Frisbee!”

We’ll play for a few minutes and get along famously.

With each gerbil that took a drink, another one seemed to appear and there was

now dozens of gerbils crowded into Central Park. More and more of them seemed to be

fraternizing with Hitch VIII. I imagine the Wiggles will come.


156

“Hi there, Mrs. Wiggles,” I’ll say, “you sure are looking tip top today. Still

exercising?”

“Actually, it’s you who’s looking fit as a fiddle,” she’ll say. “Have you been

hitting the weight room?”

“Gosh,” I’ll say, blushing, “it must be from squeezing all these lemons.”

More and more people will crowd around until the ones in the back have to stand

on tiptoes just to see me.

“We were just talking about how much we’d like lemonade right now,” someone

will say, “and then poof, we look up and there you are. You’re a miracle maker, Hitch

Hocumb.”

“Anyone ever told you you’re brilliant?”

“It’s just lemonade,” I’ll say.

That’s when Mr. Wiggins’ll take his first sip.

“Mm. Egad, boy. Just lemonade?”

Then Mrs. Wiggles will taste it.

“Eureka! Just about the best lemonade I’ve ever had is more like it,” she’ll say.

Each glass I pour will bring more praise.

“Wow is it good.”

“Is this from a restaurant?”

“Do you cater?”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

“My Mazda’s pretty dirty these days,” Mr. Elliott will say.

“Mailbox sure could use a new coat,” Mrs. Phillips will say.


157

“Got some peach preserves that need a good jarring,” Mrs. Hamilton will say.

“Hippy, Skippy and Ted need haircuts this instant,” Mrs. Miller will say, referring

to her cuter than cute gerbils.

“Look at all that money he’s making,” someone will say.

“See,” I’ll tell them, “even without a conventional job, I’m doing something I

love, which makes me smile, and I’m making a modest living off of it. And you can do

the same!”

“He’s right.”

“And here I’ve been sitting around waiting for the job to find me.”

“We were way off; things haven’t been so bad, it’s us who’s been bad.”

“I’m going to sell my collectible coins.”

“I’ll sell my hair.”

“I’ll be a topiary artist.”

“I’ll open an acrobat school in my backyard.”

“Does anyone have dibs on homemade toothpaste?”

“Hey, Hitch. What’s that list?”

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Armstrong,” I’ll tell him. “That’s a signup sheet for

jobless directory.”

“Jobless directory?” the group will ask in unison.

“Yep,” I’ll say. “Put your info on it, and I send it to every company in town, and

when they need help, they’ll give you a call.”

“It’s brilliant,” Mr. Armstrong will say.


158

“You know,” Mr. Henderson will say,” I’ve been thinking I just might be able to

use a little help around Truck, Truck, Goose. Count me in.”

“And me,” everyone else will say in unison.

Maybe I’ll even franchise my lemonade enterprise to a few lucky strugglers.

Thinking about it makes me feel giddy.

By the time everyone’s signed up, they’ll be ready for seconds and I’ll give them

service with a great big old smile.

Just then a big, burly gerbil built like Joe Richie snuck up behind popular Hitch

VIII and chewed on his blazer. How impolite! Instead of snapping back at Joe Richie I,

Hitch VIII turned around, and would you believe me if I told you it looked like he talked

to Joe I, and Joe I walked away? I swear that’s what it looked like.

I know it’s unrealistic for me to think nobody will say something I don’t want to

hear, but I look at that as another reason to go. Here’s where you probably think I’ll whip

up some ridiculously unrealistic expectation that love conquers all, so I guess you could

call this the big plot twist in my story: I don’t think that, and I understand that there will

always be bad energy out there and I just have to minimize its effect on me. No, my

reasons are science-worthy. If I remembered geometry a little better I’d write out a

lengthy theorem, but this is no right triangle and real life triangles won’t always be right.

That’s when you can either give up or get out your trusty compass. I trust my compass.

The first reason the picnic will change my detractors’ cynicism is that for once I’ll

be on the same bench as them, and you can’t hate a teammate. I’ll be facing the person

who took my job, but I won’t take out my frustration on the new guy, I’ll extend an olive

branch to him, showing him and the town that it’s possible to coexist and work with


159

someone who’s not my best friend. The best way to convince anyone that something

works is to show them it works. If you’re selling your lawnmower, you turn it on for

prospective buyers, right? You don’t expect them to just take it at your word, do you?

I’ll be like a salesman for burying hatchets (if only that was a job!).

What i f someone does confront you?

If they do it, I’ll play it cool like Hitch VIII.

If they say, “Mr. Hocumb, I know you mean well, and I know you’re a real nice

guy who usually does mighty well for all of us in these here parts, but that last time you

crossed the line, and for me that was one line I couldn’t afford for you to have crossed,

catch my drift?” Then maybe he blows on me gently to simulate his “drift.”

I’ll say, “It’s really nice to see you, Mr. Goodtimes. I know exactly how you feel

and I’m here to tell you that the only way we can help ourselves is to help each other.

Let me start. Please have a lemonade, on the house.”

‘That’s mighty nice of you, Mr. Hocumb, I would love a lemonade.” He’ll take a

sip here, maybe swish it around his taste buds for a moment or two. “That’s fine

lemonade you’ve got here. You sure you never made it before?”

“As sure as I am that you and I will both have great jobs within a few weeks.”

“Aw, I had you all wrong, Mr. Hocumb. You’re a-okay.”

Depending who it is, we might shake hands here, or even hug. Won’t that be

nice? Just like Joe I and Hitch VIII.

The irony with these wayward souls is they’ve absolutely nailed one optimistic

trait: when bad stuff happens, it happens because of external factors outside of your

control, and finding this source of blame will help keep your spirits and self-confidence


160

sky high. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been the target of their blame, and unfortunately for

them, the bad stuff happening has been so bad it hasn’t left room for any silver lining,

and while I’d normally be more than happy (ecstatic even) to be the fall guy and save our

great town, in this case I’d be more of a fall guy instead of the fall guy. Sometimes all

you can do to move past the past is focus on the great stuff you’ve done instead of

channeling all that negativity at your problem.

With my customers served, it’ll be picnic time. I’ll have a peanut butter-based

sandwich, and I’ll also have one of Rosie’s favorite sandwiches. She always used to be

right by my side at the picnic, and tomorrow’s would do her some good, so I hope she

keeps her routine. That way she’ll see how much I want to help, realize bygones will be

bygones, apologize and give me a big old Rosierrific hug. I miss that girl

Then it’ll be game time. The lights will dim, the speakers will crackle to life, and

the new guy will take the stage.

“Welcome to KBON’s Picnic in the Park, Parketeers,” the new guy will say.

“We’ve got a great show for you today, and I’m not saying that like other hosts who just

care about how much they can charge advertisers, I’m saying it because we really do

have a great, important show for you today.”

Applause.

“Do you see that man selling lemonade up there?”

Heads will turn. A few people will yell, “Got some quality lemonade up there,

that guy does,” inspiring increased applause.

“That great man up there,” the new guy will continue, “is coming back where he

belongs. He’ll be back on the air next week at KBON!”


161

Applause deafening.

“Folks, I think it’s high time we forgive Mr. Hitch Hocumb, and that’s why he’s

my Giver of the Month! So get your butt up here, Hitch, you fine human being. And

don’t forget a glass of that special elixir you’ve got up there.”

I’ll take the stage and listeners of the broadcast will later say it sounded like the

station went off the air, because all that applause sounded like white noise.

Maybe some Nature’s Candy higher-ups then make a surprise visit to announce

their next big idea. What a great place to do it. Ooh, maybe I should call over there and

let them know about it.

“Hey everyone, Hitch was right,” they’ll say. “We’re saved!” Then they’ll break

into song. “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly

good fellow, which nobody can deny! Yeah!”

On second though, better not call. I’m sure they know, and even if they don’t

show, people might still sing the song.

And we all finish with the biggest group hug you’ve ever seen.

Okay, maybe not that last part. With so many people, that’d be one dangerous

hug, but the way all those gerbils were fighting to get to the lemonade, it looked like a

giant hug.

Wait, so you think all that will happen tomorrow?

All of it? No, that would be completely unreasonable. I’ll settle for half.

I ended up overstaying my allotted time at Little Bontemps by an hour I was so

caught up in the fervor, so it was 4:12 before I was rounding up tomorrow’s supplies.


162

On top of my Friendly purchases, I’m taking my love seat, which I’ll plop down

behind my kitchen table. The loveseat offers two advantages. First, I want to look

comfortable so people associate my enterprise with comfort; they needn’t be scared to

take risks. Second, and most important, I’ll have an extra seat to invite special guest stars

to sit down in. Let’s say Mrs. North forgets to bring a blanket to sit on. I’ll be glad I

lugged it down there.

I made a sign I’ll prop in my storefront. It’s as tall as the table (if I hung it high

like most store signs it might draw attention away from the star of the show, the new guy,

and I don’t want that), says, “BONTEMPS LEMON-AID: Established Today,” and my

corporate logo, a smiley face with the smile made by half a lemon. It’s fun.

I feel:

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust 0 0 0 © 0

Irritation 0 0 0 © 0

Anger 0 0 0 © 0

Frustration 0 0 0 © ©

Sadness 0 0 0 © ©

Disappointment 0 0 0 © ©


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Stoicism © © © ©

Happiness © © © ©

Optimism © © © ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.


I can’t wait until tomorrow.


DAY #13

I just got home and really need a friend to talk to, but right now I’m going to go

lie down. Sorry, Lenny.

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust 0 © © © 0

Irritation © © © © 0

Anger © © © © 0

Frustration © © © © 0

Sadness © © © © 0

Disappointment © © © © 0

Stoicism 0 © © © ©

Happiness 0 © © © ©

Optimism 0 © © © ©

Vomiting © © © © 0

1: None whatsoever.

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2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.



DAY #14

Now I am feeling hot, but it’s the bad kind of hot.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow. No problem.

166


DAY #15

Turns out a high temperature, vomiting, and violent lethargy do constitute a

problem. Let’s plan to talk when I feel up to it.

167


NO ENTRY

DAY #16

168


DAY #17

It’s amazing what one full day of dedicated rest will do. I’m not saying I’ve been

doing calisthenics the last few days, but not feeling responsible for recording my thoughts

and keeping my old pal pleased was a big help (thanks for understanding), and I just had

my first vomit-free hour in days, so here I am. I hope you haven’t read my story this far

strictly based on my handsome physical appearance, because I have to confess I’ve

looked better. I think I threw up some of my skin tone; I look sickly pale.

To say I’ve been better wouldn’t do my current condition justice. It’d be like

saying Australia is both a country and a continent; it tells you something about Australia,

but not much. I’ve never been worse would be more accurate. Fortunately, I’m under

twenty-four hour doctor’s surveillance, and I’d say I lucked into one of the best in the biz.

He’s retired but sharp as ever. His name’s Dr. Hilarious Universe and I’m lucky as heck

to have him. Cliches aside, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him. It’s a safe

bet I couldn’t go to Chester County General given my picnic reception, and I know I

don’t have the energy to get myself anywhere else. The doc’s been a real life saver.

Truth is, I wish I could say it was a food virus or germs or seasonal allergies, but

it’s not, and the truth is what we need to talk about. Hilarious has been one heck of a

listener the last few days, and he’s been privy to some details I never imagined I’d share.

He also knows all about my best bud Lenny, and he thinks it’d be good for me to tell you

about the picnic, and I don’t know how you and I can sort this mess out, but you’ll need

169


170

to hear this sooner or later, and I’ve got plenty of time to spill it sooner. Hilarious

encouraged me to get it all out, purge it, if you will, out of my system (bad metaphor, I

know, but it was his).

My early early morning was picture perfect. In fact, I had Hilarious take a picture

of me next to my fully loaded car. Sleeping before a super fantastic day is the ultimate

Catch-22 for me. I know the longer I sleep, the sooner the super fantastic-ness will come

and the more rested I’ll be to do it proper, but just thinking about such excitement is

enough to get my adrenaline going so fast it makes sleep near impossible. I didn’t sleep

much the night before.

Back when I hosted this thing, I used to dress up like a homeless person. I wore

old, dirty, raggedy clothes. People gave more generously when I used myself as a visual

aid. My “surprise ending” was that I had on a dressy Hawaiian shirt with a matching

outfit on underneath, and once donations were done, if they reached our goal I

dramatically removed my homeless clothes to reveal my homeful clothes. Never

underestimate the power of suggestion. Today I’m wearing both outfits, and I can’t help

but think it will carry more symbolism this time. I’ll be like our entire little town,

emerging from my dirty, gooey cocoon to live free in the wild. It’ll be beautiful.

My little car can only hold so much, and I knew beforehand I’d be making two

trips. The first load was all furniture. I saved my ingredients because I wanted them to

be as fresh as possible. Hilarious helped me load up. We put the table upside down on

top of my car and held it down with the love seat. We held the love seat down with lots

of rope tied through my open windows. The kiddie pool would occupy that spot for my

second trip.


171

I threw my sign in the backseat. Some early advertising couldn’t hurt.

Hilarious offered to ride to the park with me, but I didn’t think that was necessary.

I asked him to watch the rest of my stuff while I was out, it would just take a minute.

And it did only take a few minutes. I untied the knot, power lifted the love seat

off and set it down in the perfect spot. I’d driven my car through the grass between the

parking lot and my perfect spot because it was only thirty feet or so and I didn’t want to

waste my energy carrying furniture all over the place. I needed to save every little bit I

could for more important happenings.

I set the table in front of it and was off, but not before perfecting and admiring my

handiwork. The challenge was putting the table high enough on the hill that it sat level

while making sure the love seat sat where I would have a clear view all the way down the

hill. I went back and forth from sliding to sitting until I had it just right. The table sat at

a five to ten degree angle, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

I propped my sign against the table. The end result was just as I’d pictured it, my

little table looking lonely atop the hill, beckoning visitors to more closely inspect why it’s

there.

I drove home with a big smile on my face. I was close to perfecting the perfect

lemonade stand I’d envisioned.

When I got back to the house, Hilarious was waiting for me outside protecting my

coolers and perishables. We loaded the car back up and strapped the kiddie pool down.

I practically begged Hilarious to be my sidekick, but he declined. “This is a very

nice thing it is Mr. Hitch is doing here, but the people will not need a good doctor.”

“I sure could use another lemon squeezer.”


172

“Mr. Hitch squeezes the lemons fine. Promise the good doctor Mr. Hitch will be

careful.”

I promised and hit the road. The kiddie pool made my car look like a traveling

party wagon, which was fitting as I was off to the biggest party in town.

Then I had a little oops: the kiddie pool came unhitched and flew off my car.

Thankfully, nobody was driving behind me or someone might have gotten hurt. I roped it

back in place and breathed a comforting sigh of relief. The kiddie pool was okay.

Moments later I parked next to my lemonade stand, or rather where my lemonade

stand was when I left a mere twenty minutes earlier. All of my things were gone. There

was a slight breeze blowing that morning, but nothing strong enough to relocate a table or

loveseat unless a tornado had whipped through the park, picked up my belongings and

marched back out without touching anything else. Seemed unlikely. Someone stole my

store.

That was my only kitchen table. And love seat. And sign. I was sad.

I looked around for clues but saw nothing. The culprit was good, but who on

earth turns to a life of crime for a table and loveseat? I’d keep my ears open for any

impromptu yard sales and try to nab them. They would probably use the back of my sign

to make their own. I was already one step ahead of those fools, and no thief was going to

spoil my fresh start. That’s when I noticed the best omen I’d seen all day: I still had

everything I needed for lemonade. Sure it would be a makeshift setup, but that’s what

starting from scratch is all about. Plus, I could always eat dinner off the kitchen counter,

and I haven’t been doing much love sitting of late, so would I even miss the love seat?

Not this day.


173

I set my coolers of ice where the love seat had been. They were the perfect

replacement.

Before positioning the kiddie pool behind the coolers, I notice it was dirty from its

fall. I didn’t have water, but I did have frozen water, so I dumped half a bag of ice into

the pool. I didn’t have the patience to wait for it to melt on its own because I was too

anxious to get everything set up. The only way I could get rid of the stress from the

robbery was to prove to myself I could still open my store with what I had left, and I

knew my heartbeat would reverberate through my whole body until that happened.

To melt the ice, I stripped down to my boxers and lay on top of it, rolling onto my

warm side when the other got too cold to help. It felt like it took a few minutes to melt it

all, but I finally felt the last freezing, jagged piece of ice disappear beneath me.

“Oh my. Well, hello there, young Hitch.”

It was Mrs. Wiggles with Mayor Wiggles by her side. I’d just stepped out of the

pool. My pink cold spots looked like a sunburn and I was shivering in my boxers.

“Hi there, Mrs. Wiggles, you sure are looking tip top today. Still exercising?”

“Oh, shush you and put your clothes back on,” she said, turning her back so she

didn’t have to see me get dressed, which I did quickly and embarrassingly.

“Looks like you’re the one swimming laps here,” Mayor Wiggles said. “We

weren’t sure what the pool was doing over here, so we came exploring.”

“You should really use suntan lotion, Hitch, though even I didn’t expect the sun

would be so vicious today,” Mrs. Wiggles said.


174

“I know.” I didn’t tell him the truth because forgetting lotion was a traditionally

accepted form of idiocy, and I didn’t want to get into why I’d been swimming in ice.

“But speaking of the heat—“

“Are you shivering?” the mayor asked.

“You poor boy. Put some clothes on.”

“Sorry, guess I’m just nervous about the business I’m opening.”

“Business?” they asked simultaneously.

“Is this a public pool?” Mrs. Wiggles asked.

I laughed. “Nope, this is my cauldron. I’m opening a lemonade stand.”

“You’re making lemonade in the pool you were just swimming in?” the mayor

asked.

“He’ll clean it out, Ernest, won’t you, Hitch?”

“Mmhmm,” I unintelligibly answered.

“We were just talking about how much we’d like lemonade right now, and then

poof, we look up and there you are,” Mrs. Wiggles said. “You’re a miracle maker, Hitch

Hocumb.”

“No, I’m just a guy selling lemonade. Please, have a sip.”

“Ever modest, you are,” she said. “We’ll swing through during the picnic when

you’re up and running.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” I insisted.

“Sorry, son, we’ve got to finish our walk. Promise we’ll be back. Best of luck.”

“See you then,” Mrs. W said. “What a great idea you have.”


175

“Thanks,” I said as they turned to leave. “Any chance either of you have a pen?”

I shouted after them.

They searched their pockets to no avail. I needed to make my new sign but was

lacking in the supplies department. I could’ve made a trip to the supplies department, but

after what happened the first time I abandoned my things, I didn’t dare risk a rerun.

My only option within shouting distance was a dumpster in the parking lot. I had

no choice but to check it out.

I didn’t look too out of place looking through the dumpster given my outfit, but it

still made me uncomfortable. This was not part of my plan, and of course the magical

piece of clean poster board I hoped was lying on top wasn’t.

Then I saw it. It wasn’t great, but it would work. It was an old pizza box, and it

was just out of reach. I tried climbing up the edge of the dumpster but couldn’t even

touch it. I tried flipping back the second half of the lid, which was so big and awkward it

made me feel like I was flagging attention to myself, but fortunately there were no early

campers for the picnic.

I could contort myself so I could touch the box, and I tried using a stick to

catapult it out of the dumpster, but nothing worked. There was only one way I’d be

getting that pizza box.

I scaled the side of the big metal canister. When I had myself propped on the

edge, I had that feeling you get as a kid when you climb a fence or a tree and realize

there’s no good place to step down to on the way down, forcing you to risk life and limb

and jump.


176

I jumped. Imagine the opposite of a reckless child diving into a ball pit and that’s

what I did. It was a careful jump and I aimed my feet at a shoebox (seemed appropriate)

and a semi-clean towel. I missed both, but on the positive side of things I could easily

reach the pizza box from where I landed, so I could quickly climb back out. Sadly, I

couldn’t climb out quickly enough.

“Hey! You! Get out of there, that’s disgusting.”

I hit the pavement and looked up, panicking as if I’d been caught stealing

something of value instead of the used pizza box dangling from my hand.

“Hi, Mrs. Libby,” I said, not sure if I was glad or sad to see a face I recognized.

“Oh, Hitch, I’m so glad to see you, but not like this. I never imagined you were

living like this.”

“Actually, I’m better than ever,” I said with a forced smile.

“Honestly, Hitch, it hurts me to say this, but you look awful.”

“No, no, this is my outfit. Remember? The costume?” I flashed my clean

clothes underneath.

“Okay, right. The costume. Nice. Just like old times, huh?”

“Kind of, I guess.”

“Gosh, if only I had another open spot on the air, you could fill it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said. At first I thought she’d said what I thought she’d said,

but then I realized my humble reaction simply restated what she’d said. I couldn’t, and I

wouldn’t. I was relieved I had Lemon-Aid to fall back on.

“Is that the new guy?” I nodded towards the young gentleman unloading Mrs. L’s

truck.


177

“That’s James all right. Have you heard him?”

“Not yet. But I’m anxious to.”

Seeing him in real life killed the image of him I had in my head. I’d pictured a

guy my age who looked like I’d look if I got to build the perfect me. I pictured someone

who looked like they should have my job over me, someone who was more impressive

than me. Instead it was a guy my age with fairly ordinary looks. He looked a lot like me.

It made me feel a little better, even though I know the face doesn’t necessarily make the

man.

“Probably best you haven’t heard him. I’d introduce you two,” she told me, “but I

don’t think this is the best time for him.” He did look busy. “You haven’t told me what

you’re doing here, and what the cardboard’s for.”

“My new job starts today.”

“That’s great. I knew you’d bounce back on your feet lickity split.”

“I’m opening a lemonade stand at the picnic.”

Her response was more neutral than elation or disappointment. I hoped her

stoicism wasn’t meant to hide her real reaction.

“You’re staying for the picnic then?”

“Yeah, I can’t wait. Seems like it’s been forever.”

“Tell me about it. Listen, Hitch, this is a great idea you’ve got, and a great day

for it, but you be careful out here. I’m not sure the show’s exactly what it was when we

had you, and today might be different.” * ------------ ------------

“I didn’t expect it was, but change is good. I promise you haven’t a thing to

worry about.”


178

“And I promise I’ll come by for a glass. It is good to see you, Hitch. I miss you.”

With that, she hugged me and was off.

“Do you want to play Frisbee with me?” I called after her.

“Huh?” she said.

“Nothing.”

I took the pizza box back by my pool. It was in good shape and work well if I

only had something to write with. Again I searched my surroundings, and again I spotted

my solution. It was everywhere, under my feet even. Grass. Is there anything more

annoying than a grass stain? There’s no situation in which a grass stain is a welcome

friend... until now. I could use it to stain my corporate logo into the pizza box. It would

look arty and eye-catching, a lot better than the arts and crafts project I’d put together

yesterday. With acres of grass before me, I’d struck gold, and by gold I mean green.

I pulled a few fistfuls of grass from the park terrain. I was sure to take a little bit

here and a little bit there instead of leaving one giant bald spot. I knelt on the ground

over my sign’s canvas. I made a few practice strokes on the back. Less than ideal but

better than nothing. With legibility a question mark, I couldn’t afford going into the

detail my last sign had, so my new ad campaign said, “Lemon-aid!” It got the point

across.

I used the grass like a dull marker, pressing hard and making many strokes before

being thinking I’d done each letter justice. The finished product looked like graffiti art.

It was striking and t-shirt worthy, what more could I ask for?

I set it next to my sparkling kiddie pool. Perfect. I was open for business.


179

I looked around for potential customers. Nothing. They’d be here soon enough, I

assured my antsy self.

I was going to double check and make sure Mrs. Libby didn’t need help, but

decided I should perfect my recipe. You can tell a chefs experience from their use of

recipes. Anyone who requires a recipe to cook anything, and takes each Vi cup and V*

tablespoon as gospel is a novice. More experienced cooks know a recipe can be tinkered

with, adding a pinch here and there, or eyeballing this and that, and since I’ve spent some

time in the kitchen, I would be creating my concoction off the top of my head.

I didn’t want to waste a glass so I tried mixing a few different ingredient ratios in

my mouth. I cut a few lemons in half, poured a swig of water in my mouth, squeezed

some juice in with it, swished and swallowed. I used more lemon juice each time, and

each batch got more sour. I settled on a ratio of two-to-one water-to-lemon juice, exactly

what I’d decided yesterday. I wanted to redo yesterday’s go to be doubly sure of my

product and because sometimes I didn’t fully trust myself from the past. What if I had

more refined taste buds after a good night’s sleep? What if I’d gained insight since

yesterday I hadn’t realized I’d gained? It’s happened before, and it’s why I’ve never

thought procrastination to be a character flaw.

When the first non-procrastinating picnickers started trickling in an hour before

the big show, I’d just started making my first batch in the pool. I poured in a dozen

gallons of water and got to squeezing. When my first few customers, who were mostly

kids, came to see what was brewing, none of them said a word about anything that had

happened the last few weeks, just like I guessed. Their line of questions were more along


180

the lines of, “What are you doing?” and, “Isn’t that a nice idea?” and, “Can I try some?”

and, “Are you really homeless?” I’m sure you can guess my answers.

By drinking time, their parents had wandered over and my customer base was up

to a few dozen people, and there were dozens more staking out real estate down the hill

as we neared show time. With nothing to do but wait, people jumped at the chance to

explore their curiosity with the mob forming up the hill.

“Does that sign say ‘First Aid.’ Is this a first aid tent?” someone asked.

“I think it’s ‘Satan-Aid.’” someone answered.

“No, it’s ‘Lemon-Aid,’ silly,” a child answered.

“He’s helping lemons?” someone quipped, breaking the ice for the Hitch-haters in

the crowd to start making their fun.

“Looks like a lemon of an operation is what it looks like,” someone followed.

“I heard it tastes great, but leaves a nasty aftertaste,” someone else joked.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no. It was raining. No. It wasn’t supposed to rain.

The forecast said a ten-percent chance! What good’s a forecast if I can’t trust it? Oh no.

I didn’t have anything to cover the lemonade up with so I started scooping out glasses as

quickly as I could.

“Voila,” I said, ignoring all of them. “Who wants the first sip?” I held up a glass.

“Pretty cup,” one young girl said.

“Can you make it with rainwater?” Mrs. Notveryclever asked smartly.

-------------- -Give me that,” Mr. Jerkhead said, charging his way to the front and grabbing the

glass from me.

“Wow. Is it good?” someone asked, taking the words out of my mouth.


181

Mr. Jerkhead spit his first sip out. “It’s supposed to taste good, right?” he asked.

“Restaurants make it much better. Caterers too.”

“I see the lemons,” Mrs. Tactless said, “but where’s the sugar? You know you

need sugar for lemonade, right dumb-dumb?”

“That idiot forgot the sugar?”

“It’s plain old lemon water. Lemon rainwater.”

“Figures he’d mess up.”

“Those stir sticks he’s got are intended for [poop], which is hysterical because

[poop] is exactly what they’ve got going through them.”

“It’s light lemonade,” I said. “Sugar-free sugar,” but nobody cared. Don’t people

realize words like “dumb” and “idiot” are hurtful? I only wish they’d stopped there.

“I can’t believe I ever let you wash my Mazda,” Mr. Stupidface said.

“And paint my mailbox,” Mrs. Unimportant said.

“And jar my peach preserves,” Mrs. Stinky said.

“Hippy, Skippy and Ted never liked you. Our gerbils even knew you were bad

news,” Mrs. Grosspets said.

I tried distracting myself, scanning the crowd for friendly faces, anything to find

respite from their nasty words. I found nothing so I decided to re-situate my store,

making adjustments that looked slight but in my mind made my setup even sweeter.

Knowing it was perfect made me feel better. When I set my free sample pitcher on level

ground, the ground tumed out to not be so level, or maybe a gopher passed underneath,

because the pitcher fell over.

“Look,” a teenager yelled. “The grass where he spilled just doubled in height!”


182

I did a double take and looked for myself.

“Ha ha, you looked,” the teen said, pointing and laughing at me. “I’m sure you

killed it.”

Ha (1) ha (1), you (1) looked (1). I’m (1) sure (1) you (1) killed (1) it (1). Equals

nine. Nice.

“Won’t be making much money here,” Mr. Harshreality said.

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

There were too many “nopes” to count, and I’d stopped counting at nine. The

tenth came from me, and it was shouted at the top of my lungs.

“What’d you say?” Mrs. Couldn’tbelieveherears said.

“I said shut up. And go away. And stop being mean to me. You’re going to

make me cry,” I said, but my words didn’t convince me I wasn’t already crying, and I

did. All I wanted to do was have an organized workspace. Why’d that pitcher have to

spill? And why’d someone have to steal my things? I did my best. Isn’t that supposed to

be good enough?

“Wittle Hitchy gon’ weepy weepy,” Mr. Babytalk said.

“Get out of my store,” I said weakly.

“Public park,” he said. “Can do whatever I want.”


183

“Can’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do?” I asked him. “I want to be able to

do what I want without feeling bad. You and me, we don’t have jobs, but I’m still doing

something I love, which makes me smile, and I can try to make a living off it. You can

do the same, or you can waste your time trying to feel good by belittling people like me.”

“You know what I’d love to do right now,” Mr. Violencesolveseverything said,

“I’d love to pound your face in. Who’s gonna pay me to pummel this guy?”

I’d never heard such a loud cheer at the picnic. Then everyone took a trip down

sarcasm lane.

“Goodness.”

“He’s right.”

“And here I’ve been sitting around waiting for the job to find me.”

“We were way off; things haven’t been so bad, it’s us who’s been bad.”

“I’m going to sell my collectible coins.”

“I’ll sell my hair.”

“I’ll be a topiary artist.”

“I’ll open an acrobat school in my backyard.”

“Does anyone have dibs on homemade toothpaste?”

The last few got big laughs.

The job directory! I nearly forgot! The signup sheet was attached to my original

sign. I’d have to vocally advertise it.

----------“Are you nincompoops in the jobless directory?”

Their reaction reflected how desperate they were for work. Even though they

hated me and wanted to keep cursing me, they’d listen to anyone with job info.


184

“Jobless directory? You making fun of us?”

“I’m jobless, you idiot,” I said. “It’s going out to every company in a forty-two

mile radius and it lists people looking for work.”

“Who has jobs?”

“That’s for you business owners to know, and us job hunters to find out.”

“Count Mabel’s Labels out,” Mrs. Needsabetterbudget said. “I just fired two guys

this week.”

“Ditto Truck, Truck, Goose. I can barely afford the goose anymore,” Mr.

Notateamplayer said.

“What a dumb fucking idea,” Mr. Dumbfuckingidea said.

“You’re Mr. Dumbfuckingidea,” I told him.

“What’d you call me?”

“A. Dumb. Fucking. Idea.”

It felt good to curse. Why haven’t I been doing it since I first learned to talk?

Correction: why the fuck haven’t I been doing it since I first learned to talk? They’re

powerful words whether people like them or not. If I tell you, “I’m going to the store,” it

tells you I’m probably making a routine trip to pick up essentials, but if I say, “I’m going

to the fucking store,” it means I’m going, but I’m not happy about it. No other single

word accomplishes so much. It’s so definitive, and that’s what we’re going for here, so I

might as well go for it in real life too.

“I don’t think that makes sense, but I’ll kill you for it anyway.”

He ran at me. I threw light lemonade in his face.


185

“Dammit, that hurts.” He keeled over and died on the spot. He didn’t really die,

but at the time I don’t think I’d have minded.

Everyone crowded toward us. I wasn’t sure if they were moving to help him or

hurt me so I picked up my oversized stir sticks.

“You didn’t have to do that, Hitch, he wasn’t going to hurt you,” Mrs. Naive said.

Then the familiar sound of radio static cut off our confrontation. The Picnic in the

Park was underway.

“Let’s get out of here and go watch a real radio host,” I heard someone say. I

think it was Mr. Dick.

The sensible thing would’ve been to cut my losses, but I was done with being

sensible. Maybe my optimism wasn’t what current circumstances called for, but I knew

for a fact this group’s pessimism wasn’t what it needed, and I knew that would only make

it worse. I wanted to stay and watch them continue to bring themselves down. What a

bunch of assholes.

“Welcome to KBON’s Picnic in the Park,” the new guy began, “I’m your host,

James Slimeball, but you know me as The Realist.”

He has a nickname. How cute.

Cue theme song. Commercial break.

I used to karaoke a silly song during my breaks, but The Realist was all business.

Then I locked eyes with someone who was staring at me from the front. It was

Rosie. Talk about good timing, she looked cuter than ever. She waved to draw my

attention to her, but of course I already knew it was her.


186

She got up and headed... away from me? What? She couldn’t even say hi? She

went straight to The Realist’s table. He saw her and clearly knew who she was. Then he

stuck his tongue down her throat. It was disgusting. James is Jimmy. Neat. Guess she

only dates celebrities. Good riddance. Bitch.

“We’re back live at the Picnic in the Park,” The Realist echoed through the park,

“You know, it disgusts me to be here today. Do you know why?”

The crowd shook their heads. No way the microphones picked it up. Nice flub.

“Because here we are trying to host a picnic, but it’s hard, and having a picnic

shouldn’t be hard, it should be fun, but we all know life’s been no picnic recently.”

From my position, the crowd’s nods of approval looked like they were

worshipping this Realist character, which was ironic because I’m the one who started

using puns on the air.

“From what I understand, this program is usually reserved for spending time

celebrating the good things in life, but I challenge one person hear to raise their hand and

tell me one good thing happening in their life.”

I put my hand up.

The Realist laughed. It wasn’t a genuine, “Something’s funny,” laugh, it was

more of an evil, “I have something up my sleeve,” laugh.

“I should have known. Let me introduce someone to you all, someone who sure

did bring this community together. You guessed it, Mr. Life of Lies himself, Hitch

Hocumb. Hitch, Gome on down and get yourself back on the air.”

“No, thanks,” I yelled back at him.

“That’s not very nice, Mr. Happy. Why don’t you tell us what’s so great?”


187

“Today I’m going to stop trying.” Nine syllables.

“Trying what?” he asked. “Trying to ruin our lives?”

“Trying to make good things happen. Like you all.” Nine words.

Boos whipped through the crowd.

“Your listeners don’t like the sound of that, Mr. Sunnyside Up. Our fault. We’re

sorry. Is that what you expect us to say? Gee, what was I thinking going to work every

day and doing my job, doing my job the way it’s supposed to be done, not based on some

delusional fantasy?”

I don’t like long sentences like that. It’s hard to crunch them down to nine points.

“All these people here,” he continued, “will be different people when they leave

here today, and it’s not because I’m going to magically get them all nonexistent jobs, it’s

because they’ll all be more in tune with reality.”

Another long sentence. Boo this guy. Nine syllables. Check mate (bonus: nine

letters).

“We’ve already seen that thinking everything will work out in the end is just plain

dumb, and you I know both know we can’t afford such a na'ive perspective when making

decisions from here on out. If we acknowledge a worst case exists, we’ll be ready for it if

it does happen, and we won’t be surprised into feeling awful. Is it wrong to feel

prepared?”

More head shaking from the gallery. They used to be vocal for my show.

“Being prepared means being educated. In history, your teacher doesn’t tell you

we did a-okay in Vietnam because that makes us all feel better, he tells you we got into

some nasty shit in the shit, but we won’t let it happen again because we learned from it.


188

You can’t learn from your mistakes if you romantically convince yourself mistakes aren’t

made.” His volume and pitch had picked up some. The crowd was rallying behind him.

“I’ve got a special guest who asked to speak today, and it’s a man who needs no

introduction. Even I’m not sure what he’s going to say, but I want you all to know that

no matter what it is, when he speaks is when we start facing the reality of our situation.”

His guest was Nature’s Candy’s big man on campus. I doubted Mr. Pants’s words

would save my day. Still, I really wanted to see everyone proved wrong.

“I’m going to get right to the point,” Mr. Pants began. “Nature’s Candy’s recent

struggles are no secret. I assure you that we at the company have spent many weeks

doing everything we can to remedy this situation. Unfortunately,” —a few screams and

many gasps preceded his announcement—“effective today, Nature’s Candy is forced to

indefinitely suspend all operations. Employees were notified this morning that yesterday

was our last shipment. Everyone will receive severance pay, and we thank them for all

their hard work and wish them all the very best. By no means should the company’s

failure be looked at as a failure by any of these fine people.” The crowd turned and gave

me a nasty look. “I’m very sorry.”

He left and I would need to do likewise. Those nasty looks hadn’t flinched quite

yet. I began putting my belongings into my kiddie pool.

“Devastating news.” The Realist was back in control. “If that’s not a reality

check, I’m not your local reality specialist.”

Think about how an angry mob sounds; this crowd sounded like a pre-angry, or

agitated, mob. Their heads looked to be on 180-degree swivels. Him to me, him to me,


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him to me. I emptied coolers and tossed them in the pool. I felt like a rowdy, one man

hotel party.

“I see where you’re looking, and you’re right to look that direction. Things were

fine here until one man ill-advisedly stuck his grubby fingers where his grubby fingers

weren’t meant to be grubbed. That’s why Hitch is my Giver of the Month, for giving us

all a big headache, but really he’s taken a hell of a lot more than he’s given. It hurts me

to say this, but I think Bontemps is better without Hitch Hocumb.”

Now I started packing up to leave. Even I couldn’t smile at the downward spiral

The Realist created.

“And how appropriate that he appears to be packing up his cute little third world

lemonade hut and leaving. We won’t miss you, buddy.”

I left my cups and started dragging the pool.

“See ya, bitch! Bye, bye Hitch!”

At least the FCC wouldn’t be happy with him.

“See ya, bitch! Bye, bye Hitch!”

Hundreds of potty mouths made a chant of it. This wasn’t the Lake Bontemps I

knew.

Everything those people said was wrong.

Nine syllables. I win.


I don’t know what I’m going to do.

DAY #18

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DAY #19

Correction, I do know what I’m going to do: declare bankruptcy when I run out of

food, because I’m almost out of money.

Do you know if one can declare bankruptcy through the mail? I can’t exactly

leave my apartment these days, and I don’t mean like days one through five. Though I

wouldn’t voluntarily show my ugly mug in public this time either, now that prick Joe

Richie is leading a band of protesters who are camped in my front yard, and they’ve

made it clear I shouldn’t leave the house. Actually, protester isn’t the right word.

They’re not really protesting anything, except maybe my existence. They’re more like

squatters with signs. Hateful signs. Signs that say things like “Hitch Must Go,” “Hitch

Must Stay Inside, Away From Us,” and “My Glass is 100% Empty Because of Crappy

Hitch.” It’s a shame being mean isn’t an occupation, because it sure is keeping these

people occupied. I don’t even know what they want. They showed up a couple days

after the picnic and I haven’t wanted to confront them. I’m nervous about what might

happen and don’t feel like finding out. I figure the best case isn’t very good.

Joe has eleven of them conspiring with him. He’s there all day, but the rest of

them work in shifts. I guess they don’t hate me as much as Joe. At least four or five of

them are out there sitting on lawn chairs from sunup to sundown. They’re mostly people

I know, or people I used to know. Some friends. Some strangers. All people I used to

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like. They let me rest in peace each night. I suppose I could sneak out then, but where

would I go? The few places that are still open don’t want to see me.

Fortunately Mrs. Wiggles is the sweetest lady this fella ever did meet, and she’s

agreed to indefinitely play interim mayor of Little Bontemps, so I won’t have to deal with

my daily trips out that way.

Luckily, Hilarious has been a real sport. He’s run all the necessary errands for

me, picking up groceries and whatnot. The only nervous moment I’ve had with him was

when I asked him to pick up some toilet paper for me. I tried to dance around it, asking

him for ten to twenty boxes of top shelf Kleenex instead, but he saw through it and

wasn’t even disappointed. “Someday this world will forget about toilet tissue,” he said,

“but that day is not today.”

I also didn’t want to tell him about my fiscal difficulties, but he saw through that

too. I think asking for plain old red apples instead of “Red Delicious Apples” tipped him

off.

“Mr. Hitch, it is important to share problems with the good doctor, else he cannot

properly diagnose what is wrong.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I told him. Again, he saw right through my

shaky tone, like the good doctor he is diagnosing a bashful patient’s colon problem

without a hint as to what’s wrong.

“The good doctor wants to be a good friend to Mr. Hitch.”

I almost cried right then and there.

“After I pay rent in two weeks,” I told him, “I may have to start bartering for

goods and services because my money will be gone.”


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Indeed during the last few days, cost conscious living has wreaked havoc in every

aspect of my daily activities. I’ve gone barefoot, saving my socks and slippers from the

wear and tear caused by walking around my apartment. I used to just squeeze the heck

out of my toothpaste tube until I couldn’t get any more out of it, but this week I actually

sliced open the empty container and got two more brushes out of it. I even started using

soap and shampoo every other day. Water gets most of the nasty stuff off anyway, right?

“Mr. Hitch,” Hilarious started, “it is important that you allow for the good doctor

to help you during this crisis.”

Q: How great is he?

A: Very great.

But his greatness was outshined only by my modesty. “Gosh that’s a nice offer,”

I told him, “but it’s completely out of the question.”

“Then Mr. Hitch will need to tell the good doctor what will happen when his

piggy bank has an empty tummy.”

Yes. Yes, that is the question, and it’s a question I’ve thought about nonstop for a

few days. I’ve thought about it a lot because it has the potential to be an enormous

problem, and also because I haven’t come up with anything close to an acceptable

solution. And also I don’t have much else to do.

Ironically, my piggy bank does have an empty tummy. All my life, whenever

I’ve seen a penny lying on the sidewalk, or a nickel sitting on a stairwell, I pick it up, take

it home and put it in my piggy bank, because you know who I’ve always felt sorry for?

Pennies. They’re seen as such a burden people leave them at checkout counters for later

customers, even though eighty-percent of all transactions require them. They have no


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monetary value anymore, and the only value they do have is in boosting morale when

someone finds a “lucky” penny, but even then the finder’s not excited for the fiscal gain,

they’re excited for the great things that will happen to them (like I used to be). In that

respect, pennies are like temporary optimism tokens, when in reality, the fiscal gain may

be the only stroke of luck finding a penny provides.

I’ve saved all the change I’ve ever gotten for fourteen years in a life-sized piggy

bank, but I finally cashed it this week to help the cause. Would you believe I had

$322.47 in change?

You’ll think this sounds crazy, but I don’t want to leave Bontemps. I’m really

sorry, Lenny. I must be frustrating you, because I’m frustrating you. Here I agreed to

work with my problem, and all I’ve done is made it worse. I promise I don’t blame you

for any of it. I couldn’t shake that optimism bug and we paid a steep price for my

stubbornness. Now it’s not a question of how to stay optimistic, or how to get my job

back, or how to help my (former) friends get their jobs back, it’s a question of how can I

survive?

But still, I can’t leave Bontemps. It’s my favorite place in the whole entire world

and 99.8% of the time I’ve spent here has been super fantastically spectacular. I’m not

sure I could do well in a new place where I don’t know anyone. Starting over scares me.

A lot.

But right now staying scares me almost as much, and that’s why I don’t know

what to do. Bontemps might as well be a brand new place; it’s certainly not the town I

love and my five-eighths full glass has lost a little liquid with the change. I still know

things can’t stay this bad forever, but even if they get a little better, a little better might


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not help unpopular me too much. And who’s to say when the upswing will start? It’s

already taken longer than I expected and could take a lot longer. I hate bad stuff.

“You know what they say,” I said, “it takes money to make money, so I’ll just

make sure I spend these last few dollars wisely.”

“It is true that they do say that, but the doctor does not think it sounds wise

coming out of Mr. Hitch’s mouth this moment. Perhaps Mr. Hitch’s parents will offer

their help?”

Million.

Dollar.

Question.

And I have the answer. And if I thought answering it would actually yield a

million pictures of George, I would give it.

“I don’t know,” I told Hilarious, even though I know very well the answer is at

the drop of a hat.

It’s bad enough to admit failure, but it’s much, much worse to admit failure to

your parents. It implicates them. When your car breaks down, who do you curse? The

manufacturer. When a person breaks down, who will third parties quietly blame? Free

will’s great and all, but your parents’ DNA provides the building blocks for yours.

Disclaimer: I don’t believe all that, and under no circumstances do I place any

blame for my current situation on mom and dad. There are three reasons the apple

doesn’t fall far from the tree: gravity, friction and it’s the tree’s baby. Genetics is only a

third of it, and that seems more realistic. That’s also why there’s not a singular noun

form for genetics; with so much of it, you can’t boil it down to one or two specific rules.


196

So given all that, I just don’t care to bring my parents down with me. I care about

them too darned much. And yes, we have talked, but I don’t let our conversations linger

on specifics about me long enough for anything of note to come up. They know all about

Nature’s Candy’s shutdown, they just don’t know about my shutdown.

The good doctor, however, has had a front row seat, so there’s no keeping it from

him, and he understands the importance of talking about it. He knows I’m hesitant to

bring it up, and he’s right there to, well, not hound me with it, but make me feel better

about it.

“Mr. Hitch, it is important to the good doctor that he be permitted to give you

assistance. It wasn’t so many years ago when the pangs of isolation also infected his

heart. Little could he have known that a new neighbor was the only remedy he needed,

and perhaps Mr. Hitch is not aware, but in medicine doctors sometimes use a virus to

create that virus’s antidote. Now the good doctor who was once infected by the virus

wants to use his findings to help cure his new patient. He has money he must loan his

patient. He is like health insurance, but much more generous and forevermore

understanding.”

What a fantastic human being, and I tell him that a lot. “What a fantastic human

being you are, but there’s a zero percent chance of that happening. I promise you I’ll be

okay. You’re already doing more than I’d like you to with errands and all that.”

“It is not enough, the good doctor can tell,” he said, his voice cracking to what I

guessed was frustration, but may have been emotion. “He needs help around his living

quarters. Also with his experiments. He must hire an assistant soon or risk losing all of

it. I pay you to assist me.”


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“Don’t be silly, you’re fit as a fiddle.”

“It is a silly saying, fit as a fiddle. If the good doctor is really no more fit than a

poor man’s violin, Mr. Hitch would oblige his request.”

“I promise, promise and triple promise that the second I need help balancing my

checkbook, yours will be the first door I knock on.”

Hilarious shrugged and shook his head. “The good doctor is not happy, but he

will hold Mr. Hitch to all three of his stubborn promises.”

The problem with money is everything. When I have it, I want to give what I can

to people who need it more, and when I don’t, I’m too modest to receive the hard earned

livelihood of someone else.

It seems like a miracle that so much has happened so quickly, so maybe the law of

averages will violently kick in over the next couple of weeks. If not I’ve already

mentally inventoried everything I own that I could sell. Since I live alone, I don’t really

need more than a few sets of silverware, so most of that could go. Dishes likewise. And

I have been doing a lot of sitting around, but all those empty chairs are completely

gluttonous. My toothbrush, a pillow and a blanket are the only things I really need. And

my ice trays; the freezer doesn’t make ice.

I’m not going to think about money right now. I’ve been thinking about it

constantly and blah! it hasn’t aged well. That’s how I spend my days, not counting when

I think about Nature’s Candy and the mess I’m in, which is most of the rest of the time.

So many little, little things could have gone the tiniest bit differently and all these big,

awful things wouldn’t have happened. If only I never had a radio show. If only I hadn’t


198

talked out of turn. If only the fruit distribution industry hadn’t hit a lull. If only sugar

and fruit didn’t combine to form such a delightful treat.

Grrrrr, there I go again. I need to stop thinking about ifs and buts. Stop, stop,

stop Hitch!

If only I knew how long this rut would last I’d be okay. It’s much easier to deal

with troubled times if you know when it’ll end. Imagine going to prison for three days (a

lot easier for me to do today than it would have been a month ago). Those three days will

be the longest three days of your life. Now imagine going to prison for three years. The

first three days of three years wouldn’t be nearly as bad. It’s like you can spread the

difficulty thinner the longer it lasts as long as there’s an end in site. If you’re blindly sent

to prison for an indefinite period, every minute will hurt like it did for the first guy. It’s

not enough to know if you’ll escape, because the when determines how much anxiety

your stay causes you.

I’ve already mentioned this, and I wouldn’t mention it again if I didn’t feel more

strongly about it now, but it’s really great to have you here, Lenny. You’re tip top

company and I wouldn’t trade you for anything. It’s comforting to know I still have

friends and it’s doubly nice to know I have something productive to do in lieu of sitting

around. I know some people (professional optimists for example) say it’s best not to

thing about the bad stuff so you can focus on the good, but it’s been nice to feel like I can

just brush the bad this bad stuff off my shoulders. I hope this will be a good chance for

us to get to know each other a little better. What do you say, old pal?-------

I hope you feel better soon.

Thanks.


EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust © © © ® ©

Irritation © © © ® ©

Anger © © © ® ©



Disappointment © © © ® ©

Confusion © © © © ®

Stoicism ® © © ® ©

Happiness ® © © ® ©

Optimism ® © © ® ©

Vomiting © ® © @ ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.--------------



DAY #20

Lenny, you must not think I’m as bad as Joe and company makes me out to be

(one sign today said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a dead Hitch!”—it kills the alliteration

of the original saying and it’s downright coldhearted, creepy and illegal... and a weak

pun). That’s great, because that’s one thing we have in common. I also hope (and trust)

you don’t think I’ve ever misrepresented anything in here to fluff up my image. I’m not

doing this to impress anyone. Honestly, the better question is why have you stuck with

me? You’re not one of those people who after seeing an older woman fall down a flight

of stairs pretends he didn’t see it because helping would be awkward and difficult, are

you? You march right over there and help her up, understanding that misfortunes

sometimes befall the misfortunate. You’re all right, Lenny.

Today I woke up a new man. “No more lying around all day,” I said to my

pillow. “No more wallowing in regret,” I said to my ceiling. “You’re going to get up

and do something today!” I inaudibly yelled to my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I

brushed my teeth.

The question was what exactly that something was. I didn’t have anything I

needed to do outside, so that left me exactly where I’d been for seven straight days. I

couldn’t think of anything, so task number one was to pace. It didn’t matter where as

long as I wasn’t interrupted by closed doors. Pacing wasn’t a voluntary first task but it

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was necessary. I like to pace, or at least my subconscious likes me to pace because I do it

a lot and it’s never premeditated. It’s an effective mental trigger, which my head must

realize when it knee-jerks me up and bounces me from wall to wall.

I look at my pacing like this: my mind’s blank, which makes my mind feel

inadequate and panic that I’ll give up on it. To compensate, it forces other parts of my

body to start carrying their fair share of the load, and once that’s accomplished, my mind

feels accomplished, thereby regaining its confidence and solving the original problem.

Like this time.

It only took a few laps around the place to find areas that needed cleaning and

reorganizing. With each loop I noticed flaws and more flaws that suddenly irked me. I’d

been stuck looking at the same space for so long without these issues, and that made my

ire discomforting. Have you ever needed to clean something but not had time to, making

you uncomfortable during whatever event you wanted to clean for? That’s how I felt. I

saw so many little blemishes I wanted to fix with the wave of a wand.

I stopped pacing, took inventory, and calmed down. I had all day to do my

massive spring cleaning. This was a good thing. I had a busy day ahead of me.

“But I just cleaned a week or two ago,” I remembered, and I said it aloud to the

bucket of cleaning supplies I’d gathered from under my kitchen sink.

“Mr. Hitch is going to be taking a bath this morning the good doctor thinks.”

Hilarious’s surprise appearance (I leave the door downstairs unlocked nowadays)

continued my bizarre morning as I was oddly less than thrilled to see him, and by “less

than thrilled” I mean only mildly excited or somewhere between neutral and seeing the


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birth of my first child, but still, it was a first. As great as his company’s been, I’d finally

found a toy I could play with on my own.

“Hilarious, how thrilled I am to see you,” I shouted across the kitchen.

“Oh, Mr. Hitch is just saying that,” he said, thankfully kidding as he let out his

cough-like guffaw after saying it. “The good doctor wants to know what he can do to

help on this day.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I said, extra long because I wasn’t sure what

I’d say. Then I realized I wasn’t trying to figure out something I needed him to do, I was

trying to find something for him to do. I’d become so dependent on him I felt like I

needed his help. Well that was about to change. “You, my friend,” I said as I put my

arm around his shoulders, “are such a good doctor, and you’ve been such a good doctor

for me, I’m giving you the day off. I have nary a thing for you to do.”

“Mr. Hitch, the good doctor does not need this vacation you speak of. Please tell

him what you are doing.”

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, exactly what I feared. There’s no easy way to

turn down an insistent helping hand, so I didn’t. “Before today’s done I’ll have this place

looking like brand new.”

“We are painting?” he asked.

“Ooh, I like that, but we’ll save it for a later date. Today we clean, clean, clean.”

“The good doctor’s second nickname is the good cleaner. He would like to help.”

“Then here you go,” I said, handing him the rag in my hand.


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I rethought my game plan to suit two players. The visual I got was sitcom

worthy, but then I got serious. Cleaning would come after trashing, because trashing

after cleaning would only cause more cleaning.

“Let’s start by getting rid of what I don’t need.”

I grabbed two garbage bags and gave one to Hilarious. We started in the kitchen.

I siphoned through the mess under the sink and Hilarious checked the expiration dates on

the food in the fridge. Did you know eggs have an expiration date? Yep.

My kitchen filled an entire bag. It’s kind of gross to think I’d been living with so

much trash for so long, but that made me feel all the better about getting rid of it.

Imagine what I could do with all that extra space. I couldn’t come up with anything

specific, but it was nice to know it was there if I needed it.

Fresh garbage bags in hand, we headed to my crawl space. The crawl space was

just above the ceiling in my room, and it took up the tip of the triangle that formed the

roof. It’s only three feet tall and runs the length of my room, so there wasn’t room for

both of us in it, and as much as I’d like to say that was because it was so small, I actually

had so much stuff up there that it didn’t accommodate people very well. I lowered down

about two dozen boxes of crates to Hilarious for us to sort through.

“My goodness, you are the owner of much property,” Hilarious said.

“Sadly I think most of it will be in trash heaven within the week.”

With so much stuff, it might sound like we’d be unearthing a few buried treasures.

Sadly, that’s not4he-case. I’m what people call a saver. I know trash when I see it (a

candy wrapper, when sans candy, has fulfilled its purpose and earned a proper burial), but

unless something’s clearly rubbish, I have trouble letting go. Old class notes, ticket


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stubs, parking tickets... all there, in shoeboxes I never threw away, crates, envelopes,

packing boxes. Nearly everything was once held above a trashcan right before my

conscious kicked in. “What if?” it asked, “what if you need this someday? Are you so

certain you won’t?” I never was.

What if some kooky company had a contest to see who still has all their baby

teeth? I’d be kicking myself for throwing out my tiny incisors. Or what if I went to court

someday (for what I can’t imagine) and needed to prove I led a normal childhood? These

boxes hold exhibits A through ZZZZ.

Each item was a keepsake, and if I threw it away I’d risk throwing away the

memory that went with it forever. The objects gave me concrete, physical memories to

return to and once gone, I could never get them back. The Friendly Shopper doesn’t sell

the first puzzle I ever put together (I might be able to get the puzzle again, but it would

never be the first puzzle I ever put together... you catch my drift). Of course, I rarely

revisited these mediocre memories, but I liked thinking I could.

Hilarious and I each dug into a box, and I instantly had the same problem I had

years ago. What made trash trash? Were the few baby clothes I still had worth keeping?

I certainly wouldn’t be wearing them again. My criteria would have to change or we

wouldn’t accomplish anything more than looking through a bunch of boxes.

I found I had to force myself to let some things go, like the first yo-yo I used to

walk the dog. It didn’t even have string anymore. Each throwaway felt like I was

changing my future, erasing a time and a place where I might pull that yo-yo out of its

box and say, “Oh my gosh! I remember this! I walked the dog with this. And it was


205

fantastic!” Now I’d have to remember how fantastic that moment was without this visual

clue. I hoped I could do it.to

As hard as it was, it felt good to get rid of these miscellaneous possessions, like I

was making room for bigger, better memories to fill the void.

My indecision wasn’t the only problem with the operation. My partner’s role

proved tricky. There weren’t exactly expiration on the dates of my things for Hilarious to

follow, and it was hard for him to pass judgment on his own. Our system naturally

evolved to his having to ask me whether I wanted to keep each and every item, which

sounds easy enough except I still struggled with deciding what to keep, and being

peppered with questions on top of looking through my box overwhelmed me.

“Mr. Hitch, what about this grade three geography quiz you took?”

“An old pompom?”

“Are the unused school supplies going to be kept up here?”

“Phone bills from three years ago, the good doctor hopes these were paid, yes?”

“Shoelaces without shoes?”

“No!” I inadvertently shouted at his last query. “No,” I repeated more calmly

hoping he hadn’t noticed my first tone. “You’re right, that’s trash.”

Hilarious’s presence had me on edge. Not Hilarious the personality, Hilarious the

person. I liked his company, but now he was distracting. Even if he stopped helping and

sat off to the side, holding conversation with him would mean I wouldn’t be giving the

weighty decisions I had to make the attention they needed. Even if he sat quietly I’d feel

guilty for making him feel like he couldn’t contribute, and the guilt would then distract

my task at hand.


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It was like I’d taught myself to put my pants on two legs at a time: it was nice to

get them on twice as quickly, but the reality was it’d be just as easy (and much safer) to

put them on one leg at a time, because I wasn’t accomplishing much otherwise.

Blah. No good solutions so I made one up.

“Hilarious, you’re doing fantastically fantastic and I can’t thank you enough, but I

just remembered some errands you could do for me if you’re up for it.”

“The good doctor is up for accomplishing whatever Mr. Hitch needs.”

“Here, let me give you a list of what I need.”

Yuck, that didn’t feel good either. I hoped he wouldn’t put two and two together

while he was out shopping and decide to run away and never come back. Wow would I

feel guilty if he did that.

You have to admit, it was an easy out. I gave Hilarious a list that would require

multiple stops, and diligent as ever he set out to help me out. Guy’s a champ, I’ll say that

much. You don’t think I went too far, do you? He left happy to be of help, and I was

happy to finally be able to get down to business. Definitely the exception to the rule. I

don’t dislike him, or think any less of him, or wish him harm, I only wanted to simplify

the job at hand.

Plus, the rest of my afternoon was gleefully efficient. The buzz from creating so

much space was enough gas to power me to the promised land. I plowed through the rest

of the boxes at twice the pace Hilarious and I’d been working at, scrapping the majority

of my lifelong collection. A few items, like my very first bottle of tearless shampoo,

were hard to let go, and like an adolescent bidding his or her childhood blankie a fond


207

farewell, I shared a moment with each memento, reminiscing our glory days and wishing

it a smooth trip into the great unknown.

I only kept essentials and valuables. I kept my report cards because they were

small reminders of entire semesters, and with those I could throw out all my school work

(here’s hoping I’m never taken hostage and given an open note quiz on state capitals for

my life). The trophy I got for keeping perfect time with a wood block at a junior high

band competition, well obviously I kept that. I also had random tax documents and

boring files like that. As disappointed as I might one day be to not have the cast I wore

when I broke my eight-year-old arm, the IRS would be mucho disappointed if I

responded to an audit with, “Oh that? I threw that away,” and if the IRS is disappointed,

you’ll be doubly disappointed.

Ordered restored, it was time to clean. I Windexed windows. I dusted surfaces. I

de-fuzzed curtains. I swept. I polished. I scrubbed, scraped and scoured carpet, closets

and countertops. I even shined my shoes. All of them.

With cleaning done, I wandered around my apartment looking for more cleaning;

not only did I still have the bug, it felt terminal. I ran my finger along ledges, inspected it

like a nineteenth century maiden and glumly realized I could’ve eaten with it.

Then deja vu hit. The more I studied the place, the more things I found in need of

a tilt or a prop or a rotation. Some of my kitchen magnets had slid to the bottom of the

fridge door. I slid them up closer to eye-level. My box of kleenex didn’t have a tissue

sticking out of it. I pulled one partway out so it was ready for action. Since I had time to

spare for these things now, if I’m ever in a big hurry and need a tissue, I won’t have to


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struggle with it. It’s little things like these that lead to increased efficiency down the

road. It’s like a time investment that’s bound to pay off.

When Hilarious finally returned, I had ten bags of trash (one filled with paper

towels) and a nearly empty crawl space. Ten! Empty! It was like I added on an entire

wing to my apartment for the low, low price of not-a-thing. My crawl space now had

room for a lot more than crawling, and though I couldn’t figure out anything to put in the

new space, when I do I’m sure it’ll be epic.

Hilarious took my trash out to the curb after he got back. Whenever he goes out

there the protesters speak to him but he never tells me what they say. “I do not listen to

them,” he says. “I do not even notice them.” I wasn’t sure if his hearing was getting

worse or if he was kidding, but I didn’t press him. If they had anything important to say,

they’d come up and knock on my door, right?

I started putting away the food and trinkets Hilarious got me, and again I had to

shoo him away from helping me. “You’ve earned a break,” I told him, which was true,

but I also wanted everything put away in a particular spot and again, it seemed easier if I

preserved the new schemes myself. For example, in the fridge, I now keep everything

containing sugar on the bottom shelf. That way, whenever my sweet tooth strikes I’ll

know right where to go.

Hilarious watched me put everything away and we had a grand conversation.

There were plenty of laughs to go around. See? I told you there were no hard feelings.

After he left I went straight to the computer to party with my other pals. And now

it’s time for me to say goodnight. What a delightfully productive day! It sounds like

busy work but I loved it. Now... what will I do tomorrow?


EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust © © ® © ©

Irritation © © ® © ©

Anger © © ® © ©

Frustration © © ® © ©

Sadness © © ® © ©

Disappointment © © ® © ©

Confusion © © © ® ©



Optimism © ® © © ©

Organized © © © ® ©

Vomiting ® © © © ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.


DAY #21

Last night was one restless night, I’ll tell you what, and I don’t mean from

reliving my gloriously productive day yesterday, it was from worrying that I wouldn’t be

able to reproduce it today. I’d hate to ever accomplish anything world-changing.

Thinking up an encore must be a nightmare.

Oddly enough, I kind of did have a real nightmare, but it ended up being more

bizarre than terrifying. I was digging someone’s grave (what a nightmare that would be,

it’s hard work) and the headstone had my name on it. Before I finished I hit a treasure

chest, and when I pulled it out it had all my old junk in it. What’s really weird is how

excited I was. I was happy to get rid of everything, why would I be so happy to have it

back? Maybe it meant I could stop that awful digging.

It took a lot of tosses and a lot of turns, but before I fell asleep I had today’s

itinerary in place. Do you have any idea how much me time I’ve sacrificed over the

years with the social responsibilities that job entailed? I haven’t read a book since my

last school assignment, and I don’t remember liking that book a bit. When I was really

young I read a lot, but then it gradually tapered off. Not enough hours in the day I guess.

So that’s about to change. I have a bookshelf, and on said shelf lies thousands of

pages and millions of words. Lots of gifts I knew I’d never read but felt too bad to return

next to books borrowed that met the same fate.

Thinking of other people’s words set off another light bulb in my room when I got

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up to write my second idea down. My words could always use more time and frankly, I

know I’m fairly modest, but I felt rushed with yesterday’s entry. I didn’t leave myself

enough time to make it sound sexy. I promise no more hasty scribblings. All fine

literature from here on out. Imagine the precision of detail more time will afford.

“First thing when I wake up, I’ll find a bookmark and get to work,” I thought.

Seconds later I was asleep.

“Good morning, Mr. Hitch,” was the first thing I heard the next morning. I

headed straight for the kitchen and there Hilarious was, parked at the table. “This is a

late morning, yes?”

I’d slept later than I normally do (sleeping in is a grade-A jobless perk).

“Sure is,” I said. “Feels great.”

“What can the good doctor do to make Mr. Hitch even greater?”

I’d been hearing the same question every day for more than a week. I know what

you’re thinking, “He said yesterday was the exception, but here he is unhappy to see the

only friend he’s got.” Well, I disagree. I wasn’t unhappy. I’ll give you that I wasn’t

thrilled today, but Hilarious is my best, best, best friend in the whole world.

It was the routine that was getting to me. You know how bands who grew up the

“best of friends” sometimes break up after being together for a long time? I always

imagine that’s because being in a band fulltime is like being in an arranged marriage: you

didn’t necessarily want to spend all this time together, but it’s what makes everyone

around you happy. And with any arranged marriage comes differences and a lack of

privacy. You’re forced to be around each other even when you need privacy.


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Hilarious, you could say, was starting to feel like Mrs. Hitch Hocumb: I loved the

support but wasn’t ready for the commitment.

“Just being here makes me feel even greater, I promise,” I told him. “But there is

one favor I’d like to ask of you today.”

His ears perked up. “Please share with the good doctor this favor so he can begin

with it.”

“I want to make you a thousand course, gourmet cooked meal tonight.”

“Hmm,” he said, deep in thought. I expected this response.

“Come on, forget your diet for one night. It would mean a lot to me. As a thank

you for all you’ve done,” I said, even though it felt more like an apology for yesterday

and today.

“It might set the experiments back weeks to change my intake.” Here, a pause. I

didn’t like the pause. I was trying to be nice, and I’m always slightly annoyed when

people don’t accept a nice gesture. “But what the heck kind of person would the good

doctor be if he did not accept such a nice gesture? Not too good, that’s what kind. It is

important to Mr. Hitch, and therefore it is important to the good doctor.”

“Great. Come up at seven.”

“Look for the older gentleman wearing his snazziest suit,” he said laughing.

“Now how will the rest of the day be spent?”

Ugh. Fortunately, delicacy’s always been a specialty of mine.

“You, my friend, are going on vacation, effective immediately.”

“Yes? The doctor hears islands have nice weather.”

“Ha, the doctor hears right. Sadly, I can’t afford a proper trip—“


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“Money!” he interrupted. “We must look for work,” he blurted out.

“No, no, not yet.” Gosh, he was right though. That’ll be a top task tomorrow.

No time in today’s schedule. “You’re free from being my errand boy for a few days. I

have everything I could possible need.”

“But the doctor enjoys Mr. Hitch’s company.”

He wasn’t making this easy.

“And I yours, but the truth is, I have a few things around the house that have to

get done today.”

“This is another one person job?”

“No, no, it’s not like that, but dinner tonight. You and I. Okay?”

I felt like I was telling an unhappy child he could go to the circus tonight if he just

did his homework this afternoon, and Hilarious looked discouraged, but then the smile

we’ve come to know and love peaked through and he agreed.

When the door shut behind him I went straight to my bookshelf. So many

choices, so many Active dreams. Since it’d been a while, I spent a long time browsing. I

wasn’t sure what I liked reading, and my plan’s success would be contingent on that first

choice.

I didn’t want anything serious. Serious times do not call for serious literature. I

settled on Big and Tall, a story about a fourteen-year-old who can’t wait to be an adult,

and he buys adult clothes and grows a little mustache and tries to live the life of a forty-

year-old. Sounded interesting.


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My goal for the afternoon was two hundred pages. If I just read two hundred

pages a day (which is what, three or four hours?) I’ll have this one finished by tomorrow

and another one finished two days after that. How great is that?

I propped myself up in bed and got to work. Let me tell you, the newspaper guy

who called the book “a dynamite picture of desperate youth” should get a raise, because

that’s a dynamite description of the book. I read for about a half an hour at a time, taking

short breaks to grab a snack or use the facilities.

By mid-afternoon, my bookmark resting beautifully on page two-hundred, I felt

fantastic. It was the first pat-on-the-back worthy moment I’d had in eons. Have you ever

been unemployed for a while, say during the school year, and then during your first day

back at work you feel surprisingly accomplished? That’s how I felt. I felt so good, in

fact, that I cranked out fifty more pages like it was my job, which only made me feel like

I’d already earned a promotion at Hitch Enterprises.

Having already exceeded one expectation, I had more than enough time to

squeeze the rest of my day into the rest of the day. It looked like this:

7:04.....................................................................Dinner

8:42......................................................................Write

11:49................................................................ Slumber

Nothing to it.

I started preparing dinner a couple hours before Hilarious was due, because that

would help ensure I was plopped down here talking to you by my prescribed writing

time. And cooking with company over always seems to take longer than it should. If I


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had everything ready by the time the doctor arrived, our visit would be all pleasure and

no business. Nice.

Dinner was to be fine dining. Hilarious’s militant diet vicariously peeves me

because I think he should treat himself more often. Truth is, nothing tastes quite as good

when it’s been whipped into a beverage.

I made beef stew with ten vegetables mixed in and let it simmer. For dessert, a

homemade cherry pie. Homemade is a very satisfying word to say, let alone eat. All

things being equal I wish every meal was homemade, but priorities being priorities, it’s

near impossible to find the time. Until now. Now I’ve got plenty of time, and I’d be

crazy not to use it. Who needs culinary school when all a chef-in-training needs is time,

recipes, ingredients and a kitchen, right? Check, check, check, check.

Hilarious was right on time, which jived just fine with my schedule, and he was

indeed wearing one snazzy suit.

“You didn’t really need to dress up you know,” I told him.

“To feel good, one must first look good,” he said. We laughed.

Dinner was delightful and after an uncomfortable couple of days, Hilarious’s

company was tip top. We told jokes (he does a spot on impersonation of Groucho Marx

doing an impersonation of Nixon doing an impersonation of Groucho Marx), he told me

operating room horror stories and he told me about his travels around the world. He’s

lived some life, and he’s some talker, but after a couple of glasses of wine he really gives

his pipes a workout, and being sober myself (I didn’t want to have to get to work here

without being at the top of my game), he hit a point where he sounded like a jukebox that


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had just received twenty dollars from someone with awful music tastes. His jokes were

less funny, his stories a little plain, and his volume much louder.

As I watched the hands on my watch get closer to the right angle of nine o’clock

Hilarious started losing my attention. I was concerned about staying on task, but I didn’t

want to be rude to my friend, who was clearly having the time of his life. At the clip he

was talking, I couldn’t get a word in, let alone steer the conversation to saying our

goodbyes. It was a problem.

Nine o’clock came and went and I was barely listening to Hilarious. He spoke of

ant farms (cruelty to animals), street signs he didn’t like and types of break he did like. I

could only nod my head so it looked like I was listening.

Then I stopped listening and revised my itinerary. At a quarter past nine I decided

if I could get him out by half past, I could still write for three hours without staying up

too late. That seemed acceptable, until half past passed and then another half passed.

How could I possibly not interject in an entire hour.

I was frustrated and angry. My schedule was important to me and he wasn’t

being considerate. If I couldn’t tell him it was time to leave, maybe I could hint it. I

stopped making eye contact. Then I got up and did the dishes, but he followed me and

kept at it.

Maybe if I go to the bathroom, I thought. Nope. He kept right on talking through

the door.

When I got out we sat back down in the living room. My book was sitting on the

coffee table and I picked it up, admiring how far the bookmark was in it. I flipped

through it, thinking about how I could finish it tomorrow. I was completely lost in my


218

world at that point, and then I heard the first word of Hilarious’s I’d heard in what could

have been hours.

“The good doctor has overstayed his welcome. He is boring Mr. Hitch.”

I blushed and put the back down, like I’d been caught studying biology in English

class.

“I’m sorry, really you haven’t said a boring word in your life, I promise, I think

I’m just tired. That meal took a lot out of me.”

“And put a lot into me.” He laughed. I couldn’t manage a laugh. I felt terrible

and my guilty conscious took over. Why was I suddenly so unfriendly to my friend?

“The good doctor will stop bothering Mr. Hitch. The dinner was better than any item

from the Universe diet and for that, the doctor gives many thanks.”

He shook my hand and left. My throat felt sore and I couldn’t even say goodbye.

“I’m sorry,” was the best I could do, and I couldn’t spit that out until after the door was

shut.

Was I that bad? Wouldn’t it have been worse if I’d have kicked him out right at

nine per my original plan? Surely it would’ve. Of course I headed straight for my

computer to talk to you. I was more than an hour behind schedule.

The way I see it, my feelings don’t mean I’ve grown tired of Hilarious’s

company. He and I are as close as ever. What’s different is my schedule. I f l ’m tolead

a productive lifestyle, I won’t be able to spend as much time socializing as I used to. It’s

like I’ve found a new job, and I can’t blow off my new job to chat. That’d get anyone

fired from any job. What I need to go is keep a stricter schedule, and make it clear to

Hilarious when I can spend time with him. He’s reasonable. He’ll understand.


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Tomorrow’s a busy day. On top of reading and cooking, I need to start looking

for a job. A real job. One that pays.

All right, time for bed. Good night.


DAY #22

Today in a nutshell:

10:22.......................................................Break the Fast

11:08......................................................................Read

12:41....................................................................Lunch

1:28.................................................... Apply for Work

3:16.......................................................................Read

5:34.......................................................................Dine

6:57.................................................... Apply for Work

9:01......................................................................Write

12:13................................................................ Slumber

What a beautifully busy day. It’s just enough time to finish my book, eat some

nice meals and get a job.

Here’s where I should be telling you which part of my day will include the good

doctor, but instead I must regretfully inform you that the reason he doesn’t make an

appearance in today’s itinerary is because he won’t make an appearance in my day today.

Given our testy farewell last night, a day off might do us some good, and I’ve got a lot to

do and I’d hate to put myself in another compromising position that might jeopardize my

d a y .-------------------

I even locked the door between us. I know that makes me sound even worse,

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literally locking him out of my life on top of his figurative exile, but locking it gives me

some advance warning when he comes up, and that’ll give me a few split seconds to

prepare for his arrival. I’ll be more comfortable if I can confront him on my terms

instead of being surprised by him.

And surprised I wasn’t, especially considering he’s popped his head in at least

once before noon every day for more than a week. Today he came shortly after I started

reading. I heard his slow climb up the stairs and put my book down. What should I be

doing when he got here, I thought. Then I remembered I’d have to let him in, so the

question was really what I should say I was doing.

The doorknob rattled and stopped. I pictured a puzzled Hilarious deciding if the

door was locked or if he should jiggle it some more. He stopped jiggling it and then I

didn’t hear anything. Should I answer it? No, that might imply I wasn’t doing anything

and heard him coming up. If he had to knock it would really look like I was busy, and

moments later he gave a quiet knock. I started toward the door and stopped. If he had to

knock twice, I thought, I’d look super busy. And moments later, he knocked a little

louder.

I ran to the door, exaggerating the motion so Hilarious could tell I was running. I

flung the door open to see his confused look change to a smile.

“Hey, Hilarious, sorry about that.”

“The doctor thought maybe he had the wrong apartment.”

“Ha. No, I guess when I showered I had it locked.”

“Mr. Hitch forgets that the good doctor has seen many hundreds of bare

backsides.”


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“I know, but I’m a little bashful.”

“It must have been a quick shower. The doctor does not remember hearing the

shower.”

Come on, even the best laid plans sometimes stumble.

“I meant I’m just about to shower, so you will hear it.”

“Oh, okay. It sounds like another busy day for Mr. Hitch.” His disappointed tone

said more than his words.

“Um, it is, but you’ll be happy to hear I’m going to start looking for work.”

He looked more concerned than happy. “Where will this looking take place?

These are not good times for going out and looking for payment in Bontemps. Please Mr.

Hitch, do not make the good doctor beg for you to work for him. He needs help with his

work. He is not just saying these things as a gesture. Please say yes to this offer.”

Uh oh. He wasn’t just making a gesture, though the gesture alone was fabulous,

and this wasn’t going to be an easy decision. I’m sure it sounds like it should’ve been an

easy decision, but let me explain to you why it wasn’t.

Like Hilarious pointed out, I wasn’t going to get work in Bontemps and I knew

that. My day’s plans did not include a repeat trip around town applying for jobs; they

didn’t even include a single phone call to a single place of business within five miles of

here. Though I didn’t intend to relocate, I could stand a twenty or thirty mile commute

every day if it meant I’d be able to pay my bills, and I could stand some time away from

Bontemps, and the latter was the difference maker.

I would love to work for Hilarious. We get along great, his work’s interesting,

and he’s willing to pay me as much as I’d get anywhere else. But, but, but, and this is a


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big but, I haven’t left my apartment in a week, and signing on to work downstairs would

be signing on to be home all day long. It’s nice to have stuff to do, but being confined in

one place makes me want to protest the existence of aquariums and dog cages. I have to

get out of here soon and it has to be for work because I can’t think of any other excuse

that would get me somewhere I’d like to be.

“Doctor H, you’re something special,” I told him, “but I have a few good leads on

work in Rupertville and North Clydestucket. Let me give those a go first, and you’ll be

my no-brainer backup, okay?”

“The good doctor thinks he’s not good enough to work with Mr. Hitch.”

“No, no, of course not. You’re my best friend in the world, and you have to

understand that I’m in this house every second of every day and I can’t continue to live

like this. I need to get out.”

“I suppose the good doctor understands. But if those faraway places do not work

out, please do not forget my offer. It does not expire. And this place isn’t so bad.”

The door swung shut behind his last words, which had said everything short of

touche. I’d described Hilarious’s life. He lives here. He works here. He barely gets out.

Oops.

I turned the shower on before getting back on task, and I also took a second to

convince myself that I know it’s not so bad, and that that’s not what I’d meant to

Hilarious. He doesn’t quite understand how frustrating it is for me to be locked up in my

own home. This is the life he’s always led, but it’s the flipside of what I’m used to and

it’s been a difficult transition, you know? This is a difficult time for me. I still miss my


224

radio show, even though I know I’ll never get it back. I still miss my friends, even

though I may not get them back. I miss leading a normal life. I miss being liked.

More than anything I miss optimism. I haven’t talked about it much because I

don’t know what to say. I obviously can’t say, “I’m optimistic about...,” well, you could

insert anything into that and I’d have to agree with it.

The word that comes to mind is volatile. These are volatile times for me and

some day the volatility will fade away, of that I’m sure and in that respect I’m still the

same old guy with the glass five-eighths full.

What’s nice about finding all these things to do in the meantime is that they’re a

decent substitute for optimism. Optimism requires feeling in control of your life. To be

optimistic that I can accomplish something, I have to think I can control whether or not I

will accomplish that thing. If I’m not in control, how can I expect to be able to do

something. That’d be like thinking you could deep sea dive without scuba equipment;

you need the scuba equipment or you won’t be able to dive.

Without optimism, I keep my illusion of control two ways. The first is through

cleaning and organization (I’m doing spot duty on both daily). A clean, organized

apartment makes for a clean, organized lifestyle. If I need my junior year high school

yearbook, I know exactly where to find it and that makes me feel in control of the world

around me. Some of it might sound nitpicky, like making sure my best pairs of

underwear (i.e. the ones I frequent most often) stay on top of my underwear drawer so

they’re the one’s I have quick access to. It is nitpicky, you’re right, but it all makes sense

and every little thing is meant to accomplish something specific, and when I do


225

something that directly causes the response I intended, then I controlled what happened,

and it makes me feel good knowing I can cause such effects.

Avenue two equates to control through productivity, and the best example of how

this comes about through control is the daily schedules I’ve been using; I control my

time, and if I use it wisely then I’m doing well controlling my time. By getting the most

out of it, I feel like I’m getting the most out of myself. It’s like thinking of life as one big

self-improvement course, and if you’re not doing things that improve yourself in one

way, shape or form, you’re failing the course. While it sounds trivial to say I “need” such

a detailed itinerary when I don’t have anything I have to do, it helps me stay on task and

set goals, because how can I know if I’m getting the most out of myself if I don’t set

goals for what I think I can get out of myself? My itinerary is like a daily list of goals,

and if I don’t meet or exceed each goal, I’m not in very good control of my time.

It’s a simple game of substitution. Optimism isn’t footing the bills these days, so

productivity pinch hits and so far, it’s been clutch. Remember today’s schedule? After a

minor setback from Hilarious’s visit, the rest of my day followed that schedule to a tee. I

finished one book, started another, baked a delicious dinner and sent my resume to six

companies for jobs ranging from librarian to personal assistant. I can’t wait to hear from

them tomorrow.

I am still optimistic, just for different things. I’m optimistic I can make the most

of my time, and that makes me happy. For now.


DAY #23

10:23.......................................................Break the Fast

11:11......................................................................Read

12:24....................................................................Lunch

1:18 Apply for Work

3:59........................................................................Read

5:14........................................................................Dine

7:32 Apply for Work

10:02.....................................................................Write

12:38................................................................ Slumber

A lot like yesterday, except I’ve got one more hour of job applications and one

less hour of writing. I built that into the schedule not so much to send more resumes out,

but more in hopes of having to deal with some callbacks. It’s only a page of info and a

one page cover letter; surely they could read through that in a day, right?

Wrong. I must have checked my answering machine dozens and dozens and

dozens of times today, every time knowing full well I didn’t have any messages. I don’t

know why I did it. It felt irrational every time I made an excuse to walk past the phone.

It felt insane every time I pushed the button next to the blinking zero. But every single

time I held out hope that the machine was broken, that a human voice would talk to me,

would ask me to call back about a job opening. I put gallons of faith in my technological

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toys every day, my computer, my phone, all of it, and it was only when some human

element in my life went wrong that I hoped the toys I depended on were what failed me,

and not people.

If these people listed a job in the classifieds, it must mean they need employees,

and if they need employees, why wouldn’t they bother following up with applicants

ASAP? I guess it could be because they were so busy covering for the work the new hire

would ultimately do, but it might also be for other reasons. Maybe they had looked over

my info. Maybe....

One call was all I needed. One little call would’ve justified the whole process, it

would’ve made me feel like I’d spent five quality hours looking for work yesterday. It

takes such a long time to get my cover letter just right, and make sure every line on my

resume is appropriate. Without a callback it’s wasted time, time I could’ve spent doing

something more productive, like applying elsewhere.

My frustration multiplied with every trip to the answering machine, each empty

trip adding more wasted seconds to my day, distracting me from my predetermined day.

Keeping my strict schedule has its advantages, but it’s hard. I guess if it wasn’t hard I

wouldn’t feel like my goals were very ambitious, and then I wouldn’t feel like I was

getting much done, but for a guy with twenty-four hours of free-time a day, each day

comes with an unusual amount of stress. That must explain why laid back people lead

such stress free lives: they’re laid back because they don’t lead busy lives, which means

they don’t have much to do, which means they have nothing to stress about. Turns out

laid back people don’t just look lazy, they are lazy. That explains a lot.


228

Fortunately, frustration’s one heck of a motivator, and I got a lot more job apps in

today than I did yesterday, which more than doubles my chances of getting a call

tomorrow.

Unfortunately, frustration’s one heck of a social killer, and I went another day

without any Hilarious QT. Today he didn’t even bother stopping by, which only made

me feel worse.

Wow, that means I spent today entirely alone. That probably hasn’t happened

since my last day in the womb, and I’m not sure you could necessarily consider that

alone.

This’ll sound crazy, but as much as I didn’t want to have to kill part of my time

with him, I wish Hilarious had at least stopped by. Not exactly syllogism worthy, eh? I

wanted to be alone because I’m uncomfortable when I’m flustered around others. I don’t

want to bring them down with me, and that makes me want to act happy-go-lucky around

them, but I know I don’t feel happy-go-lucky so it’s easier to avoid it altogether.

On the flipside, when feeling down, it’s nice to know there are people there for

you. People who want to help. People who stop by unannounced to help. So if Hilarious

doesn’t stop by, I don’t have people looking out for my best interests, and that makes me

feel worse.

I can’t think of a way to have someone simultaneously present and not present. If

I was a blind deaf mute I’d be okay because even when someone was around we

wouldn’t be able to communicate but that option has some drawbacks.


229

The only other feasible situation might be to find a wife. I imagine a life partner’s

exactly the kind of person who can be there for you without compromising the situation,

but I don’t suppose I’ll know the answer for a long, long time.

And at the end of the day, nothing’s changed. Jobless and alone. The friendly

confines of my apartment are feeling less friendly. I need to get out.


DAY #24

10:36 Break the Fast

11:43 Apply for Work

12:02 Abandon Rest of Itinerary

12:03 Reflect on Abandonment

Let the reflecting begin:

I am currently living with my parents. No, wait, that’s not entirely accurate. It’s

really them who’s living with me, and I don’t mean a surprise vacation. They claim it’s

indefinite.

Didn’t see that coming, did you? Heck, I didn’t see that coming, and considering

you’re getting all your info from me, how could you have seen it coming?

Like my schedule says, I was hard at work looking for work this morning when

my diligence was interrupted by a fracas. It sounded like it was coming from the

protesters, which surprised me because Joe had been the only one the last few days, and

the only peep I ever heard from him was when Hilarious would yell at him, “The yard is

not a wash closet,” when Joe was relieving himself, to which Joe yelled back, “This guy

takes a dump where this guy wants to take a dump.”

I wasn’t sure if his movement was losing steam or if they’d grown tired of yelling

the same stuff everyday. I hoped it was the former. Either way, the rest must have

realized they have nothing to gain here. I know protesters use confrontation to fuel their

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fire, so I wasn’t going to tell them that, but they never made any demands, and I already

lost my job. I guessed reality would set in over the next couple days and Joe would also

channel his energy to more productive causes.

But then I heard yelling. I went to the window and say my dad playing police

chief, trying to break up the “disgraceful scene” as he put it.

My parents’ junker of a station wagon was parked with its right front tire sitting in

my lawn. The protester’s chair was knocked over next to it. Dad must’ve driven up into

his demonstration area, scaring him out of his seat to send a physical message before

offering a verbal message, which he was well into by the time I ran out on my front

porch.

Mom was still sitting in the driver’s seat, but she had her window down so she

could join in the verbal lashing Dad was giving the protester. It looked like she was

driving his getaway car.

“-trespassing son of a bitch,” was the first thing I heard, and it came courtesy of

dad.

“Free country,” Joe said. Were their story retold with archetypes, Dad would’ve

been a bowling ball primed to knock down the head pin, and truth be told describing Dad

as bowling ball-ish isn’t an awful description. He’s short and squat. He doesn’t look fat

in the way some people look like they have extra flesh hanging from their body, his

physique is best described as geometrically pleasing, like an A-plus sketch of a person

with the torso of a snowman. Though not a fighter, he looks like he’d fare well in a

physical confrontation (probably why he’s never been in a fight) and though Joe towered

over him, Joe didn’t look like he was going to hit the old man.


232

“Our son is the nicest boy I know,” Mom said. Even in a shouting match she

sounded like a sap.

“That nice son of yours cost us all our jobs and sent this town into a great

depression,” the man yelled.

Mom and Dad didn’t buy that for a second, and though there was some truth to it,

it sounded like the kind of hyperbole typical to confrontations like this.

I was still parked on the porch, unsure of which side I supported. I know that

sounds ridiculous, and I love my parents to death, but it is a free country, and if someone

feels a little better about their own situation by sitting on my lawn, more power to them.

If I had a problem with it I’d have had the police here days ago, and seeing my parents

step in on my behalf made me feel weak, like I needed help. When your parents stick up

for you as a kid it’s empowering, but as an adult it’s defeating. The point of being an

adult is that you can stick up for yourself.

“My son has the highest rated radio show in this town.” That was mom, and

when I heard her say it I decided I was on the protesters’ side since they were the more

educated of the two. Mom and Dad didn’t stand a chance.

Out of the approximately 1,377 clever responses Joe could’ve made to her claim,

he chose uproarious laughter. Then he said, “Lady, that’s a good one, and I will leave,

but not because you convinced me I’m wrong. I’ll leave because the disgrace you’re

about to deal with is more than you deserve, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone who

doesn’t live in that their house.” He pointed at the house and everyone saw me. “Lied to

your parents, did you?” he shouted to me.


233

I made eye contact with him but quickly broke it. He suddenly looked victorious,

and that was my fault. I should’ve told my parents.

I made eye contact with Dad but quickly broke it. He looked defeated and

disappointed. He’s always been competitive and this must have been a double whammy:

not only did his adversary put him in his place, his son failed him. I looked at Mom and

she was the one to quickly look away. I didn’t blame her.

Joe got in his pickup and left.

I went inside to delay our forthcoming confrontation, one that would top the one

on my lawn. I sat on my loveseat, wondering why my parents were here. They only

came to Bontemps a couple times a year, and it was always planned well ahead of time so

they’d be sure to see all their friends.

The worst part wasn’t that it was unexpected, and that might’ve actually been the

best part, but it’s humbling to ask for help, and while it’s nice to receive a random visit,

this random visit was going to include a long talk. I’d dreaded their disappointment, and

with my lying, I’d given them twice the reason to be disappointed.

Dad didn’t even knock before coming in. Mom followed him in and they sat

down at the dining table. They looked at me and I looked back and forth between them.

Should I speak first? I didn’t know what to say, a perfect end to a month of silence.

It felt like an awful cliche. We all knew we needed to talk and we knew exactly

what we needed to talk about, so what were we waiting for? It wasn’t a chess match.

There wasn’t any strategy involved. Once the ice was broken that would be that, but my

problem wasn’t the waiting, it was that optimism had ruined my ability to share bad

news. I couldn’t do it because I didn’t like talking about it. I avoided it at all costs,


234

channeling my energy to find any sliver of positive energy I could and when I did it was

all I thought about. When I couldn’t find anything, I opted for silence and as such, my

parents broke our stalemate after an uncomfortable few moments.

“We suspected you weren’t painting us the whole picture,” Mom said.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“You’re not our only source of information,” Dad said. “We knew Nature’s

Candy and Bontemps were in a fix, and with that damned optimism of yours we weren’t

sure what to think about you.”

“That damned optimism? Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.”

“We were worried,” Mom said.

“And rightly so from the looks of it,” Dad said. “Why wouldn’t you be open with

us?”

“I thought I could fix it myself. I’m an optimist, remember?”

“How bad is it?” Mom followed.

“I lost my job a few weeks ago,” I said.

“A few weeks?” they said together.

“And it’s only gotten worse since then.” My words reminded me why I shied

away from sharing garbage like this. The truth hurt and no amount of optimism would

fix it, and that hurt more than anything else. I could’ve gone into detail, told them I lost

my friends, told them I was stuck here looking for jobs I didn’t want, but instead I cried.

And I cried and I cried and I cried.

Mom rushed over. It reminded me of back when a three-years-old me would skin

his knee and only she could stop my tears because those were the few times we’d shared


235

emotional moments together. We never had serious talks when I was growing up, which

goes a long way to explaining my optimism; we could always find comfortable topics to

talk about, and that must have told me I could always find positive thoughts if I wanted

to, and that’s just what I did.

But when my mom joined me on the loveseat she was crying. Dad squeezed in on

my other side and they both put their arms around me. Considering the circumstances it

was the worst hug I’d ever had, and it felt great.

Imagine driving up to your son’s house only to find protesters (or in this case, a

protester) sitting on his front lawn. Hard not to jump to a conclusion, but which side

would you jump to? Most parents would suspect the protester was the lunatic, but what if

you suspected your son was hiding something? What if you were going to confront him

about spilling his secrets? Might you think your son had more explaining to do than you

thought? Might that protester be justified?

He might, but my parents never considered it, and for that I have optimism to

thank. As Mom put it, “You might’ve made some bad decisions because of that

optimistic affliction of yours, but never for a second would I suspect you’d be directly

responsible for hurting anyone. That guy was nuts.”

We were laughing about it by dinner. Mom made dinner and we had that long

conversation I mentioned earlier, but instead of a long conversation, it went short and

mildly sweet. My parents offered financial assistance until I got a job, and they

understood my reaction and my frustration, and they were even a little mad at everyone in

town not named Hitch.


236

“Selfish sons of—,” Dad said. He looked like he did while he talked to the

protester and Mom cut him off.

“Now, now, Captain Competitive. You of all people know what it’s like to want

to blame others for your errs,” and that only made him angrier.

“So it’s okay for those pigs to blame their shortcomings on Hitch?”

I laughed. As rational as I’ve made him out to be, that outburst probably doesn’t

sound true to character for him, but what’s odd about people like him is the one thing that

does drive them bonkers is the irrational. It doesn’t matter if their irrationality doesn’t

affect him, it drives him crazy when people abandon logic. I think he blames them for

impeding evolution. If everyone always made sound decisions like he does, we’d have

had flying cars and walking fish years ago.

“Calm down, dad. It is what it is.”

“The quick fix here would be to get rid of those idiots and clone me.”

“No comment from the peanut gallery on that one,” Mom said.

“And in fact,” I said, “no more comments period. It’s happening and it’s being

dealt with, end of story. Are you guys staying the night?”

Then Mom loaded me back into her time machine and gave me one more glimpse

of my childhood. “Hon,” she said, “we think we’re going to stay for a while.”

“In Bontemps?”

“Actually, here would work.”

“In my kitchen?”

“Not in your kitchen,” Dad snapped, “in your house. With you. Like family.”


237

I love my parents, and I loved that they jumped in the car to come make sure I

was okay, but there’s a difference between a nice gesture and trying to make me their

marionette. It’s the same reason we had a small tiff when I became an optimist; they had

different plans for me and when I didn’t act accordingly they were disappointed. I wasn’t

being logical then, and I took their offer here to mean they didn’t think I was being

logical now.

“Sorry, but that won’t work,” I told them. “No room at the inn.”

“We’re going to buy an air mattress at the Friendly,” Dad said.

“Why? I can do this on my own.”

“The story you just told didn’t exactly scream, ‘Everything’s fine,’” Mom said.

“You can’t just march in here and expect to take over my life.”

“But we can get you groceries,” Dad said. “We can shop. We can cook while

you do whatever it is you’re doing nowadays.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing the last few weeks? I’ll be fine.”

“If we’re going to be supporting you,” Mom said, “we might as well support you

proper.”

“What if I say no?”

“We’ll say no right back,” Dad said, his confrontational tone returning. “As long

as all this is going on, we don’t trust you and your optimist crap. How do we know this

isn’t your never-fails optimism talking? We don’t, and we’re worried, and the only way

to rectify the two is for us to be here. If you want help, it’s here. If you don’t, we’ll stay

out of your way. Now let’s go get that air mattress.”


238

I forgot to mention this, but logical and stubborn go hand in hand. I’m going to

have roommates. Fun.

I just realized I didn’t get any job callbacks today. Crap.

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

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1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.



DAY #25

9:14.........................................................Break the Fast

9:48 Apply for Work

1:07............................................................. Lunch/Read

3:04 Apply for Work

6:02.............................................. Dinner

7:18 Apply for Work

10:23......................................................................Write

12:13................................................................. Slumber

Dad took my mirrors down before I woke up. All of them. They were stacked

against the living room wall.

“Creeps me out,” he said.

“Now this place feels unlivable small,” I griped.

“For Peter’s sake, it’s the exact same size,” he said. “And if anything it’s slightly

bigger because you gained a half inch of space before all the walls.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

Mom and Dad slept on a giant air mattress they brought. It took up most of the

living room, and with that and them here my place already felt smaller. One big happy

family.

Otherwise, my second go at childhood got off to a decent start this morning. Not

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241

only did I not have to make breakfast, but Mom and Dad made my breakfast buffet for

me, and honestly, it was a little nicer than my spread. When I cook for myself, the

satisfaction of eating something I slaved over is enough to make me salivate, so I don’t

put much effort into the presentation. This morning’s French toast, on the other hand,

was shaped like hearts. Fruit bowls had blueberries for eyes, a strawberry for a nose and

a slice of cantaloupe for a smile. My mini-omelet was served with garnish on the side,

and though I’ve never understood the point of a garnish (mom calls them “food’s

earrings”), it looked professional, and that was a good pick-me-up; it made me feel like

I’d been treated.

The real perk was not having to cook. As big a kick as I got out of treating myself

to some treats, I needed to get a job soon. There are only so many hours in a day, and

every hour I spent doing anything but looking for a job made me feel guilty, like I was

taking an unjustified and ill-advised vacation. How could anyone enjoy a trip to Disney

World if it bankrupted them?

I also didn’t want my parents to think I would take advantage of their generosity.

It’s grossly humbling to have to borrow money from my parents; honestly, it’s worse

than going to a creditor. At least with a creditor they charge an interest rate, which

makes the arrangement seem formal. The interest rate provided the sense of

responsibility required for receiving and paying off a loan. My parents “as much as you

want and whenever you can pay it back loan” didn’t carry the same urgency as, “Pay us

back the loan at one over prime or we’ll break your clavicle.”

Despite the inherently lax nature of our loan, I flipped the traditional

interpretation of its terms. I used it as added motivation to look even harder for a job.


242

Comfort begets complacency begets laziness begets a lifetime of loafing, and I wasn’t

about to get too comfortable. It’s hard to get comfortable when everything’s going

wrong.

My morning session went well. Eleven job applications in three hours. Either I

was getting good at this or I’d written so many cover letters I had a boilerplate for every

job imaginable.

Lunch? Same as breakfast. This family experiment wasn’t half bad. I felt bad

my parents had to sleep smack dab in the middle of the floor of my living room, but Dad

boasted the mattress they bought was “better than most regular beds” and this morning

they both insisted they slept better than they do at home.

The term “retirement” inspires romantic associations with most people, but

doesn’t it sound kind of boring? The mystique I associate with it is how anyone can stay

busy all day every day, and my parents did nothing to convince me otherwise. They both

helped cook, which as I’ve mentioned is something I wish I could do more of, so that’s

plus one. They ran errands to pick up necessities and toiletries they didn’t get yesterday,

but that’s something we all do and there’s nothing romantic about it.

The rest of their day consisted of some derivation of loafing about the place. A

little reading there, a nap here. If lazy people had any idea how relaxing retirement is

they’d start double-timing it to get there.

Though two wrongs decidedly don’t make a right, it feels inappropriate to say one

of the big perks: Hilarious popped in and said hello, but he’s clearly uncomfortable

around anyone but me so he quickly left. It’s more like killing two birds with one stone,


243

except I don’t have to throw stones at mom, Dad or Hilarious and nobody gets killed. I

was happy to have some peace and quiet.

The only trouble I had was when Mom tried to use my phone to make some local

calls.

“Hang it up, please,” I called from my bedroom when I heard the beep of the

cordless chirp on.

“Expecting a call?” she asked.

“That’s where potential suitors will call.”

“Well I’ll just be a minute.”

“And that minute might have ten calls missed.”

“Wouldn’t they leave a message?”

“They might, but what if they call the next person on their list, and that person

turns out to be their dream candidate, and by the time I call back they have him under a

ten year contract. They could lose interest in me as easily as that.”

“Oh. Okay,” she said.

I’m feeling like a realist already. That sounded reasonable and realistic and if

someone had called, I’d have been glad I was ready for it. Unfortunately, no calls came.

Growing up our dinner discussions followed the same format every night: they

started pedantic and finished outlandish. Like normal families, friends or acquaintances,

we start be discussing our days. How were they? What happened? What do you feel

about today? Some people think this sounds boring and redundant. Is one day of school

really different than the next? It isn’t if school amounts to, “I had Physics today,” for


244

you. Newton only had three laws of motion. I should think your teacher spiced each day

up with something new.

Dad’s a real fact lover, so he emceed most of our dinner talks, getting every detail

about school out of me. “The more you know,” he’d say, “the more you’ll accomplish.”

He was also foil of hokey dad-isms, and after a long day of work he’d get mad after

saying that one, blaming that lack of progress on bad students. “Damned freeloaders,”

he’d mutter, “getting a free ride into the future by us know-it-alls. Good for nothing.” I

didn’t want to be a freeloader, so my dinner review sessions were mutually beneficial for

us; Dad and I both boned up on our know-how and my grades reflected it.

With no classes, dad’s questions dealt with my employment.

“What’ve you applied for?”

I could see where he was headed and didn’t want to follow.

“Little jobs in the area. Whatever’s listed in the papers around here.”

“For example?” Vague details never satisfied him. If he asked the question, it

meant he already knew the vague details and wanted specifics to replace them.

“Shoe salesman was one. Light bulb packager... butter chumer.”

“Have experience in those fields, do you?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Heard back from anyone?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“You know what else I know?”

“Yep,” I said.

“That marketable degree you have isn’t too marketable stuck in your closet.”


245

“Yep.”

“Any intention of taking it out of your closet?”

“Yep.” Oops, I’d fallen into a rhythm. “I mean nope.”

Had Dad been our dinner, I’d have taken him out of the oven then and there based

on the furious pink tinge baking his face.

“Do you recycle?” Dad asked. Whenever he said something that sounded off

topic, it usually meant a morality tale was on the way.

“I do,” I said.

“Why do you recycle?”

“It’s better for the environment.” His questions might as well have been

rhetorical, and the only way to fight rhetorical questions is to give answers the asker

doesn’t expect.

“Sure, there’s the environment, but recycling’s advantages are many.”

“Do tell,” I said with a hint of hyperbole.

“Throwing recyclables away wastes resources.”

“You don’t say.”

“And there’s no sense wasting something that’s perfectly useful, right?”

“Makes sense.”

“You know, it’s not too late to recycle your education.” There he went! He

finally crossed the line back into reality. Wisdom. Brilliant.

“You’re likening four years of college to a piece of trash?”

“The way you’ve used it, yes.”

“No thanks,” I said.


246

“I get it. Your parents can pay for college, and we can just keep supporting you

now?”

“All right, that’s enough,” Mom cut in. When dad’s reasonable nature failed, he

usually bailed on it and Mom had to step in to play the voice of reason. “Hon,” she said

to me, “you know we understand what you’re going through, and we’ll help you any way

we can.”

“Maybe I won’t get a job then,” I joked. We all laughed and that was that. I’m

sure that resolution sounds too quick and easy, but understand we’ve had this discussion

countless times before, which means we’ve also resolved this discussion countless times

before, and each and every time it’s easier to disagree to agree and let it be.

By dessert, Dad was throwing it his usual, ridiculous what ifs.<

“If you could be the offspring of two different species of animals, what would

they be? If you could make yourself invisible, where would you go? Would you rather

live on the moon or underwater?”

My replies, in order, were:

“A giraffe and a cheetah so I’d be tall and fast.”

“An old, abandoned house so I could make it haunted.”

“The moon, but just because I couldn’t talk underwater. I’d rather stay here if

that’s a choice.”

After dinner I excused myself and got back to business.


DAY #26

9:06................................ Break the Fast

9:31 Apply for Work

12:41.................................................................... Lunch

1:11 Apply for Work

6:04.....................................................................Dinner

6:36 Apply for Work

11:02..................................................................... Write

12:17................................................................. Slumber

As I hope you noticed, I’ve removed all traces of recreation from my schedule. I

suppose I should get a kick out of the irony that my unemployed days now require more

work than my employed days ever did, but it really just makes me want to kick

something. Tonight’s dinner discussion was curt.

“How’s the search?” Dad asked.

“Don’t ask,” I said. He didn’t.

Sending an application carries no satisfaction anymore. In fact, the whole process

stinks. Instead of hope, each one reminds me of my .000 batting average. And to make

matters worse, there aren’t many jobs left to apply for, which means I’m reaching at this

point. They’re still mindless studies of tedium (carpet shampooer, box assembler, etc.),

but the bottom of the barrel might turn me into a vegetable, and by vegetable I mean

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248

person in a catatonic state, not the delightful dinner accompaniment. How bizarre that

“vegetable” and “fruit” mean such different things in colloquial conversation. They’re

both lifestyles, but one denotes the absence of a lifestyle and the other a lifestyle enjoyed

by millions. More evidence people find fruit more palatable than vegetables, I guess.

You may have also noticed I left less time for writing tonight. This not working

thing is exhausting, I’m going to bed. Good night, Lenny.

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

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Happiness CD ® © © ©

Optimism ® © © © ©

Organized © © ® © ©

Vomiting © ® © © ©

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.



DAY #27

8:42.........................................................Break the Fast

9:04 Apply for Work

1:17...................................................................... Lunch

1:28 Apply for Work

6:37............................................... Dinner

6:53.......................................................Apply for Work

11:39..................................................................... Write

12:02................................................................. Slumber

Today’s schedule didn’t work out so well. As expected, I’ve applied to all the

administrative, janitorial and hard labor positions within fifty miles of Bontemps. By

midmoming I had nothing to do. Hmmnummmumnmmmimntiimm, I sure would like to

______________. Fill in that blank. When your needs aren’t being met, wants don’t cut

it. I was too distracted to read. I was too distracted to cook. I was too distracted to hold

a coherent conversation. My joblessness socially paralyzed me. I did a lot of pacing.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked from the kitchen while she diced onions in the

kitchen sink, running water over them while she cut so she wouldn’t cry.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I snapped.

“It looks like you’re getting some not very efficient exercise,” she said.

“Don’t bother me right now, okay?” My tone was nasty.

250


251

“Son,” Dad snapped back at me, “this isn’t good for you.”

“But Mom said it was like exercise.” I snottily spoofed her voice when I said

“exercise.” It’s easier to be curt with your parents because you know they could never

hate you for it.

“Either it’s really bad for you because it’s also making you dumber,” he said, “but

it’s at least wearing out your carpet.”

“It’s my carpet and my life, and I’ll do what I want with them.”

“We understand you’re having a tough time getting work,” Mom said, “but it’s no

reason to get snippy with us.”

“Not while you’re living under my roof,” Dad said.

“Your roof, huh? Screw you, dad.”

Mom had made a good point but Dad crossed the line. I knew I had no reason to

get snippy with either of them, but being mad at the world is a new thing for me, and

apparently mad at the world literally meant the whole world.

“Go to your room, Hitch,” Dad told me, his voice deep and stem like a television

commercial narrator’s.

I did. Without argument. I had nowhere else to go.

Going to my room wasn’t like going to my room as a child. I no longer had

mountains of toys in there to keep me occupied, and as a child I was furious with my

parents, but this time I was furious with myself. As I’m sure was the case back then, it

was my own fault for being stuck in here and stuck here, without a job and without

optimism.


252

I stayed in my room a few hours. The phone rang once and my heart skipped a

beat in anticipation of who it was, but the phone was in the other room. With my parents.

I liked the idea of them having to come get me out of my room and being the first to

break our stalemate. It would be a small victory, but a victory I could’ve used, so I sat

tight with my ear pressed to my bedroom door.

Mom answered and she knew who it was, which wasn’t outlandish since my

parents knew a lot of the same people I knew. But then she kept talking, and kept

talking, and talked some more. She was stealing my phone call. I couldn’t make out

what she was saying, but I was annoyed, and I kept waiting, and kept waiting, and waited

some more, and I was shocked a few minutes later to hear the phone hit its cradle. She

hung up! What was she doing with my calls?

Then I heard my parents talking. I wasn’t sure what they were saying, but

moments later when they knocked on my door I figured I was about to find out.

“Who called me?” I asked through my door.

“You start work the day after tomorrow” Dad said. “We’re going out to celebrate

tonight at Big Earl’s Roller Balls and Bowling Skates. You’re invited.”

That was it, and that was that. My natural reaction was to put myself up for

adoption, find some new parents and start a new life somewhere else. They’d gotten me

a job. It hadn’t been a callback from one of my applications, because they would’ve

wanted to at least talk to me before soliciting my services, and they hadn’t. My parents

played puppeteer, pulled a few strings and knocked on my door with the news.


253

As an optimist I’d lost my job and as a realist I couldn’t even find a job. At zero

for two, was pessimism my only option? If I took the job it would mean I didn’t think I

could find a job on my own, which would make me a pessimist about my job situation.

A true pessimist would say this job’s not for me, but realistically I need it, no

matter what it is, and of course, I didn’t need to ask what the job was. My parents

weren’t okay with me settling for a minimum wage gig, which means they wouldn’t

pursue work unless it was substantive, and substantive meant work that was challenging,

and challenging work required the expertise only a degree could offer. It would be

engineering, and it hit me that I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it. Not in the context I

just mentioned, which was more of an over-dramatic way of saying I didn’t want to do it,

but in the context of literally not being able to do it, to remember it, to sit down and

figure out how to find x from y and z.

Sometimes a realistic notion sounds pessimistic, but as long as it’s plausible or

likely to happen, it’s not pessimism, and by now it’s realistic for me to say that getting a

mindless, comfortable little job may not happen. It’s realism, but it feels like pessimism

and I hate it.

I climbed into the crawlspace and pulled out a couple old textbooks. I wouldn’t

have kept them when I cleaned house, but they cost so much money it seemed wasteful to

give them away, and if I ever grew desperate for funds they’d have been front and center

at my yard sale.

I went to my computer to play with numbers. I picked an easy problem from the

beginning of the book; no sense challenging myself and killing my confidence right off

the bat.


254

The problem concerned a bridge. Most problems in my early days of mechanical

engineering concerned bridges, enough so that I briefly assumed engineering started in

Venice. On this bridge stood a man of a certain weight, and the two ends of the bridge

must be designed to withstand the forces created by the man’s weight. Find the forces

and moments at each end of the bridge.

Realizing my computer would only help as a calculator, I took a pad of paper and

pencil out. The difficulty with working out extensive math problems on a computer

shows how much people actually use long story problems in real life. They weren’t made

for it.

Solving the problem only required drawing a picture and doing some quick

algebra. If only building a real bridge was that easy.

I wish I hadn’t been able to do the problem, just like I wish I wasn’t so good with

numbers. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about not wanting to do it, I wouldn’t be able to

do it. But alas, I find myself cursed with a penchant for using numbers to find other

numbers, and people like my parents think it wasteful of me not to use it. Sigh. I’m

starting to believe them, too. I’m due for a good thing and not making the most of a good

thing wouldn’t be very realistic of me.

Not to mention how Bontemps would interpret it. “Ooh, la la,” they’d say.

“There goes that snooty young punk, too good to take a good job offer while the rest of

us can’t even get bad job offers.”

I ’d show them. I opened my bedroom hatch and jumped down into the living

room.

“Let’s celebrate,” I told my parents.


EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Disgust © © 0 © ©

Irritation © © © 0 ©

Anger © © 0 © ©

Frustration © © © 0 ©

Sadness 0 © © © ©

Disappointment © © 0 © ©

Confusion © © © 0 ©

Humbled © © © 0 ©

Busy © © 0 © ©

Stressed © © 0 © ©

Nervous © © © 0 ©

Stoicism 0 © © © ©

Happiness © 0 © © ©

Optimism 0 © © © ©

Realism © © © 0 ©


DAY #28

I got home too late last night to write. Our celebration was fun. It reminded me

of the countless times my parent’s took me to Big Earl’s for birthday parties as a

youngster. We got pizza and cokes at Big Earl’s Big Pizza Pies. There were no

celebratory toasts to be had as there was no celebratory beverages to be had at Big Earl’s,

not since the tragic incident of Little Susie Schroeder’s birthday party fifteen years ago,

when an errant bowling ball thrown by an intoxicated Barrett Boxum broke three legs and

four arms of roller skaters at Little Susie’s party. Bontemps had to learn the hard way

that alcohol, bowling and roller skating don’t go together. Fortunately, Big Earl stuck

with the last two.

My first question, obviously, was this:

“What are we celebrating?”

“Your new job, you ninny,” Mom said, punching me in the shoulder while we

waited for our bowling shoes.

“I don’t suppose that new job’s hosting my own radio show, is it?” I asked.

“Hardy har har,” she cackled.

“Let me guess, I’ll be driving a choo-choo train.”

“We didn’t pay thousands and thousands of dollars for you to be that kind of

engineer, remember, dear?” At least my parents are realists who shoot straight. It must

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be impossible to be a realist around people who dress up the truth. “Bert Levine,

remember him?” she asked me.

“I’ll be engineering conveyor belts?” I rhetorically asked. Bert owned Bert’s

Belts, and he specialized in manufacturing conveyor belts. He was also good friends with

my folks, which answered another question: my parents hadn’t made up resumes for me

and sent out applications, they’d called their friend, which made me feel worse about the

arrangement. As romantic as it is to think the world’s a meritocracy, we all know it isn’t,

and that makes earning a job on merit all the more special.

Intuitively, when an employer blindly gives someone a job, he or she should be

mildly nervous about it, even if that someone is their sister’s daughter, and thus they

usually get entry-level job. I didn’t expect that was the case with me, as Bert’s couldn’t

have too many engineers and given our local economy, I’m sure he couldn’t afford doing

this big a favor.

And so, ironically, it was me who was skeptical of my employer. What kind of

person would hire me, the retired engineer with no experience? Was he desperate?

Crazy? Both? On the other hand, my skepticism was comforting because if I failed

miserably, I wouldn’t have to feel bad for my desperate, crazy boss. There was

something to celebrate.

From the way my parents celebrated, you’d have thought they actually had

something to celebrate. They were the happiest I’d seen them in years all night long, thus

our late return home. This was a good thing since typical celebration parties require the

guest of honor to be the one who sparks enough excitement to keep the partygoers going.

If he or she’s bummed, the party’s a goner. But not tonight. When I was kid, my folks


259

used to draw the line at two games of bowling and an hour of roller skating, which we did

in that order because it’s hard to get your footing back after roller skating and our

bowling scores suffered if we flipped it. Last night we bowled four games and skated

until it closed at midnight. I was happy for my parents, and happier to realize party pep is

a two-way street. I had fun.

Today I got ready for tomorrow. I made a checklist and by the end of the day it

looked like this:

0 Notepad

0 Pencils

0 Pens

0 Calculator

0 Compass

0 Protractor

0 Engineering Textbooks

0 Math Textbooks

0 School Notes

0 Conveyor Belt Information (Printouts and Library Books)

0 Pressed Shirts

0 Pressed Pants

0 Pressed Socks

0 Shined Shoes

0 Backpack

0 Briefcase


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0 Suitcase (just kidding)

That includes everything I ever used during four years worth of engineering

courses, and doesn’t show preparedness so much as not knowing what I need to be

prepared. I’m taking all of it tomorrow. I have a lot of questions to ask Bert tomorrow

morning.

While I got it all ready, it hit me that my parents didn’t literally have anything to

celebrate last night (unless they were hard up to loan me the money they promised, but I

doubted that), and I wondered what exactly their figurative victory was, so I interrupted

their sitting in my living room reading time and asked, “What’s in this for you guys?

Why are you so happy?”

“We’re happy you’re happy,” Dad said.

“But you know I’m not happy per se. This is my best alternative, not my best

option.”

“Aren’t you the least bit optimistic about getting a fresh start?” Mom asked.

“I’m not optimistic about anything anymore. I realistically think I need the

money. I realistically think I can do this job. And I realistically think it may be awhile

before my dreams of becoming a professional optometrist come true.”

“Hitch, you already said you gave up on that optimism crap,” Dad growled, “and

it is what got you here.”

“He said ‘optometrist,’ not optimist,” Mom told him.

I laughed at Dad for getting suckered into the flub. “Is it really just a victory over

optimism for you?”


261

“We never disliked optimism,” Mom said, “but we’d watched you work so hard

for that degree that it was hard to see you give it up, but all we’ve ever wanted is for you

to be happy, and if optimism is what made you happy, optimism’s what we wanted for

you.”

Dad was more direct. “But why the hell didn’t you just go straight into it? Or at

least study it?”

“You don’t study optimism,” I came back. “You either feel it or you don’t, and I

don’t anymore.” And taking this job would serve as my official walking papers.

“That’s a relief,” Dad said.

“Hush up, hon” Mom said.

“Oh, all right, but you have to admit, and Hitch that means you too, that it’s fun to

give this a go. It’s exciting to see you get a chance we never thought we’d see, and we

think you might be surprised by the results.”

“You know,” I replied, “realism’s nothing like optimism. I won’t blindly think

it’s going to make my life a-okay. It will have to genuinely be worth it, not have the

potential to be worth it.”

“Music to my ears,” Dad replied. As long as we were all on the same page. I

didn’t want to get my parents hopes up to just end up dashing them again.

Mom turned to me. “The best reason we have to be happy is getting the

opportunity to help our son, and that’s something we always want to do.”

Aw, shucks. That’s not optimism, that’s downright good people.


DAY #29

Welcome to Wednesday, the first traditional Wednesday I’ll have had in a month,

and arguably in years since I was never a nine-to-fiver at KBON. When my alarm went

off, I gave the prerequisite, “Ugh,” before yielding the covers, even though I snapped

awake at the first sound of “Good Day Sunshine.” The unknown can be terrifying or

exciting, and I felt the exciting terror I conquered on my first rollercoaster after my

spiked hair finally crossed the coveted height requirement to ride; once it started, I had no

idea where it was going and what it was going to do, and I was scared the thin little rail

across my lap might not hold my skinny waist in place, but deep down I knew it would

because they wouldn’t have let me on the ride if it might not. Mr. Levine wouldn’t have

hired me if he didn’t have confidence in me, right?

My realism liked getting into engineering because it’s a right or wrong industry,

like computers. Computers have it easy. Everything they do is binary, which means their

language has two character, “0” and “1,” which means all their decision boil down to

choosing between black and white. Engineering’s similar: either you do a problem right,

or you do a problem wrong, there’s no chance of some disgruntled coworker saying, “My

opinion is you’re terrible,” because I can (hopefully) back my work up with a right

answer, which should be slightly easier than a college exam since my work here would be

open book; no equation memorization required.

My parents were already up. I always laugh at young people who joke about how

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early their parents wake up, insisting they’ll still be “cool” when they get “old,” and that

when they retire they’ll “kick back” and “sleep late” every day. Do they honestly think

nobody’s parents were “cool” when they were younger, with hopes of someday “kicking

back” themselves? Of course they said the same things, and even if they wanted to sleep

in, after forty years of getting up for the same grind, their internal clock keeps better time

than their wristwatch, and they’ll be up that early with or without an alarm.

“Breakfast is ready,” Mom sang as I climbed down from my room.

As long as she was making my breakfast buffet, I wasn’t going to ask when my

parents planned to leave. I guess getting the job wasn’t nearly as important as sticking

with it, and their confidence in me aside, they had good reason to think this was an

experiment that wouldn’t last.

Mom’s questions reminded me of mornings before the first day of class.

“What do you expect?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Happy?”

“Excited?”

“Scared?”

“Hungry?”

“Finished?”

“Yes,” I told her.

As I was starting one job, I also decided to get back to my second job. I reinstated

myself as mayor of Little Bontemps and stopped in to see all the little guys after


264

breakfast. They all crowded around me when I crossed city limits, as if to congratulate

my recent good news and wish me luck.

My mayoral duties behind me, I returned home to get dressed. I went with formal

wear because I had no idea what the dress code would be. One luxury of an actual

interview is you can wear the suit there, and even if you’re overdressed you still picked

the right outfit and you know what to wear if you get the offer. Where under-dressing is

a social faux pas, overdressing is merely uncomfortable, a small price to pay to make a

good first impression.

And so it was that a mid-twenties male with a black suit, black socks, shiny black

shoes, blindingly bright shirt and black and white polka dotted tie got into his hatchback

to go to his first day of work.

I’d driven past Bert’s Belts plenty of times, but remembered it more as a

placeholder than a specific building, part of a big strip of industrial type buildings

stretching along the state road on the northern edge of town. There are at least seven or

eight companies along almost a mile’s worth of pavement, and when I think of the strip I

think of a big clump of miscellaneous factories, and in fact, while driving to work I

realized Bert’s Belts was the only one I knew anything about, and that was because my

parents were friends with the Levine’s. I recognized the names and vaguely knew what

they did, but since it never had much impact on my life I’d never gotten to know it.

The jeans manufacturer was called Gene’s. The screen manufacturer was called

Jean’s Screens. I used to think those two buildings worked together, but upon closer

inspection there was a tall chain link fence between them, and it had barb wire dancing

along its top to keep Gene from infiltrating Jean’s and vice versa. Rex’s Specs made


265

eyeglasses, and Ace’s Cases made eyeglass cases. As Bert would tell me while giving

me a visual tour of the strip from afar later that morning, “They used to work together,

but a few years ago they stopped seeing eye to eye.” He winked and I laughed, even

though I had no idea about the falling out. How sad.

Foster’s Wood Imposters specialized in artificial wood, Bob’s Doorknobs in

doorknobs, and Sandy’s Beaches in sand (just kidding—she makes beach towels and

beach balls and other beach related paraphernalia).

Whereas my image of the strip had only cookie cutter, boxy buildings plopped

down next to one another, each had its own subtle charm. They did each have the same

discreet fa9ade, but it was for good reason: years and years ago they each redid their

exteriors with faux wood from Foster’s, so they each looked like the side of a suburban

house. There were few windows to be had, and though it made the area look uninviting,

it did suggest big, top secret things were happening inside where there was no time for

daydreaming out a luxury like a window. It was intimidating. I hoped that wasn’t why

there weren’t windows.

A few of the companies personalized their appearance in clever ways. The

entryway to Rex’s looked like one giant eyeglass lens, Bob’s front door had at least one

hundred doorknobs on it, and if you looked closely, Sandy’s front sidewalk wasn’t a

sidewalk at all, but a path made of sand. Bert’s looked like it had a red brick building

coming out of the middle of its roof, like there was a building within the building, or like

a three story building had fallen from the sky and crashed through its center, leaving one

floor sticking out of it.


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Driving from my house, Bert’s was the last structure on the left. I turned in and

parked around back. You can judge how big a company’s workspace is by the size of

their building, and you can judge the size of the company’s workforce by the size of its

parking lot. How many people does it take to whip out a few hundred yards of conveyor

belts? Eight? Five-hundred-seventy-six? I had no idea, but when I rounded the backside

of the office I was impressed with the lot. There must have been a hundred spots at least,

so I imagined I’d have a lot of coworkers. That suited me just fine as it would give me

more people who I could ask questions when I flubbed something up, instead of having to

go to the same person every time and have them think I was a little slow.

There was a door in next to the parking lot, but it seemed presumptuous to go in

the backdoor, as if I was already part of the team, so I hoofed it around to the front. The

building was at least one-hundred-forty-two yards by sixty-four yards, so it took me a

few minutes to make it to the front door.

If my first step inside Bert’s was any indication to how the job was going to go, I

might as well have turned around and gone back home; I fell.

“Oh my gosh,” I heard a woman’s voice scream and it took me a moment to

realize why I fell, and then another to realize why the room was rushing past me. Had I

hit my head? Would I be eligible for worker’s compensation before meeting a single

coworker?

No, that wouldn’t be necessary. The reception area had a moving walkway, i.e. a

conveyor belt running through it. I hadn’t seen it and had paid the price for it. I rolled

off the walkway and stood up. There wasn’t much room to stand as the room was little

more than a small hallway, with the walkway running along its left edge and stable


267

ground to the right. The receptionist sat behind a hole cut out of the wall on the right

side. She had a proper office, but it wasn’t accessible from the entryway, which meant

the receptionist was standing behind her desk looking at me, her mouth agape beneath her

thick eyeglasses, big eyes and grey-blue hair that looked more like an afro wig worn in

jest than a serious hairdo.

“Please tell me you’re okay,” she chirped, her voice squeaky as if she’d skipped

over puberty.

I brushed my suit off. It didn’t look dirty. Good thing I wore black.

“Look to be in order,” I assured her.

“You know, I told old Bert people would get hurt if he put that dang then in, but

he said, ‘No they won’t, Alice, not if we put signs next to the door,’ and sure enough, I’d

be kidding you if I said you weren’t the first.”

That was a relief. Clumsiness loves company.

“But,” she continued, “most people do see the signs.”

I looked back at the entryway, and lo and behold what did I see? Two signs on

both sides of the doors and one hanging above it, all in bright, neon colors with lots of

exclamation points warning visitors of the change of terrain.

“Guess I was a little nervous about coming in for my first day of work.”

“Oh my,” she squeaked, “you’re Hitch! Just a second.” She pushed a button on

her phone. “Hey Bert! Newbie’s here!”

Getting a response to my presence like that is what I imagine being a celebrity

feels like, and that would make for a fun day. Everyone would be looking at me from

afar, nobody would know me but everyone would know who I was. Eventually I’d get to


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know people, and that would be all she wrote for Hitch’s lifestyles of the rich and

famous.

“You can go on back,” Alice said. “Go through that door and head to the first

floor. You’ll figure out what you need to do, but watch your step this time.” She

winked.

Wasn’t I on the first floor?

I pushed the door open and peeked in. I saw a few feet of stable, motionless

ground and I went through, ending up on a small four foot by thirteen foot platform. It

would’ve been a nice observation deck had it not been on ground level, but still I got a

good look at the building’s layout. I was on a factory floor. All around me were

enormous manufacturing machines. With all the different machinery I’d have guessed

Bert could make miles and miles of conveyor belts every day. There was quite a bit of

people buzzing around the floor. They wore jeans, t-shirts and heavy duty boots, and

some operated machines, some observed machines and some were walking down the

open walkways that were cut around groups of three or four machines. •

In the middle of the enormous floor was the building within a building. It was

about one third as wide as the whole building and one half as deep. It was two stories

(with a third extending out the top I assumed) and looked just like the red brick exterior

of what was on the roof. The brick building did have windows, unlike the factory’s

fa?ade. It looked like each window went with one office and about three-eighths of the

windows had people inside, and about five-ninths of those had more than one person

chatting together.


269

Where I was standing was more of a launch pad than an observation deck. I was

boxed into this skinny rectangle by a four foot high wall of glass. To the left was a swing

door that led to the factory floor. Directly in front of me were three more swinging

doors. Each had a sign, and from left to right they said “1,” “2,” and “3.” Behind each

door were more human conveyor belts, each one leading to a different floor of the brick

building. I stood forty-four feet from the front of it. Each belt shot through an open

twenty-one foot wide space between where I was and its destination, the first cruising

along the floor, the second angled up to the second floor, and the third a little more

angled toward the top.

I picked the first and the belt carried me across. The machines I coasted past

looked like they were meant for bigger things than little old conveyor belts. They were

big and noisy, and they weren’t anything I’d seen in school, and that made me nervous.

I’d have to play along if Bert started talking about them like I should know what they are.

At the end of the line there was a six foot stretch for a landing strip, and just

before I got to it the door on the side of the building swung open and I recognized Bert

from the large shadow he cast on it just before his big frame filled its frame. Bert was a

Bontemps legend by the age of seventeen, when he won the hammer throw state

championship, becoming the first Bontempsonite to win a high school title. His legend

approximately doubled the following year when he successfully defended his title.

Bert’s muscles had long ago melted from hard cheddar to soft Velveeta, and

though his six-foot four-inch, two-hundred-sixty-four pound frame was plenty

intimidating, since I’d met him many times before I already knew his friendly personality

quickly charmed away any worries that he’d squash you. He was bom to be a salesman,


270

which boded well for me since I needed him to sell me on myself and my value as an

engineer.

“There’s my all-star free agent,” he cried.

“Hiya, Mr. Levine,” I said, not entirely confident I’d masked my nervousness.

Bert had overalls on over a black and red checkered flannel shirt and he grabbed

my hand and shook it while giving me the once over. One of his thick, red eyebrows

arched over his bearded face and he said, “I hope you brought some coveralls to change

into, because you and I are getting dirty today.”

I’d overdressed, but fortunately I had a self-deprecating one liner ready to poke

fun at myself. “Actually, sir, I was hoping to take Jenny to the prom.” Jenny was his

daughter, and I imagine Bert knew I harbored an innocent crush on her through high

school.

“Well, Hitch, her husband might not approve, but I sure as heck do.” He laughed,

my first significant accomplishment on the job. Whew. “Come back to my office,” he

said, and I followed him through the door and around the comer to his office. There were

only a handful of offices, and down each of the three short hallways running north, east

and west from his office was a door leading out into the manufacturing area.

Bert’s office was big. I wondered how much of that had to do with him being the

big man on campus or him just being a big man. All four walls of his office were

covered with pictures of Bert at work. On closer inspection, each one included a small

caption that gave the date and location of the picture. On quick glance there were

pictures dating back forty years and one or two were from Bontemps, but most were from


271

elsewhere, some as faraway as Europe and Asia. I took a long look at one that said “1977

Micronesia.

“The President of Micronesia at that time had me build him up a manually

operated conveyor belt he used to display national treasures at a gathering on

international diplomats he hosted. It was one of our more creative projects.”

“Wow,” I said while thinking, “What?” Where were the pictures of Nature’s

Candy. Bert’s Belts is the exclusive conveyor belt provider for Nature’s Candy, and

that’s why they’re here and where most of their business comes from... right? Had

someone told me that or did I assume it? I wanted to ask, but I also wanted to let Bert run

the show. I imagined he had an itinerary in mind for the day, and I didn’t want him to

think I had ideas of my own as to what we’d do.

Bert’s desk was smack dab in the middle of the room, and he had a laptop on it

plus another framed picture of Bert holding a section of conveyor belt up like it was the

catch of the day. There was a big, cushiony maroon chair behind his desk, and an

identical chair on the other side of it for guests. Neither looked like traditional office

furniture. He pulled his chair out, took a seat and asked me to do the same. It was

somehow more comfortable than it looked.

“Like that?” Bert asked.

“It’s nice,” I told him. I certainly wasn’t wowing him with my small talk.

“How about we kick back before getting to work?” He rolled his chair back and

reclined it. It was a recliner, and it was spectacular. “These are new additions to our fort

here. They just got here last week and everyone has one. A gift from me to them for an

especially prosperous first half of the year.”


272

Something wasn’t adding up. Nature’s Candy just went belly-up, but Bert’s Belts

was having an “especially prosperous” year. How does he figure that?

My heart hiccupped. Bert wasn’t a big optimist, was he? Was he disguising his

own company’s troubles with gifts for the sake of morale? That wouldn’t bode well for

business. What was I getting myself into?

“I’ll spend all of today with you,” Bert told me, “showing you how we operate

and showing you how you’ll operate with us, but before we get to the good stuff, do you

have questions for me about anything else?”

Was he just being nice or could I ask him what I really wanted to ask him? With

salesman-types it’s hard to tell, because a salesman’s job is to tell you what you want to

hear, regardless of how they felt about it, and if they didn’t like what you end up saying

they wouldn’t tell you, but they would tell their salesman buddies after you left.

But Mr. Levine was too nice, and a longtime friend, and I couldn’t see him not

liking anyone so I took this to be my opportunity. Were this an interview, I’d have

lobbed a few softballs, not because I actually had questions but to make me sound

engaged and interested in the position. Since I had the job, I figured I could ask the real

questions I wanted answered. It went like this:

ME

Why’d you hire me?

BERT

I need an engineer.

ME

Who am I replacing?


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BERT

Heckel Scroggins.

ME

Why was he fired?

BERT

He wasn’t fired.

ME

He quit?

BERT

He did. He accepted a position at

Continental Conveyors, our competitor, and

when he told me I had to walk him out right

then and there. We’ll talk about

confidentiality in due time, but once

someone goes to another belt maker I can’t

have them within these walls for intellectual

property reasons.

ME

He didn’t like it here?

BERT

No, no, we all liked Heckel a lot, but he and

his family decided to move out of Bontemps

and Continental was a good fit for them.


274

ME

Then he didn’t leave because the company’s

really struggling and he needed to go before

the layoffs started?

BERT

[laughing] You serious? Layoffs? I hired

you, didn’t I? I wouldn’t have gotten where

I sit today if I hired people when I needed to

fire people, you know?

ME

But if Nature’s Candy is doing so poorly,

how can you do so well?

BERT

Well, because they deal in fruit and I deal in

conveyor belts, I imagine.

ME

But you’re they’re big provider.

BERT

That is true, or was true from the looks of it.

Is that all you think we do? Nature’s Candy

is a very, very small piece of our business.


275

Holy heck. That was all I thought they did. Nature’s Candy doesn’t support

Bert’s Belts? It would explain why this is such a big company; Nature’s Candy can’t

need too many conveyor belts. It didn’t, however, account for why I was hired.

ME

Why’d you hire me?

BERT

Like I said, I need an engineer.

ME

But I’m not an engineer. I’m a radio host.

Did you owe my parents a favor?

BERT

Of course not, but I did have it on the

highest authority from them that you would

be a quality hire.

ME

What makes you think I can do well here?

The only thing I’ve engineered the last five

years is opening a few cans of peaches here

and there.

BERT

[LAUGHS] Peaches, Hike that. You’ll fit

in well here. I’ve hired many an engineer

from Saunders’s program, so that was plus


276

one for you. Conversely, there’s the fact

that we here specialize in conveyor belts,

and I know Saunders’s program doesn’t

offer any conveyor belt courses, though as a

donor I’ve been pressuring them for years,

and that means there’s going to be an on-

the-job learning curve. You’ll be working

with some of my best and most experienced

people, and they’ll make sure you get a

handle on our operations here before you’re

operating anything on your own. I hope and

expect these next few weeks of training will

help get you back on the horse. Sound

good.

ME

I’ll try.

BERT

[LAUGHS] You’ll do fine. Let me give you

a tour of our humble home here.

That man could sell me dehydrated water. Why would I have thought I’d get

thrown right in, forced to fend for myself in unfamiliar territory? Of course education

doesn’t end when school ends. How else did anyone get jobs out of their field, let alone


277

in it? The learning curve would mean I wouldn’t have to start out as a one-hundred

percent, fully functioning engineer. Whew.

Bert described the layout of the complex before starting my tour. The building

within the building was for all non-manufacturing jobs. The first floor housed

administrative personnel, human resources and research. The second floor would be my

home. All engineering and design personnel resided there, including belt engineers,

packaging engineers and quality engineers. The top floor included purchasing, logistics

and marketing.

“Of course, all the action happens out there,” Bert said pointing out his window,

“so what do you say we start with the good stuff?”

“The good stuff sounds good,” I said.

I know what you’re thinking, Lenny, you’re thinking, “He won’t bore me with

details of this work tour, will he?” but let me tell you, it was some tom. I never realized

how much I take conveyor belts for granted.

It started with hard hats and safety goggles, a sure sign this would be an exciting

ride. The main floor was split it up into small “cells.” Each cell contained as few as one

or as many as eleven different pieces of equipment. There were dozens of cells squeezed

into the place.

The tour followed the life of a conveyor belt, from conception to birth. The

materials storage space looks like a hardware store with shelves and shelves of metal that

stretch to the ceiling.

The material of choice is taken to the cell used to produce the belts and their

components. Metal conveyor belts (used for airport baggage claim belts for example)


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were made by cutting and shaping large sheets of metal. Rubber conveyor belts were

made by heating up rubber pellets and rolling the soft goo into large sheets of rubber,

which are cooled and cut to make the belts. Other conveyor “belts” as Bert described

them, weren’t belts at all, they were systems of rods and wheels that propelled items like

boxes to their intended destination.

“Four years ago,” Bert told me, “production topped one thousand feet per day and

we’ve climbed steadily since then. We ship more than a mile of conveyor belts every

day.”

Wow. There was definitely a lot of work. I had no idea how much work would

go into a mile of conveyor belts a day on my end, but it was an intimidating number.

Each part produced is inspected by quality assurance, and I mean if three

thousand two hundred sixty one rods, literally every single one is poked and prodded to

be sure it’s made to specification. They have every measuring device imaginable, from

scales to rulers to finely tuned lasers that measure to the thousandth of an inch.

Magnifying glasses too. The quality engineers develop standards required to verify that

all parts are made properly, and these are the standards used for the quality inspections

done on the shop floor. I’ll help them write the protocol for these inspections. They’re

basically engineering safety nets who check recheck the work everyone else is doing so

any and all errors get caught before it gets to the customer and breaks.

Of course, there are sometimes tens of thousands of little pieces to one conveyor

belt assembly, and they’re not all made in house; some are purchased from outside

vendors, and quality assurance assures the quality of every one of these pieces too. They

look at an average of eight thousand seven hundred forty nine parts a day.


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Then all those pieces have to be packaged. The packaging cell had more foam,

plastic baggies, bubble paper and boxes than you’ll ever see. If you’ve ever wondered

how giant pieces of an airplane are packaged for shipment, visit Bert’s Belts and you’ll

get an idea. I’d work with packaging engineers when projects neared completion. They

engineer the packaging used to ship the belts out. No sense in building something so

complex if you just let UPS break it en route. It would be our responsibility to keep them

up to speed on what we were building so they could anticipate what kind of packaging

would be required.

The conveyor belts are assembled on sight after shipment, and us engineers often

oversee that process since we design how it goes together. Lengthy belts can take up to a

week to come together.

One last cell was the one I’d be working the most closely with, and that was the

prototype shop. It was an area with a modest but specialized equipment collection. Their

biggest machine wasn’t one-seventh the size of the biggest machine I’d seen to that point,

but Bert assured me it didn’t mean they couldn’t make anything that was made in the

whole place. As the design of a particular project evolves, the prototype shop makes

sample parts used to evaluate each idea. “It’s a quick way to see if you’re on the right

track,” is how Bert put it. “Ever had a whacky idea for something you wanted to make

but couldn’t?” he asked me. “The prototype shop can turn a napkin sketch into a quality

part.”

Bert introduced me to every single person we passed along the way. There were

dozens of names and just as many smiles. Plus, I got no less than sixteen whistles, hoots

or hollers from people who saw my suit.


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It’d taken us a couple hours, but we’d made it around the entire floor. It had the

feel of a small city and I hoped I would quickly familiarize myself with street names and

what’s where.

Bert took me back into the serenely quiet brick building to polish off the morning

with a tour of its inner workings.

“Everything comes together out there,” he told me, referring to the factory,” but

think of that as the body of Bert’s. They carry out the physical aspect of the job, but the

physiology of our operation happens in here. We’re the nervous system, immune system,

cardiology, respiratory, even gastrointestinal that keeps the outside functioning. For

example,” Bert swung open a door in the comer of the first floor, “welcome to the

library.”

A conveyor belt library? Would a conveyor belt museum be next? Conveyor

belts seems so straightforward. All there is is a moving path created for object X, right?

The library was the size of a classroom, and it was indeed filled with books and

periodicals. It was empty save for Tulip, Bert’s librarian, who sat behind a desk next to

the entrance, and based on her big, bluish-gray hair and thick bifocals looked like she

could have been Alice’s sister.

“I can help you find articles, books, informational spreadsheets, whatever your

heart desires,” she told me.

“Articles on conveyor belts?” I asked.

Bert laughed. “You mean you don’t subscribe to Conveyor Belts ‘R Us? You

won’t spend too much time in the library, so don’t let it scare you off. It’s valuable for

looking at possible materials you can use for different parts and to read about innovative


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work being done in the field that might help your projects. All good ideas come from

other good ideas, so you can’t know too much about what’s going on.”

I do enjoy research. It’s academia’s equivalent to a treasure hunt: you know what

you want but you don’t know where to find it, which makes it the very picture of

productivity, because when you do find it you can celebrate. That makes it similar to

engineering’s absolute answers. Another plus one for engineering.

“Our next stop,” Bert said as we left the library, “is where most of your research

will be done.” Bert pushed his way through double swinging doors and into the biggest

room I’d seen yet. It was hard to believe this gymnasium-sized room could fit in a

building this size. The first half of it was filled with devices that were as big as arcade

games. “MTS,” was what Bert called them, “which stands for Material Testing System.

They test material properties and can determine the strength of a piece under tension,

compression, torque, or just about any applied force. If we’re building a belt that will

relocate parts weighing a few hundred pounds, we have to be sure our parts can hold

those parts without failure. We test their static strength to see if they can sustain one big

load, and we test their dynamic strength to see how many cycles of a certain load they

can take before failing. This one here’s doing that.”

Inside the device he showed me was a metal rod fixed in place by a clamp. The

rod pointed straight up and a robotic arm hanging from the ceiling of the device was

touching the top of the rod at an angle. It looked like the arcade game where you control

a robotic arm and try to grab a stuffed animal from the bottom of the tub.

“The arm there is applying the load we specify over and over again, thousands of

times a minute. That tells us if the part will last five years or twenty-five years. We


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shoot for twenty-five. But that’s not the neatest way we test a product’s life cycle, come

to the far end of the lab here with me.”

I followed him through the lab toward the opposite end. Where the MTS

machines stopped, a scene reminiscent of the north pole began. There were six miniature

conveyor belt setups running many times faster than a typical conveyor belt. They

looked like model train sets as they each had a few boxes choo-chooing around the track.

“These are some of the prototypes I mentioned earlier,” Bert described. It’s

smaller than what the finished product will look like, but it gets the point across. We put

it together down here and run it on an unrealistically fast setting with sample product

sitting on it. Like the MTS machines, we can tell in a few days or weeks if the strength

of our construct will last months, years or decades. This is the best way for us to test how

our designs will hold up under operating conditions.”

I watched in awe as big boxes zipped around the room. I would get to build

conveyor systems like these. And play with them. Play is tun. This job wasn’t going to

be all math and paperwork. I could (maybe) live with that.

Though I was a human resource, we skipped human resources. Bert said I’d talk

to them later this week to talk about my benefits.

Instead of going to the second floor, we hopped up to the third floor. “I’ll save

your space for last,” Bert said. “Big finish.”

A question I had was answered when we took the elevator up two floors; one can

go from floor to floor via means other than conveyor belts. It seemed awkward to only

offer the conveyor belts, and that probably would’ve drawn protests from handicapped

people in wheel chairs.


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“The third floor,” Bert told me, “is filled with the people who make sure we make

as much money as possible, because let’s not kid ourselves: as much as my knees get

week at the sight of a sexy conveyor belt, if our numbers aren’t doing well, we’re not

doing well.”

It looked a lot like the first floor. There were more artificial, temporary cubical

walls than real walls and I could hear people talking and tapping away at their computers.

The three groups on the top floor work like the food chain. Purchasing takes care

of finding vendors around the country who can supply parts and materials for our

projects. I’ll work with them in making sure we find the right vendors for the right parts.

Once the vendor’s in place, purchasing passes the buck to logistics, who places

ongoing orders with each vendor. “Remember those supply versus demand curves you

learned in economics?” Bert asked.

I nodded.

“Logistics puts those to work. They make sure we have enough to supply our

demand, but we can’t have too much because the warehouse is only so big.” The

warehouse is a couple of miles north of where we were. I had no idea there was anything

Bontemps related way out there. I’d work with logistics to help them realize which parts

go with which projects and when everything’s ready to be ordered.

Once we have product in hand, marketing markets the heck out of it. Reps travel

around the world showing off our portfolio to prospective clients.

“I had to give these salespeople window offices with views outside, that’s why I

built this part higher than the rest, though as we’ve grown bigger the extra space saved


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me some renovations. Their job has two functions,” Bert said, “to be knowledgeable and

to be nice.”

“Then you’re not a salesman?” I asked him since he seemed perfect for the job.

“As head honcho, I don’t sell parts; I sell the company, and if that leads to selling

a few more parts, then yes, I guess I do some selling of my own, but I’m primarily

concerned with keeping Bert’s trademark best in the business.”

Of the three, I’d be working most closely with marketing. “They know what the

clients want, and you know what we’re capable of making, so you two groups get

together to decide how to meet halfway, because clients are always making unreasonable

offers. One guy a few years back wanted a belt that would shake boxes of chocolate milk

while it moved them so the milk would stay chocolaty. We gave him a quick no.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I said.

“There are no bad ideas, just impossible ideas. Now, my friend, it’s time for the

main event: Bert’s Belts’ brain center, development.”

We’d seen everywhere but where I would be. You’d think by the process of

elimination I could’ve figured out exactly what I’d be doing, but it was all so

overwhelming I still wasn’t sure. We seemed to work with everyone in one capacity or

another, so “brain center” was an apt description. But if we’re the brain, that would mean

we’d initiate most of the work, too, which meant we had a lot more to cover.

We found another stairway in the comer of the building and went down a floor.

Like the one above it, this floor’s layout was spider webbed with cubicles except it had

fewer cube walls. Instead of each square of four cubes having walls between them to

preserve some privacy, four cubes up here were boxed in together so they were open to


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one another, and each foursome had a circular table in its center. Bert led me into one

room that had two groups of foursomes and a couple true offices on the side. We walked

into one cube where there was one guy and two gals working. The third computer was

vacant and there was a sign above it that said, “Welcome, Hitch!” I guessed that’s where

I’d be sitting.

“Gang,” Bert said to the three people working diligently together at the center

table, “I give you Hitch Hocumb. Hitch, this is Patrick, Alison and Kate.”

Alison was the only one younger than me, and the other two were eight or nine

years older. All three wore jeans and identical, plain purple t-shirts. Patrick had a shaved

head, thick glasses, and was fit as a fiddle. He looked like the muscular geeks used in TV

shows for their ironic build. Kate had braces and at least three-thousand-four-hundred-

fifty-one freckles on her face to go with her short, amazingly orange hair. Alison had a

pale complexion and long, straight jet black hair that looked like curtains hanging behind

her head.

“Hitch!” they all screamed and stood, shaking my hand and welcoming me to the

group.

“Is that who I think it is?” a woman said behind me.

“It is,” Bert said to her.

She was fifty-two or so with silvery-blonde shoulder length hair. She was very

petite, a good fourteen inches shorter than me, and looked like she’d make a good pair

with a Harry Truman look-alike. Her name was Phyllis, she was our project team leader,

and she also had jeans and a purple shirt on. Her office was right next to our cubes. She

insisted I call her “Phyl.”


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“I hate to throw you to these wolves, Hitch,” Bert said, “but I’m off to keep this

place afloat. These fine folks will take care of you the rest of the day and get you

acclimated to what you’ll be working on. Feel free to stop by my office anytime, and I’ll

be checking up on you through the week. Sound good?”

“Yeah, great,” I told him.

“You’re a great addition to Bert’s Belts. Glad to have you aboard.”

“I wish I knew how to thank you.”

“The only thanks I need are for you to invent the next great conveyor belt.”

I told him I’d do my best and he exited stage left.

“Hitch, you, my friend, are going to love it here,” Phyl told me. The rest of the

team echoed her remark. “This is a great team. So great that we’re not going to work the

rest of today. Everybody grab your stuff and let’s punch out.”

Was she serious? Everyone packed up their things and it sure looked like we

were leaving.

“We’re not going to work?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being hazed. Having not

rushed a fraternity, I didn’t know what hazing felt like but it didn’t sound like

relationship building to me. I suppose if you know the hazers it might be different, but

I’d hate for my first impression of the people I was going to spend all day five days a

week with to be anything less than spectacular.

With every step we took toward leaving the building I grew more comfortable.

My suit didn’t fit in so well with their purple shirts. We must’ve looked like a group of

trapeze artists being escorted to their next gig by their ritzy manager.


287

Phyl explained that the group wears the same colored shirts every day, with every

day bringing a new color. It was a good way to promote team building.

We left the rear of the building into the parking lot.

“Is our destination a surprise?” I asked.

“No,” Phyllis said, “we’re off to my house in Rupertville. Follow us, okay?”

“Sure, but drive slow. I don’t know the roads out of town too well.”

“You got it.”

The five of us convoyed for the thirty minute drive to Rupertville. Rupertville’s

even smaller than Bontemps. It doesn’t make most maps.

You’d never guess there wasn’t much to do around there based on Phyllis’s

house, though; it was gigantic. She lived in one of those neighborhoods where the houses

are so far apart you think it’s farm country, but then you realize it’s just people with a lot

of property, and people whose homes aren’t two or three stories tall, they’re two or three

novels tall.

We pulled around back and her backyard looked as big as the front, and she had a

man-made pond back there.

“You’re an engineer?” I asked her after we parked.

“You bet.”

“Is your husband a lottery winner?”

“He’s also an engineer.”

Engineers get paid this much? I don’t mean to sound like a sellout, because I

could’ve sold out years ago, but I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t imagine

picking a career based on money, but I could imagine not picking a career based on


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money (welfare’s not for me), so it was comforting at the very least to see how

comfortable the engineering lifestyle could be.

Before we did anything, Phyllis handed me a plastic .bag from the Friendly

Shopper. My “welcome gift,” as she called it.

Inside was a purple shirt.

“Now get rid of that awful suit,” Patrick said.

“It’s not an awful suit,” Kate said.

“Sorry, Hitch, that’s not what I meant. I meant uncomfortable. He knows what I

meant.”

“I know,” I said. I took my jacket and collared shirt off and put the purple shirt

on over my undershirt. It was a good look.

First on the afternoon’s agenda was food, and for that Phyllis barbequed up some

of the finest fish the mainland’s ever seen. She had a few picnic tables in the backyard

and during lunch I broke the only lunch hour rule.

“What’s a typical day like for you guys?” I asked.

“Uh oh,” Kate said.

“Minus ten for Hitch,” Alison said.

“No shark steak for the new guy,” Patrick said.

“Come on, guys,” Phyl said, “first one’s a warning.”

“We’re kidding,” Alison said.

“A lunch break’s a break, Hitch, which means no work,” Phyl said. “Enjoy

yourself. The job’s great and all, but you’ll realize a midday break is good news.”


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What a great idea, and I was more curious to hear about my coworkers than the

job. The job’s important, of course, but working closely with strangers is the closest

sense most of us get to what an arranged marriage must feel like. You don’t know each

other but you’re forced to be in close quarters together, and depend on each other, and

spend long days together whether you want to be there with them or not. And on bad

days you may not like them a whole lot, but you have to learn to get past those days and

hope for more good times than bad times.

Lunch indicated the four of them had a healthy marriage. They’d been on a team

together for almost three years and there were no awkward silences you’d associate with

strangers stuck in a room with nothing in common.

What I gathered from the conversation, all of them are married with at least one

child, and they all have sparkling senses of humor. They interrupt each other often, but

in a charming, playful way. They struck me as get-along-with-everyone types, which,

speak of the devil, sounded a lot like me. Nice.

“Hitch, where were you an enginnerd before this?” Patrick asked.

“I hosted The Glass Five-Eighths Full.”

Remember the celebrity thing I mentioned earlier? I never got it with the radio

show because only people who knew me socially knew who I was, and getting

recognized by people you know is nothing special. But, oftentimes when I told people

what I did for a living, they’d give me the star treatment. Not here, though. I got four

blank stares from that tidbit.

“The radio show.”

Nothing.


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“KBON.”

“That’s incredible,” Alison said. “I’ve never heard of an engineering radio

show.”

“No, no,” I said. “It wasn’t engineering.”

“Wow,” Kate said, “that’s even more incredible. You haven’t engineered?”

Uh oh. I didn’t want to kill their confidence in me before we started working.

“Well, I studied it, and—“

“How spectacular,” Patrick said and everyone agreed. “You bailed on your

degree. Having a radio show would be a blast. I always wanted one when I was a kid.”

“You just got tired of it?” Phyl asked.

Were they kidding? Surely they each had a friend or family member who lost a

job because of me. We lived in the same, small town, so how many degrees of separation

could their possible be between us? One? Certainly not more than two, but could I really

be certain of that? People throw the phrase six degrees of separation around like it’s a

cold, hard fact everyone in the world is within six degrees of them, when really that’s

probably not the case and the phrase has become more of a saying than a law. It came

from a study conducted by a man who asked a handful of people in Nebraska to get a

letter to a man in Boston via the mail. Problem was nobody knew the Boston address, so

they had to send it to someone who they thought might be able to get it close, and explain

to that person what needed to happen, and on down the pony express it went. On

average, the letter got to the man in Boston via six people, hence the phrase. Average

means some letters took less, but some took more. And that’s from Nebraska to Boston!

When someone says they’re only separated by six degrees to someone half a world away,


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I can only shake my head. Unlikely. But I hadn’t recognized most everyone at Bert’s

Belts. How could that be possible?

This was going downhill with a quickness. It was nice that they didn’t think my

leaving the field for a few years was bad, but when I told them why I lost my job that

would spell disaster. But I couldn’t lie, because they’d inevitably find out, and if I lied

now and waited for them to hear it secondhand my fate would be ten times worse. Blah.

I hated it.

“I actually got fired.”

“Oh no,” Kate said. “Fired?”

“Yeah. I said something I shouldn’t have and some people at Nature’s Candy lost

their jobs over it.”

“Did you curse?” Alison asked.

Apparently six-foot tall letters wasn’t doing it. I’d have to upgrade to eleven.

“I shared their frosted fruit idea on the air before it was public knowledge. The

company suffered because of it.”

“Oh, okay,” Phyl said. “I did here something about Nature’s Candy struggling,

but that was because of a lot of things, right? They were struggling long before that

happened, and their ultimate demise was because of financial mismanagement and the

accounts they lost as a result.”

That’s one way to put it.

“Yeah, I remember that. Wow, you were that scapegoat?” Patrick said. “I felt

bad for you when I heard that story.”


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Who were these people? I mean, they had an argument I guess, but a few hundred

people can’t be wrong, right? They clearly weren’t very educated on the situation, but I

was relieved because apparently, that was a good thing.

“Um, that was me,” I reluctantly said, choosing my words slowly and carefully so

as not to inflame this delicate situation. “Thanks for feeling bad.” That sounded weird. I

didn’t want him to think I was glad he felt bad. “Not for feeling bad, but for... other

stuff.” Didn’t go as well as I hoped.

“All right, all right, enough with the bad news,” Phyllis said. “Let’s take some

archery lessons.”

And we took archery lessons. Seriously. All afternoon. Out in a big field next to

Phyl’s house. We were all beginners, so it was all in good fun, and good fun it was, but

I’d be kidding you if I said I wasn’t distracted.

How could Bert’s Belts be so cut off in such a small community? How could I

have not known anyone in the whole building? How could they have not known much

about Nature’s Candy? And how could they have no reason to hate me?

*

At dinner tonight Mom and Dad wanted the 411 on my day. What I gave them

was only about 198:1 got a tour, we did some offsite team building, and I liked it enough

to go back tomorrow, which would be my first proper day of work.

Then this:

ME

Would you believe I didn’t recognize

anyone there except for Bert?


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MOM

Sure, what’s so odd about that?

ME

Bontemps is a small town, and from my

show I thought I knew most everyone.

DAD

Ten-thousand people?

Dad was right. No way did I know that many people. Me the optimist couldn’t

claim to have known more than two-hundred-seventy-three people, and I wouldn’t be

able to pick more than 2.3 times that out of a lineup. That left nine-thousand-one-

hundred-twenty-one folks unaccounted for. That’s a lot of people I didn’t know.

ME

Probably not quite that, I guess. You know,

I also thought Bert worked exclusively with

Nature’s Candy.

DAD

You thought they only worked with little old

Nature’s Candy?

ME

But Nature’s Candy was the biggest

company in town.

MOM

One of the biggest, yes.


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ME

Why would I have thought it was so much

bigger?

DAD

Your Mom and I worked there, so you grew

up hearing a lot more about it, and meeting

mostly people who worked with us. That

could explain why you had such a skewed

idea of it.

ME

Then they also didn’t work with most

companies in town?

MOM

A lot certainly, but most?

DAD

I wouldn’t say most, no. Bert has, what,

about one hundred employees, right? And

they don’t do much work with Nature’s

Candy.

ME

What about Mabel’s Labels?


295

MOM

Now, that’s a good example of what you’re

talking about. Mabel does most if not all her

work for Nature’s Candy.

ME

So she lost her business when Nature’s

Candy closed.

MOM

She did, but—

DAD

How many times do we have to tell you,

son, that wasn’t your fault. They’d been

going downhill for a year. That’s why your

Mom and I retired when we did, because we

didn’t like where the company was going,

and sure enough their belly is now skyward.

ME

But you just said that to make me feel better.

Because you’re my parents.

MOM

We are your parents.


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DAD

But you aren’t responsible for Nature’s

Candy’s downfall. Only one man could’ve

effected such a swift decline for such a large

company, and that man was the CEO of the

dang operation.

ME

Then why did everyone turn against me?

MOM

It wasn’t everyone, hon.

DAD

Yeah, just the few deadbeats in town

looking for a patsy, and unfortunately you

were it.

ME

Why didn’t I realize that? So many people

lost work.

MOM

Yes, they did, and that’s capitalism for you.

Bad things will happen. Most of those

people have gotten some kind of work

elsewhere, and all of them got a nice


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severance package that should tide them

over for months, if not more.

ME

Then I could’ve stuck with optimism?

DAD

So this could happen again the next time

something terrible happens? I don’t think

so. Ever think the reason you thought all

those things was because of that dang

optimism?

MOM

Didn’t you say you wanted to go back to

work tomorrow? See how it is and give it a

chance before giving up on it?

Yes. I did say that. And I did want that. And they were right and that was that. I

excused myself and went to my room. I needed to wrap my head around this. This is

what I’ve got:

1.1 Nature’s Candy is not the gas that makes Bontemps’ engine run.

2.1 The demise of Nature’s Candy wasn’t entirely my fault.

3.3 Life isn’t so bad here.

If I was really an optimist, shouldn’t I have recognized all of those, even before

tilting realism’s way? It was my job to notice the good and deal with the bad, but I

didn’t. How could optimism have tricked me? ‘


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I think Dad was right about number 1.1. They always worked for Nature’s

Candy, and it was the only company I heard a lot about, and when I did meet people from

other companies they usually worked with Nature’s Candy and I assumed that meant they

depended on them. As a kid, I wanted to think my parents did important things and were

important people, so I made myself believe Nature’s Candy was the biggest of the big

timers in town. You know how as a kid you take everything adults say to be big and

dramatic and in ten-foot-tall letters? I remember when I first learned where babies came

from, I assumed that putting the male and female puzzle together once meant baby, but

now that I’m older I hear about couples struggling to get pregnant. This felt like that

realization only much more sudden and much more shocking.

That one could even be chalked up to optimism. I took what I knew and

interpreted it in the most favorable light possible. I wanted Nature’s Candy to be

important to the town because it was important to me. I wanted to be able to say with

pride that my parents worked there, so I did.

I suspected 2.1, but there was too much evidence against it. Everywhere I looked

I wasn’t liked. Was I looking in the wrong places? Maybe the people who didn’t like me

were so aggressive in letting me know their feelings I couldn’t see past them, because

whether it was the whole town or not, there were busloads of people blaming me for

losing their jobs.

Optimism tries so hard to make life look hunky dory, and when I saw all the

awful, negative things happening around me even my optimism couldn’t spin it for my

benefit. It’s easy to stay positive about my own misfortunes because I know I control my


299

fate, but knowing I couldn’t control what these people did with their misfortune and

knowing I couldn’t force them to be optimistic meant my optimism couldn’t help them.

And that explains why I was blind to 3.3. The bad made me feel so bad I was

blind to the good, which was all optimism’s fault. All of this was. It made my outlook

unrealistic and destroyed my perspective. Because it depends on a rosy outlook, my

setbacks seemed worse than they were because I could only measure them relative to my

median expectation for happy living. Optimism made bad look awful to me. In a

roundabout way, optimism is why I lost my job and felt terrible, and if I’d been more

realistic I could’ve avoided all that garbage and, ironically, felt better about myself.

Any romantic notion of rekindling my fire with optimism just fizzled out.

Realism, here I am and here I come.

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Shock © © © © © ®

Disgust © © ® © © ©

Irritation © ® © © © ©

Anger © ® © © © ©

Frustration © ® © © © ©

Sadness ® © © © © ©


Disappointment © © © © © ©

Confusion © © © 0 © 0

Humbled 0 © © © © ©

Busy 0 © © © © ©

Stressed 0 © © © © ©

Nervous 0 © © © © ©

Stoicism 0 © © © © ©

Happiness © © © © © ©

Optimism 0 © © © © ©

Realism © © © © © 0

Organized © © © © © ©

Vomiting © © © © © ©

Relief © © © © © 0

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.


6: Forever and ever and ever.


DAY #30

Today I wore an old red t-shirt to work. It wasn’t magenta or maroon or pinkish,

it was ripe tomato red, fire engine red, and blood red. People don’t like the word “blood”

because it suggests our mortality, something we never want to have to think about, and

something I definitely never wanted to think about before now. But this is me the realist.

We’re going to die, Lenny. Get over it. I am.

Today was my first taste of what could become my reality for the next few

decades. Today I saw a day in the life of an engineer, and I was dead (“death” and

“blood” in the first two paragraphs- ‘tis indeed a new Hitch) set on understanding

exactly what that day would be like. I would ask direct questions. I wouldn’t allow

anyone to gloss over the truth. If it was boring, I wanted to know.

I was the first person from our team in this morning on purpose, knowing little

deeds like that spoke volumes to business higher-ups. I hadn’t gotten a chance to give

my home away from home a quality visit yesterday, so I plopped myself down in my

recliner and took a self-guided tour. My computer, which sat in the comer of the two

walls that formed my cube, was a futuristic-looking laptop, a good sign that Bert didn’t

skimp on his employees’ supplies. It doesn’t make sense to give a samurai swordsman a

butter knife. He’ll either think you don’t care enough to give him the best tools available

so he can do the best job possible, or he’ll think you don’t run a sound operation. Best

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case he thinks you have oodles of confidence in him and think he doesn’t need proper

amenities, but I knew that didn’t apply to my case.

Along the edges of my cube to the left and right of the computer was empty desk

space. It was a lot of room to do who knows what. Either we draw a lot of giant pictures

or they allow for clutter. I took all the engineering supplies I brought and lay them out

across each side of the desk. I hoped Phyl would walk in so she could praise my high

levels of organization and preparedness. The formal office setting begged for frequent,

“Oops, you unexpectedly caught me doing something good,” moments; even if you

always did things well and on time, looking unproductive would suggest you could be

working harder, which would suggest you could be more productive, which would mean

Bert’s Belts wasn’t operating at optimum efficiency. I never had to worry about that with

Lizzy. Either the show went well or it didn’t, and if it didn’t it wasn’t because I wasn’t

adequately prepared for it, it was just one of those things.

Fortunately realism wasn’t about fun and games, it was about functionality, so I

wouldn’t even give it a minus one for that bit. It’s not like it’s a real negative, anyway.

They’re paying me to do a job, and as long as I do it I’ll have no worries.

My desk had three small drawers along its top ledge, and two larger file drawers

on each end. I went through them to find room for my supplies, only to find brand new

versions of my supplies already in there, making me the one awed by my co workers high

levels of organization and preparedness.

As I put everything back in my bag the rest of the team showed up within two

minutes of each other, and within two minutes of that all five of us were sitting around

the table in the conference room (in un-reclined recliners) next to our cubes. Phyl sat at


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the head of the table with Kate and I on one side and Patrick and Alison on the other.

They’d brought a note book and pen, so I did the same.

“Hitch, we start every day with a team meeting,” Phyl began, “because it’s a good

way to keep up with what everyone’s up to and figure what needs to be done that day.

It’s also a reminder that we’re a team first, and if anything comes up, be it good or bad,

you should feel comfortable sharing it. We each bring subtle specialties to each task, but

don’t think there’s a difference between your job and Patrick’s job. He’s happy to help

you and you can help him.”

The team nodded their heads in agreement and I was relieved. Even though it

doesn’t literally affect how easy or difficult any given task is, knowing you have backup

makes that task seem easier, and since confidence subconsciously affects your

performance, it will be easier.

“Usually these meetings only last ten or fifteen minutes,” she said, “but today

we’re going to use this time to give you an idea what us development engineers do, and

for that we have a special presentation.”

She unpacked her laptop from her briefcase, plugged it into a projector and pulled

a small movie screen down in front of the dry erase board against the wall furthest from

the door. Alison switched the lights off and Phyl pulled up a slideshow.

“This is the third project the four of us have worked on together, so we’re going

to give you an overview of how the first one came together.”

The title slide said “At Your Service.”

“Not the restaurant?” I asked.


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Phyl clicked to slide two to reveal a picture of the well-known restaurant in the

heart of Manhattan. “I guess we can breeze through the slides describing how it all

works, huh?” Phyl joked.

She sure could. My parents had told me about the innovative restaurant, but I had

no idea Bontemps had a hand in it. Wow. Incredible.

At Your Service is one of those restaurants where your food’s prepared at your

table, but this one has no chefs at the table. Each meal is sent through a Rube Goldberg

looking apparatus and prepared by robot-like devices.

And of course, it uses conveyor belts to get the ingredients where they need to go.

Phyl rifled through pictures showing how it worked. Each table has five separate

conveyor belts that connect it to the kitchen. Behind the scenes, when the chef gets an

order he or she puts the ingredient on the appropriate belt. Each belt handles different

kinds of food: one for powdery substances, one for fruits and vegetables, one for meats,

one for liquids and one for miscellaneous items like bread. These five belts are only

seven inches wide, except for the liquid belt which is cupped like a water slide, and they

all converge above a bowl hanging above the end of the table. The ingredients meet at

the bowl, where a robotic arm mixes them to their desired consistency, after which the

bowl pours the meal onto the hot griddle at the end of the table. When it’s finished

cooking, the griddle flips it up onto a plate sitting at the end of a conveyor belt running

across the middle of the table, the belt turns on and it travels to its destination.

Condiments sit on mini conveyor belts next to the bigger one, and it’s operated by the

diners who can pass themselves the salt and pepper.


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The example Phyl showed a video of was an omelet. The chef sent the eggs down

the meat belt, and when they reached the end of the line, the belt stopped and a small

hammer cracked them open, allowing the good stuff to ooze off the end of it into the

bowl. Milk streamed down the liquid belt in front of a touch of vegetable oil. A pinch of

salt and pepper then dropped in from the powder belt. This was a ham and green pepper

omelet, so a slice of ham lumbered down the meat belt, and when it reached the end the

belt stopped and a knife diced it in 1.2 seconds and it fell in the mix. Green pepper slices

were similarly chopped up and added. And to top it off, a handful of shredded cheese

rained down from the miscellaneous belt. After mixing, the omelet hit the griddle. It

flipped up eight inches onto its back, and shortly thereafter flipped up onto the plate

sitting next to it, at which time the conveyor belt switched on and delivered its product.

I couldn’t believe the masterminds behind a fancy toy like this were sitting in

front of me. “That’s like building a roller coaster,” I said.

“It was fun,” Kate said, “but it took a long time, and you’ll see why here.”

The idea, she told me, started with the restaurateur. He had the idea and

approached Bert about its feasibility and cost. The two of them met with a marketing rep,

who drew up a business plan highlighting the cost of the project and estimating a profit.

The restaurateur’s green light meant the engineers started designing it. Early on they

worked closely with marketing and the client to make his idea a reality. The client gave

specifications of what he wanted and the engineers played with how to meet his specs.

“We also threw a few ideas of our own in,” Phyl said.

“The condiment belt was my idea,” Alison said.


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“But for the client, we had to have different belts for different ingredients,” Phyl

described. We couldn’t have vegetables trailing raw meat, and flour would stick to a belt

that had just moved milk. We also needed belts that could withstand knives, so that’s

why they’re made of metal and not rubber. The construct only prepares one meal at a

time, so it needs to be able to be cleaned quickly to allow for the next meal to come

shortly after the one before it, and again that affects which metals we could use for the

belts. The belt on the table is close to the griddle, and thus it’s also metal so it can

withstand the heat generated.”

“That’s a lot to think about,” I said.

“And those are just some of the details that went into it,” Patrick said. “We

figure out what the belts look like, how they connect, where they connect, how fast they

move and how they’re controlled.”

“We basically control everything,” Kate said.

“Almost everything,” Phyl said. “We also have to keep everyone happy. That

means the client has to like what we’re making, marketing has to like what it will cost to

make, manufacturing has to be physically capable of making it, quality has to be able to

verify it all, and over the course of a project we bounce our ideas off every single one of

them and hope our jury returns a unanimous thumbs up, else we’re back to deliberation.”

“It’s not easy,” Phyl said, “but the challenge is half the fun. We’ll usually go

through a number of design iterations before settling on a final setup. We had one idea

for At Your Service that had the five belts converging onto a bigger belt before dropping

into the bowl, but we didn’t need the extra belt so we got rid of it. And our first powder

belt was metal like the rest of them because it’s cheaper to use the same parts as many


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times as you can, but we lost too much flour or salt or baking powder between the pieces

of metal and changed to rubber because we can make those in one piece, so there are no

cracks for anything to fall through.”

“Designing new parts is the most fun part of the job,” Alison said. “When people

think engineering they picture a dry, drab world of numbers, but it really allows for as

much creativity as you can give it. If you draw a simple sketch on a piece of paper, the

prototype shop will make it for you in no time.”

She said it was the most fun? That means there are less fun parts of the job. Are

they less fun as in not as fun or as in un-fun? I wanted her to come right out and tell me

there were bad days. Bad weeks even, with boring number-crunching and kilometers of

paperwork. That’s reality. Everything’s not peachy, and I didn’t want my team to kid

me into thinking we were one big happy family eight days a week, I didn’t want to be

kidded into thinking I might love every second of it, and I didn’t want to love every

second of it. Mistakes will be made. If anyone was perfect they’d at least have their own

TV show.

“If designing’s the most fun, what’s the least?”

“Design assurance.” Everyone but Phyl said it at once, without hesitation and

with conviction. Whew. They passed my reality litmus test. I felt better, but wouldn’t

feel great until getting the skinny on this design assurance.

“Yes, yes,” Phyl said, “the dreaded design assurance.”

Patrick laughed. “It’s not that bad. Just boring.”

“Hitch, the design assurance is the closest thing you get to the homework

assignments you did way back when,” Phyl said. “If you do something wrong in school,


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they slap a ‘C’ on your paper and you try to do better next time. If you do something

wrong here, your error’s more tangible and your belt will break or you won’t be able to

put it together. There’s more at stake than a report card, and design assurance is how us

engineers check our work. Every little thing we do has to be documented. If you change

a design, it goes in the file. When you have research test your parts, the results go in the

file. When you check that your parts will all fit together, your calculations go in the file.

By the end of a project it can be hundreds of pages long, but it’s a necessary burden. It’s

better to find a mistake on paper than in practice.”

“Unless you procrastinate like the rest of us,” Kate said, “you can trickle the bulk

of it through the length of the project, so you’re never stuck with cramming it in over a

long weekend. It’s necessary, which makes it more tolerable because it’s more engaging

than busy work.”

“But it will keep you busy,” Alison said.

It sounded reasonable. And tolerable. I kind of liked the idea of being able to

check my work over so thoroughly. My problem with the radio show had been that it

was on the fly. If I’d have had quality checkers like this job has, we could’ve edited my

mistake out. Here I could afford mistakes because I’d have ample opportunity to catch

them before they hurt anyone. It might be boring, but it would also be comforting. This

job didn’t sound five-eighths bad.

The morning presentation finished with an introduction to our current project.

We would be using the latest in conveyor belt innovations to build a runway made

entirely of conveyor belts. Not an airport runway, but a model runway. Some bigwig

designer is paying obscene amounts of money for an intricate system of belts that will


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whisk his models every which way for a show in Paris next year. Paris! Can you believe

it? I can’t. I’m going to spend the rest of the week shadowing my teammates and then

I’ll ease my way into the action. That I can handle.

This job is exactly what I need, and I don’t mean that optimistically. Every part

of engineering is realism. It starts with a problem, and my job is to find a solution to that

problem. To find this solution, I use existing, concrete, proven scientific methods, the

results of which either work or they don’t. The conveyor belt will get item A from B to C

or it won’t, nothing’s left to subjective evaluation. If I know I need to make a part that

can withstand a load of four-hundred-sixty-two pounds, I can build a part that will

withstand that load, I can prove it will withstand that load, and nobody can dispute that.

There are no scapegoats in engineering.

Even better than my first full day of work was my first trip back to Shep’s in a

long, long while. I stopped for dinner because I knew my newly successful realistic

outlook would go over well with that bunch.

That bunch was a thin crowd this night, no surprise as dinners don’t draw the

crowd lunch does. Still, there was one domino game being played at a middle table, two

people sitting alone at two of the booths along the right wall, and two more people sitting

four seats apart at the counter. Either I interrupted their conversations or nobody was

talking, but when the bell on the door chimed to announce my arrival everyone turned to

me and the place was quiet.

“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” Joe Richie was one of the guys at

the counter and his face was contorted in anger. If each wrinkle on his face represented


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one degree of anger like rings on trees represent one year of life, he was furious, and I

was glad there were two empty tables between him and me.

“It’s good to see you too, Joe,” I shouted back.

I didn’t recognize the other five patrons. This town was starting to feel like a

foreign country.

“Didn’t I tell you never to come back?” Shep’s temper was so hot she could’ve

cooked a burger on her forehead, and for once she wasn’t being playfully angry, she was

really mad. The old Hitch wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“That was Happy Hitch,” I told her, “and Happy Hitch is no more. Now I’m a

realist like the rest of you. It’s a new me.”

“And what makes you think we want the new you?” Joe asked.

“Because you guys shoot straight. You’re real, you tell it like it is, and now I do

too. I can be as insulting as the rest of you, and when you insult me I won’t let it bounce

off me anymore, I’ll throw it right back at you as hard as I can.”

That got Joe out of his seat. “Yeah, you think you can keep up with us, huh?” he

asked.

“It’s just the truth with a hint of sarcasm. Nothing to it.”

“Sarcasm?” Shep asked. “Hell no it’s not sarcasm. I hate every single one of you

blockheads.”

“Come on, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I told her. “If you hated

everyone, you wouldn’t serve us every day. And you wouldn’t sponsor a little league

team every year. You’re just acting. It’s great, don’t get me wrong, and it’s fun and you

should keep doing it, but everyone can see your tongue in your cheek.”


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“I thought I told you to get out.” Shep asked.

“I’m going to sit down, order some food, and you’ll cook it and serve it to me,” I

told her. She might be mad, but I could be mad right back.

“No, let him stay,” Joe said. “I want to see if he can ‘play’ as well as he thinks he

can.” Now Joe confronted me. He stood uncomfortably close and said, “So what if I tell

you you’re the worst person I’ve ever met in my life, you cost me my job, my wife

divorced me and I still can’t find work because of you? Huh? What’s your snappy

comeback for that?”

Then we had this talk:

ME

Well, Joe, first things first, I didn’t cost you

your job, your company did. I know you

think I single-handedly sank Nature’s

Candy, but the fact of the matter is they

were already going down when my bail out

plan failed.

JOE

But I got fired right after your little stunt.

That’s no coincidence.

ME

The reality here, Joe, and you’re not going

to like this, is that because of that

coincidence you pegged me as your


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scapegoat, and you’ve blamed your

problems on me to avoid facing your own

problems. The reason you lost Mrs. Richie

and haven’t gotten another job isn’t because

of me, it’s because you spend your time

blaming others for your own shortcomings.

JOE

My shortcomings?

ME

Frankly, Joe, you’ve become a deadbeat,

and until you accept the reality of your

situation, you’re stuck, and you’ll have no

one to blame but yours—

Joe punched me. Right in the gut. I keeled over into my vomiting stance but

didn’t so much as gag. The truth hurts, as did Joe’s blow, but it felt fantastic. It needed

to be said. If nobody confronted Joe, he’d continue to slide deeper into his pit of self-

loathing.

Someday he’d thank me, but that day wasn’t today. Today he grabbed my shirt

collar, opened the front door of Shep’s and shoved me out onto the sidewalk. I opted not

to go back in. I’d given Joe enough to think about for one night and decided I’d check

back in a couple days.

I never thought I could feel good about hurting someone’s feelings, but that was

one overdue does of reality I dealt him. Optimism was all about feeling good now, but


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reality’s more about dealing with the now so you can feel good in the future. Maybe it

hurts now, but if you deal with it in an appropriate manner the pain pays off.

Wow. I just got beat up but I’ve never felt more upbeat. Lenny, I have to admit,

this is some twist ending, huh? Didn’t see that coming, did we? I may not have gotten

my radio show back— heck, I didn’t even salvage optimism— but I’ve got a job I like and

an outlook that’s rosy as ever, so it looks like our work here is done. Thanks a load. I’d

have never understood exactly what was going on or figured out exactly how I feel

without your discerning eye. Good luck with whatever you do next.

Oh, and on my way home I bought one t-shirt for every color in the rainbow.

Tomorrow is blue day. Fun.

Bye, Lenny.


DAY #65

Hmm. Hey, Lenny. How you been? Me? I’m okay... I guess. Kind of. Mostly.

Honestly, life as a realist has had some real hiccups, and I know part of being a

realist is being okay with getting the hiccups, and there has been plenty of that kind of

hiccups, but there have also been a few hiccups I can’t reconcile with realism.

Truth is, life in Bontemps is all right. Company’s are thriving so people are

thriving. All but a few dozen of Nature’s Candy dismissed have found work elsewhere,

which is astounding, but I’ll tell you what, it kills me to see those few dozen struggle. I

suppose this is a lingering effect from being a lifelong optimist, but it makes me sick to

see these good people deal with such a lengthy bout of the hiccups. I know the reality is

that there will always be unemployed, there will always be people not living the life

they’d like to lead, but does it have to be so severe? When they have these problems,

why can’t they get rid of them in a timely manner? How come some unemployed people

have an easy time finding a new job, but others don’t? They all had similar work

experience, so they’re not completely unemployable. It’s so frustrating I want to march

right up to their front doors and ask how I can help. What makes it worse is Bontemps’

sesquicentennial celebration is twelve short days away, and it’s all anyone talks about,

but how do they expect to celebrate our 150th birthday with such unhappiness hiding in

the shadows?

A more personal problem is that Hitch the realist has become as popular as the

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latter days of Hitch the optimist. Luckily there aren’t as many outright Hitch-haters, but

there are plenty of Hitch-dislikers. For a couple weeks I hoped the problem was people

needing some time to adjust to the new and improved Hitch, but after multiple private

confrontations asking me to change, change is in order. Here’s an example of my recent

problems:

Remember how I used to always tell everybody how great they looked?

Obviously everyone doesn’t look great, but I was more concerned with making them feel

great about themselves, and that’s a quick and easy way to do it. If what I’m telling them

isn’t true, and if they were to pass away from health concerns associated with thinking

they’re healthy when they’re not, they won’t feel great dead, will they?

One day while shopping at the Friendly, I bumped into good old Mrs. Flugelhom.

Mrs. Flugelhom’s always been a buxom woman, and I knew she’d tried diet and exercise

many times but didn’t stick with it. She’s such a sweetheart I didn’t want to be

concerned about her health, because I didn’t want to think about her dying on us just as

much as she didn’t want to think about it. But, the fact is that overweight people are at

high risk for heart disease, so it’s something we need to think about.

When I saw her at the Friendly, it was the first time I’ve ever thought she looked

awful. I know it sounds harsh, but the dress she had on was hanging so wide at the floor

that not only would it have provided great cover for a game of hide-and-go-seek, if the

seeker looked under the dress he or she might not even find the hider.

With the trademark smile she always sported, Mrs. Flugelhom greeted me with a

hearty, “Salutations, friend.”

“Howdy,” I smiled back.


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“I haven’t seen you in so, so long, stranger. You look good.”

“Gee, thanks a lot. That’s nice of you. Now, I hope you don’t take this the wrong

way, but whatever happened to your diet and exercise programs?” It was the first time

I’d ever seen her lose her smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, I promise I only have

your best interests in mind, but you’ll be doing yourself a favor if you live healthier.”

Her lip was quivering when she asked, “How can you say such awful things?”

She didn’t wait for my reply, abandoning her cart instead and rushing out of the store. It

sounded like she was crying before she hit the exit.

Another uncomfortable encounter I had happened at my house. I answered a

knock at my door and was shocked to see Shep standing on my porch. This was a few

days after Joe hit me, and I’d never seen Shep outside of the Slop House, and seeing her

without an apron on was like seeing an actor out of character: I wanted to stare, see how

she acted in this unique setting, see how she was different from the Shep I knew, but I

also didn’t want to ruin the character I was accustomed to.

It was a good thing she hadn’t called, because I didn’t recognize her voice and

might have thought it was a prank call. She wasn’t loud, abrasive or rude, she was polite,

and she said, “It’s nice of you to come down and eat at the restaurant, and I do like your

company, but I can’t have you talking about me like you did that last time, about my

sarcasm and all that.”

“Was I wrong?” I asked.

“You were wrong to say it, but you weren’t wrong,” she said. “Problem was you

were right. Yelling and screaming at those fellas is the atmosphere of choice for those

fellas, so I give it to them, and you know I do get a kick out of it. But when you talk


317

about it being pretend, you kill that atmosphere, which is going to end up hurting my

business. I like for you to come, but if you do I have to ask you to keep all that to

yourself.”

“Gosh,” I said, “that wasn’t my intention. Of course I’ll do that.”

“I thank you kindly,” she said before turning and leaving.

I’ve come to expect these awkward, awful moments, and while it’s not fun, it’s

better than feeling like I’m duping people into seeing something that’s not there. I keep

expecting everyone to adjust and get used to the new Hitch, and like with Joe, I thought

for sure Mrs. Flugelhom would thank me later, but if that’s the case it’s going to be

much, much later, because all she’s done is write me a nasty letter. In it, she claimed I

was “hateful and hurtful,” and that since I can’t have my dream job, I’m trying to “make

the rest of us feel worse because misery loves company.” Who’s miserable? A harsh

dose of reality was all it took to cure my misery, and all I want is to help my kindly

neighbors experience the same enlightenment. Unfortunately, nobody seems to have

gotten used to the new Hitch.

One thing that didn’t change with my outlook adjustment is that everything I do is

still well-intentioned, but the difference is optimism was about making people feel better,

and realism is about making people be better. I’m still inclined to say the latter is the

way to go, because being better will ultimately make you feel better, but using instant

gratification to feel better now could leave you feeling awful later (just ask me).

Considering we all have flaws, that must make it sound like I’m mean to

everyone, but apart from my brief, curt morsels of wisdom, I’m my usual happy, easy to

get along with self, and if I could just figure out a way to dish out reality with the


318

delivery of an optimist, I can feel better along with everyone else, but there’s no easy way

to tell someone they should floss more often. Even euphemisms haven’t worked.

Life sure was easier back when I was an optimist and blindly thought everyone

was a-okay. Obviously my current struggles have lasted a few weeks now, and I

would’ve written you sooner, Lenny, but being realistic means facing your problems head

on and I wasn’t about to back down from my first challenge. It took a while, BUT, and

you know I only caps lock important stuff, oddly enough the best solution I’ve come up

with was inspired by work, and I want to talk it through and bounce it off my trusty

mentor before making a huge mistake and having the realist’s equivalent of a Frosted

Fruit episode.

The logical conclusion would’ve been for me to lower my standards and accept

the fact that bad things happen, bad things will always happen, and there will always be

unhappy people. I may not be an optimist, but that’s a little too defeatist for my tastes.

After all, we build bridges these days with one-hundred-percent success rates using

nothing more than the resources we have, so why not try to engineer widespread

happiness, and if not happiness, at least contentedness. I’m still not convinced all these

unhappy people need stay unhappy for so long, so let’s start with my idea for engineering

happiness:

Fortunetelling. I think I can be a fortuneteller for those unfortunate souls who’ve

all but given up on themselves.

All I need to perform these miracles of the mind’s eye is good old fashioned

research. It’s one thing for people to hit a run of bad luck, but for someone to stay in that

lull for weeks and sometimes months, they’ve probably made some bad decisions along


319

the way, and a bad decision is a misinformed decision so if I can inform the misinformed,

they can start making good decisions.

Let’s use Mrs. Flugelhom as an example. What went wrong with our

confrontation wasn’t what I said, it was how I presented it. As her fortuneteller I

would’ve gone about it much differently. I would’ve come to our conversation prepared

with statistics. Instead of saying a generality like, “You’ll be doing yourself a favor if

you live healthier,” I’ll use a concrete statistic like, “Overweight people have a sixty-two-

percent higher risk of heart disease than people who aren’t overweight.” But I won’t stop

there. I’ll follow that with a gem like, “People who eat healthy diets and exercise three

times a week decrease their risk of heart disease by seventy-one percent.”

She’s then left with only one reasonable conclusion, and that one conclusion is

my fortune for them: live healthy or risk killing yourself. Basically I’ll be approaching

each person like he or she is an engineering experiment. If they have a problem, I’ll

educate them on all the laws, theorems, postulates, research and even hypotheses that

apply.

I’ve got a lot of research to do before making my debut at a booth I reserved on

the main drag of the sesquicentennial celebration. Who’d have thought a touch of

realism with a hint of engineering would solve this thing?

EMOTION QUANTIFIER

Emotion Rating

Shock 0 © © © © ©


Disgust © 0 © © © ©

Irritation © 0 © © © ©

Anger © 0 © © © ©

Frustration © 0 © © © ©

Sadness 0 © © © © ©

Disappointment © 0 © © © ©

Confusion 0 © © © © ©

Humbled 0 © © © © ©

Busy © © © © 0 ©

Stressed © © © © 0 ©

Nervous © 0 © © © ©

Stoicism 0 © © © © ©

Happiness © © © © 0 ©

Optimism* © 0 © © © ©

Realism © © © © © 0

Organized © © © © 0 ©

Vomiting 0 © © © © ©


Relief © © (D 0 ®

1: None whatsoever.

2: Just a hint.


4: Strong.


6: Forever and ever and ever.

*My hint of optimism is based entirely on factual information.


DAY #76

Sorry to go AWOL on you there, Lenny. I’ve been doing nonstop research and

I’m still not sure I did enough. Tomorrow’s the big day.

How do you think it 11 go?

I have no idea.

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DAY #77

Sesquicentennials only come about once every—well, actually just once, but it’s

obviously worthy of a gigantic celebration that could only be topped by the bicentennial

celebration fifty years later. There’s no way that one-hundred-forty-ninth year could hold

a candle to it, let alone one-hundred-fifty candles.

As Bontemps is a relatively small town, city officials decided its borders could

barely contain the raucous festivities they had planned, so they blocked off every

downtown street, which amounted to four square blocks and a lot of booth space. Thus,

getting a booth was easier done than said, and I sent my postcard request in two weeks

ago after getting the notion that I’d like to do something nice for this old lady. All I had

to put on my application was a description of how I would be celebrating Bontemps.

“Paving the way for a brighter Bontempsian future,” is what I put. It was approved.

Having learned many lessons from the Picnic in the Park, my booth today was a

simple setup, and I could carry all my supplies, which consisted of a box of research

documents and a small sign, in one trip.

I nixed wearing an attention-grabbing Merlin costume in favor of ordinary Joe

clothes: jeans, tennis shoes and a plain white t-shirt on which I wrote “150!” with a black

permanent marker. It looked festive and while a goofy getup would’ve likely drawn a

bigger crowd, it also would’ve discredited me as a gimmick, a sacrifice I couldn’t afford.

Booth check-in was from five to seven so everyone would be ready to go by the

323


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celebration’s eight A.M. start time. Since I didn’t have much stuff, I arrived minutes

before the deadline and moments after the sun peeked over the horizon and extinguished

the streetlamps. The check in table was on the front lawn of the courthouse, which was

the center of the festivities both figuratively because speeches were given by local heroes

from its front steps, and literally as a Ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl spun in place while the

rest of the party exploded two blocks every direction from it.

By the time I showed up it looked like the carnival was in town with the rides,

people setting up small tents above their space, cotton candy vendors spinning fresh sugar

and game operators making sure their sledgehammer could ring the bell and their water

pistols shot water. Mayor Wiggins was checking us stragglers in. I waited a few seconds

while a man wearing only swim trunks was checked in.

“Hey ya, Mayor,” I said when it was my turn, setting my box of research next to

his small, square card table.

“What do you say, bud?” he said, standing to give me a high five. “You’re site

doesn’t involve snorkeling through a small plastic pool filled with mustard looking for

sunken pigs in a blanket I hope, because if it does that guy before you beat you to the

punch.”

“How does that celebrate Bontemps?”

“He said that’s his definition of ‘good times.’ Speaking of, how will you be

celebrating our fair town here?”

“It’s like a fortunetelling thing,” I told him.

“Not back on the optimism wagon with me, are you?”

“Not exactly.”


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“Shucks. You’ll come around, I just know it.” Ah, the innocent naivete of an

optimist, I’d know thee anywhere. “Well, as I’m parked here in the heart of Lake

Bontemps, I gave you a primo location right next to Little Bontemps. It’s just a half

block up Market Street on the left. If I hear you’re weaving some good yam up there, I’ll

come visit.” He winked and put his hand up for a farewell high five. “I’m kidding, I’m

sure you’ll do fine. Good luck.”

I slapped him a stoic five, picked up my box and headed for my space. I walked

between the Ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl and saw that the whole block of Center Street in

front of the courthouse was filled with the cheap games you typically find at a county

fair, most of which involved tossing something, be it a basketball, ring, beanbag or

quarter. It made me think about a childhood dream of mine in which I had an entire

amusement park to myself, but in practice I found it creepy, like the mass amounts of

people having fun are more important to the atmosphere than the actual rides, and I

looked forward to other people showing up and having fun while I went to work.

I turned right from Center Street onto Market, and there was Little Bontemps

parked in the street. It took up the entire width of the street and stretched almost a half

block down it. The movers must have started early because the whole town was already

in place save for one key component: the gerbils were being moved last. I pictured the

handful of big, burly movers Mayor Wiggins hired running every which way trying to

corral thousands of gerbils into boxes so they could be loaded into moving vans and

carted over here. It was an amusing visual.

With Little Bontemps filling the street, booths along this stretch of Market filled

the sidewalks. The city provided one table, one chair and nine feet of sidewalk for each


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booth operator to do what they please. Mayor Wiggins had given me a booth number,

and sure enough it was the first one on the left, right on the comer of Center and Market

in front of Shep’s, a good location that would have plenty of passersby.

“Mr. Hitch, good morning.”

It was Hilarious, and he was plopped down behind the table at the booth next to

mine wearing his old O.R. scrubs, complete with cap and rubber gloves. This was

officially a great location. There was seven feet of space between our spaces to allow for

Shep’s patrons to get in and out of her door.

“Neighbors at home, and neighbors away from home, huh?” I said to him, smiling

and skipping over to see what he’d done with his space. There was no sign indicating

what he was peddling, and his array of goods looked like a science fair project. He had

half page, homemade, handwritten flyers sitting on the edge of his table, and there were

eight large pitchers of various liquefied edibles with descriptive names written on note

cards sitting next to them, like “One part dairy/One part grain” and “Two parts

vegetable/Three parts protein.” I grabbed a flyer. It said “Dr. Universe’s Healthy” in

big, capital letters across the top. He was selling an adjective. I’d have to talk to him

about that later. Under his header was a bullet-point list of his selling points, which were:

• A diet that will cause you to be healthy, because skinny is not necessarily

healthy.

• What you will be eating is many of the same foods you currently eat, so this diet

has food that will taste fine for you.

• You will cease to experience plumbing problems in your body or in your home.

They were good points, but a marketing rep Hilarious was not.


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“Mr. Hitch and the good doctor are both introducing wild and crazy ideas to the

public for the first time today, and this must be why they were put together,” he told me.

I’d told him about my fortunetelling, and he said he thought it was an idea science

would tip its hat to. Hilarious is always wishing me well, and while it’s super nice of him

to do that, whenever someone says the same thing again and again, its effect is dulled

each time until it ultimately carries no weight. I figured it was my duty as a realist to tell

Hilarious this. He didn’t take my talk well, and claimed he really did always think I

would do well, and that it made him happy to share these thoughts. Considering how

mad I made him, I didn’t push my luck and tell him even I make mistakes.

But that was a good eight days ago, and Hilarious has been his usual jovial old

self every time I’ve seen him since. Hilarious had me taste some “One part fruit/Two

parts meat” and it was awful, but I told him I thought it would be a smashing success

because I knew my opinion meant a lot to him, but to be honest I was skeptical. I’d eaten

the stuff and it never helped my bowels, and if anything it hurt them since they weren’t

accustomed to that style of food. And anyway, doctors have studies dieting for years and

years and years, and they all agree the human body produces waste, no exceptions. And

if I thought that, I could only imagine what the rest of town would think. I was worried

about how my friend would fare.

As I finished the minimal setup my booth required (taping my “Fortuneteller”

sign to the front of the table and placing my folders of research on the table), every single

resident of Bontemps showed up at once. Granted it was Little Bontemps and they

arrived via a courier, but it was a sight to behold. Three movers took twelve minutes to


328

unload each box and dump its contents into the street. There must have been at least one-

hundred-seventy-eight boxes.

I stepped over the three-feet high concrete barrier serving as the edge of town and

walked through Little Bontemps looking for Hitch VIII. I spotted him cowering in the

comer of town, scared of his new surroundings. I scooped him up, gave him a friendly

head pat and held him up to my face.

“Hitch the Eighth,” I told him, “I know it feels like you’re in foreign territory, but

really it’s the same town it’s always been. You’ll be safe.”

I gently set him back down and he scurried off to his friends. The eighth is a

good edition of Hitch.

Moments later the cannon by the courthouse let out a deafening roar and

Bontemps was officially one-hundred-fifty years old. Let the games begin.

The flow of people quickly went from a trickle to a steady poor, mostly parents

with young kids. Today would be like Christmas for the kids, since with free rides and

games their parents couldn’t tell them they were out of tickets and had to go home, and I

imagined the kids woke their parents up just like they do Christmas mornings.

With that early crowd demographic, the courthouse lawn and Center Street saw

most of the business. Hilarious and I sat at our booths thinking up tabloid articles.

“Elementary schools teach self-defense to future geeks,” he said after my,

“Underwater society unaffected by global warming’s melted ice caps.”

When lines on Center Street got long, folks finally explored the Market Street

strip, but they were visiting everyone but Hilarious and I. Some were drawn to learning

how to build the log cabins that dominated the landscape here one-hundred-fifty years


329

ago, or looking at Milton Meriwether’s goldfish bathing suit invention. Most spent time

with Little Bontemps as a giant gerbil-city is a real eye-catcher, and many of the younger

kids were fascinated by the little animals, picking one gerbil to name after themselves.

My first visitor was one of these kids who got distracted from Little Bontemps

and wandered off with his mom. He was wearing a miniature pair of overalls over a

candy cane striped, long sleeve shirt and was holding his mom’s hand. He’d gotten his

fair complexion and blond hair, which was cut in an army-style buzz, from his mom,

whose blonde hair was so curly I wouldn’t have been surprised if it could reach the

ground after some straightening.

“Can you tell me my fortune?” he asked.

“Sure I can,” I told him. “What’s your name?”

“Justin,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“Six.”

I wasn’t sure if he was short for his height or if six-year-olds were just that small,

but he could barely see over my table.

“Why don’t you hop up into my chair here and I’ll see if I can tell you your

future?” I stood up and he dropped his mom’s hand and ran around the table and climbed

up into the seat. He looked even tinier sitting in the big chair. “Having fun?” I asked

him.

“Yeah,” he yelped, “I already won some tattoos.” He pulled up his sleeve to

reveal tattoos of a boat anchor and a tiger. He didn’t appear to going for a particular

theme.


330

“Very neat. What if I tell you what the rest of your day will be like?”

“But where’s your crystal ball?”

“You’re my crystal ball. I need you to help me figure out your future, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. He was disappointed I didn’t have the crystal ball.

“Did you have fun playing the games?”

“Yeah!”

“Are you staying at the celebration the rest of today?”

“Uh huh.”

“Is your Mom going to let you play more games and ride more rides?”

“Yeah! She promised.”

Easiest research I ever did.

“In that case, I think your future holds a lot of fun this afternoon, I think you’ll

have a blast, and I think you’ll win lots more prizes.”

“Awesome! Now tell me what I’ll be when I grow up.”

“Don’t ask for too much from the nice man,” Justin’s Mom said.

“Sorry, Justin,” I told him, “but there are limits to my powers. A lot can happen

between now and then, and I can’t see past the immediate future because my foresight is

based on what’s happening now.”

He was disappointed. I wasn’t magic enough for him, but Mom saved the day.

“Justin, what do you say to a few more games?” Justin squealed and ran to her side.

Before they left she mouthed to me, “Thanks. That was great.”


331

That fortune was too easy, I know, but it gets to the heart of what I’m trying to do.

If you know enough about someone’s circumstances, you can predict where those

circumstances will take them. If only adult’s lives were as simple as kids’.

Hilarious watched my first visit as he hadn’t had any visitors of his own yet, and

he confirmed what Justin’s Mom said. “Great,” he said. It was certainly a good start.

By midmoming it looked like a better bet that Hilarious and I were put next to

each other because of our forecasted popularity. We were doing little more than keeping

each other company while passers by passed us by. Most people took one look at our

tables, then one look at us, raised a questioning eyebrow and went about their business.

Before one gentleman left my table he said, “That’s so fake.”

“Not this version,” I told him, “I’m as real as they come.”

“Faker,” he insisted and proceeded to Hilarious’s, where he said, “That’s so

wrong.”

“I can promise you, if you will just eat the items that I specify for eight to ten

months, you will see results.”

“Faker,” he said again and went about his way.

By lunch our street was as packed as the game block, so visitors were forced by

Hilarious and me as they tried to slowly go elsewhere. With nothing better to do, they

asked us about our efforts.

“You can see into the future?” asked one middle-aged woman who was pushing a

stroller with twins.

“It’s not seeing the future as much as seeing the present more clearly,” I told her.

“And you can do that for anyone?”


332

“I specialize in troubled people.”

“You mean the insane?”

“No, I mean folks who wish life was better right now, especially for people with

work problems. My fortunes are meant to make them find what they want. Care to give

it a try?”

“Sounds interesting and I’d love to help you out, but I’d say I’m happy as ever

these days with my kids. Good luck,” she said.

Fortunately, the man next to her overheard our conversation and stepped right up

after she left. He was an older gentleman wearing a big mesh ball cap that said “#1

Grandpa” on it. The hat and the grandpa looked out of place.

“I could use a fortunetelling,” he said.

“Taking a break?” I asked.

“Oh, this,” he asked pointing to the cap. “You bet. It’s grandma’s turn to chase

after those kids.”

The man’s name was Sid Spaghetti and he seemed too upbeat to have any

problems of note, but I was happy to have another go with someone.

“Sid, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Sid described that he’d been driving the same school bus for thirty-five years.

This year was one of his most difficult, and a friend of his offered him a job substitute

teaching in a neighboring school district. The problem is that as a bus driver, Sid can

retire in five years, but if he switches to teaching, which he thinks he’ll enjoy more, it’ll

take him ten years and that’s something Mrs. Spaghetti isn’t happy about. I must have


333

looked like a psychiatrist treating a patient, as I paced back and forth and took notes on a

small notepad while he spoke.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Not a simple question,” I said, “and not a simple answer. Please, give me a

moment to peek into your future.”

I rummaged through my files for four minutes, pulling the documents I needed

and setting them on the table.

“I’m going to quote you some survey statistics based on situations similar to your

own, okay?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“First, did you know that seventy-three percent of retirees wish they could’ve

retired earlier so they’d have had more time with their family?”

“I did not know that,” he said, nodding his head as if he approved that that bit

might be pertinent.

I set the first file down and grabbed another.

“What about the fact that eighty-one percent of substitute teachers leave their jobs

by the third year to pursue something else because they grew tired of the job’s

instability?”

“This is very interesting,” Sid said.

I switched to my last file.

“And finally, sixty-four percent of retirees regret having made a rash decision

during their midlife crisis.”


334

“Well I don’t know that this can be called midlife for me, but hearing you say it

does give me deja vu to a couple decades back, and you know what? It’s not a bad

description. Golly, so you think I should ride bus driving to retirement.”

“I can’t make a conclusion like that, but I hope what I’ve said makes your

decision easier. I do agree with you, though, that staying with your job seems like the

safest bet.”

“You’re amazing,” he told me. “It worked. That’s exactly right and that’s

exactly what I’m going to do.”

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

“You’re glad. I’m ecstatic. You stick with this, okay, I need to go have a talk

with my Noodle.”

He practically leapt out of his chair, shook my hand and disappeared into the

crowd. Whew. One down.

“That was a satisfied customer that just visited,” Hilarious shouted over the

crowd.

“Not bad,” I said. That went well. The stats I’d gotten from various sociology

studies printed in journals and magazines and books. I obviously didn’t have studies for

every single scenario, so really not only was I limited to helping forecast solutions for

problems, they had to be specific problems. With jobs and job loss foremost on my

mind, I had dozens of work-related studies that referenced jobs in general, jobs in

Bontemps, satisfaction ratings for particular fields and job availability.

How effective my performance was would be dictated by having the right data

and selling the data to my subjects. It depended on people sympathizing with the


335

majority, but that seemed reasonable. Being a trailblazer or a rebel is risky, and

following the lead of success stories or the lessons of experienced people is easier,

because it’s comforting to know you’re doing something that typically works. If you

jumped off a bridge, Lenny, I doubt I’d follow, but if you jumped off a bridge with

eleven other people, and I was left alone on that bridge I’d have to think about following

your lead.

After a thirty-four minute period with no visitors, I finally saw someone I knew. I

recognized the Colemans because he worked with my parents and I’d spoken with his

wife many times. It was hard to miss them in the giant sombreros they were wearing.

“Colemans!” I called, and they turned their attention away from Little Bontemps

but didn’t immediately pick me out of the crowd since I was about twenty-two feet away,

but I waved and they bobbed and weaved through the crowd to my booth.

“Nice hats,” I said.

“Tim won these,” Mrs. Coleman said. “What’s this you’re doing?”

“I’m telling people their fortunes,” I told him.

“What a cute idea,” Mrs. Coleman said. “Seen love and fame and fortune?”

“I wish,” I said. “What I’m actually trying to do is help make sense of the

difficult job market we’ve had since Nature’s Candy disappeared.”

Mr. Coleman cringed at hearing his former employer and based on his reaction I

guessed he didn’t have a job yet. This could be my chance to try my material on its

intended audience, but I was concerned Mr. Coleman might not be a willing subject if he

didn’t want to talk about it or held some animosity toward me.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “I guess you—“


336

“No, don’t be sorry, Hitch. Tim hasn’t found a job yet, but we got a nice

severance package, so we’ll be fine for a while yet.”

“Gosh, I really am sorry,” I said.

“She’s right, Hitch,” Mr. Coleman said, “you’ve nothing to be sorry for. We

struggled at first, but you know most of us don’t blame you for losing our jobs. As I

know firsthand from boxing the stuff up, there’s a few bad apples in every lot, and Mr.

Pants wasn’t Nature’s Candy wall of fame material. Frosted Fruit? Honestly, as bad as

that idea was, it’s baffling that another company stole it. It’s no wonder they already

bailed on it.

“What?” I asked. That was news to me.

“It tested poorly for them so they’ve got the patent and no product. It’s not cheap

to put fruit through that much processing, so even if executed to perfection it wasn’t

going to be a cash cow for anyone.”

Egad. This was going well and I hadn’t even started yet.

“Oh, and Hitch, we should be the ones feeling sorry for you,” Mrs. Coleman said.

“You know I just loved that darling show of yours. Please tell me it’ll be back.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Coleman, I’ve got a job up with Bert Levine that’s going a-okay.”

“Shucks,” she said. “We tuned out that Realist character before he could say

KBON. Maybe you’ll get a column in the Gazette or something.”

“Maybe.” I’d considered the long term implications if today went well and

already decided Bert’s Belts was where I belonged. My best case was helping a few

people figure out how to get work, and for them to make everyone else without jobs

realize they could do the same with a little research. Optimism taught me that while it’s


337

nice to help people, it’s hard to pin my well-being on the well-being of others, and

engineering afforded me the luxury of total control over my career, and I was going to

stick with it. “Though I can’t offer any optimistisms like, ‘I’m sure you’ll find a job

soon,’ I’d be happy to tell you your employment fortune,” I told Mr. Coleman.

They both agreed that sounded fun, and might even prove productive so Mr.

Coleman took a seat and I began.

ME

What was your job at Nature’s Candy?

HIM

I was foreman of our fruit packing division.

ME

How many years were you there?

HIM

Seventeen.

ME

Do you hope to get a similar job?

HIM

That’d be nice. Problem’s been that with so

much experience, companies don’t want me

because they’d have to pay me more than

some rookie.

ME

Where have you been looking?


338

HIM

In the papers and driving around.

This was a tough one, but I found four applicable studies to share with Mr.

Coleman.

ME

Mr. Coleman, did you know that only

eighteen percent of all management-level

positions open up each year?

HIM

Gosh. That’s not many.

ME

But, fifty-eight percent of people laid off

who took demotions and pay cuts at their

next employer were promoted to jobs and

pay comparable to what they had within one

year, and eighty-four percent within two.

HIM

Wow. I’d never thought of that.

ME

And eighty-three percent of unemployed

people who took temporary positions while

looking for permanent work were satisfied


339

with their temp experience and would do it

again if put in similar circumstances.

HIM

Wow. I’d never thought of that either.

ME

I’ve got one more: seventy-one percent of

unemployed people who solicited help from

a head hunter or career services specialist

found new jobs within six months of

contacting these establishments.

“Hitch, you’re brilliant,” Mrs. Coleman said

“Yeah,” Mr. Coleman said, “you made me feel like I haven’t been looking very

hard. I’d never considered anything but getting a job just like the one I had.”

“The only way to make a good decision is to know all your options before you

make it,” I said.

“You got that right,” Mr. Coleman said. “I feel like I just got a massage. All the

tension I had is gone.”

“How about a fortunetelling radio show, superstar?” Mrs. Coleman asked.

“Sorry, Mrs. Coleman, but I am glad you liked it.”

They wished me luck, I wished them luck and that was that. They disappeared

down the street and I returned to my perch.

“I should be so lucky to have this success you are displaying,” Hilarious told me.


340

“They’ll visit you soon. And if they don’t, I’ll tell people part of their fortune is

to try a radical new diet. Deal?”

“How could I refuse?” he said.

Not only did nobody visit Hilarious, but within an hour there was a line three deep

at my booth. Apparently the Coleman’s were natural bom mavens and told their friends

to hurry over before I got too popular.

Two of the three were from Nature’s Candy. A young gentleman had been a

salesman with the company and was hoping to open an organic produce farm but was

having trouble fronting capital for it. I informed him of the many unique funding

opportunities and investment strategies he could pursue that entrepreneurs often weren’t

familiar with.

A middle-aged gal was concerned that the new company she was working for

would go under like Nature’s Candy had, and she was worried she should quit now and

look for work before the job market was flooded with applicants. My data suggested

she’d be better off giving her company a chance, as companies often experience slumps

without going out of business, and that if they did go under, she would have a good

chance of getting a new one just like she had with this one.

The third person was a college senior, and she was concerned there wouldn’t be a

job waiting for her after graduation. Fortunately for her, history shows that our economy

has had lulls dating back to the pilgrims problems trading their fancy hats to the Indians

for food, only to bounce back bigger than ever.

I was happy they left happy, but they were ecstatic to leave happy. Fortunetelling

was paying off like optimism used to: I was making people feel better about themselves,


341

but this time I was improving their situations with tangible plans of action, instead of just

improving their attitudes.

Each successful consultation only made my line longer, and by early afternoon I

had seven people waiting to talk to me, which meant there was at least an hour and three

minute wait to talk to me. Even the Ferris wheel couldn’t boast numbers like that. I was

so busy I couldn’t grab lunch, so Hilarious gave me two glasses of his mixtures, and you

know what? They tasted better than anything else he’d served me. He was perfecting his

diet.

My ship continued to sail smoothly until my fourteenth consultation, and though I

didn’t have a problem showing Nathan Milhouse he should think twice about quitting his

job as a banker because his less than wealthy friends and families don’t like it, my

problem came from an interruption.

“HITCH HOCUMB, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” the cry came from downtown

Little Bontemps. Joe Richie. It’s a small miracle I heard him over the raucous crowd,

and it’s a testament to his anger that I could.

As yelling so loudly would likely draw attention from folks not named Hitch

Hocumb in any setting, his expletive guaranteed every head within earshot would turn his

way and they did. The group of fifty-three people or so was shoulder to shoulder and

stretched from the street comer up my side of the sidewalk to the far end of Hilarious’s

area. Everyone was quiet, not out of respect for letting Joe say his piece, but out of

curiosity for what he might say or do, and the mass of people between us parted to allow

us to talk, making them even more crammed together.


342

There wasn’t anyone within ten feet of Joe but still he stayed put next to the

miniature courthouse in Little Bontemps. He looked like hell. He hadn’t shaved in days

and his face looked like a spoiled piece of cheese with patchy spots of moss overtaking

its exterior. His hands were shoved into the vest pockets of his usual cowboy outfit,

which it looked like he wore not because it was his favorite, but because it was all he had

and he hadn’t been willing to go naked for the couple of hours it would take to wash it so

he kept wearing the wrinkled, dirty getup.

“Hey, Joe,” I said in a friendly tone, hoping he’d at least stop yelling. He didn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing at my town’s birthday party?” he yelled.

“Just celebrating and helping people have a good time,” I told him.

“Helping people? Ha! If it was up to you this town wouldn’t have made it to

one-fifty.”

“Joe,” Nathan said from the seat at my booth, “you know that’s not true.”

“That boy ruined my life, Nathaniel.”

“At least he’s trying to make this town a better place instead of making

everyone’s lives miserable when he’s miserable.”

“This is between me and the boy, now you sit tight there, all right?”

“It’s okay,” I said under my breath to Nathan. This was the moment I craved. If

there was one person who needed some good fortune it was Joe, and though I finally

knew he’d been out of line these last few months, I still wanted a chance to help him.

Sounds crazy, huh, but I could give you a laundry list of reasons why I felt that.

H itch’s Laundry List


343

• While Joe wasn’t a victim of anything I’d done, he was a victim of circumstance. He’d

been a long, loyal employee of Nature’s Candy and nothing he did contributed to its

demise. He was right in not blaming himself.

• Arguing with Joe would only fuel his fire. Knowing I was right didn’t erase Joe’s hate,

it only erased his credibility, and the only way to make peace would be to exterminate

Joe’s hate. I hated being hated.

• Joe’s demise wasn’t just his demise, it was his family’s too.

• Pessimism is an ugly, ugly disease.

• I felt sorry for Joe.

And in Hitch related news, a psychic’s not a psychic if he or she only sees ten

seconds into the future once every 2.6 years; they would be a part-time psychic with

limited powers. If my fortunetelling couldn’t take it with a worst case like Joe, I couldn’t

claim to be much of a fortuneteller.

“Joe,” I said in a tone I’d use if I was a peace negotiator, “I want to help you.”

“You? Help me? The hell did they let you in here? WHY THE HELL WOULD

ANYONE LET THIS HOME WRECKER BE PART OF THIS?”

“I’ve helped thirteen people already. Let me try to help.”

“I want you to leave.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to everyone waiting to see me, would it?”

“You people really believe he’s some kind of fortuneteller? A witch doctor?

He’s giving you the same bullshit he gave you with that good for nothing optimist crap,

he’s just calling it something else. And you’re buying it. You’ll all pay. Just like I did.


344

You people.” Joe scanned the crowd and shook his head in disappointment at them.

Then he spit on the roof of the model courthouse. “I hate this town.”

“Please give me a chance, Joe.”

“If you don’t leave right this second,” and that’s when Joe delivered a whopper of

a ta-da. He pulled a pistol out of his right pocket, causing six women to screech in

horror, which drew the attention of the entire block. The pistol was silver and old-

fashioned; it complemented his costume nicely. Out of his right pocket he pulled out a

resident of Little Bontemps, and as I imagine you can guess, it wasn’t just any resident, it

was the mayor, Hitch VIII, my gerbil counterpart.

Eight people in the crowd yelled things along the lines of, “Don’t do it, Joe,” or

“Put the gun down,” or “Somebody stop that lunatic,” all of which were easily audible

above the now distant crowd noise.

Joe held Hitch VIII above his head and steadied his pistol at its head. “Leave now

or your beloved, bastardized runt here gets blown to hell.”

We’ve all thought about being in situations like these, but trust me, daydreaming

about it is much more romantic than the real thing. In my daydreams I had many options

to be the hero. I could throw my keys in the air, distracting the hostage taker just enough

to give me a chance to disarm him and save us all. Or I could talk to him, stalling while

my partner in crime snuck up behind him and wrestled the gun away. Or if I was feeling

especially confident, I would charge the gunman, causing him to panic, release his

hostage and run away.

But the reality is that none of those are good options. The person with the gun is

in total control and there’s nothing you can do but try to keep him happy, and if not


345

happy content enough to not pull the trigger. Even Sheriff Sanderson’s gun-drawn arrival

at the Center Street edge of Little Bontemps did nothing to make us feel better. He

threatened, “Drop the gun or I will shoot.”

“There’s not human life at stake,” Joe told him. “You won’t shoot,” and

Sanderson’s silence confirmed what Joe said. At least Joe was semi-rationale. He turned

his attention back to me and said, “I want you out.”

The point of my fortunetelling experiment was to test the hypothesis that the

reason some people remain unemployed for unusually long periods of time is because

they make bad decisions, and this would hardly qualify as a good decision on Joe’s part,

and as I’d made it my responsibility to make these people learn how to make better

decisions, I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“Before you force me out,” I told Joe, “will you at least give me a chance to give

you your fortune?”

“It sounds like a load of lies to me.”

“It’s not optimism, I promise. It’s based entirely on factual data.”

“Then I won’t have to listen to any of your B.S.?”

“No B.S. I can help you find a job.”

He lowered his gun and Hitch VIII, but the pistol never left Hitch VIII’s head.

“I’ll do it on two conditions.”

“Shoot,” I told him, regretting my word choice immediately.

“First word you say that sounds optimistic, Junior gets it.”

“Agreed.”

“If I don’t like my fortune and it doesn’t work, Junior gets it.”


346

I was thirteen for thirteen and compared to everyone I’d spoken with, Joe was

making by far the worst decisions. I had reason to be confident (not to be confused with

optimistic).

“Okay. I have to ask you some questions first,” I told him. I walked over to the

edge of Little Bontemps and was half the width of the street away from him. I wasn’t

going to get any closer. He did have a gun.

“Go ahead.”

This was it.

ME

What was your job at Nature’s Candy?

HIM

I drove a forklift.

ME

For how many years?

HIM

Twenty-two years. Ever since I dropped out

of high school.

ME

Where have you applied for work since?

HIM

I haven’t applied nowhere. I want my old

job back.


347

Geez. This was going to be easier than I thought. I returned to my files, grabbed

three studies, and walked back to share them with Joe.

ME

Joe, I’m going to give you the results of

some studies. None of these were conducted

by me, but all are part of scientific and

sociological research studies. Okay?

HIM

Whatever.

ME

Did you know that seventy-nine percent of

job applicants with over twenty years

experience in one field found similar work

in that field in less than two months?

HIM

Yeah, but similar work ain’t working at

Nature’s Candy.

ME

Okay. But, did you also know that ninety-

four percent of companies that declare

bankruptcy never reopen for business?

HIM

Still leaves six percent.


348

If he was going to play that game, I was going to make it impossible for him to

play that game.

ME

Joe, zero percent of people without jobs who

applied for zero jobs have ever been hired

anywhere.

HIM

But that’s not going to get me my old job

back. AND NONE OF IT’S GOING TO

MAKE YOU PAY FOR LOSING MY JOB!

BANG!

A lot happened at once. Here’s the parallel action immediately following the

gunshot:

It looked like Joe’s gun was The Sheriff leapt over Little Some of us screamed and

loaded with a gerbil as Bontemps’ city limits, ran everyone ducked, but

Hitch VIII flew out of his down Little Center Street nobody was hurt. Except

hand from the force of the and tackled Joe, all in 3.1 Hitch VIII.

bullet. Had the flash from seconds. He shouted, “Is

the muzzle not singed Joe’s anyone hurt?” while cuffing

left hand and caused his Joe.

right to drop the gun,

Sheriff Sanderson most


349

certainly would’ve shot

him.

Moments later Sheriff Sanderson had Joe in handcufis and was marching him out

of Little Bontemps and presumably to the county lockup.

The commotion hadn’t died down. It eerily sounded exactly like the crowd noise

of the celebration before all eyes turned on the hostage taking of Hitch VIII.

Poor Hitch VIII, that poor, defenseless little guy. Optimism failed me first and

now realism followed suit. That left only pessimism, but look where it got Joe.

Something was wrong with my realism.

What had I done?

What had you done?

I made another bad decision. I quit. No more fortunetelling, no more stupid

ideas. Hitch is going to start leading an ordinary life. Those people without jobs would

have to find a solution on their own.

As all good, Pulitzer seeking journalists will, The Realist had run to the scene of

the crime when he heard the gunshot. He’d been broadcasting live for much of the

afternoon and was carrying a remote microphone he thrust in my face.

“What’d you do this time, champ?”

I didn’t have time for this guy. I needed to find a successor to Hitch VIII.

“No comment,” I curtly told The Realist and turned to walk back to my booth.

The Realist followed.

“I heard you recently converted to a Realist-wannabe, so what could be simpler

than telling our listeners what happened?”


350

“You heard me,” I told him.

“Based on his refusal to talk, the only realistic conclusion I can draw is that he has

something to hide.” The Realist stopped talking to me but still directed his words at me

while broadcasting his show from my booth. “It’s a shame we can’t live in a reality

where people own up to their actions instead of selfishly hiding the truth to protect

themselves. Color this Realist disgusted.”

And color this I-don’t-know-what curious. I wanted to know the difference

between his realism and mine. There is, after all, only one reality

“Okay, Realist,” I shouted at him. “Let’s talk.”

“Yippee skippee,” The Realist squealed sarcastically into his microphone with

childlike delight. “Folks, I hope this thrills you half as much as it does me, but optimist

turned realist turned failed hostage negotiator Hitch Hocumb has agreed to be

interviewed live on the air, right now with yours truly. Stay tuned for this. You won’t

want to miss a second.” He clicked his microphone off. “This is going to be good,” he

said to me and winked. “Follow me.”

I quickly packed my files into the box I’d brought and told the few people who’d

hung around to hear their fortune I was finished. They understood. I was done

fortunetelling.

I followed The Realist because I thought my reality was at Bert’s, where reality

makes conveyor belts. By now I wanted to talk to him more than he wanted to talk to

me. Why couldn’t I get a handle on this realism garbage? Was it as simple as spinning

reality to my benefit? I needed to know or I’d end up questioning every decision I’d ever

make.


351

KBON’s booth was in a prime location. They were on Center Street right smack

in the middle of the games and in front of the Ferris wheel and courthouse, between a

dunk tank and balloon darts. Two giant speakers extended thirteen feet above their area

and broadcast the show to passersby. Lizzy was behind the table and ran out to meet me

when she saw us coming.

“You don’t have to do this, Hitch,” she told me as she pinned a wireless mic to

my shirt.

“You always said you wished you could get me back on the air, right?”

“Not like this. He’ll eat you alive even if you are right.”

“Maybe I’ll learn something from it.”

She shook her head and let me make my own decision. The Realist was sitting

back at the table with his microphone in front of him.

“Guess I don’t need to tell you how to act on the air,” he said to me with half his

face smiling and the other half stoic.

“Where’s my seat?” There was only one behind the table.

“Up there.” He pointed to the dunk tank and his stoic half broke out its smile.

“Ha.” I said it sarcastically. Then I saw that nobody was in the dunk tank and

nobody was running it. It was part of KB ON. Hmm.

“That’s today’s shtick. My guests sit up there. Then we talk reality. If the crowd

doesn’t like my guest’s version of reality, they give that guest a dose of reality and sink

them. So long as you stick to the truth, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

What was the worse that could happen? I get a little wet, and wet I could handle.

At least I hadn’t worn a suit to my first day of fortunetelling like I had at Bert’s.


352

This was the peak of the mid-afternoon rush, and the crowd filled the entire block,

but they weren’t playing games or eating elephant ears; they were watching me climb

into the dunk tank. They were here for my interview. I guess the worst that could

happen was that I’d be booed for not saving Hitch VIII. And the worse-worst case would

be getting booed and wet.

When I was settled on my perch three short feet above the clear water below, the

crowd had quieted one another so they could hear the show, and there was a commercial

for Nature’s Candy on the air.

“Get work with plenty of perks at the biggest produce hub in town,” went the

catchphrase. Nature’s Candy was back? There was no chance I was getting dunked after

hearing that news. And I expected apologies galore. On the air. Starting now:

HIM

Welcome back to The Realist, I’m your host

The Realist and we have a very, very special

guest in the tank talking to us. What’d you

think of our trip down memory lane there,

listeners? Did you get teary-eyed like I did?

My guest here is the one and only person

who cost us that mammoth company, and he

finds himself in more hot water here today,

or should I say he may find himself in some

hot water shortly. Ladies and gentlemen, I

give you the one, the only Hitch Hocumb.


353

The crowd didn’t respond, which was a-okay in my book. If they’d cheered I’d

have assumed they were cheering his comment, and if they’d booed I’d have assumed

they were booing me, the object of his comment. Neutral was good.

HIM

Hitch, thanks for coming. I want to talk

about the unfortunately tragedy that befell

the entire town of Little Bontemps a short

while ago. As I’m sure we all know, you

play a godlike role with the town, but one

gerbil is appointed mayor, is that right?

ME

Correct.

I spoke down into the mic, and realized I had a mic on. What if I got dunked?

Would I get electrocuted? I unclipped the mid and held it in front of my mouth. I hoped

I could throw it out of the tank before I hit liquid on the off chance I got dunked.

HIM

From what I understand, a short while ago a

disgruntled former employee of Nature’s

Candy who’s not a member of your fan club,

took this mayor of Little Bontemps hostage

and insisted he would shoot that gerbil

unless you left, is that right?


354

ME

That’s right.

HIM

And now that gerbil’s dead. Is that right?

ME

It’s not quite that simple.

HIM

What was wrong?

ME

Nothing was wrong, but what happened is

Joe agreed to let me tell him his fortune—

HIM

Explain that. It’s a gimmick, right? An act?

ME

No, it’s not. I used real data from real

studies to help people better understand their

employment options.

HIM

So you were going to help Joe get a job.

You felt guilty for costing him his last one,

is that it?


355

ME

Yes I wanted to help him, but no, he did not

lose that job because of me.

HIM

Right. Audience, what do we think of that?

A few people in the crowd shook their heads or booed, but The Realist played a

laugh track and paid no attention to the real audience.

ME

You’re wrong.

HIM

I suppose next you’ll claim this gerbil didn’t

die.

ME

I regret that the gerbil died.

HIM

There you go. I heard you claim to have

seen the light, and I was waiting for a taste

of this realism you swear by. When

someone tells you they’ll kill a gerbil if you

don’t do something, and you don’t do it,

isn’t it realistic to expect they’ll kill that

gerbil?


356

ME

Well, yes, but I—

HIM

But, but, but. I assume the sun will come up

and say hey to me through my window, but

the reality is that some days it doesn’t,

because some days it’s overcast and I have

to wait another day to say hey. As a realist

you have to be able to forecast when it’s

going to be sunny, and when it’s going to be

cloudy.

Egad. He did it. The Realist justified what I’d done. We expect the sun to come

up every day, but it doesn’t. We expect the forecast to tell us if we need an umbrella, and

it usually does, but it isn’t always right. It wasn’t supposed to rain that day of the Picnic

in the Park.

ME

What about when the forecast is wrong?

He played the laugh track again.

HIM

Apparently Hitch here doesn’t watch

Weatherman Andy.


357

ME

Yes, but sometimes the forecast is wrong.

Sometimes it’s two degrees off. Sometimes

there’s a thirty-two percent chance of rain

but it rains, and sometimes there’s an eighty-

six percent chance of snow but it doesn’t

snow.

HIM

We can’t control that.

ME

Exactly. Just like we can’t control anything.

I can’t control how you perceive my actions,

and maybe you think I brought Nature’s

Candy down, but that’s not the majority’s

reality, that’s yours.

HIM

I know what I know, and I know my

listeners are with me.

ME

But you interpret reality like that because it

suits you. You see a perfect world that’s not

there, and you’re entitled to that, but you

can’t expect everyone to live in your world.


358

I could see Shep standing outside of the restaurant off in the distance. We made

eye contact, and she smiled and gave me two thumbs up. Then Samson McBurgler left

the restaurant and she ditched the smile and yelled something at him. I’m sure it had to

do with that bum getting the hell out of there and never coming back. She glanced back

at me and winked.

HIM

I’m a realist. My world is the world, and as

long as there are crazies like you living

outside of it I’ll have something to talk

about.

ME

And that’s the world you choose to live in.

In my world, if I say or do anything that

doesn’t agree with your world, it doesn’t

mean I’m wrong.

HIM

Well I’m certainly not wrong.

ME

Bingo.

Kind of. He was right and he was wrong, which means his response was partly

right. My point was that sometimes you and I may disagree, but it doesn’t mean either of

us is wrong, it means our perspectives differ. It’s a question of relativity.


359

HIM

What are you doing, trying to tell me my

fortune?

ME

Couldn’t if I tried.

HIM

I, on the other hand, can forecast your

future. What do you say, should we dunk

him?

The Realist’s crowd looked at odds with their host. They didn’t give the

spontaneous outburst he expected, and instead they were booing, and they were booing

him, not me, so he played another sound bite, this one of a crowd cheering.

HIM

The Reality jury has spoken, mate.

He pushed a button on the end of cord connecting him to the tank, and I saw it

coming so I tossed my mic in plenty of time. The water was cold but refreshing and

when I resurfaced the station was playing a commercial and The Realist was standing

next to the tank.

“Sorry about that, but the crowd spoke. Hear that?”

The crowd was indeed booing, but they were clearly booing The Realist’s

decision.

“I know they did. It’s okay, you did what you had to do.”

“Hope you didn’t think I was too harsh,” he said and returned to his booth.


360

I didn’t think anything of it. I knew it was a product of his “real world,” but I also

knew sixty-five percent of all new radio talk shows don’t last more than a year. Maybe

he’d learn that one on his own.

What a mistake I’d made, but it wasn’t in trying my hand at fortunetelling. In

fact, in hindsight, it was a heck of an idea. Where I erred was in thinking the laws,

theorems and postulates of textbook math and science were good for real life

applications. I can tell you a ball’s going to be dropped out of an airplane, I can tell you

exactly how high it is when it’s dropped, and since you know exactly what force gravity

has on the ball, you can calculate how long it will take that ball to reach the ground. But

if you charter an airplane, drop the ball in question out of the airplane, and time how long

it actually takes it to reach the ground, you won’t get the number your calculator spit out

beforehand. It’ll be close, but it won’t be exact.

The reason is that there’s too much we can’t account for. The height and gravity

aren’t an issue, but the wind speed at every split second of the ball’s fall is unpredictable,

and that will dictate the wind resistance of the ball’s flight. Without that, the ball’s hang

time will be every so slightly different every time.

The way engineering accounts for unpredictable inaccuracies like these is by

using a safety factor. Being 0.029 seconds off on the previous problem likely isn’t a

sizable sacrifice, but when calculating the strength of a bridge, or in our case a belt, being

a little off can mean complete failure. Similar to the problem above, you can tell me you

want me to build you a bridge, you can tell me how much weight it needs to hold, and I

can pick a material with known properties and shape it in such a way that it will meet

your specifications, but again, my calculations can’t take into account every pertinent


361

detail. My material properties assume my material is absolutely perfect, but it won’t be:

it’ll have the smallest micro cracks you ever didn’t see, which will make it slightly

weaker than your data sheet tells you it is. My calculations assume every piece of that

bridge fits perfectly with its adjoining pieces, but they won’t. They’ll have the smallest

little micro gaps you ever didn’t see.

That’s why we have to test our belt setups in the research lab at work before going

to production. We’ve already calculated what it should hold, and run computer

simulations to see how it should act, but neither are as effective as checking the real

thing.

Enter the safety factor, saving the day to make sure you and I can safely drive

over that bridge without worrying about getting wet. Fortunately, we do know about how

much these little details will affect the strength of our bridge, and we can test the material

to make sure none of these micro cracks are too big, but we can’t predict exactly how

much they’ll affect our bridge so we over design it. We’re told it needs to hold X

pounds, so we design it to hold, say, four times as much. Then our safety factor is four.

Sometimes it’s more, sometimes it’s less, but it’s always there.

Checking the real thing doesn’t even escape the safety factor. For our bridge, we

know it can hold at most X cars, each weighing Y pounds, which means it must be able to

withstand X * Y pounds, but it won’t always have to withstand that much weight;

sometimes there will be half as many cars driving across it and sometimes none. It’s

completely unpredictable, so what weight do we test it at? We test it by simulating what

happens when the most cars that can possibly fit on the bridge drive over and over and

over it again and again and again. This is called the “worst case,” but really it’s much,


362

much worse than any realistic worst case, and that’s why we test it. It’s like testing the

safety factor: not only do we want to know it will withstand its operating conditions, we

want the peace of mind of knowing it can withstand much, much worse conditions than

that, because then we know we have nothing to worry about. The safety factor’s a real

confidence builder, and it accounts for human error and all the things that can go wrong

so even if errors are made and things do go wrong, our safety net catches them so nothing

terrible happens, and that’s why it’s so effective.

All this time I’ve been missing the safety factor. I’ve been ignoring the

intangibles, the unpredictable, the unexpected, and though my textbook calculations got

the answer in the back of the book right, they were a little off in practice.

I depended too much on laws and theories because laws and theories give

absolute answers. Newton’s Third Law of Motion is one of hundreds of good examples:

every action has an equal and opposite reaction. No exceptions. Isn’t that comforting?

Yes, it is, and that’s the appeal. When I approach problem solving, I imagine the best

possible outcome and set it equal to success. Anything short of that is a failure.

Optimism worked for so long because I interpreted everything as being best case, so I

was happy. It failed because my absolute belief in these best cases couldn’t last in a

world that’s tested to withstand worst case conditions because sometimes the worst case

happens.

Stubborn, by the book realism won’t work with everyone, because everyone’s

different, and given similar circumstances different people will respond different ways.

You could even say the same person should be treated as different people, because that

person will react differently depending on their mood at that moment. That’s why I need


363

a safety factor built into my approach. I’ve only got the tools in my toolbox, and I need

them to work with a dynamic bunch of temperaments.

Maybe this fortunetelling gig would be worth pursuing, at least in my free time.

It’s more like being a professional researcher, and all I have to do is deliver all pertinent

data I find to my clients, and how they use that info to solve their problems is up to them.

They’ll apply their own personal safety factor to every decision they make, and this

safety factor is like the inverse of a risk factor. There’s no guarantee it will work, but you

can make decisions based on what will put you at the lowest risk, and the decisions that

put you at the lowest risk are those that will give you the highest safety factor, which is

the most comfortable option for you based on current circumstances.

Like engineering, every decision we make has unknowns. Science’s wind

resistance is our uncertainty, but like science, we do know a whole heck of a lot of stuff,

enough that we can make pretty darned educated guesses about most everything in our

lives.

An added bonus is that using facts also accomplishes a selfish goal of mine: it

deflects the blame. I’m telling people their decisions might now work out, I’m preparing

them for the worst, and if lo and behold their decisions don’t work out, they can’t get

mad at me because I only gave the facts compiled by someone else. I’m not going to lie,

I like that part a lot.

Unlike all the wacky ideas I’ve tried to this point, this one has one sizable

difference: it allows for failure. My subjects are left to make their own decisions. Maybe

they follow my fortune, maybe not, but that’s okay because my fortunes likewise don’t

guarantee results. Mrs. Flugelhom, the overweight woman I confronted at the Friendly,


364

could start exercising seven days a week and eating nothing but leafy vegetables and soy,

and she still might develop heart disease. On the other hand, she could go on a bacon fat

only diet, binging until she’s bed-ridden and never have a single heart problem.

When my soggy self hit pavement after climbing out of the tank, Hilarious was

waiting for me with a couple of late celebration attendees, my mom and dad.

DAD

This doesn’t mean you’re quitting your job

to be a fortuneteller, does it?

ME

I’m not quitting Bert’s, dad, I promise.

MOM

You did show that Realist character up.

HILARIOUS

And Mr. Hitch’s parents should see Mr.

Hitch tell fortunes. There were great

successes to be had. He must not give it up.

The good doctor predicts he will be back on

the air as a fortuneteller in less than one

month.

ME

I think I will continue dabbling in it, but no

radio show.


365

Problem was, just like engineering, and just like real life, my fortunetelling could

never be absolute. There’s never a one-hundred percent chance of anything and though I

might think person A should do B, they might want to do C and C might work out fine. I

can’t control what anyone does. Just ask Joe. But I can consult with people who are

good fits for my style of fortunetelling. And maybe I’d change my name to the

fortunesuggester.

I wouldn’t put it on the air because that makes specific suggestions sound general.

Say I tell person X one thing particular to their situation. If I put it on the radio, person

Y, who’s in a similar but different situation, may assume what I said applies universally,

and that’s when bad things happen.

MOM

I can live with that.

DAD

Me too.

HILARIOUS

The good doctor also agrees.

Unanimous. Nice.

ME

We’ve still got a couple hours of daylight

left. What do you say we drum up some

business for you, Hilarious? I felt bad for

your lack of traffic earlier.


366

HILARIOUS

It is of no matter. The good doctor has not

used his facilities in five weeks. He doesn’t

need these visitors to know it works. He is

pleased with his results.

Then a teenager smacked me in the back of the head.

TEENAGER

You killed that gerbil for nothing, you

bastard!

The teen ran, and I decided if I like the reality I’m living, I might as well defend

it, right? So I yelled right back at him.

ME

FUCK YOU!

My mom blushed, and my dad and Hilarious both smiled.

Remember that garbled mess on page one. Did you crack the code? All you had

to do was realize which parts were unexpected, unpleasant, chaotic, messy, bad luck,

unpredictable, erroneous, shoddy, or accidental to find this:

A A A A A A A A A

(•) (*)

o

\ /

Nothing to it.


AMERICAN UNIVERSITY LIBRARY - AU Digital Research Archive |

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