The Strongman

How do you go to the circus for the day and come back pregnant? Mrs. Bescombe asked her daughter. It was a good question. Sheila wished she could have answered it. However, she had
taken a vow of silence and did not feel at liberty to discuss what had happened with the Strongman.

His name was Stanley, and he was as charming as a monkey dressed as a dentist. Which is to say, that he wasn’t very charming, and there was definitely something unnerving about him.

When Stanley was a small boy, his father’s favorite thing to do was torment his son cruelly and
ingeniously.

“Stanley, you’re going to be a shrimp all your life,” he’d told him. At age six, Stanley’s father had his son convinced that he was in fact twenty-four.

“You’re certainly not a boy,” he’d say. “You’re a man all right, but a tiny one. Your mother and I don’t know how it happened, but the day we found out you were never going to grow to be a proper size was a sad one for us indeed.”

Stanley would listen, round-eyed. Had his father been a good man, Stanley would have worshipped him. As it was, Stanley spent a lot of time feeling conflicted.

“We kept it from you for as long as we could, but upon your twenty-third birthday” (actually his fifth), “we decided that it was high time you knew the truth.”

As was only natural for a boy in his circumstances, Stanley developed an unhealthy obsession with size. Once he figured out that he actually was a boy, a little boy but a growing boy, he stopped trying to worship his father and began to work on growing large enough to beat the living snot out of him. He achieved this goal at the age of 14.

His mother found this note on her husband, who had been left unconscious on the living room floor one Sunday afternoon. Dear Mom-I love you but it’s time I set off. Love, Stan

And that was that.

Stanley didn’t start out as a Strongman in the circus. He drifted from job to menial job and traveled from town to town looking for excitement. He stayed in motels when he had money and slept in bus stations when he didn’t. Eventually he got a job selling movie tickets and rented out a tiny one-room apartment above the theatre. Stanley didn’t mind the size of the apartment, though. It made him feel bigger.

Lots of things made him feel bigger by then, though. His favorite thing to do was eat, but his second favorite thing to do was to lift heavy objects. A large-framed young man to begin with, he was consumed by the need to make his body as towering and muscular as possible.

The manager of the movie theatre liked Stan because while he was rather insecure in person, he absolutely loomed behind the ticket counter. Nobody ever complained about the movies or the price of tickets or popcorn during Stan’s shift. The two of them got along nicely, then, and when the manager was given two free passes to the circus (which was in town for that week only), for lack of a son, he invited Stan.

Stanley had never been invited to anything before, and was delighted. He found the circus fairly amusing, although there were lots of little kids there, and little kids always made him feel uncomfortable. They reminded him of his childhood. When the Strongman came out, however, he was mesmerized.

Tim the Terrific was his name, and he had arms like cannons and pectorals like cannonballs. Three large barrels made of iron were rolled in from the sidelines. He hefted them up onto his shoulders one by one and then juggled them. Tim the Terrific signaled the end of his act by tossing the three barrels into the air and catching one on each hand and one on the bottom of his left foot, which he thrust out behind him.

But on the night Stanley was there, Tim, distracted by a pretty young mother in the first row, miscalculated slightly and kicked his foot out when the third barrel landed on it, sending it barreling out into the audience. A collective gasp rose from the stands.

Tragedy would have ensued had Stanley not acted immediately. He flung himself across the
bleachers and caught the barrel just as it was about to flatten a small boy and his dog.

There was complete silence in the tent. The boy’s snow-cone was crushed and he was badly scared, but otherwise unharmed. The dog had fainted, but it was a little dog and easily carried.

Stanley was a hero. The circus administration thanked him profusely and offered him a job as their new Strongman.

That is where he has worked ever since.

As for Sheila, she had been in the audience during the barrel-throwing incident. As a matter
of fact, she had been sitting right next to the little boy and his dog. The little boy was her brother, Charles.

Sheila and Charles lived with their mother in a tiny, run-down house on the corner of a run-down block in the less popular and more run-down part of town. But they were happy. Her mother sold cosmetics and her father was in jail for insurance fraud.

Stanley’s sheer enormity had awed her, as had his obvious pride in it. Most men as large as he walked awkwardly, as though they were ashamed of how tall they stood. Stanley, however, carried himself with the puffed-up, exaggerated manner of a much smaller, more insecure man. Sheila found it incredibly appealing.

She had gone home that afternoon with Charles’ hand in hers and his dog fainted away in her handbag. In the ensuing weeks, she found she could not get the picture out of her mind of Stanley crouched above Charles, his great strong legs planted on either side of her as he caught that barrel. Sheila knew she had to meet him.

Sigh.

There is a certain children's book author that my company sells a lot of books by who comes out with a new 10 page children's board book every 48 hours or so. They're silly, and they rhyme, and they sell like HOT CAKES. I would like to be at that point in my career.

"Hey while I was waiting at the checkout line I wrote a rhyming book about toes. Now I have a billion more dollars! Sweet."

Sigh.

On the Loose

Under the right circumstances, I get really excited about being locked out of my house.

The right circumstances mean:
-I'm wearing pants

-I have at least $5 on my person

Being locked out forces you to be spontaneous, and to fend for and entertain yourself with little more than the $5 in your pocket and the pants on your legs. Suddenly the day is full of unknowns. Anything could happen.

This happened to me the other night. I had planned on relaxing at home after a long day at work. Perhaps I'd make a martini, and see if I could cobble together a salad from the herbs I've been growing on the back porch (parsley, chives, oregano, basil...that salad would probably have been gross). I was even considering mowing the lawn, which is as high as an elephant's eye. Then I realized I didn’t have my keys, and no one else was home.

It's weird not being able to get into your own house. It makes you feel like a drifter, or a ghost, peering in the window at your unreachable possessions, freaking the dog out because he sees you and doesn't know why you won't come in.

After skulking around the perimeter of the house looking for an easy way in (i.e., a wide-open window with a ladder in front of it or an unlocked back door), I wandered back down the road and waited for a bus. Not THE bus, but really, any bus that would take me somewhere more interesting.

Waiting for any bus to come along and take you anywhere feels different than waiting for a specific bus to take you somewhere scheduled. It feels awesome! There you are; the wind in your hair, time on your side, destination unknown. For the first twenty minutes. Then it's boring and annoying, just like waiting for the regular bus.

I ended up in Sullivan Square, where I drank beer, ate Indian food, and watched So You Think You Can Dance. It beat mowing the lawn.

Column Archive: Honolulu Jobs

Here's one from the good old days!

In the last few months, I have achieved a healthy balance in my working environments. In the morning I have an office job, and in the evenings I work at an Italian restaurant. While I am in the office, blearily watching the minutes tick by, I long for the hectic world of foodservice, and while I am at the restaurant, balancing awkward, heavy trays and splashing ice water everywhere, I long for the sweet, merciful release of death. So far, it has been a good system.

I wouldn’t mind the restaurant job as much if I weren’t in constant fear of being screamed at and/or fired. Mine is not a forgiving restaurant owner. There is a high turnover rate here—none of the other employees have worked for longer than a few months; all of us are fairly new. It is not difficult to see why; in this city there is a seemingly inexhaustible supply of bodies willing to bear steaming hot plates of gnocchi and salads buried in pine nuts across a polished wood floor, until the day they either die or drop something.

There is something almost exhilarating about knowing that your job hangs in the balance every time you cross the room. “Could this be it?” you think at every turn. Did I just make my last cup of coffee? Will this steak betray me? Might this soup be my undoing?

I am not good at selling things to people. I should probably not make a career of it, as it would not be a wildly successful career. I’m simply unable to make anything sound appealing that I don’t find personally appealing, which is a large part of selling things…possibly the whole part. I didn’t fully realize this until I began working with people who ARE able to sell things.

“The Tiramisu? Oh, uh, it’s ok. You might like it. I mean, I’ve never had it, but it’s…I mean, it looks pretty good.”

This is not the way to sell a dessert. My boss at the restaurant, the gay French boss, the one who could not be either more French or more gay or he would risk exploding in a blinding flash of gay French light, the one who spanks me when I mess up orders and who made me call his old restaurant on April Fools Day and make a reservation for Joan Rivers; now HE knows how to sell things. He could sell a can of ravioli on a doily on a plate for $23. Oh, you need a can opener? Excellent choice. Of course, there is an additional $7 charge for that.

In his case, the key to selling things appears to lie in mispronouncing words to make them sound more exotic and less intelligible. Somehow, when he says “Beef Onion soup,” it sounds like a magical, tasty elixir. When I say it, I sound like a grouchy, world-weary cafeteria lady.

Actually, my favorite thing to do is to warn people away from certain dishes. If my boss were aware of this, I would doubtless get more than a spanking. But I can’t help myself sometimes. “Don’t bother with the Lemon Delicious cake,” I’ll murmur, leaning in closer as the table falls silent and round-eyed, hanging on my every word. “It’s not that good. People don’t usually finish it.” If I know a certain dish is good (usually only because I’ve slunk behind the ice machine and scarfed up untouched portions when the boss wasn’t looking), I recommend it, but people are never as impressed by my assurances of deliciousness as they are by my candid admissions of mediocrity. Perhaps my real calling lies more in the area of food criticism.

How to Fight Aging

One of the biggest problems with living is that it ages you. Every second of every day, you are literally becoming older and losing your attractiveness. You may also be gaining wisdom and insight, but last time I checked, those things don't tone your upper arms. While you may possess a multitude of scintillating qualities, flab and wrinkles are the easiest to spot. Sadly, you can't flaunt your life experience from across the room at a cocktail party, or put a pushup bra on your integrity.

The bad news is that you can't technically halt the aging process. The march of time is of course relentless and inescapable. The good news is that modern science has blessed us with a great many expensive and difficult solutions to the unsolvable problem of aging. So be a good sport, and consider a few of our suggestions. Look on the bright side—it's easy to get so caught up in desperately fighting the effects of aging that you soon forget that your efforts are ultimately pointless!

Without further ado (since reading gives you crows-feet) here are some handy tips for reversing the aging process:

No Laughing Matter

Whoever said "laughter is the best medicine" probably had a face like ET's elbow. The only thing laughter will ultimately get you is the fear-laced laughter of others, who are chuckling only because screaming is impolite. While it has long been lauded for tightening the abs (far better done at the gym anyway), and releasing tension (but tension keeps you young!) laughter also contributes to the deepening of lines around the eyes and mouth. You can call them “laugh lines”, but the joke's on you, Wrinkles McHideous.

Express Yourself: Depress yourself

You may be surprised at how detrimental facial expressions are to your quality of skin—and thus your quality of life. A friendly smile here, an anxious glance there—those superfluous actions add up. Every flicker of emotion that passes across your face takes its toll—and most of them are completely unnecessary when it comes to getting your point across. Unless it's the triumphant feeling of "It's my 20 year high school reunion and I just got carded at the door!", most feelings you have can be easily summed up by jotting them down on a post-it note, which can be presented to the necessary party. Not only that, but the by-products of emotional expression often include messy substances like tears, which deplete your system of vital nutrients like salt and self-pity.

H2-No!

Dehydration is another key factor in the fight against aging. While the constant consumption of liquids is often encouraged by clueless doctors and experts, drinking water leaves you bloated and puffy by causing your cells to swell unattractively with life-sustaining fluid. The human body can survive for nearly seven days without liquid—did you think it was a coincidence that it’s the same length of time as Fashion Week?

In closing, always remember: You can never be too rich, too thin, or too fetal. Every time you enter a cocktail party and all heads turn toward you in jealousy and despair, an Angel gets an eye-lift.