Year: 2004

As soon as the latest delivery of taxidermied chickens arrived, it was packed up and shipped away to a psychic channeler of some repute – a close friend of the soap star who bought up the last few chickens from the December order. Now Samantha’s boss has placed two nineteenth century stuffed parrots in the store’s window display. Samantha is skeptical about her boss’s claim that they’re more than 100 years old. But they’re dusty and faded, and it’s clear that they’ve seen better days – I mean even since the day before they were stuffed and preserved. These birds are from Samantha’s boss’s personal collection, so officially they’re not for sale, but a whisper price is being circulated. Bargain shoppers would be disappointed, they’re at least the price of six stuffed chickens. Regarding the chickens, another delivery should be coming soon. Some of them are already reserved for the psychic channeler. For spring, there will be taxidermied baby chicks. Sadly, all of this is true.

There were three people on Pier 62/63, spaced out across the row of picnic tables at the foot of the pier. The man at the far end played “Making Whoopie” on a clarinet. In the middle, a man wearing a sport coat and a beret leaned back and watched the mountains, then stood abruptly, jogged out to the middle of the pier and circled back. I think I was doing nothing – only holding down my end of the pier. The clarinet player played another song, and the man in the beret jumped up again and ran another half-lap.

Beans for Breakfast is a web-thing by me, Jeff Sharman. New stories, photos, or other things are posted one or ten times a week.

I live in sunny Seattle, Washington, and grew up outside Grandview, Washington – in the Yakima Valley. My most recent meal was a Caprese sandwich. I’m not sure how that’s pronounced. The people at the cafe where I had the sandwich are starting to recognize me as a regular and will probably be able to predict my order soon. A few days ago, I got a voice message from a former classmate about my ten year high school reunion. The stapler on my desk is 17 inches long, and I have seasonal allergies. My dad is going to retire soon. I’m currently trying to create a job from scratch.

Trees

Just checking up on the tie …

… still there.

I was buying a pile of books at Goodwill. One clerk rang me up, while another studied the book covers. She stopped on one and asked me, “What is this word?”

“Utopia? It means a perfect world.”

My definition didn’t move her, she looked at me expectantly.

“A perfect world, . . . like a perfect society.”

She waited a beat, then went back to the cover and ran her fingers over the last few letters of “Utopia”. She said, “I come from Ethiopia. It’s like this.”

“You mean Ethiopia is a perfect world?”

“Yes. Except for the first letters.”

and there (down one entry)

I was a little kid, and I was at an event that involved people in traditional Native American dress. It’s likely that the rest of my family was somewhere in the vicinity, but they weren’t present during the situation that I’m describing here. I was in the parking lot with the Johnsons, or possibly with Marty’s family (was their name Lopez?). We’ll say it was the Johnsons. Mrs. Johnson was getting everyone snacks from a cooler in the back of their van. She asked me, “Jeff, do you want a pickle?”

For some reason I felt it would be rude to tell her that I didn’t like pickles, so I came up with what I thought was a more polite excuse, “I’m allergic to pickles.” That was a lie.

She caught me off guard when she asked, “What kind of pickles are you allergic to?”

I panicked. You mean there are different kinds of pickles? Truth told, I don’t think I’d ever actually tasted a pickle. I’d just always known that I didn’t like them. I felt cornered. I would be exposed as a liar and a pickle-bigot. But I saw an out. “I’m allergic to every kind of pickle.”

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As I was writing this, I was thinking about an exchange I’d had with Samantha. For some reason, she mentioned that she used to drink pickle juice straight from the jar when she was a kid. At the time I vaguely recalled that she had told that story before. But now I realize that she hadn’t mentioned it before, I was remembering something else. An ex-girlfriend – my girlfriend at the time – also once told me that she used to drink pickle juice.

So I ask you, what’s the deal with girls and pickle juice? Or maybe I should ask, what’s the deal with me and girls who drink pickle juice?

A little BMW stalls out under a stoplight. Half a dozen strangers run from all directions to help push. One tall gangly guy dances around in front of the car – sort of a self-appointed drum major/traffic cop. He does some minor acrobatics as the car brakes to a halt and the crowd of pushers disperse. There’s a quick consultation between the driver and that guy in front. They apparently decide against trying to back into the parallel parking space just behind and to the right of the car. They would have gravity working with them, but would have to slip into the space in one pass – no do-overs. The traffic cop skips back down the hill, stops in the middle of the intersection and signals for the traffic to stop. He gives the driver an all-clear signal; and the car backs slowly into the intersection, veers slightly to the right, and coasts into a pay lot. The traffic guy does a little dance. A patrol car crawls up beside him and whoops its siren, reminding him that his business here is finished. He gives a convincingly brief explanation, pointing at the parking lot, and makes for the sidewalk. The cop pulls away. Traffic rolls. The driver – I guess he’s stuck.