This was the assignment from my favorite college president,
Jim Genandt: “So I want you to write a short story and here are the names of
the four characters I want you to use: Wangus Farkle, Deeshpot Snickmanf,
Horobax Pinkerglot, and Snorban Quiglesblurt. No other characters. I would
prefer a sci-fi western campfire setting set in 1900 near Flush, Kansas. Are
you up to the challenge?”
Flush, Kansas is
in the northeast quadrant of the state; you know, over in Pottawatomie County. The
town got its name when Wangus Farkle won it in a poker game back around the
turn of the century—not this one, the last one. The winning hand? Five diamonds.
Some dang fool claimed that his five cards in a row (8-9-10-Jack-Queen) was a
lot harder to get than five of the same suit, so he should win the hand. Wangus
showed him the rule book and the unblinking eye of a cocked Colt 45, convincing
the dang fool that a flush does indeed beat a straight.
That aforementioned
dang fool was Horobax Pinkerglot. You’ve no doubt heard the name if you know a
damn thing about the Wild West. Being an outlaw, Pinkerglot never gave two
hoots for anybody’s rules. He dedicated himself to seeing to it that Flush,
Kansas would never prosper until it changed its name to his. You think paybacks
are hell? Horobax is hell and then some. If any business—general store,
blacksmith shop, barbershop, or bank—started to show a profit, Pinkerglot would
gut it. Rob it then burn it to the ground.
Deeshpot Snickmanf
probably created more useful smartphone apps than anyone in the 21st
century. When he was ignoring his boring high school classes in favor of
pursuing something he was actually interested in, his parents and school
counselors kept telling him he needed to get his head out of the clouds and
face reality. “Reality?” said Deeshpot. “Before we can discuss it
intelligently, you’re going to have to define your terms. Tell me: What is real?”
Real poor: That’s
what most folks in Flush, Kansas were. And not just moneywise; they were poor
in spirit. A bright lad like Deeshpot could move away, shake the dust from his
Adidas and never look back. But Deeshpot believed you should bloom where you’re
planted.
The dispirited
citizenry had long since resigned themselves to their circumstances. Some said
the community was just plain snake bit. Others claimed the town was built on an
ancient burial site and was thus cursed. Deeshpot didn’t buy it, any of it. But
it was still his birthright, so he owned it. Could he get a refund? No, but
maybe…maybe he could swap it for something else? He had no idea what, but he
was not going to give up. This was his home; these were his people; he would
not let them down.
The Universe
honors an unbending intention. The edges of doubt and fear curl and flake in
the heat of a burning desire. About 2:23 one morning, Deeshpot’s phone buzzed.
A text from…Snorban Quiglesblurt? Who the hell? The message: “Go to Tuttle
Creek. Build a fire. Bring a picture of yourself when you were seven years old.”
That didn’t make a lick of sense, yet for some reason it seemed important.
Ever do something
that didn’t make sense but you did it anyway because you were eat up with
curiosity? If so, you know where Deeshpot was an hour later. Flint, steel, kindling,
twigs, bigger sticks. He sat cross-legged and gazed into the flames, the glowing
coals, the snapping sparks. He heard the wind in the treetops and an occasional
owl hoot. He heard the same water the dinosaurs drank singing sea shanties and
reciting sacred limericks to ancient rocks. It could have been five minutes or
five years.
“Show me the
picture.”
Snorban’s voice
was not loud, unduly deep, or commanding. It was inviting. He was never obeyed
because folks were afraid but because something in his tone and his manner made
them want to. People knew he was there to help and add to the fun, not to
condemn and dampen—you know, a true leader.
Deeshpot handed
Snorban the photo of his grinning seven-year-old self.
Snorban smiled
back at the kid in the picture. He raised his eyes to meet Deeshpot’s and
asked, “Is this child dead?”
Deeshpot was
already off balance from Snorban’s arrival: He was just sitting there on the
other side of the fire, like he’d been there all the while. Deeshpot never saw
or heard him approach. Now this question. “No, of course not.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, he’s…he’s
me. I’m just a grown up him.” (Yeah, that sounded real bright. Sheesh!)
“So, he’s part of
you?”
“Yes. That’s a
better way to put it.”
Snorban shook his
head. “That’s not physically possible. There is not a single cell, not so much
as an atom that was contained in that kid that is with you now. That child no
longer exists. When someone no longer exists, we commonly refer to them as
dead.”
Deeshpot’s brain
was not responding. (Try unplugging it then plug it back in.) “No, he’s still
there.”
“Where?”
“Here.” He pointed
to his head. “I can…”
“Remember?”
“Not just
remember, actually experience.”
Snorban smiled. “So
the trick is to remember, and…?”
“And what?”
“RATS!”
Deeshpot jumped—as
much as one can while sitting. “Rats?”
“That’s your
mnemonic: RATS. It stands for Remember And
Then Some.”
Deeshpot grinned. “Yeah…yeah,
that fits.”
“So if you wanted
to go back to when you were six?”
“Remember And Then
Some.”
“Two?”
“I really don’t
recall much before—”
“RATS!”
“Oh…okay…hey,
yeah.”
“The year before
you were born?”
“C’mon, man…you
can’t…”
Snorban raised an
eyebrow. “Are you going to define reality for me now?”
“RATS?”
“Give it a go.”
Deeshpot felt
defeated. “Sorry, I just don’t get it.”
“No, no, don’t be
sorry.” Snorban raised a halting hand. “If I’m going to pass myself off as a
teacher, if you’re not getting it, then it falls to me to find a way to help
you get it.” He massaged his chin and pondered. “You’re probably too young to
remember videocassette recordings.”
Deeshpot
brightened. “No, I’ve read about them. They even let us play with one at the
museum.”
Snorban clapped
his hands. “Okay, frame of reference, good. If a person wanted to watch one
again, he had to what?”
“Rewind?”
“Exactly. And when
did people stop rewinding?”
“When they got to
the end of the tape?”
“Yes! And they
could have kept on rewinding if they…fill in the blank: if they…”
“Had more tape?”
“Bingo!”
Deeshpot was still
a bit confused. “But it would be blank tape.”
Snorban winked. “Not
if you put something on it. RATS backward is STAR. Go back and STAR in your own
movie. Put something on it. Rewind that rascal.”
When did the sun
come up? The campfire was smoldering, little intermittent wisps of smoke. Deeshpot
said it slowly and reverently: “Holy shit.” Then he jumped to his feet and
shouted like a tent evangelist: “Holy Shit!”
Snorban placed a
gentle hand on Deeshpot’s shoulder. “The app will work, obviously. I think you
know that you shouldn’t make it available to just anyone?”
Deeshpot nodded.
Flush, Kansas is
in the northeast quadrant of the state; you know, over in Pottawatomie County.
The town got its name when Wangus Farkle won it in a poker game back around the
turn of the century—not this one, the last one. The winning hand? Five diamonds.
A flush.
Horobax Pinkerglot threw down his cards. “Damn!
I almost had a straight. All I ended up with was a lousy pair of tens.”
Farkle eyed the
cards. “Hold on, pardner. One of them cards is the ten of diamonds. I’ve got
the other ten of diamonds. You dealt this hand.” Wangus pulled his pistol and
shot Horobax dead. Them’s the rules.
