Who Ate All the Tic Tacs?
A Memoir, of Sorts.
But not in the sense Jim Frey's A Million Little Pieces was a memoir, probably at the behest of the publishing house, since memoirs are pretty hot these days. Just so you know. For all you know, none of this could be true, up to and including the existence of Tic Tacs, which would surely be to the chagrin of Ferrero employees everywhere. And with that in mind, I present to you... "Who Ate All the Tic Tacs?"
'Sad.' That was the first thought that entered my mind. 'What a sad little sight.' It seemed so... fragile, so, cheap. Cheap in a way that a full box didn't seem it. Not that I knew anything about cost, cheapness, or expensiveness.
All I knew was there was an empty box of Tic Tacs on the kitchen table. I had to look close to see that they had been cinnamon. This only made me sadder. A full, or even half full box of Tic Tacs you could have told that it was cinnamon from fifty paces. Well, fifty paces if someone was holding up the box against a solid color background. And not a red solid color background. Then you'd just think someone was waving to you. And that's a horrible feeling, waving to someone you thought was waving to you only to realize, a couple steps closer, that they're holding something aloft, like your keys, or a box of half full Tic Tacs. And they're saying to you, silently, "You forgot your damn keys again, you eejit," or "Will you just hurry up and guess the flavor of these Tic Tacs so I can finish them off, popping the remaining eight or so in my mouth before you get too close and try and stop me."
I had been in the living room, lying on the rug, reading propped up on two elbows that were now both pockmarked from the little polyester worms. And when I got up I imagined the polyester worms had burrowed into the (now) mottled skin of my elbows, crawled up my arms, shoulders, neck, and snuck around the back of my head into my brain, where they fluffed out to make themselves comfortable, filling every available space with warm polyester. Rug head.
I stumbled into the kitchen, repeating rug head over and over until it meant nothing. Well, less than nothing, since rug head isn't particularly meaningful.
But, in an instant, the rug head was gone, and I was left empty like the box of Tic Tacs lying forlornly on the kitchen table.
Which is when I noticed the strange glow coming from just outside, on the porch. 'Aliens,' I thought. 'Good. Maybe they'll return them when they're done.'
To. Be. Continued...?
disclaimer:
This week is short, sweet, and a little too neat. Or maybe not. I was looking for a rhyme, and I'm not sure why. I may be trying out for a new rap group next week. I'm not sure. We shall see.
And we meant it about the Jim Frey "controversy." Personally, I believe Michael Chabon put it well, in the introduction to his guest-edited Best American Short Stories 2005, and that it is all about entertainment, and entertainment isn't a dirty word, and for the love of all that's holy and good I wish the people who wind up writing the news for us would get out more and we could make do with less news.
Funnily enough, there is credible evidence that Tic Tacs do, in fact, exist. There's a web page about them. Which is surely enough proof.
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See you next week.
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