Business 101

 

 

 

 



Picasso in Grade School

 

 



Why we fly south...

 

 

 

 



It may be time to Pitch it.

 

 

 

 



Build Your Own

 

 

 

 

Notes sold separately

 

 

Why I don't trust adults...

 

 

 

The Seamstress and the Fly

 

 

 



 

So what protects the people

installing the guard rails?



Standing Flight

It is surely within the fine details of life that we often stop to ponder.  In my own entanglement of deliberation, over what now is so faint a memory I’m pressed to recall... my feet were not setting flat upon the Earth, but were rather hovering just a few inches above.  Startled at first, my hands jetted out, as if to take hold of some form of stability, but of course there was none about.  I stood in the town square awaiting my lunch engagement, who was sure to marvel at my present elevation.

       How stately should I have been had I chosen my tall and boldly brimmed hat at dress this morning.  Oh and of course my walking stick.  Oh, but I dare not jab the point of such a stick at the fine cushion giving support to the likes of me.  Perhaps its best that it was left behind, leaning at the ready.

       I wanted to tell, to point out, “Hey take notice.  Look to see those few inches beneath my feet.”  But there were no passers by; no one early and eager as I for lunch.  I might stand fast until notice is gained, at which point my instant fame should spur on a larger and larger crowd.  I, of course, inches above them all, giving point.  “Look there.  Can you see that?”  No, I am not one to take advantage.  I should keep looking down, making no gestures or comments of distant events.

       But where are all the people?  An entire town to skip lunch?  That would gain far more notice than a simple break from gravity.  Perhaps I should take a step or two, you know, see if I am to remain up here, or if but a single step should cause me to once again join the plane of Tailors, Bankers, Lawyers and men of… well, of Earth.  I dare not risk it.  Not yet.  First - a witness to this day.  Rubin Alley Scott shall tell no tale that has no backers.  Patience has no furrowed brow.  I shall stand as a cat who has sighted her Thrush, still – quite, and awaiting lunch.

       Keeping thought of notice, the breeze, albeit slight, was at my back and flicked at my neck.  Slowly I did raise my arms and gently up-turned my collar.  No forecast could I then recall, but puff clouds far above the trees and mountain points were great between, and yesterday had played a quiet song.  I’d not be left to rain.

       The clock tower struck twelve, while the distant train whistle echoed off the slopes.  It was now lunch in Littleburrough.  Men in suits, women clasping fancy hats in Tuesday’s breeze headed for restaurants, diners and café’s.  Activity was hurried and the scuffle of chatter rose above the distant train whistle.

       Standing poised, standing quiet, elevated there just a few inches above the Earth, Rubin Alley Scott saw none of this.  He heard only the birds, felt only the breeze and saw not a single soul but his own.  For Rubin had gone far beyond lunch in Littleburrough.  Rubin had passed away while dressing in the morning hours.  His schedule full, he chose appropriate attire for he would want to look his best, and he did.  The only glitch to Rubin’s transition into the hereafter was a slight malfunction in the receiving station, which caused poor Rubin to rise, but… as you know; only about two inches.

       No, this is not the first time we’ve had these problems.  There are millions of Rubins out there, stuck, just waiting – standing there inches from the ground.  Hey, it’s not our fault.  Stuff breaks.  I don’t have to tell you that.  Surely you’ve had stuff break before.  Well Heaven ain’t no different honey.  Just because someone’s dead doesn’t all of a sudden make them a genius.  We’ve got morons, nit-wits and bozo’s galore, and some of these folks are in charge.  That’s right; you don’t get away from it by dropping dead toots.

       Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.  I just wanted to fill you in a little.  I’ll let you get back to the story.

       Rubin’s concern for his lunch schedule was being transmitted by means of his growling stomach.  Although impressed by his new height, his attention was now being drawn to the questionable promptness of his lunching partner.   “I shall not wait beyond expected courtesies” he said aloud.  And then the unexpected happened; without thinking about it Rubin began to walk toward the bakery.  People stuck in transition had never walked off before.  Rubin had left his spot.  Suddenly he could see everyone, hear everyone and now everyone could see him as well.  Except for his inability to wear out a pair of shoes, Rubin looked normal, sounded normal and felt hungry.

       In reality, however, I should begin this story with Bentley Travis.  He was actually the first real, (I mean – living) person to notice Rubin the moment Rubin stepped from his spot.  You see Bentley was also scurrying toward the bakery at lunch that day and as Rubin transitioned from (Standing Flight) as they call it, back to real time, the two collided.  Bentley was sent sprawling to the pavement, offering him an eye-level view of Rubin’s elevation.

Noticing the space between Rubin’s shoes and the ground, Bentley let out an audible gasp.  Rubin, thinking the poor man simply had the wind knocked out of him from hitting the pavement, bent over to offer a hand up.

       The problem, of course, was that Rubin’s reach was no longer adequate.  He was a few inches short of reaching the hand offered up by Bentley.  The two looked at each other, Rubin suddenly knowing that Bentley was aware of his awkward height, and Bentley simply dumbfounded at the floating man in front of him.  Each said nothing but together managed to assist Bentley to an upright position and nodded to each other as they both walked silently to the bakery.

       Once inside the door Bentley suggested Rubin find a table and sit down while he grabbed a couple lunch menus.  Neither man spoke until after the waitress had walked away to place their order, then Bentley leaned in toward Rubin and in a quiet voice asked, “So how do you do that?”

       Ever proper, Rubin stuck out his hand to shake Bentley’s and introduced himself.  “My name is Rubin Alley Scott, and I apologize for knocking into you.”

       Even though Bentley shook Rubin’s hand, he didn’t introduce himself but again repeated his question.  “Really, how do you do that?”

       Rubin then went on to explain he had no idea whatsoever.  He had gotten up as usual, dressed and headed into town to meet his lunch appointment when, just feet from the bakery, he suddenly noticed his peculiar elevation.

       Bentley was hanging on every word but at the same time trying to make sense of it all. 

       “I’ve studied, Bentley said, I have a Master’s in Business Administration, a Bachelor’s in Political Science.  I am not one to attend carnival rides, nor do I expect to encounter a bearded lady behind the curtain.  You, however, preformed your magic right before me, outside – in the town square.  I must know how you did it.”

       As the waitress delivered their food the two men sat quietly; Bentley occasionally leaning over to look at Rubin’s shoes, but he could see no mechanical device or trick levers.

       Halfway through lunch Rubin voiced his concern that his original lunch appointment never showed up.  “I’m worried something might have happened.”   Bentley didn’t respond.  He just kept looking at Rubin like he might be some freak of nature.  He wasn’t scared of him but he also didn’t want anyone else to notice what he had discovered.  He needed Rubin to remain seated until he had a handle on what was going on.  He viewed this encounter as his.  If anyone was going to cash in or become famous over this, he wanted the biggest piece of the action.

       The waitress reappeared with the little black folder containing their bill, along with a ballpoint pen.  As she walked away the pen inadvertently rolled from the table onto the floor.  Bentley bent down to pick it up and upon sitting upright again discovered his lunch partner was gone.  He simply disappeared without a sound.  His chair had not scooted back, and there was no sign of him in any direction.

       Bentley sat stunned.  He could see Rubin’s lunch plate, silverware and napkin, so he was sure he had not imagined the entire event.  He opened the black folder and saw there were two lunch charges. 

       As Bentley left the bakery he muttered to himself; I’ll tell no one of this.  It never happened, but then he found himself looking down at his hand.  I shook hands with him, of course it happened.

       But I shall never mention it.  If something in this universe was broken - it must have gotten fixed, he thought to himself.  But there was something more.  He couldn't quite put his finger on it, that is...
until he thought back - the waitress.  That's it.  I never looked up, never saw her face.  She must have intentionally distracted me; forced me to look away just long enough to...  I'll call her Miss. Direction.  Bentley smiled to himself as he made this silly joke to himself, and as he made his way through the town square he forever left behind all thoughts of the morning's adventure.

       And he never thought of it again.

             

The end

   

At the Home

Somewhat odd

and a little bit weird

how my hairs thinning out

and there's gray in my beard -

 

The spring in my step

developed a squeak

memory, I think...

has sprung a slight leak -

 

My gas tank is empty

my tires are flat

wipers can't scrape

the bugs that went splat -

 

Some would give up

at the prospects I have

but it's meatloaf Thursday

and for that I am glad.