Taste, Part Two

As his tongue hit the wet pavement, Mr. Lepic felt the sharp prick of a pine needle. The Christmas tree that had shed on that spot belonged to Lamar and Sheila Warren, a married couple who lived in an old brownstone on the block. Mr. Lepic knew Mr. Warren, but was unaware of this fact. Mr. Warren was the owner of a deli/grocery on AC Powell Blvd., and everyday Mr. Lepic walked by and nodded hello through the window. Mr. Warren appreciated the gesture, always thought of Mr. Lepic as "one of the good ones" on a block that was being overrun by entitled pricks from downtown. Mr. Warren had reason to worry - a developer had already come by to take a look at his home, claiming that the lease didn't make clear whether the property could legally be owned by an individual and not the city. He thought about this when he dragged the tree from his living room to the sidewalk, scraping off the twig that stabbed Mr. Lepic's tongue.

Mr. Lepic tasted acid from yesterday's rain, grease dripped from a slice of pizza, rubber from the bottom of new sneakers, hair left by the new Bijon terrier adopted up the block...

Mr. Lepic stood up and brushed off his pants. There is too much here, he thought. Too much to taste. From now on, I'll stick to wine.

(You know how some people are "completists" for certain bands or artists or writers? That's who this is for. If you're just dying to read everything ever written by Oscar McPhee, first of all, seek help, second of all, sorry this piece was not...dare I say...OSCAR WORTHY! Next one will be better. I hope.)

Taste, Part One

On January 2nd, 2009, Bernard Lepic stopped on 123rd Street between Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and Frederick Douglass Boulevards. His knees cracked as he knelt on the sidewalk and placed his bare palms on the cement. He felt the surface, paused thoughtfully at the old gum and shoe prints that had worn their way in. He admired the grass that peeked out from the crack between slabs, scraggly brown blades that had no idea they wouldn't survive the winter. An old woman shook her head as she waddled past, and two teenagers laughed and shouted about the crazy ass cracker who needs his medication. Mr. Lepic looked only at the pavement, and then he stuck his tongue out and leaned in.

Mr. Lepic is widely known in the foodie community as an expert taster. He can identify the age and vintage of any wine or cheese. These talents are not unusual, but his gift ventures further, into areas that most food critics would consider beneath their wealth of expertise. Mr. Lepic won a potato chip tasting contest in Des Moines, Iowa in February 2006, not only correctly naming every brand, but even the date that the chips were manufactured. It is in hand-made foods that Mr. Lepic's brillance shines brightest; he can identify the bakery and, in special cases, the worker that made any croissant, muffin, bagel, bear claw, or danish on the island of Manhattan.

Tune in for part two whenever I get around to writing it!!! (within the next week)

The Dildo, Part Three

On the night before graduation, there was a large bonfire where seniors burned all the possessions they do not plan to carry into adult life. School notebooks, chairs, tables and lockets from ex-boyfriends all went up in ten foot flames, former owners slugging champagne from the bottle and dreading the ceremony they'd have to sit through after passing out for a few hours.

Don't worry. We didn't burn the dildo.

With all this attention focused on the engulfed soccer field, we snuck unnoticed onto the academic quad, the dildo and a roll of duct tape in hand. An austere statue of Ben Franklin stood erect in front of the Physics building, sternly unaware of the new appendage we'd planned for him. We taped the dildo into place, head peeking just beyond his coattails in profile view, and took a picture for posterity. We headed back to the fire, confident that someone would surely discover what we had done before the entire class' parents and grandparents walked past on their way to the graduation hill.

The next morning, after the ceremony, we headed off to celebrate all over campus. I stopped by Emily's apartment to say hello to her family. She pulled me aside.
"Do you know how many people took their picture in front of Ben Franklin today?"
"Security didn't notice?"
"I guess not. The first thing my grandparents asked me about after graduation was who had played the dildo prank on Benjamin Franklin. You're famous!"

When I walked by later, I saw the dildo lying in the tulips next to Ben. I was tempted to pick it up, but I realized that my time was done. Our grey friend had fulfilled its destiny with us, and it was time to pass the torch. I left it there, confident that the next generation would know wht to do when they saw a lonely grey dildo longing for a home.

The Dildo, Part Two

The rules were simple. One person hid the dildo in a spot that another housemate would surely discover during their daily routine. Upon finding the dildo, the housemate must shout "OH NO! THE DILDO!" loud enough for anyone who was home to hear them. The housemate then had a responsibility of the utmost important; find a new hiding place for the dildo. In this manner, the game recycled, only one person knowing for sure where the dildo was at any given time.

This was the last semester of college. As the uncertainty of the real world loomed, we learned to appreciate the certainty of the dildo. In the morning shower, we'd reach for the shampoo and find a grey friend instead. Cooking dinner, we'd open the stove and find its little head peeking out from the rack. It was especially nice when a visitor would happen upon the dildo, wonder if they should just keep quiet to save us the embarrassment, only to be regaled with the storied history of our sick little game. The dildo was a cultural icon in our house, surpassing any of our dreams for it when we first saw it submerged in the creek.

But we all had the feeling that this was not the end point for our friend. The dildo was destined for greater things, and it was our responsibility as adoptive parents to get it there.

Tune in tomorrow for the exicting conclusion of The Dildo!!!!

The Dildo, Part One

We spotted it in the muddy creek by our house. A grey dildo, half submerged in muck, water flowing over the shaft. For weeks we eyed it on our way home. Did it fall out of a bag? Had someone been using it in that spot? Was it evidence left by some sort of perpetrator?

I came home after class one day to find something boiling in the kitchen. I opened our largest pot and peered through the steam to find a most unwelcome visitor. The dildo was in there, water flowing over its shaft.

"What the Hell??" I knew whoever was responsible couldn't be far.
Joe came into the kitchen laughing. "I'm disinfecting it."
"WHY?"
"You'll see."

And over the next three months, a new game took Townhouse D5 by storm.

Hide the dildo.

Tune in tomorrow for more exciting dildo action!!!!

Salted Cardboard

Mark and Ricky bought five-cent lemonade from a kid behind the backstop. Ricky tipped him a penny, told him to stay in the juice business if he wanted to make it in this economy. The kid rolled his eyes, slipped the penny into his tube sock.

They were at the park to see Angela play softball. Angela was a ten-year-old blue-eyed girl who lived down the block, in one of the new condos by the water. Her parents put in seventy-hour weeks at their respective law firms, so it was a relief when they saw Mark and Ricky's smiling faces under an "Experienced Babysitters for Hire" heading in the Village Voice seven months earlier. One more page and Angela could've been watched by a 300-pound escort girl named Sasquatch Sally.

"Do you suppose anyone sent scouts to this game?" Mark asked.
"With the U-13 League Draft coming up, they'd be crazy not to."
"Why can't it just be about having fun?"
"Competition is fun. Remember how much fun we had in the bracket challenge last year?"
"I still feel bad for that Hasidic boy."
"That boy stood between us and the bracket challenge trophy. Where would we be without that trophy? Where would we keep leftover soy sauce packets?"
"Do you think he remembers us?"
"Mark, you're too delicate. Why I bet that boy becomes president some day. I bet at his inauguration he'll thank those two guys in Brooklyn who showed him that there's more to success than being a nice person."
"You told him you were going to dump bacon grease over his head if he got on base."
"You just don't understand competition."

Angela stepped up to bat. She was thin, with a long brown ponytail and a small gap between her front teeth. She had bandages on both of her knees from sliding in last week's game.

"Yea Angela!" Mark stood from the bleachers. "Isn't she great?"
"To think she's made it this far when we've been feeding her cardboard for dinner."
"What?"
"Cardboard."

Angela lifted her back foot as she swung at the first pitch, twirled her body around in a circle. She looked at her coach, who mimed a swing and then pointed at his stationary foot.

"Scouts aren't gonna like that," Ricky said.
"Did you say that we feed her cardboard?"
"Since I stopped getting free poster board from work, yea."
"That's...How can you..."
"Look Marky, times are tough. I'd love to serve Angela potted meat and string cheese but there's rent, cable, electricity. How about those New Yorkers in the bathroom with your name on them?"
"That was a gift from my grandmother."
"Regardless."

Angela watched the second pitch sail past her at eye level. Grunts of "good eye" bellowed out of the dugout.

"Why does she eat the cardboard?," Mark asked.
"Because we're cool guys and that's what we give her. All her parents do is lecture her about pesticides and trans fats. It's a relief to sit down and enjoy a nice plate of salted cardboard."
"We salt it?"
"Have you ever tried unsalted cardboard?"
"I don't know. Have I?"
"Yes. You asked if I had bought the generic cereal by mistake."

Angela popped the third pitch high over her head. She squatted low and grasped the sides of her helmet. The ball bounced near her shoe.

"Ooh, be careful!," Mark said.
"Relax. She's got a helmet."
"Good thing it's not made of cardboard."
"Yea. She probably would've eaten it then."
"Ricky." Mark breathed in and out slowly. "I want us to stop feeding cardboard to Angela."
"I've been thinking of switching to packing peanuts. We've got so many at work, and it'd be a shame to just throw them away."

Angela smacked the fourth pitch, a slow hopper that bounced past the short stop into left field. She stopped at first and smoothed her hair behind her ears.

"Ricky! We need to buy food. Human food. I can cut back on things if that's what it takes."
"And what would she learn from that? I'm looking out for her future. There won't always be two nice guys down the block willing to feed her."
"We feed her cardboard!"
"Salted cardboard."

Mark trudged down the bleachers and bought two blue ices from a woman near the right field line. He held one out to Angela as he walked past, but the umpire told him to back up. Angela shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
She looked up at Ricky in the stands and blew him a kiss. He snatched it out of the air, held it as high as his arm could reach, then slid it gently into his shirt pocket.