One Minute Wit
Click — Click
Sounds From The Past
I miss the good old days.
So I am currently transferring all the music files on my computer to 8-Track tape.
50-Word Story
Pumpkin Brains
“Do pumpkins have brains?”
“Yup. I am pretty sure I just got a scoop of his cerebellum.”
“What’s a Sarah Bellim?”
“The cerebellum is the part of the brain that coordinates voluntary movements such as balance, coordination, posture, and speech, resulting in smooth and balanced muscular activity.”
“I knew that.”
[Twenty-five years later, Billy was one of the leading neurosurgeons in Boston.]
A Max Headline News Story Adventure
The Banana Bread Incident
When I sat down at my desk in the Big City News newsroom, I smelled a story. Actually, I smelled banana bread. But I knew there was a story behind it somewhere. Nobody leaves banana bread on my desk unless they want something. Or they mistakenly left it on my desk thinking it was someone else’s desk, and it was that poor sap’s birthday. Too bad, Charlie, it landed here, and it’s going right in my gullet. Happy unbirthday to me.
I had just finished my third slice of banana bread and tucked the rest into my desk drawer when Charlotte Sharpeye, one of the paper’s proofreaders, stopped at my desk.
“Hi, Max. Did you get my banana bread?”
I should have known.
“I did doll-face. It was delicious. What’s the occasion?”
I knew good and well that she found me irresistible. It’s part of the curse of being a big city newshound like me. Dames can’t resist you.
“No occasion. I was just in the mood to bake, and I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Well, I did that. You know I can’t resist a good flour, sugar, water, and bananas combination. And yours is the best in town.”
“Max, must you be such a flirt?”
I’m the flirt? Actually, if I was the marrying type, Charlotte wouldn’t be a bad catch. She was attractive enough. I often wondered what she would look like with her hair down and glasses off. Probably a real dish. And she obviously knows her way around a kitchen. But flushing out stories is in my blood. I work all hours of the day and night, and that’s no way to treat a sweet kid like Charlotte.
“It’s my natural charm. I have tried to reign it in to spare the hearts of women everywhere, but it’s like a curse. I can’t turn it off for long.”
“What a crack up.”
“Actually, I’m a little off my game. I thought this banana bread was the start of a juicy story, but that lead turned out to be cold as a cadaver.”
“Well, maybe I can help.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I’m smarter then you think, Max.”
“I think you’re plenty smart. You’d be intimidated by my intellect if you weren’t.”
“Right. Anyway, my Landlady was telling me about the woman who comes in once a week to clean her flat. She is friends with one of the maids who clean the Harry Bigbucks mansion. And that maid goes bowling with one of the maids who clean the Mayor’s mansion…”
“Hold on, Doll, I need to start drawing a map to find my way back from this story.”
“Just listen. That maid was cleaning the Mayor’s office two nights ago. It was long past dark. She happened to look out the window and saw the Mayor digging a hole in the woods behind his mansion. She stopped to watch and saw the Mayor climb out of the hole, go into the garden shed, and bring out a large burlap sack. A sack big enough to contain a body. The Mayor was struggling to carry it and ended up dragging it across the lawn. Next, he shoved it in the hole and filled the hole back in.”
“Are you trying to say the mayor buried a dead body in his back yard?”
“I sure hope it wasn’t alive when he buried it!”
“Shhh. If what you are saying is true, it could be the biggest story this paper has seen in decades. You’ve got to get me that maid’s name and address. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. I owe you a big fat steak dinner for this.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
It turns out my sniffer was right after all. I did smell a story. And what a doozie. A murdering Mayor is the stuff of reporter’s dreams, and I was all over this story like a teenager on a pizza.
The next day, Charlotte came through as promised. I hailed a cab and was off to visit Tracy Tidy.
Tracy lives in South Corner. A part of the city most folks avoid. I ain’t most folks. I banged on Tracy’s apartment door. A young dame in a maid’s outfit opened the door.
“I’m Max Headline from Big City News. I hear you saw the Mayor bury something in his yard the other night. Can I come in and ask you some questions?”
“I don’t want no trouble.”
“I will keep you out of it. No one will know who gave me the info. But the longer I stand at your door, the more likely it is someone will notice.”
“Come in.”
I went inside and got the same story Charlotte gave me. I’ve interviewed enough liars to know one when I see one. Tracy seemed to be telling the truth. She sure seemed scared enough. I decided to take the story to my boss.
“You’re telling me a maid saw the Mayor bury a dead body in his yard?”
“That’s what she saw, Boss.”
“Well, before anyone goes accusing the Mayor of murder, we need some hard evidence. Not just a maid’s story.”
“I’m on it, Boss.”
I knew what I had to do. I had to dig up the body in the Mayor’s yard and see it with my own two peepers. Then I could bring in the coppers and sit back and wait for my headline story to hit the presses.
That night. I grabbed a flashlight and a shovel and got Charlotte to drive me out to the Mayor’s mansion. That was another check in Charlotte’s plus column. She owned a car. Who knew proofreading paid so well?
“Stay here with the car and keep an eye out,” I said to Charlotte.
“I didn’t drive you all the way out here to sit in the car. I’m coming with you. Besides, you’ll need someone to hold the light while you dig.”
“Alright. Just be quiet. We don’t want no one hearing us.”
Actually, I just didn’t want her to start asking me questions. Why do broads have to ask so many questions?
We made our way over the mansion wall and back to the wooded section of the yard. I found the freshly dug hole hastily covered with leaves and sticks. I began digging. My back quickly reminded me that I push a pencil for a living. Still, I was determined and eventually reached the burlap sack.
Just then, a light shined on both of us. I thought it might be a flatfoot called by the Mayor’s staff. Or worse, some meat-headed muscle called by the Mayor to finish off both me and Charlotte. To my surprise, it was the Mayor himself. Holding a flashlight in one hand and packing heat in the other.
“What are you doing in my yard in the middle of the night?” The Mayor asked.
“Mayor Flapdoodle, I can explain.”
I figured I was done for.
“Let me guess. Someone saw me bury something in my yard, and you came to see if it was a dead body. Does that about cover it?” Mayor Flapdoodle said.
“Uh. Yeah.”
I’m nothing if not eloquent.
“Then go ahead and open the bag.”
I did. Inside, I found the carcass of an Old English Sheepdog.
“My kids love that dog. When he died, I couldn’t bear the thought of them seeing him. So I buried him and told my kids he ran away.”
“Umm.”
“Do you take me for an idiot? If I was going to kill someone — like a too nosy reporter — do you think I would bury them in my own yard?”
“You have a point there, Mayor.”
“Now get outta here before I call the cops and have you both arrested for trespassing.”
“We are as good as gone,” I said.
“Sorry, Mr. Mayor. I voted for you. I knew it must have been a misunderstanding,” Charlotte said.
“Just get out.”
We did.
On the drive back, I gave Charlotte one of my patented “see what you got me into” looks.
“Don’t say it,” Charlotte said. “Just tell me what time you are picking me up Friday.”
“What?”
“You owe me a big fat steak dinner.”
Dames ain’t nothin’ but trouble.
Happy Monday.
Mark