While I was in school at UGA, I lived my sophomore through senior year in a quaint but amazing house on Pope Street that we called The Pope House. I guess creativity was not our forte, though the ensuing post will hopefully prove otherwise. The Pope had a rotating door and an always eclectic cast of characters through that door. Myself, Ben Leathers, Bryan Overcarsh, and Luke McFadden were the fore [four] fathers at the Pope, but another 1-3 other people effectively lived [read: crashed] there at any point in time (Andrew Martin, Brad Alexander, Mark Vinson, Tom Hart). The house was bequeathed to a series of awesome dudes (Justin and Jared Kimmel, William Kent, Kelsey Cox, and Clay Maloy) that we knew would carry on the traditions of awesome and randomness, and they passed it down to another series of dudes that were just as equipped for the task of keeping the Pope awesome (Ben Hoffer, Jeremy Tatro, Jackson Huckaby). One of said dudes was Brad Rogers who had a brilliant post-collegiate idea of starting a Pope Street Alums listserv so we could keep up with each other over topics such as all things UGA, what’s wrong with our world today, politics, fishing, relationships, rock candy, Atlanta sports, etc.
It is pretty standard for us to seek advice within this email chain of excellence, so I stirred up chatter regarding potential ideas for blog posts. I got a variety of stellar ideas, but one in particular seemed like a unique and new challenge for me. Luke (who rarely posts due to his recreational unavailability at the hands of his doctoral residency at UAB) suggested I write fiction and recommended I use the three sentences below to compose a short story. The challenge was that I was responsible for coming up with some sensible tale to link the three. I have full intentions of doing this, though I may intermittently jump back to my traditional rants about things I love or hate in the middle of the short story. Or I may just not ever finish it at all... I don't want writing for enjoyment to feel like homework.
-The fresh baklava had not yet finished searing the roof of my mouth when she subtly slid the pink folder across the table.
-No one knew about the snail carnival, unless of course you counted the highest rolling elites of Watkinsville's seedy underground.
-I don't know how it came to me, but I knew right then that the only thing that could save me from the stubby-armed natives and their thundering volcano's fury would be the Jonas Brothers-signed Furby tucked securely away inside my backpack.
What follows is my first ever attempt at writing fiction. Judge delicately.
Part One: Baklava
The fresh baklava had not yet finished searing the roof of my mouth when she subtly slid the pink folder across the table. I noted the folder bore several of the characteristics of the filo dough that composed the creature of hate presently tattooing the roof of my mouth. The folder, like the bubbling pastry plastered to my chops, was layered thick with what seemed to be envelopes, and coated with shrapnel of rosewater and honey flung from the jowls of the ferociously ravenous woman sitting across from me. Her ability to consume the torturously tar-hot tart without pause or pant furthered my suspicion this woman actually may be the devil. I began to ponder why I was even facing the mal intent of a dish traditionally served at room temperature. All the while, my best efforts of nonchalance within this fateful rendezvous were being compromised by my flame-throwing bleats and circling arms. For some reason I could not yet place, I felt like a vulnerable and helpless victim.
With my antics the woman became increasingly more anxious and ready to address our intended business. As the burn finally began to subside, she spoke her first words to me. “Mr. McWagon,” she said in a raspy voice that suited her stature and fiery red locks. “My associate did not bring you all the way to Izmir for the baklava.” Of this I was quite aware as the baklava was obviously reserved for those in Dante’s inner layers of hell. “Everything you need to know regarding your immediate future can be found within the folder.” With that the voluptuous ginger was off. Observing her walk away I could not help but notice her pants were much too tight; her backside resembled a couple plastic bags full of wet laundry competing to be first into a washing machine. I expected more modesty and decency from a representative of an organization enigmatic and large enough to fly me to Turkey on a chartered plane.
Not knowing the nature of the business to which I was tending, I figured it in my best interest to stay on the move before checking the contents of the folder. I slinked away to a little coffee shop near the port and sat in a quasi private table out on the veranda- a place I deemed perfect for discovering my new life direction. I was surprisingly at peace as the harbor water bubbled quietly against the side of the gracefully approaching cruise ships. An enormous foghorn blast from a nearby freighter interrupted the serenity of the scene and propelled me out of my daydream and back into my present reality. Things weren’t going to be the same for me. One minute I was a humble, yet resourceful repo man from Savannah, and the next minute I was the newest ‘errand boy’ for what was presumably one of the world’s premier secret agencies.
There’s something about the people of Turkey. Their olive skin and traditionally darker features make them some of the most beautiful people in the world, but they also invented the unibrow. My waitress was no different. She was polished and elegant and she nimbly spun between her tables with the agility and focus of a whirling dervish. But that unibrow… It did not matter that she had poise comparable to an Olympic diver- nothing was able to detract my attention from the wooly mammoth positioned across her brow line. She smiled a beautiful smile as she sat my coffee on the table. Turkish coffee, labeled as such, is not a Turkish version of coffee as we know it. It is a separate entity altogether. Imagine mud packed into the bottom third of a shot glass and topped with dip spit. My ‘when in Rome’ mentality was again going to mar my oral well-being. Once the waitress whisked away, I finally took in a deep breath and opened the folder. Atop the many mounds of sealed envelopes was a single sheet of paper that appeared to be a cover letter. It read:
“Duke McWagon,Please accept the baklava from Agent Chavez as a sign of our appreciation for your travels. (She always gets hers heated to 5000 degrees Kelvin, so I would advise giving it 5 or so minutes to cool.)While we understand that it was not your decision to activate as an agent, we appreciate your understanding and willingness to adapt to the situation for the good of the organization and your health. As an active agent, your identity back home has been ‘put on hold’ and you are now a conduit of our agenda. Within this folder you will find 10 sealed envelopes, each containing a labor you must complete in order to have your life restored to the way you once knew. In accomplishing these tasks, there are two rules:-You must kill no human unless the labor demands it.-You must accept no pay to complete the labor.Each labor can be accomplished in accordance to the rules. Let me remind you, Mr. McWagon, we are a very powerful operation and a violation of the rules will simply result in an additional labor… or death.You will be contacted intermittently throughout your journey, and you are to respect the confidentiality of all items in the pink folder which is to remain in your possession at all times. No one can know our agenda.Safe questing,Agent HooverDirector of Secret AffairsGirl Scouts of America”
Like the flipping of a switch, a resolve sparked inside me to complete these tasks and gain freedom from whatever hold the GSA had on my family. Once my family was safe, I determined I would perform the greatest humanitarian act of our millennium and destroy the entire organization and every last calorie-packed cookie and brown slash of slavery associated with it. But I would have to play by the rules. I knew the breadth of power and influence of these green-vested muses and their director spanned far beyond what was visible at the surface. I had heard rumors of the matted underbelly of their inner workings and knew that my only chance was to play the game how they wanted it played. They would be in touch, I had no doubt. But I also had no doubt they would have eyes and ears on my every move.
Five or so minutes went by while I contemplated my destiny regarding likely the last to-do list I would ever have. Alas, I had a job to do. I didn’t want to be a hero, but here was my chance. I was going to not only save my family, but the world. I grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. There it was. The first labor? I expected to go toe to toe with a ravenous lion or drug cartel or a government entity, yet written on an index card in beautiful red calligraphy I saw those peculiar words:
“One: Destroy Watkinsville’s Snail Carnival”
Sorry this post lacked multimedia. Reference the above to see a real live whirling dervish.
MIND BLOWN
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