Not Alone

in

The smell assaulted me before I turned the corner: browned butter, salt, yeasty bread. And there it was: Wetzel's Pretzels, between the frozen yogurt place and the cell phone store. A line of three people stopped me from walking right up and ordering. It gave me time to think. Mall pretzels smell great. The memory of them is fantastic, a rolled-up mish-mash of all the best soft pretzels I've ever eaten. But mall pretzels taste terrible. They're spongy bread, oversaturated with cheap butter, spottily sprinkled with salt.

I stared at the storefront, bored teenager at the counter and bored middle-aged woman at the ovens, and willed someone else to join the line before it ran down. Anyone, please to jump on that bullet, to give me an excuse to walk away, escape the lure of a delicious memory, and avoid disappointment. No luck.

"One original, please."

Lukewarm, soaked in butter to conceal poor bread, and undersalted. I ate half it walking through the mall, every bite a fresh disappointment. Three storefronts away, I threw what was left in the trash.

Curiosity and something familiar in the corner of my eye made me look. The trash was full of half-eaten pretzels.

Operation Lightning Bolt

in

Major Ketvertis listened to reports from the radio operators around him, marking his map of the city and issuing quiet orders to his troops. In his war room, the chatter of distant gunfire sounded like a TV battlefield with the sound turned down. The volume spiked and then quieted as a lieutenant entered and stood at a fidgety attention. Ketvertis snapped off a quick salute. "Yes, lieutenant?"

"The opposing force, sir. I... I think they're from Udija."

"Of course they are, lieutenant. We made up Udija for this war game."

"I know, but... the people assigned to be subversives and invaders... they're not speaking Lithuanian."

Ketvertis narrowed his eyes. "They'd better not be speaking Russian."

"No, sir, I speak Russian, and they're not."

"Are you telling me someone made up a language for the war game?"

The lieutenant looked around. "All I know is they're speaking a language we don't understand, and it's unnerving everyone."

A radio operator turned. "Sir, the opposing force just fielded tanks."

"They aren't supposed to have tanks for this exercise!" Major Ketvertis' face grew red.

"Reports of tanks with the Udijan flag on," said another operator.

"Maybe General Vasinas gave them tanks to surprise me," he mumbled. "But a language?"

A nearby explosion shook the building. "My God," he shouted, "what's going on out there?" Ketvertis stormed out of the building. The street was red with the light of fires glaring off clouds of smoke hanging over the city. Gunfire strobed against those same banks of smoke. "What is going on?" he cried.

"Sir," said the lieutenant, "I think Udija is invading." He looked up into the sky where a military plane streaked overhead. "And they're winning."

On the Utility of Towels

in

A bright summer sun shone on the children playing in the suburb street. Their play echoed through the neighborhood. "Let's be superheroes!" rang into the bathroom where Allen slouched under the shower of hot water. After every motion, he paused, unable to focus on the work ahead of him. "I'm super fast!" came in through the open window, as Allen scrubbed his skin. Ms. Grommel was after him for another revision on the proposal. And he couldn't keep his mind on the lawn care product or how to sell it to suburban homeowners.

"My power is building giant machines and controlling them!" called someone else outside. As he washed his hair, Allen's mind wandered. He imagined super lawn service, superheroes flying down from the sky and using their Selectoxin vision to kill the weeds but leave the lush grass untouched.

Toweling off, he put on shorts instead of slacks, and a t-shirt instead of a business shirt. Slipping on shoes, he walked out his front door. Tying the corners of the towel around his neck so it hung down his back, he shouted "I can fly and I have poison vision!" and he flew out to join the superhero team.

Looking Down

in

"Looking down at your feet won't help you, son." He looked up at a woman as thin as her shadow and old enough to get away with giving advice to strangers. "I'm not really looking there, am I? I'm just... thinking."

She shrugged and puttered off along the path that circled the park. He kept thinking, listening to the cars drive by and the yells of kids playing baseball, and he wound up on his back staring into the sky.

"Looking up into the clouds won't help, either," came the voice.

"I said I'm thinking," he said. "Who cares where I point my eyes?" She smiled a knowing smile and walked on. Scowling, he turned this way and that until he was looking out at the cars driving by.

This time he saw her coming. "No," he said, "I don't think this way will help either, okay?"

"Well," she said, "maybe if one of those cars loses control." A crack thundered and a baseball missed his head by inches. "But if you'd been facing that way, you might not have shit your pants just now." She leaned close. "Whatever else is going on, always keep your eye on the ball."