California State University, Northridge

"Mama, are we near Disneyland yet?"

"Remember, Trevor, that I told you Disneyland would have to wait till another time?"

"They have a pirate cave ride where things explode!  It's real fire and everything."
"Wild World has rides too.  Lots of them."

"But they don't have pirates, do they?"

Trevor asked this in the dejected tone of a boy who already knew the answer.

"No, I don't think they have pirates, but they do have roller coasters."

Trevor's mother plucked the Dr Pepper out of the flimsy cupholder and finished it off.

She was treating Trevor to a day out that a boy would enjoy.  Paying for eight hours of babysitting was an unpleasant idea.  She couldn't afford both the Disney admission and the round trip drive to Anaheim, which would be almost $10 in gas, more if they had to sit in traffic.  She also couldn't afford to take unpaid time off of work, but Christmas came and went with only promises.  Trevor didn't complain, but she could tell he was a little down for it.

Trevor's mother pointed to the empty aluminum can.

"Trevor, there's a roller coaster on the can here.  Can you read what it says?"

Trevor picked it up and studied it.

"$5 off."

"That's good!  But I meant the name of the roller coaster, the big fancy words there."

He squinted at it.

"I don't know what it says."

"Well, sound it out.  One letter at a time."

"M...mmmmm...mah...tah...door.  Mah-tah-dor?"

"Matador!  Good!  Perfect!"

"What is...matador?"

"That's the name of the ride.  I bet it will be exciting!"

"Matador.  Mad at door.  I am mad at the door.  That's a funny word."

Their two-door Honda puttered past Trevor's primary school.

"Mama, why is there no school today?"

"Today is Martin Luther King Day, Trevor!  Didn't they tell you that in school?"

"I don't know."

"Today is a national holiday in honor of a man named Martin Luther King.  He fought for people like you and me to have rights like everyone else."

Trevor took this in.  Why was a king fighting?  Doesn't being king mean everybody does what you say?

"Who did he fight?  Pirates?"

Trevor's mother laughed before she could stop herself.  "Oh, no!  He did not fight with violence, he used his words to lead the people.  This was happening when your mama was a little girl."

Mama is really old!

"Tonight when we get back home we will watch a program about him on TV.  They have a big concert in Washington, D.C., which is the capital city of America."

Trevor looked uninterested.  Kings were kind of cool, but they had to stay in the castle.  Pirates had the whole ocean.

Radio ads for an MLK weekend blowout on all Sealy, Serta, and Simmons repeated on every break.

They pulled into the Wild World parking lot.  A bright red roller coaster snaked overhead.  When they got out of the car, Trevor's mother reminded him, "Now remember Trevor, if anyone asks, you are five years old."

"I don't want to be younger.  I want to be older.  Why do I have to say I'm five when I'm not?"

"We can get the same ticket for a little less money if you are younger.  And that means we can go on more rides!"

Trevor knew they weren't rich.  The same backpack since kindergarten with the left strap ripped off, the packed lunches that sometimes left him hungry, no presents this Christmas.  He saw his mother come home from work really tired, so he would help her where he could - making dinner, emptying the garbage, keeping his room clean sometimes.  But he didn't want to lie, even if meant going on more rides.

"You can say it.  I don't want to say it."

"Trevor..."

This was her 'you need to do what I'm saying' tone.

Trevor screamed.  "No!  I don't care about these stupid rides!  I don't want to go!"  He turned around to go back to the car.
"Trevor, get back here!"

She turned and grabbed his arm.

Trevor unhinged his jaw with a piercing screech.  Other guests in the parking lot turned to look.  Tears streaked down his cheeks as he struggled against her.

"Trevor!  Trevor, Trevor, calm down.  Calm down now, please.  Calm down!"

"No, get off me!  Let me go!"

She picked him up and heaved him over her shoulder, rocking him.  He began to quiet down.

"Shhh, shhh.  It's okay.  You don't have to say you're five if you don't want to."

"I'm not supposed to lie.  You're not supposed to lie.  It's not good."

"I know it's not good and Mama was wrong to ask you to do that.  I'm sorry, okay?  Okay?"

She put Trevor down.  He wiped his nose on his arm.  "Okay."

She unlocked the car and pulled a napkin from the side door.  She cleaned his face off.

"We will go to Disneyland and ride the pirate rides some time.  It's just a lot of money.  Now do you want to have fun today?"

"Yes."

At the ticket booth, Trevor's mother handed the Dr Pepper cans and cash over to the attendant.

"One adult, and one six year old."

Trevor was hopping up to see through the ticket window.

He said, "I'm the six year old."

The attendant smiled and slid the tickets under the window.

Trevor stopped jumping.

"Mama, the ground just moved!"

"I know!  The Matador is a real big roller coaster, isn't it?"

"The roller coaster did that?  Okay.  Can we go ride it now?"

"We can ride it as many times as you want, baby."

A fine photo of a cell phone photo of CSUN's campus orange trees.

University of Ottawa

A version of this story placed 3rd in the 2011 ArtsRolla Writing Competition.

The faded red Honda skidded through a rolling right turn.

In the passenger seat, Sara Brookings squeezed tighter on the upholstery.

She would usually get on her Dad's case about coasting through a stop sign.  Today, though, she was grateful to have a reckless driving father.

Dave Brookings flicked his eyes between the road, the clock, and his daughter Sara in the rearview mirror, as he navigated the slick streets of Ottawa.  He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, grooved from years of fluorescent light, computer monitor glare, and frustrating government accounting.

He hate, hate, hated to be late.  And to make someone else late due to his own poor planning, that was unacceptable.  But make that someone his daughter, on one of the most important days of her life, it was...well, it was unforgivable!

He tried to reassure the two of them.

"We've still got fifteen minutes, Sara.  Plus whatever buffer time your dorm mates need."

Sara asked, "What are we going to do about the groceries?  I might not have time to unload them."

Plastic bags full of fresh supplies from the west side Sobeys rattled in the backseat.

Dave and Sara had driven in the day before from their town near the Michigan-Ontario border.  They stayed the night in a motel west of town.  Dave was unusually chatty at the motel, going on about his daughter to the front desk manager.  On move-in day, they both unpacked Sara's luggage and accessories into her new room in uOttawa's Residential Complex.  Sara had brought a few boxes of essential nonperishables, but Dave, wanting to postpone the goodbye, proposed to completely stock her mini-fridge.  And Sara, taking a second look at her meager rations, quickly accepted the offer.

She reminded him that she had to be back by 5:00 for new resident orientation.  Not that the orientation itself was important - she could figure out where the laundry room was on her own - but the first orientation led to the first dinner led to the first night out.  These crucial opening encounters would determine a young lady's social life for the next four years, and perhaps even post-university.  Making headway into an already established clique was nearly impossible.  She had already experienced this uphill battle in secondary school when her Dad moved them for a job relocation.  She had laboriously cobbled together a patchwork of disparate friends at her new school but was eager for today's fresh start.

They had found the Sobeys easy enough.  Dave rarely lost his way.  But now he found himself dealing with a not-quite-familiar city grid, misty weather, and Friday afternoon traffic.

"I'll take whatever needs to be cold back to the motel fridge.  I can bring it all back later tonight or - "

Sara cringed at the thought of her Dad showing up at her dorm on a Friday night.  Dave noticed her facial rebuff.  He stifled a laugh and continued:

" - or tomorrow morning I was going to say."

"Yeah, can we do tomorrow instead?"

"That's fine."

"Thank you!  I can call when I get time."

Dave knew his daughter.  And he knew what university life was like.  She'll call when she has time?  That meant he'd be taking the food back home with him

He suddenly spotted a familiar landmark.

"Ah!  Rideau Canal!  We're getting close."

They turned right onto Queen Elizabeth Street, paralleling the canal.  A curved glass building revealed itself.  Dave read the chiseled nameplate aloud:

"'Ottawa Convention Centre and Opera House'.  Ooh la la."

The street narrowed into two lanes of gravel and potholes.  A construction worker covered in reflectors waved cars through.  Dave slowed to a crawl but the Honda still bottomed out against the ground.

"Gah!  What is this?  Off-roading in Ottawa?"

They passed underneath a highway bridge.

"Dad, turn around up onto this bridge.  We can get to the other side that way."

"I can get us closer.  Remember that footbridge?  I'll drop you off, you scurry across, meet your buddies."

"Okay."

The road smoothed out.  Dave saw university buildings.

"See, we made it.  You know I'm so proud of you, Sara."

"I know, Dad.  You've already said that.  A few times."

"Good, that means it's sunk in."

"There's my dorm."

Sara pointed up to a ten story brick tower.  Not one bit of architectural flair, but it did the job.

"Whoa, hold on now," said Dave as he hit the brakes.  A long line of cars sat in front of them.

And sat.

And sat.

"What is going on?" asked Dave to no one in particular.

Sara saw blue blinking lights ahead.  She offered, "There are police up there."

She groaned and hit the sides of her head with her palms.  She pulled at her chestnut highlights in frustration.

"Dad!"

Dave asked, "So you're fine without these groceries tonight?"
"Yes.  I'm fine without the groceries."

"Then just run to the footbridge.  Who knows how long we'll be sitting here."

Sara agreed.  "Okay."  She opened the door and ran around the driver side.

Dave got out and hugged her.

He said, "Love you."

"Love you too!"  Sara ran off.

Dave got back in the car.  He didn't like protracted goodbyes, but that one seemed short even for him.

Traffic at a standstill, he looked across the canal.  There was a flurry of young women streaming out of his daughter's dorm.  He peered off to the right, waiting to Sara emerge from campus and join her mates.  He kept an eye out for her sandy hair, black blouse, and blue jeans.

She finally appeared.

Back in front of him.

"Dad!"

Sara was frantic now.  She had noticed the other students gathering too.  Dave rolled down the window to listen.

She said, "The bridge is blocked!  A car fell in the canal and there's a big fire truck-crane-looking thing pulling it out.  But it's parked in front of the bridge and the police won't let me through and my dorm is about to leave me behind and they will all form their groups without me and I'll have to transfer schools..."

"Calm down, Sara.  You won't have to transfer schools.  You say there's a car in the canal?"

"Yes."

"It didn't sink?"

"The water was up to the windows, about."

Dave thought.  The canal is barely a meter deep.  Could he carry he across?  No, he couldn't abandon the car - traffic was inching forward now.

"I got an idea.  Get back in the car."

"Back in the car?"

"Yeah, come on."

She maneuvered herself back into the front seat.  Dave unbuttoned his polo shirt and pulled it off through his gray trenchcoat.

"Dad...what are you doing?"

"Like you said, the canal is shallow.  You can walk across it in my clothes.  Throw yours into one of those grocery bags.  Carry it over your head so you've got dry clothes to change into at dinner."

"Wear your clothes?  Dad, no.  Can't I just...uh..."  She didn't have any other ideas.

Dave flipped off his shoes.  "I can drive back to the motel in my coat.  You need to get to your buddies over there."

The crowd across the water was slowly walking away from the dorm.  Sara watched with a pained expression.

"Okay.  But don't look!"

"I'm not going to look.  But I need one eye to drive."  Dave shut his right eye and kept his left eye on the road.  He struggled to tug down his jeans.

Sara reached back to grab a grocery bag.  Cans of soup fell onto the floor.

"Oh!  Sorry!"

"Don't worry about that."

Sara unbuttoned her top as quickly as she could.  A twelve-year-old boy in the car to the right stared, slack-jawed.

Sara saw him.  She slapped the car window and hissed at him.  He turned away, sitting bolt upright.

"What are you doing?" asked Dave.

"Some kid is giving me the bug eyes."

"I'll beat him up for ya," said Dave, with exaggerated mock anger.

"Not necessary," reprimanded Sara, in her best British headmistress accent.

Dave took a mental snapshot of this shared moment.

Sara pulled on her new outfit and put up her hair.

She said, "Okay, you can open your eye."  She got out of the car and rounded to the driver side again.  The shirt and pants sagged on her small frame.  She kissed her Dad on the cheek through the open window.

"Thanks, Dad.  Wish me luck!"

"Good luck, punkin."

She waddled over to the granite edge.  She climbed down the side of the wall, one hand holding the bag of clothes up.

The water came up to her chest.  She thought, it's cold but just keep walking.  Momentary embarrassment is better than four years of isolation.

She had to use her free hand to hold the pants up.

As she waded across Rideau Canal, Dave said to himself, "Only I would send my daughter into an urban waterway."  He sat silent for a moment.  He laughed when he realized aloud, "And only my daughter would agree to it."

Other drivers pointed in concern at the strange girl in the river.

On the other side, one of the upperclassman dorm advisers had noticed Sara walking in the canal.  She took two other girls to go back and help get Sara out.

They all hauled her up the stone wall.

The adviser asked, "What are you doing in the canal?  That's dangerous!"

Sara shuddered from the air on her Dad's wet clothes.

"I had to get to orientation.  I'm a little late."

"Oh, you live in this dorm?  Yes, we just finished.  What's your name?"

"Sara.  Sara Brookings."

"Hi Sara, I'm Tina, why don't you get dried off?  We're about to head to dinner."

"Sounds great!  I've got my dry clothes right here."

As the group walked off, Sara turned to wave to her Dad.

Dave had been watching intently.

Yes, Sara had decided on wading through the canal, but actually getting across was something else.  Fortunately he saw three other girls come to her aid on the other side.  He exhaled.  When he saw her struggling to keep his wet jeans around her waist, he let out a gentle laugh.  She looked like the Sara from years ago playing dress-up.

When she waved back, his heart jumped into his throat.  This took him by surprise.

He distracted himself by turning up the heat.  He buttoned up his trenchcoat to the collar, now his only article of clothing besides his boxers and shoes.

Though traffic was moving, it was still stop-and-go.

The car in front of him stopped.  Dave squeezed his brakes.  The brake pedal did not depress.  He tried again.  It was stuck.  By the time he realized a soup can had rolled underneath the brake pedal, it was to late.  His front bumper crunched against the car ahead of him.

The rest of the groceries joined the soup cans on the floor.

Dave spit out a profanity.

A police officer had head the accident and had wandered back to investigate.

Dave started, "Sorry, officer.  There was a can of soup that rolled under my brake pedal."

The cop looked at the man in the full body trenchcoat.  A can of soup?  What's going on here?

"May I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, sir?"

"Certainly, certainly...um..."

Dave patted his sides.  Of course.  No pants, no wallet.

"Actually my daughter has my wallet."

It's always something, thought the cop.

"I'm going to need to ask you to step out of the car, sir."

Dave swallowed.  "Do you need to pat me down or something?"  He gurgled out a nervous laugh.

"No, we don't do that anymore."

Dave relaxed.  He opened the car door.

The officer continued, "But I will at least need you to remove your jacket."

Old Dominion University

Most people assume that the best part of The Real World fiasco was my newfound notoriety.  Yes, the fifteen minutes of fame was fun, but my most satisfying takeaway is knowing that I can survive that intense drop in temperature.  That whatever physical hardship comes at me now, it can not possibly be colder than atop that windmill.

And then I fall overboard into Puget Sound.

Instantly soaked to the bone, I am woefully underdressed for these conditions.  The waves brought on by this storm are lifting us up ten feet at a time.  My neck is slightly warmer, since there is a sled dog, Charlotte, slung across my shoulders.  She belongs to my newest acquaintance, who is also in the water with me.  Taylor...gosh, I don't even know his last name...Taylor is having a time keeping afloat with the other dog, Moose, who is much heavier.

When the ferry almost tilted over, we were on a crew-only deck with few protective barriers.  Holding onto the dogs, we both tried to catch the railing with one hand as we slid down.  I have a bruised forearm and Taylor tells me he thinks his hand is broken.  His head is bobbing in and out of the water as Moose keeps pushing him down.  I gesture at him to let go of Moose.  He can balance on his shoulders like Charlotte is on mine.

While Taylor is struggling with this task, I wave my arms wildly at the ferry.  Most of the windows are up on higher decks.  I can't even see the top of the ship, the clouds are so low.  I realize no one can see us.  I lower my arms, not knowing how long I will need those muscles to stay afloat.  I am amazed at how calm Charlotte is on my shoulders.  I guess full time sled dogs need a higher tolerance for hellish conditions.

Though the ferry is still rocking, it's also slowly sailing away from us.  I see no one on deck, but I go to yell anyway.  I have to cup my hands close to my mouth to keep seawater and rain from streaming in.  My inhalation is short since I'm already breathing quickly.  My voice is weak and scratchy and my yell carries nowhere.  Taylor probably can't even hear me ten feet away.

Now I can barely see the ship.  I see no land.  I see nothing but my own hair as Charlotte ruffles it into my face.  She catches her toenail on my hair tie and pulls it out, along with some hair by the roots.

Enough.  Can someone else man up now?

"Taylor!"
"Persephone!"  We have to swim closer and scream to be heard over the storm.
"Which way should we swim?"
"Swimming will tire us out more and get us more lost.  Better to stay on the ferry path."
"We're just going to tread water till the next ferry?  That's suicide!"
"I've got one good hand.  I can't swim."
"Come on, do you want me to drag you?"
"Maybe."
I know it's weird that I am thinking about this in our state, but at that moment any possibility of me sleeping with him died.
"You don't have to flex the muscles.  Just wrap the fingers together and paddle.  Is it that bad?"
He shows me his swollen purple hand.
"Okay, it is bad."
He says, "Let's try your idea anyway."
I help him tear the sleeve of his shirt and tie it around his right hand.  Its effects are probably zero, but it gives us a tiny task-completion boost.
I turn to look at the fading ship, my one point of reference, but it's gone.
I say to Taylor, "Okay, I am getting scared now.  I can't even see the back of the ship - bow, stern, whatever it's called.  I'm not a nautical person.  I am a businessperson.  I am supposed to be boarding my flight to Singapore soon.  I should have never gotten on the ferry!"
"Then why did you come with me?"
"I did not think I would fall overboard!"
"No.  Let me restate it.  Why did you come with me and not just go on your own?"
"Because it's nice to have company?"
"Or because you were attracted to me."
I cock my head and squint.  Is he taking it this direction, of all times, of all places?
"Wwwwhat!  What are you talking about?  Can I not have one day where someone does not hit on me?"
"I know.  Life must be rough as an attractive woman."
"What are you, Taylor?  God's gift to womankind?"
"Hey, I don't go around flirting to get free sled rides."
"I'm not going to give it up because you showed me around Seattle.  You could've refused."
"Like you're refusing right now."
"Right now.  Right now?  Are you kidding me?  Right now we are lost, freezing - hopefully not to death - and it's almost night."
"Here's a tip, then we can drop it: if you want to know if a man is going to hit on you, look at his hand.  If there is no ring, the answer is yes.  If there is a ring, the answer is still yes."
I roll my eyes.  "What a great husband you'll be."

We float silently for a long time.

The sky is darkening.  The waves are calming down, but there is still a thick fog all around us.
Taylor says, "We need to conserve body heat if we want to make it through the night.  Then I pray it clears and the morning ferry will see us.  Come here.  Put your left arm around me."

We squeeze together, chest to chest.  Our heads are over each other's left shoulder, cheek to ear.  Our right arms are out, slowly treading, slowly tiring.
I haven't separated my fingers in a while.  I think they're starting to freeze together.
The dogs are half submerged, paws and heads over our right shoulders.

We float.

I am tired.  Tired in the sleep way, not just the sore muscle way.
I burble out in a monotone: "I want to cut open this dog.  Stick my head in its guts for warmth."
Taylor's eyes are closed as he answers.  "We're not going to do that."
"Okay.  A hot tub."
"I don't even want a hot tub.  I want to lie down, dry, in a hundred yards of soft flannel.  Then a grounds crew will roll me up like a burrito."
"I want a burrito."
"Me too."
"With dog meat."
"No."

We float.

"I don't want to lose my hand, Persephone."
"You won't lose your hand, Taylor.  We're keeping it warm."  His left arm is sandwiched between us.
"It's broken and frozen.  I think they will amputate it.  I will need a new job.  I can't drive a dogsled with one hand."
"I can drive my car with my knees."
"Dogsled is different."

We float.  My sentences lose their structure when my words sputter out of my blue lips.
"Lose hand not end of world."
"Let me shave your head."
"Lose hair end of world."

We float.  I am reduced to mostly noises.  My eyes hurt.
"Ngghhhh."
Taylor joins me in the subzero grammar club.  "What you say?"
"Ngghhhhhh.  No shine light in face."
"Not me."

Our mental processing has slowed.  Charlotte and Moose, silent for hours now, start barking.  It is a sharp pain to my ears.  I pry my eyes open.  They catch fire.  The sky was deadly black a second ago.  Now it's bright enough to bring a headache.
Am I dead?
I can see two figures under the light.  My money is on God and Jesus.  One of them speaks.
"Sir!  It's the corpses.  They're being devoured by mer-wolves!"
"Step aside...they're not dead."
I hear splashing, coming closer.  My vision is still spotty from the light.  Next thing I remember is being hauled up and over into a sitting position.  Never felt so good to sit.  I feel something...dry!  I blink.  Things slowly come into focus.
I almost sound disappointed when I say, "We're not dead?  Where am I?  Who are you?"
"Lieutenant McDonough.  You are aboard the USS Monarch, ma'am."
Taylor is sitting next to me, also wrapped in a blanket.  One of the officers is toweling off the dogs.
Taylor asks, "How did you navy guys find us?"
"US Coast Guard.  After your ferry docked, no one came to claim the dogs in the kennel.  We retraced the path of the ferry to you."
Taylor looks at me.  So he was right.
I say to him, "You never did tell me your last name."
"Constant."
The dog-toweling coast guard guy says, "That's a good sailor's name.  Tell your sister Susan hello."
Taylor looks at him.  "Huh?"
"Susan."
"Uh, I don't have - "
"It's a joke!  Did you sleep through all your classes or just American History?"
"I'm Canadian."
"Sorry to hear that."
Lt. McDonough says, "Stop harassing them, officer.  Folks, this ship is due to be sent for recommission in District 5 in Norfolk, Virginia, tomorrow morning.  Technically, now, this morning.  It is our honor to return you safely to US soil for our final District 13 assignment.  There is medical staff awaiting you on shore."
We both thank the lieutenant.
Taylor says to me, "I'd still like to meet up on your next..."  He seems to measure his words, "...stopover."
I smile.  "Next stopover, definitely."
He then asks the lieutenant.  "Are we going back to Seattle?"
"No.  We will be landing in the town of Sequim."
I laugh.  "Ah ha!  Skwim."

Accidentally deleted my Norfolk photos, so here's your basic Constant Center shot

Seattle University

A smattering of dark birds hovered over the Clipper.  Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh pointed at one.

"Is that a...?"

"Red tailed hawk."

"No, no.  Right there."

"That's an American Bald Eagle.  Their populations are slowly recovering in the San Juans."

"Wowww..!"

Her eyes followed it from one end of the ship to the other.  She caught the pilots up in the bridge smiling at her.  She returned a wave and a shake of the hips.

The chilly wind whipped Persephone's hair into her face.  She flipped it away and turned to Taylor, her dogsled-musher-turned-tour-guide and newest acquaintance.

"An American Bald Eagle in Canada?  A tourist, eh?  Just like me."

"Friday Harbor is actually still in Washington State."

Persephone pointed to a village ahead on the shore.

"Is that it?"

"No, we've got a ways to go."

The ferry lurched to starboard.  Taylor caught himself on the railing, with Persephone sandwiched in between.

He asked, "You're in a hurry now or something?"

Persephone pushed her way out of his arms.

"Just getting antsy.  How are the dogs?  I bet they're getting antsy too.  The kennel is deck five, right?"  She turned and weaved through other passengers toward the cabin stairwell.

"What?  Hey...hey, you know that wasn't me?  The wind and weather here can get - "

The iron door thunked shut with a cold finality.

" - unpredictable."

******

Taylor found Persephone kneeling down by the kennel.  She was petting his sled dogs through the chain link fencing.

She smiled.  "Yeah, forgot I don't have the key."

Taylor tossed it to her.  One by one, the dogs sprang out.  Persephone started to clip on the leashes.  Taylor bent over to help.

"You know that was the boat, right?"

Persephone waved him off.  "What?  Oh, yeah.  Yeah, don't worry about it.  Let's get these dogs some air."

They all made their way through the cabin, where most of the passengers had come in out of the cold.

Persephone pushed on the door to the deck.  It didn't budge.

"This one's locked."

"Can't be.  We just used it a minute ago."

Taylor hefted his shoulders into it.  It slowly swung outward.  He turned his back to the door and pushed his arms against the door frame.  At the halfway point the wind caught it.  It slammed open against the whitewashed wall.

"Whoa!  Muscle man!"
"No, that was the wind again.  Unfortunately."

The six huskies piled outside.  It took them a second to gain their footing on the metal deck, slick now with rain and seawater.  They playfully nipped at each other, tangling themselves up in the process.

"Come on, dogs.  Settle down."  He squatted down to unclip the leashes and straighten them out.

Persephone looked out to the sky.  Through the rain, the island village she could see earlier is now just a few lights.

"Taylor, I'm not liking this."

"It's your basic storm in the Sound.  I know you've been in worse.  While standing on a windmill of all places."

"I'm serious.  It's giving me a - "

The sky exploded with a flash.

k k k k KRBOOM oom oommm

Yelps go up from the deck.  The dogs scamper off.  Taylor is left with a wad of wet leashes in his hands.

"Hounds!!" yells Taylor.

The intercom bing-bongs and crackles to life.

"Attention all passengers.  The captain has advised the crew of incoming severe weather.  Please make your way to the main deck."

"So maybe you're right.  Persephone, get inside.  I'll get the dogs."

"You gonna find six dogs all by yourself?  We can't even see the top of the bridge!"

Taylor looked around.  Yep.

"Okay.  Check in the lifeboats, under benches, anywhere dark or dry."

He handed her three leashes.  The soaked duo split up - Persephone around to starboard, Taylor remained on port.  He could see through the foggy plexiglass into the cabin.  Staff were busy assembling the passengers.  He got a better porthole view when the ferry rolled again, slamming his front into a door.  When the ship righted itself, he fell back.  He landed hard on his tailbone and the back of his head.  It knocked the perpetual squint off his face for a moment.  He spit out through his semi-maintained scruff.

Two white dogs came out from under a tarp.  They trotted out to Taylor and licked his face and head.

"Oof.  Castor and Tofi, good dogs.  Even when you run away, you stay together.  Stay with me now, okay?

Taylor continued checking under each lifeboat tarp.  Five boats in, he spied a pair of sharp blue eyes looking out.  Taylor reached in and awkwardly hauled out a gray husky, who shook off water when Taylor put him down.

"Pierre, come on.  We need to get inside."

Persephone rounded the bend.  One hand on the rail, one pulling a large dog.

"I think I found Moose."

"No way, you wouldn't be able to drag Moose.  That's Senator Ted Stevens, see the black on the end of the tail.  He's the only one you could find?"

"That's all."

"Still missing Moose and Charlotte then."

Another lightning bolt cracked overhead.

k k k KRBOOM

Taylor and Persephone held fast to the leashes this time.

He said, "We gotta get them back in the kennel.  Here's the keys.  I have to keep looking!"

Persephone pulled Castor, Tofi, Pierre, and Senator Ted Stevens inside.

Taylor double-checked Persephone's side of the ship.

You just couldn't help it.  You chat up some mystery blonde you'll never see again and it gets you two lost dogs.

Chat up someone potentially amazing.  She takes so many international trips that Singapore is ho-hum!

Yet here you are, a Vancouver Islander, a NORTHERN Vancouver Islander, thinking you have a shot at anything more than one day with her.

Of COURSE you do, you run a self-made business, own a nice place in beautiful land, and care for a pack of dogs, that shows responsibility.

She doesn't know and she wouldn't CARE.  She used you for a free sled ride and is here for a stopover from a flight.  A STOPOVER.

One of many to come, she said.  She made a point to mention.  She hinted.

She HINTS not one damn thing.  Now where are those dogs??  She just HAD to let them out.  They're YOUR dogs.  YOU know when they need to -

The door slammed open.  Persephone stumbled out.

"Any luck?"

"No!  Why did you have to let them out again?  They were fine in the kennel!"

"You were the one that said they hated being locked up.  I thought I was doing them right."

"Obviously not!"

Taylor glared at her through the sheets of rain.  She quickly crushed her impulse to back down.

"I'm sorry!  I was trying to take care of them like you do!"

"Like I do?  You just met them!  You just met ME!  You can't take care of them like I do.  NO ONE can take care of them like I do!"

Persephone's heart jumped.  She couldn't be sure, but Taylor's face seemed wetter.

"Hey, let's stay calm.  We can find Moose and Charlotte.  We definitely know they're on the deck.  Let's stick together this time."

Taylor said nothing.  He led the way.

He saw two tails sticking out of a covered raft crate near the far bow of the ship.  The section was guarded with an iron handrail, yellow nylon cord and a CREW ONLY sign.

Taylor ducked under it.

Persephone asked, "What are you doing??"

"I see my dogs.  I can hold Moose.  I need your help with Charlotte."  He walked off.

"Ohhhh my.  Oh my.  Oh my."  She crept under the rope and up to the raft crate.

Taylor pulled out Charlotte easily and handed her to Persephone.  As he worked on extracting Moose, Persephone looked off to port side.  The fog had cleared a little bit.  It allowed her to see a large swell approaching the ferry.  It was growing in size as it neared.  Her heart jumped again.  Taylor heaved Moose over his back.  Persephone shook Taylor's shoulder.

"Taylor?  Hey Taylor, we need to get inside."

He glimpsed the wave, now massive, and stopped.  The four of them were halfway between the crate and the roped-off entrance.

"We won't make it back in.  Get back to the crate and get in.  NOW."

The ship was already tilting to the right.  Persephone could only slip in place on the deck and struggled to get back on her feet.  Taylor fell on the same spot on his tailbone.  All four of them started sliding to the starboard edge.

"Taylor!!"

"Grab the handrail!  Grab the handrail!"

At this point, though, they were moving too fast.  They may as well have tried to catch a wet baseball bat midswing.

No grip.

 All bruise.

  Handful of husky hair.

   Forty feet down.

    Noseful of Puget Sound.

Seton Hall University

16 Nov 2009.  Look at this pirate.  It is the most subdued pirate I have seen.  He's not grinning or scowling or yelling or keelhauling.  A logo more fitting for beachside condos or an investment firm.

Pirate Annuities.  Mutiny your financial fears.

"Uncle Dan?  What are you doing down here from New York?"

Uncle Dan looked around as he approached the cashier's desk.  He peered at the various prices on the shelves.  After handling a few bottles of vodka, he pointed toward the young man behind the desk.  Uncle Dan was now in salesmanship mode.  As usual.

"Rag, have I got an opportunity for you!"  Uncle Dan beamed through his doughy face and shook Rag's hand.

"What...what are you thinking about?"  Rag took back his hand and wiped it on his stringy blond hair.

"As you know, I have a line of top selling wines to my name."

"Yes, we do not stock much wine though."

"I know, but liquors are in the back of my head.  Tremendous upside.  But that's later.  I'm talking about now.  Or, two months from now."

Rag verbally calculated.  "Two months from now..."

"That's February, Rag.  My winery is doing our biggest promotion yet and I need your experience."

"My experience...here?  Stock boy and cashier?"

"And business student, all in Newark, the liquor store capital of the world!  I need a stock boy and cashier like yourself to help with the whole operation.  I can't pay you but I'll cover the flight and incidentals and some event tickets."

"A flight?  Ohhhh, you need me to show you around Norway!"

"Norway?  Norway?  You are still stuck in your Norwaygian wees, uh, your Norwegian ways, Rag.  Don't you ever watch the news?  Do you know what's happening in February?"

Rag shrugged.

"Only the biggest Canadian celebration since Terry Fox won the Stanley Cup!"

Uncle Dan pulled a blue-and-green-swirled folder out and slapped it down on the counter.  On it read the label:

VANCOUVER 2010

CORPORATE CHAMPION PACKET

AYKROYD, DANIEL

La Salle University

13 Nov 2009. Schools like La Salle make me glad I switched the focus of this blog from campus description to fakelore. This religious university - I'm thinking Jesuit? - on the outskirts of Philly was tough to find and tougher to find interesting. Yes, there were unique touches like the 12-foot medieval wooden doors leading to the bookstore, and the serene grotto pictured below.
And love that man-and-spyglass logo.


We find a newly appointed college president assigned to renaming his institution. Rewriting the school's mission to serve intellectual exploration and personal discovery, he cannot tear himself away from the 'explorer' theme. He discusses this with his assistant, Brookings.

"Brookings, you have the finalists?"
Brookings holds up a manila folder and nods.
"Good. This whole renaming business has just been torturous. Let's get it done today. Go."
"Christopher Columbus - "
"Our front runner. Columbus University just rings right. Oh, sorry, go on."
"Christopher Columbus. An Italian who sailed under the Spanish flag on ships named after beans. Made a poor first impression on the natives by committing genocide. Today is honored continentwide for his expensive accident."
"Okay, Brookings, I see your point. But overly cynical wording won't fly if you are seeking a future in higher education."
"Yes, sir. I apologize."
"Now Columbus, sailing under another country's banner. Did he prefer tapas over pasta? And naming his ships Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria - was his crew excessively flatulent? Also you say his discovery of the American continent was an accident. Perhaps Columbus himself was an accident. Should we honor his irresponsible parents with a day off as well? Too many skeletons in the closet. Cross him off the list. Next."
"Juan Ponce de Leon. Knew the fountain of youth was a legend yet searched for it in Florida anyway."
"Ponce de Leon University. PDLU. I like the fountain of youth angle. Could be used to promote continuing education for adults. And I admire the man's determination. Did he find it?"
"...The fountain of youth does not exist. So, no."
"Next."
"Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca. Traversed Mexico and was the first European to lead an overland expedition to the Pacific. Name means 'cow's head' in Spanish."
"Caboose-a-who? Hard to pronounce, hard to spell, not well known enough."
"To you or the general public?"
"Both. Next."
"Alexander Mackenzie. In searching for the fabled northwest passage, became the second European to cross the American continent. National hero in Scotland and Canada."
"A Canadian hero? You finish the 4th grade, you're a Canadian hero. So here we have another who failed to find what he was looking for. Too bad because 'Alexander Mackenzie' is a strong name. I don't know, I just can't do it."
"Because of not finding the northwest passage?"
"There's that, plus my ex-wife's lapdog was named Mackenzie. Doesn't sit well with me. Next."
"Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. Accompanied by the 29 soldiers in the Corps of Discovery, Sacagawea, York, and Seaman, they - "
"Hold on. And who?"
"Lewis' dog was a Newfie named Seaman."
"Poor dog. Continue."
"Seeking an all-water route across the continent, they became the first Americans to reach the Pacific by land. Potential confusion with Lewis & Clark College in Oregon."
"Okay, okay, solid story. Great recognition. We can just be Lewis and Clark University, LCU. Problem solved. But I'm worried about the homoerotic undertones."
"The what??"
"The most famous pair in American History. One is rarely mentioned without the other."
"Pardon my speaking out, sir, but there is no evidence of anything illicit between the two captains."
"Tell me, Brookings, what happened to the other members of the Corps of Discovery after their return?"
"Nothing much. Most of them died soon thereafter."
"And what did them in?"
"Venereal diseases. Contracted among the natives...no. Surely that can't be proof enough for you."
"Surely it is. I can research as well. Why did Lewis and Clark live long lives free of VD when every other soldier quickly died? Friendly buggery. And that dog's name doesn't help."
"I can assure you there were no sexual relations between Lewis and Clark!"
"LCU is on the short list, at best. Moving on."
Brookings took a few breaths to calm himself.
"Vasco de Gama of Portugal. First man to sail from Europe to India. Was castrated by hostile Malagasy. His name lends itself to the terms vas deferens and vasectomy."
"Ugh, gruesome. How did he make the final finalist list? These things make a vas deferens to me."
"..."
"It was a joke. Next."
"Henry Hudson. He sailed for the Dutch around what is now Canada. His crew cast him off his ship never to be found. His dates of birth and death are a mystery."
"It makes for a sexy story. But his crew mutinying? Not a leader. Next."
"Ferdinand Magellan. Portuguese circumnavigator. He was killed in the Phillippines by a poison dart. His crewmate finished the voyage for him."
"Our school needs to inspire people to finish what they start. Next."
"Edmund Hillary. He and his sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first to scale - "
"Hillary is a woman's name. We are not a woman's school. Next."
"Alexander von Humboldt. A German who - "
"Next."
"Shall we take a break, sir?"
"No, no. When I hear it, I will know it. Go on."
"Very well. This is the last on the list anyway. Robert de La Salle. He claimed the Mississippi River area for France."
"A possibility. I like the name La Salle. Sounds learned but not snobby. Any embarrassing peccadilloes?"
"No."
"Any children out of wedlock? Mass slaughterings? Scandals or bribery?"
"Not that I could find."
"Hmm. I'm liking this one more and more. The least pathetic name on the list."
"Sir, is it wise to honor someone - in quite a permanent way - for being the least pathetic?"
"I think it makes us seem accessible. Don't worry, Brookings, I'll change the wording."

La Salle University
Not The Most Pathetic

Purdue University

7 Aug 2009. Purdue is perfectly innocuous, like Canada or bread. (Who could hate Canada or bread? asks Matt Harding at the 5 minute mark.) So, of course, no better place for some mild kleptomania and sociopathy.


In an office in now-deserted Lilly Hall, where academic flyers fluttered along the tile floor, Otter looked at Professor J.B. Lee. The Professor was looking down, explaining his fundraising project. Otter was uninterested, supremely more so after a day of politely touring other people’s exhibits. He turned his attention to Prof. Lee himself, who promised not to waste too much of his time. Looking down from his natural born bird’s-eye view, Otter sniffed and got a noseful of pomade perfume.
Poor guy. He would have a wife by now if he got rid of the coke-bottle glasses and the two quarts of industrial sludge in his hair.
“Prof. Lee, where’s Chelsea? Isn’t she one of your students assisting with this project?”
“Oh, yes, one of my best. I suppose she is out with her friends, like young people will do. You know undergraduates.”
Yeah, I know them. I know plenty. And I could be knowing another one right now.
“All right, so how can I help you specifically?”
“Your trek across Montana was so inspiring. It set off a fire in my brain, like BOOM! I would like to ask about your best methods for getting out the word. Publicity and such is not my specialty.”
“It’s easy! Step one is tell all your friends.”
Prof. Lee blanked out then looked at the ground.
“Ah, yes, of course. Of course.”
Otter recognized the downcast gaze of a friendless man. But he didn’t feel like crushing spirits of a nonalcoholic variety right now.
“After that, talk to all of your faculty mates. All of them. Not just the ones in genetic engineering. Not just biology. The whole building.” Otter started outlining his ideas in a rough timeline.
“The whole building? Okay…” Prof. Lee was listening better now, still a little hesitant.
“And since this is an official university event, the most important asset in spreading the word to other media is the Office of Public Relations. They will take to your idea much quicker if you’ve already drafted a press release.”
“I have never written a press release.”
“Neither had I! That doesn’t matter! I had never driven a tractor sober either! There’s plenty of examples online, maybe even in your word processor. Don’t worry about it, when you’re done, I’ll spread the word back to the bio department in Bozeman. We’re not the biggest fish in the tank but every bit helps. You’ll do fine, Professor. Good luck!”
Otter slapped Prof. Lee on the back and got up to put on his coat. Next to Prof. Lee’s computer speaker were several decorative shotglasses. In one quick seamless motion, Otter stretched one arm through his jacket and grabbed one with a giant gold P and one with a beefy cartoon railworker and dropped them silently into his inner left pocket.
One for Chelsea, one for a backup girl.
Otter put his hand on the door handle to let himself out, but Prof. Lee called out. “Wait, Mr. Otterberg, a final issue. What about the God problem? I have encountered that many times.”
“…God problem?”
“You are aware there is a lot of resistance to the genetic engineering field. People say we are playing God.”
“Playing God, huh?” Otter removed his hand from the handle and turned back as the Professor continued.
“I try to inform them of the many merits of our work. That we save lives and increase food production! Some will not hear of it. It is very discouraging.”
Otter sat back down. “Prof. Lee, you cannot please everyone. So many people are kneejerk and shortsighted. Tell me, is there something wrong with striving to be better, more Godlike? Now, please, lay it on me about this whole ‘playing God’.”

Purdue: The Birthplace of Evil, Since 1874.

University of South Dakota

5 Aug 2009. Word problem time! If you are in Brookings and the University Bookstore in Vermillion closes in two hours, can you make it? Answer: Yes, but only if the stragglers from USD student orientation day are still shopping, thus keeping the doors open past closing time.
The bookstore cashier, the Oprah Winfrey show, and now the College Cup Project all recommend the fresh bread from Jones Food Center.


Frank tossed his dark greasy combover out of his face. He coughed out some sputum, gagging on it in the process. Several children looked behind and gave Frank dirty looks. They shuffled forward into the crowd.

******

The kids were gathered to see Vermillion, star of the newest hit of what would later be called TV's Golden Age. The show revolved around a heroic half coyote named for the town in which Animal Control workers captured him as a pup. But unlike the eight Rin Tin Tins who fought along soldiers and police, and the thirty-five Lassies who protected farm towns, the one and only Vermillion patrolled the Wild West. It was the mixture of adventures, westerns, and animal acting that proved irresistible to young American couch potatoes.

Vermillion's lack of suitable backup (trained wild dogs with similar angular bodies were hard to come by) was his greatest asset as well as a liability. His handlers knew this. His co-stars knew this. His enemies knew this.

At appearances, his young fans were assured they were seeing the real deal. And jobs for people like Frank were made easier. Instead of a dozen dogs, Frank only had a single animal's reputation to destroy.

******

Vermillion was kicking off his cross country trip to the Emmy Awards in L.A. with a sendoff in his hometown in South Dakota. A knotholed faux-wood stage was set up on the lawn in front of Old Main Hall. A chrome sided bus chugged into the parking lot. Kids cheered as the show's moppet sidekick, Timmy, portrayed by li'l Tommy Brokaw, exited the bus. Vermillion and his handlers followed. The cheers got louder as they walked onto the stage. Tommy read his notecards, thanking the town and urging the kids to get their parents to watch the Emmys in support of their favorite coyote descendant. Vermillion's handlers unhooked him from his leash and led him in a few tricks: flips, leaps, and catches.

While the audience was entranced, Frank made his way to the middle of the crowd. He suddenly noticed how he was two feet taller than the majority of the audience. His anxiety kicked in. His mission got cloudy in his head. It had to do with the vial in his pocket. Drink it? No, no. Is this scent good, bad? Is it supposed to go on the dog or the crowd or himself or that kid Tommy? He could not quite remember. The kids around him got more uncomfortable. Some left to tell their parents. One boy got uppity.

"Hey, I was here first!" The boy kicked Frank in the shin. Frank winced and moved a few feet away. He noticed some of the parents in the back moving toward him with unfriendly faces. He panicked. He hoped the mission somehow would be accomplished as he uncorked the vial. Frank flicked his wrist, spraying bear scent on the children in front of him. He shook out the last of the drops and didn't look back. Some parents yelled "Hey you!" to the taxi taking Frank back across town.

Vermillion's nose instantly picked up the scent of his species' greatest natural enemy, the bear. He hadn't experienced it since his first few months of life, but it was hardwired into the brains of every coyote. It clicked a switch in Vermillion that activated an unforeseen aggression. His handlers were not ready for it.

Vermillion jumped off the stage and into the crowd. He clamped onto the first leg he could get his jaws around. He flung the horrified child aside. He continued to bite like wild, ears down, barking fiercely. The kids screamed and dispersed, running to their parents. The chaos only confused and aggravated Vermillion. His handlers jumped down and struggled to corral him with ropes and a muzzle. Vermillion, now foaming, responded with bites to their calves. They finally had to violently sedate him with a tranquilizer syringe. The kids who were still nearby and were witness to the squeal and collapse of their TV hero started bawling.

Tommy stayed on stage the whole time, shocked like everyone else. He didn't flee, like his peers. His unflappability was what made him a great child actor. And, in this particular case, it helped him memorize the face of a strange man with a combover.

******

"You forgot what you were supposed to do? You idiot! The scent goes on your legs! What do you think you were wearing biteproof pants for?"
"I got nervous. Ever'body was lookin' at me like I was guilty of somethin' when I hadn't done anythin' yet."
"Now you have done something. Now people will be looking at you. This is a disaster thanks to you. I got the paper right here: five kids and a handler taken to the hospital for stitches."
"I'm sorry, I know. So...I will understand if I only get 50% of the fee for - "
"50%?? Are you insane? That's why you called? You screwed up large and you're getting nothing! Like hell I'm going to be linked to an assault on some six-year-olds. Don't try to contact me again, Frank."
Click.
"Hello? ...Hello? ...Oh." Frank put down the receiver slowly. He walked into the kitchen and hocked a substantial loogie into the sink. Usually that gave him temporary relief. But not today.

USD's Old Main Hall

Kent State University

23 Jun 2009. Frostburg, WVU, RobbyMo, and Kent State all in one day! Wait, another visit to Kent State? Why on earth would I go out of my way again? Thank a lost water bottle, originally purchased 21 Nov 2007. Which ultimately I am okay with - look at that gaudy yellow eyesore. Replaced with a centennial shotglass.

Before she was into her studies, before she was into her health, before she was into dental school, new ZTA pledge Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh was into tanning.
Like many young women, she took her skin's tautness and her godlike metabolism for granted, bombarding it with inordinate amounts of UV rays, empty alcoholic calories, and late night slabs of pizza.
Persephone, and much of the KSU student body, took the skin coloration to another level one chilly night in November. Kent State's opening night of men's basketball was being broadcast live on ESPN. In the early days of cable sports, this was unheard of for a small school (they could thank the reputation of their big-time opponent, Ohio State). For Kent State, a televised sporting event was a first. The students, traditionally feisty, shifted into full spring break mode for the game. Persephone and her sorority mates painted themselves gold, with white lettering on their stomachs that spelled out K-E-N-T-S-T-A-T-E. Persephone played the part of the last E.

"Kent Read, Kent Write, Kent State"

During a video camera's crowd scan, mini-riots broke out. A grabby drunk tried to yank off Persephone's sports bra. She pulled away and gathered some momentum on the backswing. She launched forth at his jaw with a tiny fist. She pegged him square, then gave him another shove. He was carried off by ushers. But as she turned back to the court and the camera, her top snagged on a hastily fastened STUDENTS ONLY plastic placard. It tore away a strip of spandex. The plastic sign, though it had no libido or horny malice of its own, managed to do what the drunk frat boy could not. The TV audience at home was beholden to a brief glimpse of golden tanned teen bosom.
Persephone enjoyed the rest of the game in an usher's bright yellow raincoat.
The 'golden flash' was the talk of the school the next day as much as the basketball game itself. A new nickname was born. Persephone quickly tired of the notoriety but was proud to have inspired more school spirit.
The electrocuted bird logo is another story though.

Frostburg State University

23 Jun 2009. In a perfect world, June at Frostburg would be filled with players, staff, and media for the Washington Redskins training camp. But a hometown feel is not a good fit (that is: not optimally profitable) for big business, which is what the NFL has become. So don't blame owner Dan Snyder - if it wasn't him, it would have been someone else.
Anyway, FSU is sparsely inhabited by janitorial and construction crews, taking their time, relaxing, absorbing the sunlight. Bobcats' fans know how to enjoy a summer day, Redskins or not, thank you very much.

"Yo where's Portis?"
"Who knows. How you gonna sign up for a radio appearance and then not show up?"
"Don't worry, he told us." A slim brunette walks into the studio and starts adjusting levels on the sound board.
"Clinton is out at Frostburg. He'll be on the air tomorrow."
The young lady hands a pair of headphones to the two Redskins players.
"Frostburg? What's he doin' in Frostburg?"
"You hogs ready for showtime? Pa-ZAM! Pa-ZAM!" The mid-heavy host walks in to give the football players a couple of faux stomach punches. Not wanting to be badmouthed as jerks later, the players pocket their fists and smile weakly.

"Dumbledore was a Quidditch beater but still managed to catch the golden snitch thirteen times."
"Excellent point. Everyone, you could follow Clinton's example. Now for next time, we'll tackle chapter 7 on the creatures of Hogwarts."
#26 quickly finishes up his notes for his appearance and packs up. He is the first one out of the classroom. He checks his cellphone and dials the first of his seven missed calls.
"Sup Cooley?"
"Yo man I hear you up in Frostburg today?"
"I'm leaving right now."
"What are you doing way out there?"
"Our team played up here for decades man. You just got no sense of history."
"I guess not. But I don't share your sense of style, Miss Nancy, and you're not watchin' that Tyra Banks 'So You Want To Be A Model' show."
"Whatever dicknose. See you at practice."
Running back Clinton Portis had been keeping his attendance at FSU a secret for obvious reasons. It's one thing to wear a pink feather boa to a press conference as a joke. It's another to enroll in a college course called The Science of Harry Potter.
Though his teammates had started to become suspicious of his Tuesday night absences, he would be outed by a completely different source.

Portis walks into the radio studio for his make-up interview on The Sports Rotunda with Robert Rotunda. He pulls out his notes on his talking points, special thanks, and charities. The interview goes well but he leaves his notes behind. Normally that is not a problem. But his notes tonight were scribbled on the back of a classroom seating chart. After the show, the female producer plucks it out of the recycle bin.
"Robert, check this out."
The fat man takes the sheet. He reads it silently. His smile and eyes grow wide.
"Is this for real? This is great! Pa-ZAM! Ratings! Maybe even a mention on the ESPN ticker." He one-two punches the air.
It was not revealed the way he would have liked, but Clinton Portis became the first pro football player to openly admit being in love with a boy wizard.

Not pictured: tailbacks, tight ends, Jim Zorn