Ghost Town

by Richard W. Jennings

  "War paint," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "A great tradition."

  "Okee-dokee," I said. "But it seems to me that it's not that much different from stirring up bees."

  "It's completely different," Chief Leopard Frog replied.

  Hmmm, I thought. He seems to be somewhat miffed with me. Have I been neglecting him lately?

  Even when dealing with imaginary friends, it's important to be sensitive to their idiosyncrasies. So I started over, this time using a different approach, one based on the principles of salesmanship—flattery and lying—that, unknowingly, I'd begun to pick up from my contact with Milton Swartzman.

  "Hey, guess what?" I said. "That publisher loved your poems."

  "Really?" Chief Leopard Frog replied. His voice, his posture, and his demeanor suddenly brightened. "Which one did he like best?"

  "He liked them all equally well," I fibbed. "He said there was no way to choose a favorite. He wants to see more."

  "No kidding," Chief Leopard Frog said. "This is wonderful news."

  "I hope you don't mind," I added, digging the hole deeper, "but I also let him see the talisman you made for me. He said you are truly a gifted artist capable of profound expression in many media."

  "Wow," Chief Leopard Frog responded. "He said that?"

  "Mmm-hmm," I replied.

  "So what happens next?" Chief Leopard Frog inquired earnestly, dumping the entire bag of Cheetos at the feet of the squirrel, which was now covered in salty, cheese-flavored, iridescent orange dust.

  Timing is everything. In photography. In fishing. In manipulating imaginary friends. You have to know when to set the hook.

  "What do you mean, 'next'?" I asked disingenuously.

  Chief Leopard Frog was always one for tradition. He spoke of tradition as if something that had happened in the past was more important—even sacred—just because it happened a long time ago. So I was simply following Chief Leopard Frog's ideas about tradition when I proceeded to deceive him for my own personal gain.

  White men have been deceiving Native Americans for personal gain since the first greedy European set foot on this vast continent. The practice continues to this very day, as seen with all the gambling casinos in such unlikely places as Oklahoma and South Dakota. To my convenient way of thinking, there is no more long-standing tradition in the relationship between Indians and whites than relentless mutual exploitation.

  Thus, my conscience shuddered only slightly when I said, "He wants to publish a book of your poems in conjunction with an exhibit of your art. He needs about sixty talismans and an equal number of poems. Can you do it?"

  "It may take a while," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "But yes, of course I can."

  "Way to go," I said encouragingly. "Let's get started right away, shall we?"

  "I'll need some fresh notebooks," he said.

  "Why don't we do the talismans first," I suggested. "We can always do a rush job later on the poems. How hard is it to write a poem?"

  "Then I'll have to find another bee tree," Chief Leopard Frog explained. "That last one is about petered out."

  "I'll help you," I replied. "Just follow the bees, right?"

  One Sunday morning, back when there had been a First United Methodist Church of Paisley, the Reverend Dr. F. Foster Frost preached these words:

  "Someday," he declared to his tiny congregation, a well-intentioned group that included my mother and myself, "God will demand that you pay for your sins."

  In my experience, Dr. Frost was dead wrong. There's no "someday" about it. It's more like "within forty-five minutes. If you're really lucky, half a day."

  Three hours after Chief Leopard Frog and I struck out in search of a new bee tree, I lay swollen and writhing in pain in my nest of quilts.

  "Didn't I tell you that you're allergic to bee stings?" my mother shouted. "I'm beginning to wonder if you can be homeschooled. You're such a slow leaner."

  "Ohhhh," I replied.

  God's punishment is swift.

  Meanwhile, however, Chief Leopard Frog sat outside on the front porch, whistling a happy tune as he whittled away like a happy-go-lucky dwarf in a Disney cartoon.

  A Title That Couldn't Be Verse

  NO SOONER WERE WE ALL AFLUTTER, what with poems and talismans, than Paisley, Kansas, was deflated like a hot-air balloon shot in its side by a vintage two-barrel shotgun.

  Ka-ploop!

  Things slowed down after that, and in Paisley, let me tell you, that's pretty doggone slow. Any slower and it would have been on a par with glacier formation or amber solidification.

  I recovered from bee stings and broken bones and a bonked head while Chief Leopard Frog whittled and wrote poetry and whittled some more and my mother watched Oprah on TV and nobody but nobody came down our road, not even the FedEx man, who I had been certain would be back for my mother's fried chicken.

  Pumpkins grew. Spiders crawled. My toe, the one I'd accidentally photographed into the fourth dimension, remained missing.

  During this interlude I paused to reflect on the outrageous lie I had told my best friend. I was in a situation of my own making in which I could not defend my actions. That I was encouraged to do so by others, namely Milton Swartzman, only made it worse, because it proved me to be a moral weakling.

  And yet I needed the money.

  Isn't that what bank robbers say?

  I was no better than a bank robber.

  If it were not for the warning from the witch doctor's widow, I would have taken my own macro portrait.

  That's how small I felt.

  Like a bug.

  Somehow, I was going to have to tell Chief Leopard Frog the truth.

  Ohhhh, I thought to myself. I'd rather be stung by bees!

  "How's it coming?" I asked him, taking a seat beside him on the porch.

  "Many talismans. Many poems. Many more to do," he replied.

  "I wish I could help, but I simply don't have your talent," I said.

  "All art comes from the same source," Chief Leopard Frog observed.

  "I reckon," I replied. "But I couldn't write a poem if my future depended on it."

  "You photograph poems," Chief Leopard Frog said. "Very fine, very beautiful, revealing a magic world."

  "Why, thank you, Chief. That's kind of you to say," I answered, sincerely flattered. "I'd like to be able to do more, but it's expensive."

  "All art is costly to the artist," he replied. "Consider poetry. Each word must be torn from the heart. Very expensive. Very painful."

  "Hmm," I said. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

  I put a roll of film in my camera to photograph Chief Leopard Frog's work in progress. I figured that if nothing else, Milton Swartzman could use a snapshot for his catalog. Also, I wanted to record Chief Leopard Frog's art before it was dispersed throughout an unwary world. The detail in his carving, as always, was astonishing.

  By the time the film came back from Sparkle Snapshot in St. Louis, Chief Leopard Frog had completed forty individual pieces and an equal number of new poems, each poem associated in some way with one of the carvings.

  My feelings of guilt rose steadily, like the DRINK COCA-COLA IN BOTTLES thermometer outside Mel's (closed forever) Bait Shop on a summer day in Paisley, Kansas. Not just for hoodwinking Chief Leopard Frog, but also for unleashing Paisley's bad luck on an unprepared planet.

  The talisman pictures turned out nicely. I also appreciated the bonus shot of Maureen Balderson in the bathtub. By now I'd come to expect such things, but this one was especially interesting. I'd forgotten what a nice smile she had.

  "So," I said to Chief Leopard Frog, still staring at the picture of Maureen as he continued to carve bee tree burls, "what are you planning to call your book of poems?"

  "Burl Hives," he replied.

  "What?" I said. "That won't work. It sounds like some old country singer."

  "It's my book," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "I can call it whatever I want."

  "Yeah," I said, "but think about the mark
eting problem. Who's going to want to put out good money for a book of poems that sounds like it's about the guy who was Frosty the Snowman?"

  "I did not ask you to write my book," Chief Leopard Frog said flatly. "Nor am I asking you to title my book. Only to send it to the man who will publish it. That is your role. Now excuse me while I carve."

  What a nitwit, I thought. That's the worst title imaginable.

  My feelings of guilt lessened somewhat.

  I sneaked another peek at my most recent photo of Maureen Balderson before putting it away in the cigar box.

  Too bad they moved away, I thought. If it weren't for his Neanderthal killer instincts, her brother and I might have been friends.

  I sent a letter to Milton Swartzman, a brief situation report.

  Dear Mr. Swartzman, I wrote.

  We're about two-thirds of the way through the assignment. Making good progress, I think. There's just one hitch. My partner is expecting to get his poems published in a book. Somehow he got it into his head that you're the one who's going to publish it. Any ideas?

  Sincerely,

  Spencer Adams Honesty

  P.S. That ghost camera is worth more than five hundred dollars. Take my word for it.

  Careless Packing

  I SPENT THE WEEKEND cutting back the pumpkin patch. It had grown so big that it was in danger of engulfing our home. Just up the road at Ma Puttering's place that very thing had already happened. Her house had vanished. There was nothing left but a house-shaped jungle of pumpkin vines.

  "Where am I supposed to put all this stuff?" I asked my mother while chopping leaves as big as elephants' ears.

  "Just pile it up by the road, and after it dries out, we'll burn it," she said.

  "That'll be something to see," I commented.

  Country people enjoy burning things. The entertainment value of the act far outweighs the damage to the atmosphere.

  As Chief Leopard Frog was nearing the completion of his assignment, I turned my thoughts to practical matters:

  How would I package and send the talismans? How would I deal with the "poetry issue"? How would I deposit the money, since no doubt it would come in the form of a check and there were no banks left in Paisley?

  Plan ahead—that's my motto.

  No, wait: that isn't true. What's the rush? is my motto.

  Well, maybe they could both be my motto: Plan ahead, but what's the rush?

  Seems okay.

  Uncle Milton wrote back using regular mail. The stamp had a picture of the queen of England on it when she was much younger than she is today.

  Dear Kid, he wrote.

  At your suggestion, I have repriced the ghost camera at nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. Ill still give you ten percent off if you want it. The poetry book is a problem. I could print it for you when I print my catalog and it would be every bit as beautiful, but it would cost you. My guess is about three hundred dollars, but Id have to check with my printing manager, and at the moment he's fishing. In the meantime, send me all the bad luck talismans you've got. An undeserving world awaits its comeuppance.

  Your obedient servant,

  Milton Swartzman

  President and Publisher, Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find

  P.S. The sample photo is excellent. Keep up the good work!

  P. IPS. If you come across any unusual vegetables, such as pumpkins or gourds shaped like famous people, please let me know. I'm always on the lookout for a rare celebrity squash.

  Dang! I thought to myself. Just yesterday I threw away a baby gourd that resembled the former secretary of state Condoleezza Rice.

  I need to pay more attention.

  That's what my motto should be: Pay attention.

  Also, What's the rush? And Plan ahead, and Take it easy.

  All of those.

  I need a motto notebook, I thought.

  It's lucky my mother was trained in post office procedures, because I would not have known how to ship a boxful of objects resembling five dozen withered apples all the way to the middle of the Caribbean Sea. I did know one thing, however. If they represented as much bad luck as Milton Swartzman believed they did, they'd better be packed carefully.

  First, I wrapped each talisman in a page ripped from a catalog. Then I placed each one into a shipping box, gently, as if it were a mockingbird's egg, after which I filled the box with torn notebook paper. Then I placed the shipping box into an even larger shipping box, cushioned it all around with more paper, and sealed the whole thing airtight with nylon-reinforced packing tape.

  You could drop this parcel from the moon and it would survive the fall, I figured. Besides, its contents were harder than walnuts.

  The fastest way to get it there would have cost a fortune, so we settled on the patient way, estimated to take three weeks or more. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but...

  See? That's the problem with living in Paisley.

  There's nothing to do.

  The mind is its own place, and itself

  Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.

  —Milton (the Italian poet of long ago, no relation to Milton Swartzman)

  "Any word yet?" Chief Leopard Frog asked the next day.

  "Certainly not," I replied "I doubt if the box has even left Kansas."

  "Well, let me know the second you hear anything," Chief Leopard Frog requested.

  "Yes, of course," I replied.

  "I suppose I seem a little anxious," Chief Leopard Frog said.

  "More than usual," I admitted.

  "It's not the amulets I'm concerned about. They're easy to duplicate. It's the poems. They were my only copies," he explained.

  "Which copies?" I asked.

  "The ones I gave you," he replied.

  "You gave me copies of your poems?" I said.

  "You know I did," Chief Leopard Frog insisted. "I handed you a sheaf of papers while you were packing the box. Remember? You said, 'Thanks,' and I said, 'Don't mention it.' Remember?"

  "Oh," I said, suddenly realizing what I had inadvertently done but not wishing to reveal my blunder to Chief Leopard Frog. "Those poems. Sure, I put them in the box with the talismans. Don't worry about a thing. They're winging their way to the Caribbean as we speak."

  "Let me know when you hear something," he repeated.

  "You bet," I told him. "You can count on me."

  Not.

  A Book Deal

  I ALREADY FELT GUILTY about lying to my imaginary friend about the chances of his poems ever getting published. Now, when I thought about it, I had no reason left to live. I was a total washout. A liar, a loser, and a clumsy, absent-minded, self-absorbed oaf. I'd really blown it this time. I'd ripped all of Chief Leopard Frog's carefully crafted poems into packing material.

  Yi, yi, yi, yi, yi! I thought. Bring on the spiders! Bring on the bees! Let me take my own portrait with a ghost camera!

  I deserved to be the last kid in Paisley, Kansas.

  Who could possibly want me for a friend?

  After a sleepless night in my nest, I got up the next morning and sent a letter to Milton Swartzman.

  Dear Mr. Swartzman:

  Sixty "lucky" authentic Indian-carved bee tree burls are en route to you by Sushi Shipping Services. I expect you will receive them within your lifetime.

  You will note that each is carefully packed in layers of paper to protect it from damage from rough seas and careless dockworkers. As it turns out, wadded up within this protective paper are the very poems that my friend wants published in a volume to be titled Burl Hives: Poems by Chief Leopard Frog, Sac and Fox Tribe, Paisley, Kansas.

  Please don't ask me how the mix-up happened, as I feel bad enough as it is. Also don't give me any advice about the title because the author is adamant about his goofball choice.

  You will recall that you said it would cost about three hundred dollars to print my friend's book. How many copies? And how will you handle distribution and nat
ional television appearances? Do you know Oprah? My mother watches her show all the time.

  I am prepared to give up my three-hundred-dollar compensation for the talismans if we can work out a book deal Please note, however, that I still need the money. As you suggested, I'm keeping an eye out for a famous-looking pumpkin. So far, I've got one that seems to be shaping up to look like the Wal-Mart smiley face. What would that be worth to you?

  Sincerely,

  Spencer Adams Honesty

  Paisley, Kansas

  A fortnight passed.

  By now, September had just about sung its song.

  Uncle Milton replied.

  Dear Kid:

  If all I do is exchange letters with you, how do you expect me to get any work done? No sign of your talismans yet, but I know the shipping line and they're as reliable as they come in this part of the world. I could do the book for the price we've agreed and print five hundred copies, which is all that the poetry world can possibly swallow, even if we were talking about the poet laureate of the Cayman Islands. I will send a dozen of them out for review to the leading journals and newspapers, hold back fifty copies for my catalog—it's definitely something you thought you'd never find—and send the remainder to you and your friend to peddle from the trunk of your car, which is basically the way poetry is meant to be distributed.

  If you ask me, which you didn't, you are wasting your money. I do hope that you're doing this for the right reasons.

  YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT,

  MILTON SWARTZMAN

  President and Publisher, Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find

  PS. Don't try to con a con man, kid. Every pumpkin looks like the Wal-Mart smiley face.

  P.P.S. On the other hand, if you've got one that looks like Sam Walton, or even his wife, Helen, I could give you fifty bucks. His dog Ole Roy is worth seventy-five.

  "Anything yet?" Chief Leopard Frog inquired, sticking his head into my room.

  "They're on the case," I assured him. "They're going to publish it, but it'll take a while."

  "Keep me informed," he insisted.

  "Oh, I will," I said. "This means as much to me as it does to you."