Fools' Names and Fools' Faces

Dear Noodlers,

Okay, we’re back up on the incline of the bridge, and I told you that I was in high spirits—largely owing to the fact that I had just solved a riddle as difficult as that posed by the Sphinx itself. (see last post: Calculating the Unknown) I told you I felt like whistling, but was unable to do so owing to the circumstance that there was a persimmon in my mouth. “Well, I’ll fix that,” I said, and quickly ate the fruit’s remaining flesh. I tossed the core over the hedges and guard rails out onto the highway, some twenty yards distant. I began to whistle merrily.

I’d also told you that I had seen fishermen ahead of me. About ten of them were fishing from a pretty good height, two more were walking toward me. They were Filipinos and my heart warmed when I saw that they’d given up and were empty-handed. When they got near, I stopped whistling and said, “Hey, guys! Where’s all your fish?” As I’d hoped, their countenances drooped and shame filled their faces. With eyes down, they mumbled something and kept trudging along. My mood lifted even higher. I don’t like to fish and so I don’t see why anyone else should get any enjoyment from it either.

I walked on but my attention was soon diverted by the honking of horns and the screeching of brakes not far behind me. Then the sound of metal on metal. I looked behind me and saw that the two colliding parties had leaped from their cars and were arguing and shouting vigorously at each other. A lot of threatening arm-waving. Arabs are so demonstrative! I laughed to myself and said, “The persimmon core.”

Walking on, I studied the pathway I was on. It was seven yards wide. The middle five yards were red brick and the edging on each side was comprised of gold bricks. Gold bricks. My computer-like mind began to race. And soon stopped. I’d achieved brain-lock! A pop song! By Elton John! “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” a number I knew well! I decided to sing and so opened up my mouth and blared out lustily, “So goodbye yellow brick road—“ and then I stopped. Inexplicably, that’s all I remembered. No matter. What a great day.

I passed the fishermen whose poles rested atop the bridge railing. Some Indians and a few locals. Happily, no one was catching anything. Except me. I was catchin’ good vibes, and plenty of them.

I walked on, the sun shining warmly. Now, near the summit, the walkway expanded into a sort of plaza and I saw that benches had been placed around for people to sit on and enjoy the seaview.

But then my heart stopped.

In less than a nanosecond my mood had plummeted from elation to violent rage. All because of what I saw before me. Graffiti. Graffiti! Some dirtbag had used a black marker all over the bench before me! In Arabic! Steam rose from the pate of my shaven head. I was boiling at the inconsideration of the imbecile that had done this! But his foul example of subhuman action wouldn’t go unanswered! No!!

I whipped out my penknife and got to work (they’re called PENknives because you can use them, obviously, for both cutting and writing). Thinking black thoughts, I began to carve. I wrote:

“You scumsucker. You piece of maggoty vomit. Did it ever occur to your tiny brain that maybe decent people have absolutely no desire to see examples of your moronic idiocy? Of course it didn’t. And that’s why you deserve to undergo China’s 1000 tortures…until you take your last putrid breath…as pins and needles fill your eyes, wild animals tear at your flesh, and vampires suckle at your throat.”

I closed my knife and read what I’d written. Not bad. But then I remembered a pithy little saying that my Uncle Ken had taught me when I was but a whippersnapper. I opened the knife again and bent to the carving. Soon I saw the result:

“Fools’ names and fools’ faces
Are always seen in public places.”

“Let ‘im mull that over,” I thought to myself, as I again folded the knife and began to walk away. I was sure that the culprit had signed his evil name. But then, thinking of Uncle Ken, my mood gradually began to lift again. I was remembering the times that he would let me ride astride the hood of the little gray Ford tractor (remember that Ford tractors are always gray, Farmalls and McCormack Internationals are always red, and John Deeres are always green; those are the rules) as he did some plowing on my grandparents’ little Oklahoma farm.

What a thrill it was to be sitting there in front of my uncle, just watching the furrows in the red dirt go by while he planted something…probably cotton. Then I thought of something that had never occurred to me before. How was he so certain I couldn’t fall from my perch (I was about four) and be sown too? That was sort of a disturbing thought.

So there I was. Walking along with my emotions yo-yoing; not unlike my team’s performances on the hardwoods.

As you can see, power-walking will test the limits of your emotions. But keep the course.

Former Whippersnapper