Rhymes with Spoon, a new short story.

Rhymes with Spoon

By Pete Schulte

　

The small town of Groverdale is known as the ’Poon Capital of the World.’ Here’s how that happened: It was the Elderberry buddies who first noticed a dapper old man peering over a locked fence at the abandoned quarry. The Elderberries called it in to Sheriff Mann, telling him not to be alarmed, telling him that the old man did not appear to be up to any malfeasance. In fact, the old man bore a striking resemblance to Tom Harwood, the eccentric, extremely wealthy businessman from Ravenwood Meadows, the next town over. Could it be that Tom Harwood was scouting new locations for his next business venture? If the quarry were to be reopened, it would be a boon to nearly everyone in Groverdale; it would be a godsend for sure. Any way you slice it, this was big news.

Sheriff Mann raced to the quarry to try to intercept the old man, while at the same time putting a call of his own to the mayor, Beck Strother. Beck quickly summoned his three town council members while waiting for further updates from the sheriff. In due time all were gathered in the mayor’s tiny office. There he held court. “Lady and gentlemen of the council, I am happy to report that a man fitting the description of Tom Harwood has been possibly spotted while scouting the quarry as a location for one of his new enterprises. This could be the opportunity we‘ve been waiting for, our ticket back in. We‘ll be players again. It‘s fantastic news!”

“But did I hear you use the word possibly, Beck?” asked Councilman Doug Harvey. “Could you expound on that?”

“It was the Elderberry buddies who saw him down there,” said the mayor, excitedly. “Now you know they’ve been right about many an issue before.”

“It’s true,” said Councilman Earl Skullwinder. “Those boys were right about the tax lien of 2010.”

“And they were right about correcting the flood plain,” added Councilwoman Nancy Enright.

“But they were wrong about the steeple abutment,” said Doug Harvey.

“Now, council, all of this is neither here nor there,” said Mayor Strother. “If this boy isn’t Tom Harwood we simply send him on his way. We lose nothing. But if it is Tom Harwood, and if Tom Harwood has intentions of reopening our quarry, then we give Tom Harwood whatever he wants. I don’t care if it’s blackberry flapjacks or turnips on toast. Whatever he wants he gets, right?”

“I just don’t want to be bitten on the bottom by this,” said the ever skeptical Doug Harvey.

“But Doug,” said Nancy Enright, “if that quarry reopens we’re golden, we’re all the way back and then some. Let’s just believe that those Elderberry buddies are right about this one. Let‘s say we just believe.”

A call from Sheriff Mann ended their discussion. The mayor said into his phone, “Have you made contact?” He then put the sheriff on speakerphone so that everyone could participate.

“I have made contact,” said Sheriff Mann. “I have him in the back of the car as a matter of fact. He sure is an agreeable little fellow.”

“But is he Harwood?” interjected Doug Harvey. “That’s the key issue here.”

“Not so fast on that one,” said Sheriff Mann. “Our old boy is a little confused, what with all the excitement. But if this man is not Tom Harwood, I would tell you that Tom Harwood has a twin brother. Does anyone know if Tom Harwood has a twin brother?”

“Look, we’ll figure all that out later,” said Mayor Strother. “Just ask him what he wants. We’ll give him whatever he wants and sort out all that other stuff later. I heard over in Full Forks he wanted jelly jam from a rubberneck root and they gave it to him. Six months later there’s a new factory in Full Forks. You see how this works.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “he has been quite adamant about what he wants. Quite specific actually.”

“Do tell, sheriff,” said the mayor, “do tell. What‘s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“Is the councilwoman there?” the sheriff questioned.

“Of course,” the mayor replied. “We’re all here.”

“See, I don’t like to speak French in front of the ladies,” Sheriff Mann responded.

“Don’t you worry about her,” said Councilman Earl Skullwinder. “She’s been around the block a time or two.”

“Hey, I’m a divorcee,” protested Councilwoman Nancy Enright. “That doesn’t mean I’ve been around the block.”

“Well, halfway around anyway,” Earl muttered.

“Bite your tongue,” shot back Nancy.

The mayor squelched their bickering with an abrupt hand gesture and returned his attention to the sheriff. “Just tell us what he wants, sheriff. I’ll cover Nancy’s ears if the talk gets too blue.”

“All right, Beck, I’ll tell you what he wants exactly as he put it to me. He said, and I quote, ‘Skidilly-didilly-doodilly, and all I want is poon.’ I asked him to please repeat his request and he says to me, ‘Fi-fiddily-fi-o, and all I want is poon.’”

“Poon?” questioned an exasperated Mayor Strother. “Does that mean what I think it means? Poon?”

“I think it’s pretty clear what he wants, Mr. Mayor,” said the sheriff. “I reckon I’ve seen these poon hounds before once or twice. They don’t stop just because they’re in their twilight years. If anything, they charge harder. No time left on the clock and all that.”

The mayor and the sheriff concluded their phone call after the sheriff promised he’d deliver the old man to the mayor’s office in short order. Then the mayor looked upon his council. “Well, there are some things we can do about this.”

“And there are some things we can’t,” cautioned Doug Harvey.

“Now Douglass,” said the mayor, “don’t get all prim and proper on us. Sometimes you’ve got to get dirty before you come clean.”

“But Mr. Mayor?” said Doug Harvey.

“Now all of you,” the mayor continued, “you remember that girl at the county fair, the one who ran the kissing booth? What’s her name, Renee Houndstooth? Why I bet she’d be an eager beaver for such an assignment.”

“But if you recall, Mr. Mayor,” said Nancy Enright, “she only wanted to kiss the girls.”

“Renee Houndstooth? Well I’ll be damned.”

“It’s seems we have a shortage of eligible women in this town,” said Earl Skullwinder. “That’s a shame for all of us.”

“But what about that girl,” exclaimed the mayor, “that one just graduated from high school! What was on that t-shirt she used to wear? No drugs, no thugs, just hugs or something other than that. Well, this won’t be much more than hugging, not with a man so old as Tom Harwood.”

“Beck, please?” said Doug Harvey. “Can’t we just buy him a backscratcher or a cheese plate?”

“Besides,” said Nancy Enright, “her latest t-shirt says something like ’You ain’t getting a thing until I see that ring!’”

“I guess she’s just the marrying type,” said the mayor, sadly. “I guess there are all kinds and types.”

“Well,” said Earl Skullwinder, “I hate to call out the elephant in the room…”

“Earl Skullwinder, I will kill you,” said Nancy.

“Now Nancy,” said Earl, “you’re always going on about how we need to be team players, how we need to sacrifice for the welfare of the team. I believe myself and the other gentlemen in this room would do what needs to be done only we don’t have the requisite parts for the operation. You understand?”

“You want me to be a whore, a quarry whore!”

“Oh Nancy, that’s foul,” said the mayor. “We want no such thing. It’s just that, well, you’re our last hope. So you take him out for drinks, you dance him around the floor, maybe a peck on the cheek. It doesn’t necessarily need to come to its fruition. Maybe he passes out early? You know how these geezers roll.”

Sheriff Mann rolled up and escorted the old man to the mayor’s office. After a brief exchange of pleasantries Mayor Strother said to the old man, “Please tell, sir, are you man called Tom Harwood from Ravenwood Meadows?”

“Ravenwood Meadows you say?” said the old man. “I can tell you I’ve been to and from so many different places.”

“But you’re Tom?” said the mayor.

“Tom,” repeated the old man just above a whisper.

This was good enough for the mayor for he nudged Nancy forward in the face of the old man. She towered over him. “Well Tom, here she is. Do you like her?”

“Oh, very much so,” said the old man. “I like her very much indeed.”

Nancy took the old man by the arm and escorted him out of the office. The others had their own opinions. “Well that cinches it for me,” said Councilman Earl Skullwinder. “That guy looks just like Tom Harwood. It has to be him. He‘s a carbon copy for what I know.”

“I’m not so sure,” replied Councilman Doug Harvey. “He could be anyone, a simple drifter maybe.”

“Well, if a factory drifts on in here I’m all for that,” said the mayor. “For the simple price of poon? Are you kidding me?”

It was three hours later and Nancy Enright staggered back into the office, her cheeks reddened and her breathing heavy. All were gathered and cocktails shared among them. They rose from their seats immediately. “Nancy, are you all right?” inquired Mayor Strother. “Did he hurt you?”

“Oh no,” said Nancy, “not hurt at all but certainly winded and worn out. One of you better pour me a drink real fast.”

“Tell us, Nancy,” said Doug Harvey. “Tell us what he wants, or if he’s gotten all he wanted and we can now have ours.”

“Well,” said Nancy, “I gave him all I could and the minutes turned into hours. That little tumbleweed has no off button from all I could tell. When he finally did come up for air, do you know what he had the nerve to say to me?”

“Do tell, Nancy,” said Earl Skullwinder. “Please.”

“He said, ‘Ti-tick-tickory, and all I want is poon.’”

“More poon?” exclaimed the mayor. “Why that man is insatiable.”

“I’m sorry you did all that for nothing,” said Doug Harvey.

“Nothing?” said Nancy. “Are you kidding me? If that was nothing then I’ll have a helping of nothing every day. That old rascal still has some pepper in his pot.”

“Well, we’ll just have to get him more poon then,” said Mayor Strother.

“Funny, but I don’t think it’s that,” said Nancy. “I mean, he’s saying one thing but perhaps thinking another.”

“Whatever do you mean, Nancy?” asked Doug Harvey.

“I mean perhaps it’s some sort of riddle,” Nancy continued. “It could be that we’re to solve the riddle and then get the factory we so desire.”

“I have no time for riddles,” said councilman Earl Skullwinder. “I say we put him in a cell with Crazy Pete. If anyone can get it out of him, it’s Crazy Pete.”

“No,” said Nancy, “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“Crazy Pete may be crazy,” said the mayor, “but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He rents a cell in the jail because he doesn’t want to go home to his wife. Have you met his wife? He was known as Turkey Leg Pete before she got hold of him.”

“I remember old Turkey Leg,” one of them chimed in.

They soon came to the conclusion that having the old man share a cell with Crazy Pete wasn’t such a bad idea. Mayor Strother had Sheriff Mann brief Crazy Pete on the situation, and after long escorted the old man to the prison cell. They told the old man they were holding him for some sort of trespassing violation. He didn’t seem to mind be detained. In fact, he seemed quite pleased, him being an agreeable sort of fellow.

The sheriff made a brief introduction, “Crazy Pete, old man. Old man, Crazy Pete,” before slamming the cell door. Then they were alone. Crazy Pete spoke first. “So I hear you’re a poon man.”

“Yes, I quite like it,” said the old man.

“Blondes, brunettes, redheads?”

“Yes.”

“Look,” said Crazy Pete, “I want to know what you want with these nice people, but I don’t want to hear any of this fiddly-faddily-foodily stuff that I hear you been dishing out. Now you tell me what it is you want, and I’ll decide whether or not to bash your head in.”

“I want poon!”

“You’ve had your poon, old man. Now I’m getting my hammer. Maybe you’ll speak with more clarity after I lump you one.”

“You see, they taste so good,” said the old man.


“The women?”

“Yes, the women,” the old man continued, “but also the nuts.”

“Nuts? What nuts?” questioned Crazy Pete.

“Poon nuts of course. They drop from the leaves of the Finicula tree this time of year.”

“Finicula tree? Why you daffy old man!”

“Yes,” continued the old man. “Poon nuts. For I have searched so long, so far, over hill and dale for just one Finicula tree. And here I find it just beyond the fence in your quarry. So close and yet so far I’m afraid.”

“So all you want is some nuts?”

“Not some,” said the old man. “I want many, perhaps a whole bag. I’ll gladly pay my share and even then some. They‘re quite tasty, and also good for one’s digestion.”

“Good grief,” said Crazy Pete. “Nuts.”

Later on, they gave the old man his one bag of poon nuts because that’s all he would accept. After that he went on his way, skipping free and merry down the twisted, wooded trail. They never did find out if he was really the rich Tom Harwood of Ravenwood Meadows, but it really didn’t matter. For the quarry was no longer a quarry or a potential factory of any kind. It was now a tree farm, a Finicula tree farm that would drop a plethora of poon nuts each season and make the small town of Groverdale the ‘Poon Capital of the World.’ That’s how that happened.

The end.