Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Top shelf, inside door, normally where the eggs would be

See that jar of Cherry Preserves up there? Sure you do. There's a story attached to that jar, and now I'm gonna tell it.

I had a friend who lived in this town many, many moons ago in a very cool place, a sort of Eagles Nest of bachelorhood, (minus the Wehrmacht dinner plates) a cubbyhole tucked away in the dense urban underbrush of Ann's Arbor. It was above a bar, which gave it an unintentional animus in the evenings, and much quiet during the day. My friend filled it much music himself, two good keyboards worth. It was modern and came with a sunporch which gave the grandiosity of a nice downtown view of nearby buildings while keeping you grounded by the stench of the bar trash cans in the alley behind it. It came with strong Anti Evil Spousal Defense Shields, (and cable) which were necessary for my friend to recoup his energies. He was emerging from a Gallipoliesque marriage, and this fallow time was necessary for his later Churchillian marital triumphs, a good thing on many fronts.

But what it didn't have was parking. Oh, yeah, a block down (and down a hill!) and a block over, which was bad enough in good weather, but in rain? with groceries? Or how's about the Sunday when there's rain, groceries, and a friend (moi!) in tow? The triple whammy of anti-parking! So what does my friend do? He parks across the street from his place in the lot for the gardening/oddments store, the lot with a sign that says "Customer parking only, even on Sundays."

Does my friend do what most of the world would do, just park and unload? No, he has to buy something! Yep... that jar at the top of the page. He would not be struck by a thunderbolt from an angry Jehovah; he was a customer! Did he want Cherry Preserves? Hell no, he tossed the jar to me.

What I wonder is: Why did I keep it? I honestly don't know; I could do worse than to say that I somehow feel that the fates will tell me, that he and I and this jar are connected. Is it our Cask of Amontillado? If this were a Hitchcock film, is it a Macguffin of madness and murder? If this were a Kurosawa film, is it what gets found on a wind swept field after we both get killed defending the fortress of Lord HungaDunga? Is it the prize of an unspoken tontine, with the last one left opening it up to find a long lost ruby, ("Of course! A ruby in the Cherry Preserves!") placed there by the infamous pirates of....of...[reads label] Traverse City, Michigan? I'm not sure I want to open it; it looks like what comes out of the crankcase of an Indy car after a "pit" stop on lap 482! So in the fridge it sits, awaiting its unknown and unknowable future, like the rest of us


bob said...

Thank you. On this, my 11th wedding anniversary, I look back on that day and the purchase of the preserves as a moment of distinct, lasting happiness.

You'd best not open them, because instead of preserves, there is a minor deity of the Cthulhu mythos lingering inside it, who is only kept in check by the mystic bands imposed by a Tuatha de Danaan magician. That and the lid.


Why Fluffy Stuffin'? Enquiring minds want to know....

Camie Vog said...

Since Fluffy Stuffin' seems to be sleeping on the job, let me help him...
from the Fluffy Stuffin' archives Oct.9, 2004

Why the Title?
Before people ask...I had an old, ratty loveseat that was so bad I finally decided to just pitch it. It wound up next door to me, and then, from there thrown out next the house waiting to be removed...and waiting... the squirrels finally figured out there was damn fine nesting material in there so, as my friend Miki pointed out,

The squirrels are eatin' your fluffy stuffin

hence...the new world view...