Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “Unpopped kernel, Einstein,” I kidded him. “Don’t worry. I’m going to drink the milk.”

  “Ssshhhh!” Roxy hissed. “She’s coming on!”

  Well, we assumed she was coming because the song ended and Creightonville returned to the screen, applauding with his microphone in hand which caused little thumps in the audio. The camera panned briefly to show bowlers still at it in the background to the thunder of rolling balls and the sound of falling pins. Then it came back to him. He put the mike to his lips. “That was Let’s Face It with their new hit ‘The Key to My Heart is Under the Mat.’ Available on You Tube and iTunes right now.” I’ll admit I hadn’t really been listening, but I don’t recall hearing any intelligible words, let alone those. The camera zoomed in close and his head grew to fill our 75 inch screen. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you a little about our special guest speaker. Her story begins when she was a mere 14 years old.” As he spoke, a dramatic montage of photos faded in and out, showing Banana Harris as a child, her graduation from high school and college, and her being welcomed to the Mayo Clinic by its then Chief of Staff Harold Fingerman. “A child’s school science project became the find of the century when the tragic death of her test subjects led to the revelation that the cause of what was then called Offensive Obstruction was, in fact, an additive in a family of new cheese products that swept the nation and the world. She called this additive Uber and she has been involved with investigations and research into the effects of Uber ever since. Haunted by the deaths of 16 of the 24 mice, she was driven to give those deaths meaning. A meaning beyond merely identifying Uber, but including effective treatments and eventually a cure for Obstruction. Once hired by the Mayo Clinic at the unprecedented age of only 19, she saw the need for more funding than the government would allow and, with her colleagues there and help from corporate sponsors she organized the first Alley OOPS telethon, which raised in excess of $10 million for Uber research. We are now gathered for the 5th annual telethon, hoping to exceed last year’s record total of $46,080,314.62.” The montage ended and Creightonville reappeared in a more relatable half body shot. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pride and pleasure to introduce to you, Ms. Banana Harris!”

  The audience exploded in applause and Banana Harris walked confidently into the shot. She was wearing a body mike on her grey cotton blouse, so there was no need to take the mike from Creightonville. He slipped out of the shot quietly and the camera centered on Harris. She is tall and slender, with skin the color of that velvet they used to paint Elvis on. I love velvet, even if it doesn’t breathe very well. When I was young, I bought one of the Elvis paintings at a local rummage sale for fifty cents, then went home and used Dad’s mineral spirits to clean off Elvis so I could just feel the velvet. Banana Harris’ skin looked like it felt like that. Mom grounded me for three weeks. She found out online that the painting might have been worth as much as $300. It was fat Elvis, though. Getting the clean velvet was worth the price to me.

  Banana has medium brown hair cut short, which emphasizes her elegantly long neck. She smiled, and her white teeth seemed to outshine the studio lights. Metallic dangling earrings twinkled at the sides of her head. “Hello, I’m Banana Harris.” Audience, crew and phone bank all erupted into a wave of applause, and people began standing up. After only a moment, she waved for them to sit and shouted, “Please! Please! Thank you so much.” There was another brief wait and finally everyone settled down and the studio got very quiet. Even the phones stopped ringing, though I’m sure the producers of the telethon forgave that.

  We at CURDS headquarters were on the edge of our seats. In fact, Badger leaned forward a little too far and hit the floor, but righted himself quickly without even breaking eye contact with the TV. The popcorn was all but gone, and three bowls with random seeds and kernels sat on the coffee table. If it hadn’t been gone it would have been forgotten anyway.

  “I’m here to tell you about an important breakthrough in Uber research,” she said. “But first, there is someone I’d like you to meet.” She nodded to somebody off camera and very quickly a grey and brown blur raced into her arms and climbed up to her shoulders, where it played with her hair with tiny black hands. It was a raccoon! “This is Clara,” she said, by way of introduction, showing not the slightest discomfort as the animal pulled and scratched at her head, possibly looking for an infestation. “She’s a five-year-old North American raccoon. And she’s been eating a diet which includes Uber for a full six months.” The animal climbed to Banana’s other shoulder by going directly over her head. “As you can see, she’s very healthy. Take our word for it, she’s not obstructed at all. She’s been implanted with what I call a Colonic Pacemaker.” Here’s where watching from home kind of lost its appeal. The screen went to a graphic of a human digestive system and we couldn’t see Clara anymore. We could hear the studio audience laughing, though, and making the “awwww, that’s so cute” sound.

  “I’m sure most of you know how a digestive system works, but let me explain it. The food you eat goes down your esophagus into your stomach. It’s partially digested there. It then goes into the small intestine.” As she spoke, a white arrow flashed on the screen pointing to whatever part she was talking about. “A human’s small intestine is about 20 feet long, folded over on itself several times in the abdominal cavity. As the food travels through this, it is further digested until finally it enters the large intestine here,” and the little white arrow appeared at the junction between the types of intestine. “The large intestine, or colon, does the final job of extracting excess water before the waste is expelled. The food travels through both intestines through a series of muscular contractions called peristalsis Now, when enough Uber is consumed, that peristalsis shuts down, similar to spastic colon but more severe. The digested waste sits and accumulates,” here, thankfully, the graphic disappeared and the video feed returned to the studio, Banana Harris and Clara, who was now hanging upside down on the front of Banana’s blouse. The body mike was picking up a clear gurgling sound in her belly as she reached for something in a patch pocket at Banana’s waist. Banana distracted her, gently guiding her hands up. For a moment, the two were nose to nose as Clara questioned Banana’s authority, then the raccoon turned its back and hung on her shoulder like an infant being burped. Banana continued, undisturbed by the animal’s activity. “We still don’t know why, on the molecular level, this happens. But this is what causes the deaths from Obstruction. The water is drawn out too quickly, thus causing the stool to harden, and with the muscular contractions absent the volume eventually exceeds the capacity of the intestine. Well, needless to say, it’s serious business.

  “Now, the digestive system of a raccoon is slightly different from a human, but basically the same. Seven months ago, we implanted Clara with a Colonic Pacemaker, a device that helps keep peristalsis functioning through an electronic impulse similar to pacemakers we’ve been using to fix cardiac arrhythmia for decades. It’s a four part device.” Again, the graphic and its little white arrow returned and the home viewing public was denied the sight of Clara. No doubt the studio audience had the choice of watching Clara or a large monitor. I’m betting most of them chose to watch Clara. “A stimulator is implanted at each junction. Here, at the cecum where the small intestine joins the colon. Here, where the ascending colon meets the transverse colon, and here where the transverse colon meets the descending colon. A transmitter is also inserted into the abdominal cavity just below the stomach. It includes its own power source, but can also be controlled from outside the human body by its specific frequency, which is classified and, of course, unique to each patient.”

  The video returned to the studio, where Clara was now perched on top of Banana’s head and was standing on her hind legs reaching for the dust motes in the beam from the spotlight. Unable to catch them, she opened her jaws and chittered in frustration. Banana reached up and lifted Clara down and held her in her arms. Clara played with Banana’s
collar. Banana slipped something from her pocket and handed it to Clara, who settled back to nibble it to death. It looked like a formless glob of white cheese. “Now I do want to stress that even though the results are very promising, this is NOT a cure. It’s a treatment. It doesn’t make it okay to eat Uber, and does nothing to combat the narcotic effects of ingesting it. It’s also still years away from human trials. I’m announcing my findings today simply to give everyone hope and encouragement and to perhaps generate more donations. While more funding doesn’t necessarily mean faster results – there is a timetable to follow-- a lack of funding will definitely slow things down. As an added incentive,” she added with a wink off camera, “I will personally thank the next 50 callers for their pledges. Thank you for listening, ladies and gentlemen. Have a great day!” Gently, she took one of Clara’s paws in her hand and helped the raccoon wave goodbye. Before the camera panned away, Clara twisted her front end away from Banana, her tiny black hands pushing against the gray blouse as she relied on Banana to hold her rear end while she reached downward toward the patch pocket. Those tiny black hands with their narrow sharp claws dipped into the pocket and grabbed another piece of cheese, and the animal retracted her top half back into her keeper’s arms.

  As Creightonville returned with his handheld mike, we at CURDS headquarters sat in utter silence, with our jaws open wide.

  “Oh. My. God.” I heard myself saying the words, but it wasn’t a conscious decision to speak. “I have to pledge! I have to pledge right now!” My phone unfortunately, was upstairs in my bedroom, and with eight separate cell accounts in the house no one had need of a landline. “Imagine! A chance to talk to Banana Harris!” I said excitedly, rising to my feet.

  “Correction,” said Sylvia Pendragon, her one green eye sparkling playfully. The other, severely damaged, was covered with a black eye patch. “The chance to have Banana Harris talk to you. She didn’t say anything about a conversation.”

  “I don’t care. If I get through I’ll never wash my ear again.”

  I stood to go, but Nitro said, “Ah ah! Milk, Helena. Besides, everyone will have that reaction. You won’t get through.” The camera was already showing everyone on the phone bank talking into their headsets and scribbling on their pads. “There’s plenty of time to pledge.”

  “Grrrr,” I teased him, but I picked up the glass of milk and chugged the whole thing down. It tasted great. After all the popcorn, I was so thirsty rainwater soaked up with old underwear would have tasted good. “I’m trying anyway,” I said, putting the empty glass on the table and smacking my lips. I probably had a milk moustache, but I didn’t care. I hurried away. “This is huge! This is fantastic!” I thundered up the stairs, only my residual aches preventing me from taking them two at a time.

  Of course, Nitro was right. I couldn’t get through. I got busy signal after busy signal. I could have also used my cell phone to access the website, or sent a text, of course, but I wanted to talk to a human being and gush, and maybe get a chance to talk to Ms. Harris before she left. I’m nothing if not persistent. It took three hours, but I finally got through and pledged a hundred dollars, but I was told politely that Ms. Harris had left.

  Chapter Two

  When I got back downstairs, nearly everyone was gone, retired to their private rooms for the evening. Knobby was sitting on one couch and Roxy on another. Roxy had changed into a negligee and a long pale blue robe with feathers around every edge. Her slippers were open toed with more feathers and a blocky high heel. There was no room next to her because there was a large skein of red yarn sitting there and several sheets of paper with something that looked like a secret code printed on them. In her hands was a thick plastic crochet hook attached to one end of the skein of yarn. A tiny line of finished stitches draped from the other side, stirring the wispy pale blue feathers on her robe. The TV was still on, tuned to the telethon, though the sound was barely audible. An acrobatic act was on the makeshift stage. Few of us were impressed by acrobatics anymore. It was anti-climactic and relatively tame compared to what we had to do on our jobs. Anything that demonstrated an activity that wasn’t in our repertoire usually earned the response ‘I could do that if I wanted to’ from someone.

  Roxy looked up when I entered. “Oh, hey. Did you get through? Did you get to talk to Banana Harris?” She said the name as if it was my love interest and she was a twelve-year-old boy teasing me about it.

  “Yes, and no. And don’t tease. She’s the most prestigious scientist on the planet and she’s only 25 years old. Where were you at 25?” I knew exactly where she was. CURDS does have personnel files. She was selling women’s shoes. In fact, her impressive collection of high heels was acquired mostly through the generous employee discount at Sky High Heels and Monuments of Henderson, Nevada, serving your needs above ground and below since 2010.

  “What have you got there, Roxy?” I asked, more to change the subject than any actual interest.

  “I’m crocheting!” she announced proudly, holding up the squiggly line of stitches she had made. “Your Mom was telling me about it. So after the exercise yard, I went shopping and got some stuff. And I printed off some patterns from the Internet. It’s not bad. ”

  “Not bad, huh? What are you making?”

  “I thought I’d start with a scarf. You know, just straight stuff.” I didn’t say so, but what she had so far was anything but straight. She noticed my expression, I guess, because she shrugged. “This is still practice. Your Mom said to be patient. This kind of thing takes time.”

  “Don’t get obsessed,” I said. “I already went through that. I don’t like to tell anyone, but Mom is the Cozy Queen of Southern Illinois. She crocheted cozies for everything in her house. She has a cozy for the coffee pot, a cozy for the toaster, cozies for the garbage can, the fruit bowl, and the bird feeder in the backyard. She made a cozy for the neighbor’s cat and gave everyone candy canes in cozies for Christmas. She even had a cozy for the plastic storage boxes in which she stored her extra cozies.”

  “Aye, aye,” she said, “no cozies,” and resumed looping yarn, the skein beside her wriggling and rolling against the cushions.

  Knobby was watching the acrobatics intently. I felt bad for him sometimes. He wanted to be more active, but without kneecaps it was impossible. I felt he was torturing himself by watching and hoped the act would finish soon. I sat next to him and watched too. It was a family act, with mother, father, two sons and a daughter. The father was on his back with his feet in the air, spinning his daughter, who was probably five or six, into a blur, while the mother and two sons walked around them on their hands to the tune of Yakety Saks. The father then flipped his daughter to one side and she landed on her feet with her hands raised triumphantly. After a moment for applause, she put her hands flat on the floor and went into a handstand and began handing around with the others, while the father lowered his legs to rest. When the father resumed his position, one of the sons jumped into place from his handstand landing belly down and he began spinning. “No way is he doing the wife,” I said.

  “Betcha ten he does,” said Knobby.

  “I don’t bet money, you know that.” It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it. But betting money can get very addictive and I didn’t want to open that door. It could also lead to resentment and inter-personnel issues. I discouraged it under general principle.

  “How about just a favor to be determined later? I’ll keep it fair.”

  There wasn’t a lot of time for negotiations. The father was slowing the spin and then reversed it. “Okay, you’re on.” I accepted. “Roxy, you’re a witness.”

  “Sure,” she said, not even looking up. She kept moving her attention from the pattern to the thing in her hands and back again.

  The father flipped off the first son like he had the daughter, and the second son jumped into place atop the father’s feet, spreading his arms and legs wide to enhance the spin, watching his father’s face on every revolution to avoid nausea. After a minute, he
was also flipped off and, sure enough, the wife performed a handspring landing on her husband’s spinning feet, but this time belly up. It’s much harder to spin someone that way without soft tissue to dig into. Plus she was significantly heavier than any of the children and rather than watching her husband’s face she saw the ceiling, which, being a bowling alley, probably was acoustical tile with fluorescent light panels, spinning above her. Briefly, an “acrobat-cam” showed her view, but they were careful not to keep it on the screen very long. He didn’t spin her quite as fast, but it was still a difficult feat for his, uh, feet. “Okay,” I conceded. “You got me, Knobby. What do you want?”

  “Let you know when I think of something,” he said with a friendly wink.

  The wife dismounted and they all jumped to their feet to a round of applause. After three or four bows, they ran off the makeshift stage. The host was no longer Creightonville. It was now a platinum blonde actress I recognized from the movies named Noreen von Von. She tossed to the local affiliates. I watched that long enough to see the local toteboard was at $147,023.

  Knobby stretched and yawned. He was still wearing his caretaker tan coveralls and workboots. “I’m going to enjoy the unseasonably warm night air for a while.”

  “Warm? How warm?” I asked.

  “Seventy. Would you believe it? And some people say climate change is a hoax. November in D.C. and it’s seventy degrees. At almost midnight, too! Nice now, but come the rainy season in Spring, we’ll be flooding again. And I sleep down there, you know. While back, when Scarlett hit, I had the choice of damp, wet and bring a snorkel,” he said, referring to his rooms in each of the three CURDS headquarters. “Gotta admit, though, they took care of things nice and prompt like and paid for my hotel room to boot. Still, not a great week.” He pushed himself up from the couch, taking care not to put much pressure on his knees as he rose. “Anyone care to join me?”