Bouffon Stories 2011

by Jan Jacob Mekes

  Elastics

  So I woke up this morning, like any regular man, when I noticed an old woman at my window. An old? woman. At MY window. Did I mention I was living at the 8th floor?! I rubbed out my eyes, thinking yesterday's party had turned my brain to mush. For one moment, this seemed to resolve the situation, but a second later things took a turn for the worse. The woman was upside down, and she seemed to be dangling. Did I imagine this? This couldn't be happening. Still, I thought it would be best to make sure, even though I felt pretty silly opening up the window to look at what must obviously be a hallucination.

  "Oh, hello," the hallucination said.

  Now, I'm not an expert on tricks of the mind, but I was pretty sure most hallucinations didn't address you with "Oh, hello."

  "Um? hi?" I cautiously replied.

  When the old lady had stopped dangling, it was a little easier to converse with her.

  "Hello again. I'm sorry to just drop in like this," she giggled, her cheeks red with excitement. "The thing is, I seem to be in rather a predicament here."

  "I can see that," I said, being the Captain Obvious that I am. "How did you?"

  "Let me explain. My grandson visits me every fortnight, and every time he comes along he talks about these modern things. Last time he taught me how to use Twitter. That was pretty boring though, so I asked him to tell me about something more interesting. Now, yesterday he explained how he had bungee-jumped once. That sounded very exciting to me, and I asked him if I could have a go at that."

  "Wait, I know it's not a decent question, but? how old are you?"

  "73."

  My mouth dropped open.

  "But anyway," she continued, disregarding my amazement, "he said it would be too dangerous for a woman my age. Well, dangerous, schmangerous, I say. You've got to try everything at least once, haven't you?"

  I couldn't help nodding.

  "I knew you'd understand, love. So today, I tied a clothesline to the antenna on the roof, and the other end around my ankles. Well, my boy, I can tell you I haven't felt this great since 1965! But now I seem to have a bit of a problem? I can't get back up."

  It was a problem. You see, she was sort of stuck halfway between storeys, so I couldn't help her into the window. Now, I suppose I could have called the fire brigade, but I feared the clothesline would snap before they'd arrive.

  "Hang on," I said.

  "Yes, I haven't got much choice," I heard the old lady quip as I ran up the stairs to the roof of the flat. When I got up there, I carefully pulled the line, trying my best not to upset the gentle balance of the knots the old woman had tied. Fifteen nerve-wrecking minutes later, I had her back on solid ground.

  "Don't ever do that again," I said.

  "Of course not, dear."

  "Good."

  "I've tried it now, so there's no point in doing it again, is there? Now, I've read something about paragliding? maybe with a sheet, I can do something? that's something for my grandson's next visit though."

  That same day, I put up my apartment for sale and moved in with my brother until I found a new house.

  Sentenced to Broccoli

  "Hear ye, hear ye!" said a judge, hitting his hammer on an anvil to attract attention. "We are gathered together here for the case of the state of Subconsciousness versus Lopez. Brrrrrring in the accused!"

  Charlie Lopez was brought in by two police officers, both wearing loincloths. One was blue, the other a fashionable pink.

  "Now, Mister??"

  "Lopez," Charlie whispered.

  "Do you plead guilty?"

  "Guilty of what?"

  Gasps reverberated around the courtroom.

  "WHAT?! You mean you claim to have no knowledge of the facts you perpetrated? Bailiff, bring me more chocolates. What? No, the ones with caramel in. Yes."

  Five minutes passed. The bailiff returned, red in the face. "Your honour, here they are."

  "About time. Now," the judge continued, stuffing his face with chocolates and taking a big swig from a glass of milk, nearly choking, "let's resume. The facts, I presume, are clear to all present?"

  The assembled crowd synchronously nodded in approval.

  "Do you deny," the judge said, addressing Charlie, "that you have threatened to shoot these upstanding law officers with a plasma rifle?"

  "I do."

  "Then how do you explain this?"

  The bailiff brought in an iPad.

  "Hm?"

  "I have no recollection of ever?"

  "I'm sure you don't, Mister Lopez! And yet, members of the jury, look what happens when I switch this thing on! Look here! This is nothing more or less than a copy of that subversive piece of literature that is widely known to be only read by anarchists! Yes, genties and ladlemen, I speak of that despicable Gentleman's Magazine!"

  Cries of foul and shame were uttered by all present.

  "But that is not all, no? this? filthy individual has implicated himself even further! Bailiff! You lazy piece of work! Bring in exhibit B, at the double!"

  The bailiff hurried out and returned in the blink of an eye. He popped a DVD into a player and pressed a button. The film Happy Feet was projected onto one of the courtroom's walls. After a few minutes, the judge hit his head against the anvil.

  "I think we have seen quite enough of that filth! I think by now it is no great surprise when I tell you that the defendant has not only this film, but many other similar immoral pictures in his possession."

  "You dirty pervert!" someone in the audience cried, throwing a rock at Charlie Lopez.

  "Bailiff, remove that man. That is not how we do justice here. Charlie Lopez Bloom, I hereby sentence you to a life of eating broccoli!"

  "But? but I don't even like broccoli!"

  * * *

  Charlie woke up, bathing in sweat. He looked at the clock.

  "Oh God, I've overslept."

  He rushed down without even taking off his pyjamas.

  "Betty, I'm late for work!"

  "Charlie, what's wrong? It's Saturday, don't you remember?"

  "Oh? oh? yes, now I do."

  "You look a bit distressed. Tell you what, how about we stay at home today and watch a nice movie? Let's see, what to watch? oh, I know, we haven't watched that one you bought at the jumble sale. You know, the one with the dancing penguins? What is it, darling? You're looking a bit pale. You need some good food, get that blood rushing to your head again! Something with lots of vitamins? oh, I know! How about broccoli? I know you're not fond of it and we haven't eaten it in years, but? darling? Oh God, Charlie, what's the matter? Wake up!"

  Oops

  Peter sat behind his desk. It wasn't exactly his desk. It was his father's. But since he was away on holiday, at some relaxation clinic in Switzerland, Peter considered the desk his own. He looked at the picture frame on the desk, which held a photograph of his father, who was a rather narcissistic man. It was like looking into a mirror. Peter looked almost exactly like his father, except for the moustache. Ah yes, the moustache? he remembered that one time when they went to the party at the embassy. He had worn a false moustache, and his father had shaved his off for the occasion. Everyone thought he was him and him was he. Or something. It was fun, anyway.

  Now where was that false moustache?? Ah, yes, he remembered now. After rummaging through some drawers, he found it and some glue. Oh, glory! Now he could relive those days. He carefully applied the moustache, and to complete the picture, Peter took out one of his father's best cigars and lighted it, and put his feet up on the table. He had hardly assumed this posture when someone came storming through the door.

  Peter coughed. "Wh-who are you?"

  "Ah! Carruthers! There you are," said the visitor. He looked rather queer, Peter thought. A huge amount of hair on his head, like one of those Beethoven busts people who can't play the piano use to decorate their piano. And his beard, my God, his beard? Karl Marx would have been jealous. And then his voice? all croaky, as if the man had just downed a bottle of whiskey
and washed it down with a bottle of bleach.

  "I?" Peter began. He first wanted to tell the man he wasn't his father? but then, why not have a little fun? Why not indeed, continue the masquerade, like that memorable day at the embassy? "How can I help you, my good man? Please, please, sit down."

  "Oh, thank you, Carruthers."

  "Cigar?"

  "No, I want to get straight to business. The case is this. Remember that contract you signed, to take over my company?"

  "Contract? Uh, yes, yes! Of course! How could I ever forget, right?"

  "Indeed. Our board of directors has decided to go through with the sale, but yours is not the only bid. Now, I'm doing this only because we're old friends, and you told me how much you need this company. I've managed to convince the board to grant you a period of 24 hours exclusivity. That is, tomorrow we will consider the other bids as well. And let's face it, those will be better. I know how hard up on cash you are right now."

  Peter remained silent for a moment or two.

  "Eh, Carruthers? What say you?"

  "I?"

  "Come on, it's the offer of a lifetime! So open that safe and bring out the contract. I'm ready when you are," the hairy visitor said, reaching into his jacket pocket to bring out a fountain pen.

  "Right," Peter said, trying to sound determined. He gingerly stepped towards the picture frame behind which his father's safe was located. It wobbled as he tried to remove it.

  "Oh come on, why won't you budge?"

  "Is anything the matter, Carruthers?"

  "Oh, no, everything's fine," answered Peter, who gave another tug at the painting. Well, that removed it all right. It just broke the frame. "Um. No harm done! I'll just have a new frame made."

  A new challenge presented itself. Peter was face to face with a safe, which had a lock with sixteen unmarked buttons on it. He stepped back to think, not noticing the painting on the floor. He stepped on it and slipped.

  "Oh dear, are you all right?" asked the visitor.

  "Yes, yes."

  "And what about the painting?"

  "I'll? I'll have a new one painted."

  "Ah. Do let me know when you've succeeded in bringing back Rembrandt from the dead."

  "What? Oh. Well, anyway, let's open up this baby!"

  Peter typed in a random sequence on the keypad. Nothing happened. He grinned at the visitor, who seemed to be getting slightly impatient. After another two failed attempts, Peter decided it was time for rather more desperate measures. He searched through a cupboard, eventually finding a screwdriver. He tried to pry open the safe with that, but the whole thing broke off in his hands. The handle flew across the room, barely missing his guest.

  "Oh. Sorry about that."

  "I assume you'll have a new screwdriver made?"

  "Huh? Oh, a joke! Haha. Yes, I might. Oh! I have an idea. Wait here!"

  After half an hour, Peter returned, relieved to find that his guest hadn't left yet.

  "Here, this is bound to open it," he said, brandishing a blowtorch. He was just about to switch it on when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  "Peter, sit down."

  Astonished at the sudden familiarity with which his visitor addressed him, Peter obeyed.

  "Listen, son, this is why I can't leave you in charge of the company when I'm away," said Peter's father, removing the ridiculous wig and false beard. "You were about to open your own safe with a blowtorch in front of a man who you didn't even recognize as wearing a disguise."

  Peter hung his head, apparently embarrassed at what he had just done.

  "Now, I still love you, Peter. It's just that a business career isn't for you. Maybe you should try painting."

  Peter looked up. "Oh my God! The painting! I ruined a priceless Rembrandt!"

  "Priceless? Yes, you could say that. Nobody would put a price on a forgery like that."

  "Oh God, what have I done? wait, forgery?"

  "Yes. Now run along and return that blowtorch. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can get you a placement at the art academy. I'd feel a bit safer if you hung around there instead of at the office."

  The Camembert Factory

  "Careful there, you nearly drove us off the road!"

  "Yeah, it's too damn dark and slippery. I hate winter."

  "Yeah, and night as well, I suppose?"

  "Nah, night I like. Normally. When there's no ice on the road. Damn it, I wish this would be over already."

  "I hear ya. I can't wait to be free from that idiot Pierre-Luc."

  Realizing what he had just said, the man quickly checked if the radio was switched off. Fortunately, it was.

  "That was a close call."

  "Don't ever do something risky like that again."

  "Well, at least I'm not the one driving us off the road."

  "Shut up and look. I've gotten us safely to our destination."

  Up ahead they could see a boring concrete building, lit up by the headlights. They stepped out of the van, carefully navigating their way towards the entrance, trying not to slip.

  Inside, they found an unusual assortment of machinery, each piece of robotic equipment looking as though it had stepped right out of a science fiction film. To any other person, this would be an intimidating sight. But these two had been here many times before. Today would be different only because it would be the last day.

  "You know, Joe, it never ceases to amaze me how the boss got to put this thing together. And right under the nose of the French government as well. You don't suppose?"

  "That they're in on it? Of course not. You really think they would poison their own people?"

  "Well?"

  Joe shrugged. "Oh, what do I care anyway? All that matters is we're set up for a one-way trip to the Bahamas when this plan goes through. Imagine that, all that stands between us and the poisoning of thousands of Camembert-eating frogs is a press of a button. Then the way will be free for the boss to become president of France. The people will demand tight security measures. And we? well, hula ladies, here we come!"

  "Heh. I can't wait. Hey Joe, can I do the honours?"

  "Yeah, yeah, press the button already."

  As he did so, nothing seemed to happen at first.

  "Did you press it?"

  "Of course, I'm not a complete idiot!"

  "Well, why then-"

  At that moment, the machinery came to life. On one of the walls, an image of a man in uniform was projected.

  "My dear sirs, you were right. The French government was in on this from the beginning. Unfortunately, it is not as you think. We have your friend Pierre-Luc here in custody. As for you, well, we would come to arrest you? that is, if we knew your location. You see, we hacked into this facility from a distance. We can lock the doors like this, voil?. Sadly, we do not know how to open them. I am afraid you are locked in there with a bunch of rampant robots and poisonous cheese. Good luck getting out, messieurs."

  Inside Out

  A rat was minding its own business, looking for scraps of food to feed its family of twenty-three and a half (one of its children had paralyzed hind paws, but was still lovingly cared for by the rest of the family), when something happened. Something happening in itself presented an unusual change from everyday life in the alleyway, but the thing that happened was extraordinary even by outside standards. The dumpster in the alleyway suddenly lit up green. And purple. And orange. It then exploded, sending the rat scurrying away to safety.

  Through the rift that appeared in the ground, a man rose up. Actually, he looked more like a boy than a man. He looked around, as if he didn't know where he was.

  "Well, this is interesting," he said to himself.

  He walked out of the alleyway into the busy street, where he bumped into an old lady.

  "Oh, excuse me," he said.

  "You young folk, you have no respect for your elders these days! Why if I still had that old service revolver that belonged to my late husband, I'd shoot you on the spot!"

  "A? a revolver?" the boyish
man gulped.

  "Yes! I bet you're from Utah too."

  "Um? Utah? My dear lady, you have lost me? what is this Utah that you speak of?"

  "You mean you haven't heard of it? It's where all the worst scum comes from!"

  "What?"

  "Scum! Like you! Young people who have no idea how to treat their elders!"

  "Um? okay?"

  The man backed away slowly, unsure how to handle this situation. He had seen quite a bit in his life, but he'd never had to deal with old ladies that were funny in the head. Only with slimy green aliens. Oh, and a poodle once. But never something like this.

  "Uh? madam, let me introduce myself. My name is Mild Mannered Jay Jasonson."

  "Are you now? You look more like Bad Mannered Jay Cheekison to me."

  "Well, I can assure you I'm not. The reason I'm here is?" He looked puzzled. "Actually, I'm not sure why I'm here?"

  "Well, I can't talk anyway, boyo, it's not safe for an old woman like me to walk around like this. Not now, anyway."

  "Why not?"

  "Haven't you heard? My, you really must have just crawled out from under a rock."

  "A dumpster, actually."

  "Good heavens. A tramp. Well, no matter. The thing is, the city is under the spell of a chainsaw murderer. He appears at night, they say, and it's already getting dark, so I must go."

  Ah, Jay thought, perhaps that's why I was sent here.

  "Dear lady, follow me."

  They went into an apartment building that was empty. Jay stepped into the lift, pressing the buttons in an elaborate sequence.

  "You know, that won't make it work," the lady remarked.

  But then the elevator started shaking, and before she knew it, the doors opened to a fully-furnished room.

  "Why? this looks just like?"

  "King Arthur's Court?"

  "Yes? amazing? how did you do that? And who are you? what are you?"

  "Don't worry about that now. This is my base of operation. From here, I can see what happens everywhere in the world I'm currently on. Which is??"

  "Hm? Oh. Earth."

  "Earth? okay, let's see? time to check the surface of your planet with my spy satellite."

  Jay worked the computer, sending the camera over the surface of the Earth, inquiring about the unusual things he saw.

  "What's that?"

  "That's a polar bear."

  "Oh, interesting. And that thing in the water?"