A couple of readers were kind enough to ask about my past. It’s my sincere desire that they don’t work for the FBI, or anything like that. I’m sure they don’t.  

So I’ve been thinking about my past.

Which led me to write this story:

The Story of My Life

Once upon a time there lived a man named Dewey Watkins, and his wife Bipsy. Dewey and Bipsy lived in a pretty pink house on a big broad street in a whole neighborhood of pretty houses. The roof on their home was painted a happy kelly green. Sometimes, especially in lovely weather, their roof would hover just a few inches above their house.

Dewey and Bipsy would be at home, watching television or dusting, and they’d notice a thin strip of blue sky lining the top of their living room.

“Look!” says Bipsy. “Roof’s up again!”

“Isn’t that the absolute darndest thing?” says Dewey. 

Dewey worked at the Spongee Bread factory. His job was to make sure that each and every loaf that made it into the red-checkered Spongee Bread bag was suitably soft and pliant. He sat on a stool before a conveyor belt that slowly moved past him a never-ending train of Spongee bread loaves. With an expert touch, Dewey would reach out and prod each one. If his little poke mark hadn’t disappeared in about two seconds, well then, that loaf of bread just didn’t have what it took to be a Spongee loaf. 

“Too bad,” says Dewey, tossing the loaf over his shoulder.

When Dewey came home after work, there was nothing he enjoyed better than to have his humongous black dog Slicko gnaw on his toes. As soon as Slicko heard that door latch give, he would stop whatever he was doing and come lumbering right over, dead anxious to wrap his gums around the toes of Dewey’s wedgies. (And gums it was, for Slicko had no teeth. Something happened to them.) 

Every day Dewey would stand just inside the doorway, holding his lunch pail, while ol’ Slicko gummed his toes. 

“Hi, honey!” he’s say, waving to Bipsy. “I’m home!” 

 

One night, after a heart-warming dinner of cubed avocados and mutton, Bipsy slowly put down her fork, a sparkle dancing in her eye. 

“Oh, pipsy-poo,” she said coyly. 

“Yes, honey-wunny?” 

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” 

Dewey, his face the picture of wide-eyed wonder, said, “What a ‘surprise,’ Bipsy?” 

“A surprise, Dewey, is something that you could never, ever imagine, no matter how hard you tried, not in a million, trillion years.” 

“Oh,” said Dewey. 

“You’ll never guess what it is.” 

“I guess not!” said Dewey happily. 

“It’s a baby!” said Bipsy. She jumped up from the table and walked proudly over to the kitchen pantry. She reached inside, and slowly pulled out a little burbling baby boy, all wrapped up in blue and pink blankets. She held it in her arms so that Dewey could see its little face. 

Dewey quickly pushed back his chair a few feet. 

“Oh, that’s a white one!” he said. Then, watching the baby, a smile came over his face. He held out his arms. “Toss it to me.” 

Bipsy said, “Now, Dewey, you big sinister idiot, this is a little baby boy, not a Frisbee. It just came today.” She gazed lovingly at the baby. “Someday, this baby will make us happy.” 

“Great!” said Dewey. “When?” 

“Someday,” said Bipsy. “I just know it. Why, it’ll wear little red and white striped hats, and eat delicious marshmallows and sweet Hostess Twinkies, and call to us sometimes.” 

“It will?” asked Dewey. “Why?” 

“Well, like if it got stuck up in a tree. Or maybe it will try to swim, but then sink like a rock. Who do you think our baby will call to, if not to us?” 

“Nobody,” said Dewey earnestly. 

“That’s right. Nobody. Just to us. And if this baby ever needs us, why, we’ll just come a’ runnin’, because that’s what babies are for. And that what we’re for now, Dewey: To live and breath and spend every moment of our lives now just trying to be of service to this little critter.” 

Dewey swallowed a bit of avocado. “Can I still go to work?” he asked. 

“Yes. And I will, too, whenever I want to. But at first I won’t want to. I’ll just want to stay with this baby, and cuddle it all the time, and tickle it, and clean out its ears with a wet cloth. Oh, won’t it be wonderful, Dewey? Won’t we just be the most wonderful little family ever assembled under one roof?” 

“You bet we will!” exclaimed Dewey. He held out his arms again. “C’mon, Bipsy. Let me hold the little son of a gun.” Bipsy gently handed the baby to Dewey, who cradled it lovingly in his arms. 

“Gee,” said Dewey, “It barely looks human.” 

“Yes it does,” said Bipsy. “It looks like you.” 

They both stared at the baby for a moment, and then Bipsy remembered that she still had a ton of laundry to do. 

“I’ve got to go do laundry, honey schnookums,” she said. As she disappeared through the kitchen side door out in to the garage, she wiggled her fingers good-bye. 

Dewey continued to look at the baby, who was staring intently at the light above the dining room table. 

Suddenly, Dewey felt an itch on the top of his left foot. Bending forward to give it a good scratching, he accidentally knocked the side of the baby’s head against the table. Although it was only a light rap, it left a slightly sunken spot on the baby’s head. Dewey watched that spot, expecting it to quickly pop back into shape. The impression stayed just where it was, however. 

“Too bad,” said Dewey, tossing the baby over his shoulder. 

The End. 

Hi. John here again.

So. That’s … that ... story. 

Art. There’s just explaining it, is there?