By James Harvey Stout (deceased). This material is now in the public domain. The complete collection of Mr. Stout's writing is now at http://stout.mybravenet.com/public_html/h/ .
an"; it is suitable for readers of all ages.
Jump to the following stories:
After my sophomore year of high school, it was time to get my first summer job. My father said that he knew a local political heavyweight who could "pull some strings" and get me a job with the state.
My dad introduced me to the man, who said that he liked me, so he'd use his influence to "see what he could do." But there would be some paperwork -- which I received a few days later.
I filled out a lengthy application form. Then my mother drove me to the nearest Notary Public -- twenty miles away, in Stroudsburg -- where I solemnly signed a document that said that I wasn't a member of the Communist Party or any other group that was plotting the overthrow of the United States. The Notary then asked me to verbally confirm that I wasn't a member of any such group, and then she stamped the document to make it official.
I knew that this must be a very important job to require such strict screening.
A week later, I was offered an unspecified position at a state park. I showed up for work, and I spent the day at my job -- cleaning the toilets.
I quit at the end of that first day, saddened by my foul experience, but comforted by the thought that those toilets would never be cleaned by a Commie.
Recently I was shopping for an item in a hardware store, and I asked a clerk where it might be located. She answered, "It's in the hardware department."
I laughed, and said, "The hardware department? This is a hardware store!"
She just pointed and said, "Aisle 17."
As I walked toward the aisle, I pondered this. If I were in K-Mart, I could understand a hardware department -- in contrast to the shoe department or automotive department. But what is a hardware department in a hardware store? Why, that could be anywhere!
I was about 7 years old when I first heard my mother say, "A watched pot never boils." Because I had a humorless Vulcan-like mentality, I took the statement seriously, and I spent the morning wondering why a watched pot never boils. I hadn't a clue.
This seemed like the time for an experiment. I filled a pot with water, and put it onto the stove. And I felt excitement, thinking that if I disproved this scientific "given," I would probably go down in history, like Galileo (Copernicus?) who disproved Ptolemy's idea that the earth is the center of the solar system.
As I watched the pot, I tried not to blink. There was no action in the water. But after several long minutes, a small bubble appeared at the bottom. I was thrilled. More bubbles appeared, but they remained on the bottom.
Finally, the first bubble tumbled to the top of the water. But wait -- as a scientist, I must have additional proof. Slowly, more bubbles scurried upward. Success!
I ran from the kitchen, to tell my mother the news. I felt like Archimedes who shouted "Eureka" as he ran through the streets of Athens.
There she was. "Mom," I yelled, "a watched pot does boil!"
She looked at me as if I had totally lost my mind. I tried to explain the significance of my discovery, but she didn't say a word. She just gazed, dumbfounded, at her ridiculous, babbling son.
When I was a young teenager, I went to a military band concert at the local Army base. I arrived early, so I had time to look at the huge artillery guns that were lined up next to the audience area. Apparently the guns were an exhibit for the civilian guests. When the music began, I sat down near the guns. The piece was "The 1812 Overture," which I had never heard.
The music was pleasant, so I sat back in my seat to enjoy it. Suddenly, BANG! The loudest sound I had ever heard blasted me about 12 inches straight up from the chair. My first thought was, "It's World War III, and here I am on a military base."
In panic, I looked at the other people in the audience, and they were acting as if nothing had happened. That was unbelievable. The band was still playing, and then, again, BANG!
I looked up into the sky, seriously expecting to see Communist jets attacking the base.
Bewildered, I tried to figure out what was happening, as the artillery continued to fire its shots. When I realized there wasn't any danger, I decided to listen to the music again. But those darned guns were blocking out much of the music.
As I thought about this situation, I figured that the soldiers had decided to have target practice today. After all, this was a military base, and they had the right to do that. But it still seemed awfully inconsiderate of them not to postpone their practice until after the concert.
I was attending my first symphony concert, at the age of 7 or 8. The music was beautiful, but I wondered why the audience applauded at the end of some "songs" but not at the end of others. (My parents hadn't told me about the "movements" of a symphony.)
As usual, my overworked little brain had to figure things out for itself. My conclusion: the people in the audience applauded only for songs that they liked. I thought that that was terribly rude; those musicians were playing their hearts out, and they deserved recognition for all of their efforts. At the end of the next song, I would applaud even if no one else did.
The movement ended, and I started applauding. In an instant, my parents grabbed my hands and told me to be quiet. But in a defiant voice, I said (loud enough for the musicians to hear, because I wanted them to know I appreciated them), "BUT I LIKED THAT ONE!"
Fortunately, that was the only time that I embarrassed my parents in public.
When I lived in California, my place of employment was raided by immigration authorities who were looking for illegal aliens. I stood back and watched as the officials checked the green cards of the Hispanic employees.
Suddenly, one of the officials walked over to me, and asked for my green card. I laughed, and said, "I don't look Mexican, do I?"
The man squinted at me, and said, "I don't know."
Trying to be helpful, I explained, "I don't have a green card."
Apparently those were the magic words. The man gestured to the other officials, who started to walk toward me.
Now, I thought, this is getting serious. Not being a procrastinator, I immediately devised a plan for sneaking back into the United States after being shipped to Mexico as an illegal alien. I thought, "I'll slip across the border at night, and then hitchhike ..."
Under the we-got-you-now glare of "la migra," my shaky hand pulled out my wallet and produced a driver's license. The officials weren't convinced. There were a few minutes of tense interrogation -- with an atmosphere as thick as yesterday's refried beans -- but then the officials gave up reluctantly, and they snarled at me, and walked away to pursue other suspects.
Hey, migra guys, I'm from Joizey!
When I was a young man, I had a recurring dream in which I could fly by flapping my arms. In one dream, I landed on the ground and I had the thought, "It's strange that I can fly. Maybe this is a dream."
Determined to know whether I was dreaming, I pinched myself (in the dream) to see whether I'd wake up. I didn't awaken. Satisfied that this was indeed reality, I flapped my arms and flew away.
In San Jose, a temporary-employment agency sent me to work for a company that develops military weapons. In the outdoor testing area, with tanks speeding past, a supervisor showed the temps a new weapon -- a device that hurls land mines into a field.
The supervisor explained that this weapon was being tested by the company, and that it would cast about 50 mines in each test. The temps' job was to retrieve those land mines.
Retrieve ... what did he say? I tensed up, and I waited for him to say that these were dummy land mines. But, silently, he just walked toward the machine.
I wasn't stupid, so I assumed that the mines weren't armed. ... But there was that pesky doubt.
We watched the device while it pitched the puck-sized mines into the field. Then the supervisor told us to bring them back. I was still waiting for the life-affirming words, "dummy mines," and my legs felt like they might be too weak to walk into that field.
Suddenly, one of the other temps cried out, "Those mines are going to kill us! We're all going to die out there!" The supervisor calmed him down, and told us to get the mines.
We started to walk slowly toward possible death, and we looked at each other for reassurance. The logical part of me knew that those couldn't be real land mines, but another part was terribly annoyed that the supervisor hadn't clarified that the mines (and not the temps) were dummies.
I walked to the first land mine, and I stared it for a moment, and then I carefully picked it up. ... It was just an empty container. But, of course, I knew that all along.
When I was buying deodorant in a drug store, I sniffed at some of the scented types. Musk? Its odor is exactly like my armpits when I don't wear any deodorant. Now I don't bother to use deodorant; I simply tell people that I'm wearing musk.
When I was 16 years old, I traveled in Europe with a school group. I kissed a girl for the first time -- in Paris, the City of Love. I probably wouldn't have had the courage, but Paris is also the City of Cheap French Wine. (I had taken the opportunity to get drunk for the first time).
After a bit of kissing and wine-sipping, we went to her hotel room to negotiate another "first" -- but Paris is the City of Nosy Chaperones; one of them walked in on us before the real fun started.
When my mother was in her mid-70's, I sent a birthday card with my handwritten note: "Do you realize that, in 'dog years,' you are 500 years old today?"
When I lived in San Jose, I had a clever way to deal with bank statements whenever they didn't balance: I closed my account, and opened an account at a different bank. I could have built up quite a collection of toasters.
When I was a kid, I noticed that men's suit jackets have a "vent" -- a vertical slit in the area of the lower back. I thought that its purpose was to keep the jacket from blowing apart in case the man had eaten beans for lunch.
I must have an "employee ambiance" about me; often, when I go to stores, other customers ask me whether I work there. One woman, assuming that I was the hired help, inquired, "How much does this item cost?"
I answered, with a straight face and a leave-me-alone attitude, "Those are free today; take as many as you want."
Her expression was a combination of confusion and delight. But if she did walk out with a free armload of the item, she's probably serving 2-to-5 for shoplifting!
I remember the first time I tried to cook popcorn in my microwave oven. The popcorn bag was like a sealed lunch bag that was folded over. On one side was the instruction, "This Side Down." I turned the bag over and saw the same instruction, "This Side Down." Confused, I turned back to the first side, and re-read the words. Then I looked at the second side again.
I pondered. Finally I unfolded the bag, and looked there. "This Side Up."
I realize that manufacturers expect some intelligence and creativity on the part of their customers. But I question this instruction. Technically, there are two sides to the folded bag, and I had looked at both of them. When the bag is folded, the manufacturer's concept of the "up" side is actually the middle, not a side at all; it doesn't become a side until you unfold the bag. The so-called "up side" is on the inside of the fold.
Actually, the word "inside" doesn't even refer to a side; an inside is a volume of nothing surrounded by something (like a paper bag). The bag, however, does have an "inner" side that is an actual side bordering the vacuous inside.
... Am I right? Whose side are you on?
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UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
Dear Mr. Stout:
The Justice Department has concluded its investigation of your
alleged violations of the "Fair Tipping Practices" statutes. In light
of our discoveries, we have decreed the following:
Mr. Stout, you are a disgrace to hungry people everywhere.
Sincerely,
Omar Winwhistle
Undersecretary. Department of Justice
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