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TITLE: Big Secrets
By Sheldon Bass
10/15/14
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ADD TO MY FAVORITES

I’ve been told we become what we think about the most, so I’d better think on the lighter side of life for a while. At least, that’s what my bathroom scales are telling me.

I have one of those older model scales that groans when I step on it, as if it’s in agony. Then the numerated trundle spins like a game show wheel, and when it finally stops it makes a brash, “Ding”, as if I just won a prize. Maybe it should have a voice to go with it. “Congratulations, you’ve just exceeded the OMG mark!”

Since He’s already been called upon, I could then transition straight into my conversation with God about my expanding girth. “Lord, please forgive me for my lack of restraint… But it was carrot cake with cream cheese frosting!”

I’m not ashamed of my bigness. If there’s ever a hurricane I’ll be the hero, keeping little children from being swept away. “Hang on to Orca kids, here comes the big blow!”

People on airplanes don’t respond well when I’m loaded aboard. Big people don’t like to fly anyway. I think if people were meant to fly, God would’ve created us on the fifth day along with the birds. I just can’t see myself performing a barrel roll. There’s a safety mechanism in my brain, and it gets louder with age. It screams, “Don’t let your butt elevate over your head.”

I like travelling by car—I feel safe in my car, and I like to drive real fast.

I’ve noticed a trend. People whose bodies can only move slowly, under their own power, tend to get more speeding tickets than the rest of the populous. It’s the only time we can accelerate.

Though this ample body has slowed, the old thinker can still speed along nicely. My demitasse is one of those simple pleasures I’d rather not be without, and which hastens the electrical impulses in my brain. When it comes to my jolly java, I’ve developed quite a discriminating palate. By taste and aroma, I’m able to distinguish from which continent each crop of the blessed beans were grown. In fact, I’m good friends with Juan Valdez, the founder of Coffee Growers of Colombia. He’s the guy pictured alongside his mule on bags of Colombian coffee.

Juan’s mule and I hit it off pretty good too. Her name is Eskielda, after the Spanish word for, left: izquierda. You see, she always travels in whichever direction her left ear happens to lean. So, Juan pierced that ear, and run a piece of catgut through there to steer ol’ Eskielda in the direction he wants her to go. She’s the whole reason Colombian coffee has become so popular. It never really tasted that good, until one day Juan, me, and Eskielda were hauling a load of them caffeinated nuggets to market.

When we stopped to rest, that rascal Eskielda tore into one of those burlap bags and started lapping up the beans and swallowing them whole. She must’ve eaten thirty pounds of them. And back then, Juan was a poor man. He couldn’t afford to lose them beans. So, we waited until they passed on through to the other end and got them back.

Now here’s the part I really shouldn’t tell, because I promised Eskielda I’d keep quiet, but Juan has passed on now, so I guess it’s alright. When we made camp and brewed up a pot of that special Eskielda blend, it nearly knocked our socks off! It was the best durn coffee we’d ever tasted. Something inside that old mule had seasoned them beans just right. And ever since then, the same process has been repeated over and over.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell this part either, but I will. While we were following behind that mule, picking up what she dropped from her hind end, Juan accidentally scooped up some peyote buttons into the mix too. A little while after we drank that coffee, Eskielda broke out in song. She sang all three verses of “Cielito Lindo”. She has such a good baritone voice, and she sang so beautifully that Juan and I both started crying. Then we watched a mesquite tree melt into the rocks and fell asleep.

This is the first time the secret to Juan’s success has ever been aired, and I just pray that Eskielda won’t hold it against me for spilling the beans. I’d really hate to have her kicked-off at me.

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