The Storyteller

It happened many years ago, as to the precise date, I am not certain, but, it was a long time ago. We were all sitting around the campfire: Me, my cousin Babaloo Randazzo, my best friend Bertha Mae Lipshitz, and her boyfriend Murtz. Murtz didn't have a last name. He was found on the doorstep of City Hall twenty-two years earlier with a note pinned to his bib that said:

This is little Murtz. He has the eyes of a criminal. Please put him in jail, now, so I need not worry about him later.

Well, as the evening wore on, it came time for the obligatory ghost story, a specialty of mine, I must say. So, Babaloo stoked the fire to a fever pitch and I began a ghost stoey. One of those spook stories that always has a maiden in distress being chased by either a monster, an alien, or a swamp creature. That evenings story I went with an alien.

Just at the point in the story where the alien was happily eating the distressed maiden's head. a very curious thing happened. Our fire died out. POOF! Out. Just like that. No warning. It was out and we were left in the dark with an imaginary alien fulfilling his gargantuan appetite.

Murtz was first stirred into action. He whipped out his lighter and began to try and relight the fire. It was hopeless. He only managed to singe Bertha Mae's eyebrows, once again. In retaliation, Bertha Mae had to burst into tears, which distracted all of us, for the moment, from what was presently occuring to us.

Babaloo noticed the flickering lights in the sky. As with any normal human reaction, he yelled, "Aliens! They've come for our heads! Run!" Babaloo followed his own advice, jumped up from his place at the campfire and propelled himself into a large, unmoving boulder. Babaloo was out. Much as the campfire was, for the rest of the night.

Yet, the mystery continued. Lights of red, white, and blue stirred my patriotic soul, but just for a minute, mind you. After all, I was half terrified out of my own skin, and just the sheer effort of trying to hold onto the rest of my skin was exhausting the hell out of me. Where were the lights coming from? I wondered. What could be happening? The tension was not going to be easily released.

By this time, Bertha Mae had settled down and forgotten about her eyebrows. The full attention of her fear was now on the crisis at hand. She crouched closer to Murtz, who effectively flexed his muscles and his body into a dramatic and protective pose. He was a sight to be seen, I can exclaim, in those flashing lights, but Murtz wasn't my type. Besides, my mind was on more important matters. Number one being the concern over whether or not I had left the iron on at home, secondly being the ever present eerie lights.

My thoughts shifted immediately from my iron and home, as a siren began to sound. "Quiet!" I ordered, despite the fact that the only noise was coming from the siren and nothing at all from dead-head Babaloo, posing Murtz, and cringing Bertha Mae.

The tension was beginning to tell on all of us. My suntan makeup was wrinkling in the most unsightly way; Bertha Mae had begun belching nervously; Murtz was losing his perfect posture and Babaloo was having a tremendous out-of-body experience and could care less that his head was slightly damaged by the boulder he had struck.

Just when we all thought we could stand it no longer, a gruff voice shouted at us through a bullhorn. The police had come by. They had put out the fire because no fires were allowed on the beach.

Well, I suppose this story was exceedingly dreary and anti-climatic for you, but that's just the way it goes. So eat your oatmeal and quit whining. Some people in this world have real problems. Like me. I left my iron on at home, just as I thought I had that tragic night of long ago, and my house burned down to the ground. So there! What do you think of that?