The Consequences of Legislation
By: Scott Sousa
An older couple hosts Thanksgiving for their family. The grandfather gathers his six grandchildren in the kitchen. He digs through the recycling container, selects a one liter soda bottle, saws off its neck with a utility knife and dumps a handful of change into it. He holds the bottle in his hand and says, "Whoever can tell me how much money I have here in my hand can keep the change."
The children, easily amused by petty amounts of money, eagerly take turns counting the coins. All of them unanimously agree there is $1.17 in the bottle, except for one who was 2 cents short, who will predictably go to art school.
"Wrong!" the grandfather says laughing.
Jimmy, six years of age, recounts the change and confidently says, "Grandpa, there is $1.17 there."
Laughing still, the grandfather says, "You're wrong, Jimmy. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong! Being confident about being wrong will get you no where in life."
Every year for the next ten years the grandfather would test his grandchildren and ridicule them for being wrong. Each year, fewer and fewer participated as a result.
One day, Jimmy is helping his grandfather move. It had been a long drive to Ann Arbor from Buffalo, but after a late lunch they begin moving furniture into the new house. Jimmy catches a glimpse of the soda bottle in the truck as they both lift an old, heavy, oak dresser. Jimmy thinks about this puzzle once again. Halfway up the flight of stairs to the second floor, the answer comes to Jimmy. "Grandpa, I got it! There's $1.22 in total, including the bottle deposit."
Laughing, the grandfather replies, "Wrong, once again. We're in Michigan now and the bottle deposit here is 10 cents."
Jimmy debates loosening his grip on the dresses but decides to hang on. There will be a better opportunity, he says to himself.
Pastry
By: Scott Sousa
Stop. Just a second. Memories flooding. Vague. Like being in a foggy room with a fogged up mirror trying to figure out whether or not the straight-edge razor is going to kill you... (Editor's Note: Vague, like this paragraph.)
Memories of my eclairs and my father. Every Sunday he would come home with a dozen from the bakery. Every Sunday he would say, "Let's make this last."
By the end of every Sunday night they were all devoured. A house of sticky fingers: My sister, my mother, my father and I.
Even when my parents hated each other the eclairs kept the family together. It was therapy - stuffing our faces with dough and chocolate and creme. It was certainly cheaper than marriage counseling.
Fast forward seventeen years. Nothing has changed. We all still eat eclairs. Just not together.