Latino, Brad

English

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----- _. - - ..._----- .._---------------_._--------_._--ManuscriptsA Polite InvitationHey man we should partyI got some beers in the roomAnd a little vodka in a coke bottle(The stuff leftover from last weekend)Dude, forget about your girlfriendTwo-month anniversary?Man, that really sucksWellLater-Brad LatinoSaint Fiacre's Brain FarmSt. Fiacre proudly surveyed the FruitGrove before him. He was expecting areporter from the Pearly Gates Monitor-Courier to show up in exactly two minutes.Reporters were usually late. St. Fiacre wasalways as prompt and punctual as themorning suns.Heaven's suns were particularlypunctual considering that the smalltemperate planet had zero tilt to its axis -unlike Earth, the birthplace of many citizensof Heaven, which was decidedly crookedand had an orbit decidedly elliptical aroundits sun. Heaven was a perfect planet, St.44Fall 2001Fiacre was fond to remind himself, with aperfect axis and a perfectly circular orbitaround three perfectly blue, white, andorange suns, which were at the perfectcenter of the universe.It had to be the center as God, the largestof the three suns of Heaven, had to makeHimself the center when three hundred,billion and-God-knows-how-many-more-human-years ago, he grew sick of quiet andyelled."Bang!"St. Fiacre loved the order of theUniverse, loved its Creator, and loved theFruit Grove, the farm he had apprenticed infor several human centuries and finallyinherited from the previous supervisor.And so was the business of the PearlyGates Monitor-Courier, to interview thenew keeper and administrator of the FruitGrove and take an exclusive tour. It wasn'ta huge story for the newspaper, but St.Fiacre was nevertheless excited to be backin the white hot heavenly spot light ofpublicity.Sure as shooting, three minutes late, apearl-white Rolls Royce (everybody had aRolls on Heaven) pulled into the Grove'smodest gravel parking lot. Out stepped anunknown, but not unkempt reporter,complete with pen, note pad, and pressbadge in the brown derby. That was howreporters were supposed to look, and on45Manuscripts.:Heaven things were as they were supposedto be.St. Fiacre jogged to meet him with thezeal of a straight-A schoolboy coming hometo tell mom the good news. "Hello, hello!I'm Mr. Fiacre! Pleasure to meet youmister-"The reporter, who always concealed thename part of his press badge in the ribbon ofhis derby (force of habit), spoke on queue:"Adlai Stevenson, Monitor-Courier."Handshaking was practiced."Well, we don't have to waste too muchtime. I'll take you into the greenhouse sowe can start our tour and you can be on withyour busy day," said the sugary politeFiacre."I have nothing to do," Adlai mumbled,not intending to be comforting. "Take yoursweet time." He was busy trying not toseem as awed by the bloated green silkwormshape the three-miles-long-by-two-miles.wide greenhouse as he truly felt. "I've beenmeaning to take a look around this placesince I arrived here.""Arrived where?" Fiacre was confusedby the reporter's absent-minded wordmangling."I'm sorry, ascended," Adlai correctedhimself. "I'm still not quite used to thelingo on this ... planet."Fiacre issued him a compassionate smileas he opened the thick bamboo-looking46---~----~---- - - --_- - -_-- ._-- -------------_--------~Fall 2001door, nodding to the security guardimmediately behind.Adlai pushed the clicker atop his pen,unsheathing the potent ink from itsaluminum prophylactic. He wated no timein jotting his first impression on a blankpage of the note pad in a wickedlyabbreviated shorthand, a hodgepodge ofEnglish, Latin prepositions (they need onlybe one letter), and acronyms."I'll fill you in on the history of theplace first," St. Fiacre said, licking his lips atthe chance to didactically eject facts at acaptive audience. Just like the old days."The original care-takers of the Groverwere, of course, angels. But after the firsthumans started ascending, and the angels -of course began disappearing, theownership fell to-""We can skip the history," interruptedthe reporter in his most business-like tone.Like some of the newly ascended, Adlaididn't believe one drop about the angels,beings of light predating humans. Nobodyhad ever actually seen one. Methuselah, theoldest of the Old Ascended that had not yetshut himself in or walked off, said he hadseen no trace of them, or any use for them,since the day he arrived in Heaven. Adlaisaw that as testimony enough to thenonexistence of the angels. He saw a lot oftestimony, everywhere, that this wasn't theexactly the paradise he expected. "I'm sure47Manuscripts- -------.---.---------------------------~--------- -------- ..-----------~-/I can find all the history I need in theAlmanac.""Right, right, of course." The saint wascaught hopelessly off guard, his fantasysomewhat deflated. "So- uh- what, uh,where do we start?"Adlai glanced about and noticed a longconveyor belt made of aluminum rollerswhich snaked around the grove in an Lshape, finally leading to what he supposedwas a truck garage. Standing on either sideof the conveyor belt were grey-uniformedemployees, working on various tasks inaccordance to their place on the shoe boxesfilled with Styrofoam packing kernels ontothe conveyor belt and shove them along tothe next group of employees. This nextgroup would stand about three or four feetfrom the boxes, pick up a human brain from. a large basket beside them, and toss it into ashow box. Some of the employees wouldshoot the brains into the shoe boxes like theywere basketballs, doing tricks like fade awayjump shots and behind-the-back grannies."Are they supposed to be doing that?" heasked, again trying to hide the shock in hisvoice."Yes, of course! It is our way ofensuring that nobody gets a brain completelydevoid of faults." Fiacre's eyebrow raised,playfully. "We prefer our fruit to arrive a bitbruised, if you can forgive the analogy."48--------~---------_--~-- ---~--- ---_-- ---~-----~~---- ------- -------~--- ---.-~---------------Fall 2001"So these faults are simply randomlyapplied, with no thought given to whoseskull they may end up inside?""Well, sort of. We give the brains thebruises they need, and as you can see downthe line here, have our experts mark themaccording to what part of the brain has beenflattened." A smile. "The trucks drop themoff to Mr. Mendel's office. He makes surethey get paired up with parents of thenecessary dominant or recessive genes."Adlai wrote a bit slower, not completelysure that he was hearing everythingcorrectly."Hey, why don't you give it a shot? Justgrab a brain from that basket over there andhuck it into a shoe box for me."Adlai just looked at the crate of greymatter. Fiacre noticed: "Oh yes, you can puton some rubber gloves if you wish."The reporter thought for a moment,snapped a pair of rubber gloves on, andpicked up a brain from the basket to his left."I used to play baseball in college, youknow," he reminisced out loud. He cuppedthe squishily large baseball between both hishands, stretching them as if he was on thepitcher's mound and hiding his fingerarrangements from the batter. He pulledback with his right arm and threw a sinkerhard and low into a shoe box, making thebasket but also knocking the completed unitto the floor. Adlai blushed.49~-- --------- ~ ---- ---~----- - --- --~------~---._------------ ~Manuscripts"Oh, don't worry about that," smiled thepatron saint of gardeners, looking over thedamage done to the gray blob. "This fellownever needed to be good at- ummmm-intermediate algebra, anyway." He lookedat Adlai again, as he placed the box back onthe belt. "He'll just have to get a tutor, eh?"The reporter, remember the reason hewas here, did an about face and looked up,noticed the motor-driven sun lamps andshower heads which slowly hovered instraight paths over the vast grove of braintrees on an X and Y axis. "What are thosefor?"Fiacre was surprised by the childlikesimplicity of his interviewer, but thequestions were adequate nonetheless."Well, they are watering and sunning thetrees, of course.""But why on tracks? Why not just waterthe whole place at once and then crank onsome sun lamps?""Well, Mr. Stevenson," Fiacre wasalmost laughing at himself for not mindinghow illogical his farm must seem to outsideeyes, "growing brains is like no othergardening in the Universe. We may alludeto them as fruit, but there is very littlesimilarity, aside from our growing the thingson trees.""Do brains ripe differently than, say,apples?"50·-------.----~~-Fall 2001"Urn, no; but our goal here is not toproduce three hundred million perfectlyequal brains. On the contrary, we want threehundred million perfectly unequal brains.""I don't follow."Fiacre paused, cooking up an analogy inhis saintly idea sponge. "Before youascended, did you ever notice how, on Earth,the average person had an IQ somewherebetween 90 and 1201""Yes, I guess so.""Of course, being the average, there wasa smaller group of people between 80 and 90and then another between 120 and 130."Adlai's patience was nearing a boil."Yup.""And a very small number below 80.And getting much lower is clinicallyretarded, which is a whole other department."But the brainies," Fiacre waved a fingeras if to the melody of a swooningsymphony, "the sky is the limit!""So what does this have to do with thegrid of sun lamps?" said the reporter,accentuating the annoyance in his voice inefforts to speed the old windbag up.Oblivious, however, to Adlai's distastefor head games, Fiacre goaded further: "So agood, botanical explanation might be thatsome brains are a bit malnourished, the vastmajority are ripened to ideal specifications,and very select few are- well- a bit over-ripe."51.:ManuscriptsThe now of shorthand halted abruptly.Adlai looked into the saint's eyes like anangry boar. "You mean you control this?""Uh, yeah."Adlai's glare narrowed fiercely."That's why the sprinklers and sunlamps travel about like they do. By the waythey go back and forth, up and down, theymake sure that 80% of the trees get just theright amount of sun and water. There aresome trees on the edges that don't get asmuch - those are the simple folk. And thetrees in the center, thanks to the shape of thelamp grid, get almost twice as muchnourishment as the other trees." His smileand excitement grew more intense. "Thereis one tree in the middle - whoo! - that'swhere you get all the Einsteins andDaVincis and Newtons! That's where thesmartest of the smarties are really born."Adlai Stevenson was deathly still."Quite a startle, isn't it?""Yes," said the reporter, barely present."Yes. I think I want to pay my respects.Thanks for the tour, Mr. Fiacre.""The pleasure was all mine!" Blindpride did not allow him to notice how shortthe tour turned out to be."I, uh, gotta go to the car and get mycamera."Fiacre walked away on his usual,ceremonial rounds through the orchard, notthinking much one way or the other of the52-=-~~----==--======-=----- --~------- -- ------~------ -------------- ---_-Fall 200]somewhat odd, but typical journalist, Mr.Stevenson. More important thoughts tothink. More important just to soak in thesatisfaction of a job well done and be happy.But yelling! Maniacal screaming in thedistance.What was going on?Fiacre made a wild sprint toward theshrieks. Stevenson clutching a LouisvilleSlugger, madly swinging at dangling graymatter, smashing them to pulpy pieces likebloody, organic pinatas."What are you doing!?""What does it look like," screamedAdlai, "I'm killing geniuses!" He found aplump brain fruit, bulging with bright ideasand clobbered it off the branch so hard that apiece of the medulla oblongata flew off andhit St. Fiacre in the eye. "You try to stuffthese into baby skulls and they'll pop out asvegetables !""Oh dear!""I'm doing them a favor." Anotherspongy impact. "They'll never know theisolation and humiliation of being smarterthan the rest! Different! Gifted! Ha!"Fiacre ducked for cover as anotherexplosion of brain cell clumps showered himwith blood."See this one?" Adlai pointed to arandom brain on the branch in front of him."This guy may hold the secret for the cure ofskin cancer. But he won't be able to laugh53---- ----- - ----.~--- -_--_----_--------- ----------------~-- -- -~----~'------_- -------------------------------------------_. -----''.__---Manuscripts/-:when he and his buddies gather around thebar and tell fart jokes!"Thud!"This gal here will be the world's mosttalented concert pianist. Yet she can neverenjoy a movie on Saturday night becauseshe finds the plots too predictable and fallsasleep!"Whack!Adlai clamored up the tree, shoutingmore stories about not fitting in at parties,getting funny looks for usingunconventional words, moping around bookstores and libraries looking for some randomconversation, and soforth. Before St. Fiacrecould even regain his composure, he foundhimself in a pile of mangled, hamburger-textured reddish-gray blobs. The tree infront of him, decimated, possessed maybe athird of its original produce.Adlai Stevenson was standing with bothfeet on branches, holding a particularlyhealthy looking brain. "Take a good look,my friend - you don't see one like this everyday."This man could be President of theUnited States. Should be President of theUnited States. He has experience,intelligence, but mostly just a level head."The brain was melodramatically offered tothe heavens like it was Yorich's skull in ahigh school production of Hamlet. Like aham actor, he evoked it: "But the people will54-------- ~~--~----------_--- ----------------------_--- _----- -=====---~-----_----Fall 2001not vote for him. No, he is too much of anegghead. He says funny words in hisspeeches. He pronounces all his T's andaccents the right syllables in the wordPresident. What is wrong with him? Whodoes he think he is?"Adlai pointed to an imaginary centerfield. The brain was tossed into the air, andcam down to meet the hard reality of theLouisville Slugger. It didn't go sailing overany grandstands. It wasn't caught by acrippled orphan, attending his first ballgame. I just combusted, spraying juices andflecks of tissue all over Adlai Stevenson'sface.By now, the police had located thecommotion and forced a dripping wereporter to dismount his last stand.St. Fiacre's eyes were tearing up fromthe havoc he just witnessed. The wastedsmarts were in lumpy puddles at his feet."So many blessings, wasted. Murdered."The shiny-badge, Irish-accented,flawless blue-uniformed Pearly Gates PoliceDepartment kicked Adlai Stevenson to theground, handcuffing him behind his back.He was crying, tearing chunks of grassup with his teeth. Mad as the Hatter."I got blessed good! Real good!"-Brad Latino55

Saint Fiacre\u27s Brain Farm

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Saint Fiacre\u27s Brain Farm

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