Toast Trees

We had a late night gettin all the solderin done and the satellites in orbit and the squimonk explainin somethin about how, in an infinite universe, everything that could possibly happen is always happening which I didn't get, so I won't go into detail on all that. We was tryin to work fast because we didn't know when McClawenstein would send someone on down to the impound to pick up the van. We worked until one, one thirty Friday night. I was thinkin I'd sleep right in, maybe get up around 9, laze around the house drinkin coffee and doin that new soo-doe-koo thingamajig they got in the paper now. Instead, as soon as that sun came over the horizon and the birds started singin, I was layin in bed thinkin that there was no way one earth I was gonna get up at seven o'clock on a Saturday mornin after workin hard all night. But nature is a harsh mistress and when she calls, you gotta get up, wander to the big white phone and answer by fillin up a tiled room with the sound of a waterfall. Then, since you're up already, you might as well go to another tiled room and get some other water runnin over some ground up beans so you can start fillin up the ol' bladder again.

I stood at my sink and looked out my window for an hour or so while I drank two or three cups of coffee and ate some toast. I know some people think I eat over the sink because there ain't no one to tell me to use a plate, but that ain't the case. The sink is the perfect place to eat toast or a sandwich or whatever. If you drop any crumbs, they're goin right into the disposal. Some of em get to the disposal by way of the beard. Of course, there are those that just stay with the beard until they decide they've had enough and make their escape in the car or a bowl of soup I may be havin for lunch or, for some of the lucky ones, they fling themselves out of the beard as I'm drivin down the road on a sunny day with the window open and they get to stumble down the highway in the sun like a man lightin out for the territories. I like to think that maybe someday, one of them crumbs that fly out of my beard will settle on some pieve of fertile ground next to a cornfield or maybe the fishin hole and through some kind of magic or crazy science, that crumb will turn into a little seed and start sendin out shoots, reachin for the nutrients below and the sun above, strainin, strainin for life. Then, if the soil is good enough and the sun's not out too long and we get enough rain; not enough to flood, mind you, just enough to water some; if all these things come together, that little beard seed will grow into a giant, magnificent toast tree. I'd sit under that tree in the summer, layin with my head on its trunk, a jar of peanut butter in my hand, and I'd think about life and how funny it is that toast can grow into a tree. Sometimes, I think I'd build a house up in the toast tree and stock it with coffee and jam. I'd put a sink in that tree house with a window over it so I could reach out, grab some ripe toast and munch it over my sink, thinkin about the other toast trees that will spread through my beard. I gotta say, this is prolly why it takes me an hour or two to eat my toast and drink my coffee over the sink, goin off on all these wild flights of fancy.

Followin my toast tree revery, I was ready to get into the donut shop and see what was shakin with the van. By the time I got to the shop, there was a flurrly of tiny, fuzzy activity. I asked the nearest squimonk, "What's the haps?"

Hurrying past, he barely looked at me when he said, "There's a problem."

Before I could ask what it was, I heard Alistair call me from behind. "Pat, we've got a problem and we're gonna need your help."

How could I say no? "Sure, what is it?"

"We've had a team installing trackers on the van, but the installation took longer than we anticipated and now the sun's up and they're stuck in the van. To make things worse, the meth dealer guy is in the police station now filling out the paperwork to get the van released. If we don't get those squimonk out of the van, they'll be in big trouble."

"Why don't they just leave the van?" I asked. "After all, you guys pass for squirrels all the time. Isn't that what you were made for?"

"Ok, look," he began again, "when I said we had a team in there, I meant we had Carl in there. And Carl can't leave the van because, being part whale, he's 6'2". If you want to explain to the good citizens of this town why there's a 6'2" squirrel monkey lumbering down the road shootin mucas and whatever other foulness out of a hole in his head, then be my guest."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I don't know, Pat."

"Well, what do you need me to do?"

"We need you to go one down to the impound and pick up Carl. Sneak him out so no one sees him. Then, all you gotta do is drive him back here."

And doin that simple task turned into more of an adventure than I thought it would be. I'll tell ya all about it tomorrow.