Milton Flopski a.k.a. Fat Milton

(Another 'Excellent' Short Story by RagMag)

     Once upon a time, Milton Flopski of Decatur Georgia decided that it was high time he set out into the world in pursuit of fame and fortune as a UFO investigator, and documenteer of paranormal activity amongst Albino refugees of the South Western Perimeter.

     His stout 475 pound mass of flesh, proved quite cumbersome upon the corroding 1952 Shwinn, that he set out upon in pursuit of adventure. Rounding the first downhill curve on a rural mountain path, Milton veered recklessly beyond the edge of the craggy road, thus plummeting forward, head over heel into a rather thorny patch of wild brush. If not for his fortitude, Milton would have ended his quest that very moment, but he chose to ignore the first sign of impending disaster through sheer stupidity, masked as entrepreneurial spirit.

     There did exist a moment when, Milton pondered the benefit and worth of his trivial venture, yet discarded all negative input from friends and family who had followed him to that point attempting to thwart his plans. They enticed him with fresh baked fruit pies and wieners, succulently tucked between soft, delicate folds of wheat, raised and baked to perfection. The sensuous aroma pulled sweetly at his olfactory receptors like an invisible hand, gently prodding...beckoning.

     Righting his enormous mangled mass, Milton sped off with a whisk of dust and stone trailing behind. Friends and family stood helplessly silent as they watched their beloved blubber, flap exuberantly in a rush of wind as Milton sped away reciting the Gettysburg address above the blaring chords of Ride of the Valkyries, from his transistor radio, rubber-banded securely to the handlebars.

     Shortly, after falling from sight of his native abode, Milton had the first manifestation of a seemingly alien craft, hovering in silent splendor above Old Man Beidermeyer's cornfield. Crow lay scattered and dead upon the rich fertile earth in every direction. Their wings appeared as bent antennas, being devoid of feathers and flesh...something of an abnormality, he concluded. The aberrant nature of this find, resulted in a flow of goose-bumps, followed by explosive bowel evacuations, as the Lad remounted his trusty tricycle and sped onward.

     Though racked with fear and foul scent, Milton retained enough self-efficiency to snap a series of photos over his left clavicle in rapid succession. The evidence of encounter would prove vastly profitable and hint of magnificent courage and fortitude displayed. Who would rightfully question the tale of alien encounter and his steadfast obedience to his quest, with photographic evidence? "None"...he thought.

     Approximately one hundred and fifty miles distance from the original sighting, Milton developed courage enough to stop and peer from whence he had come. His thighs ached from rapid, repetitious pedaling. Upon stepping from his mechanical mount, the lad tumbled forward, settling like a beached whale, once rolling to a halt. Unable to move beyond a twisting of massive flesh and flapping of limbs, his breath gave way to huge, thunderous utterances of pain and despondency. Milton would spend the next ten days in mandatory recuperation, unable to neither stand nor venture beyond his adopted patch of terra firma.

     Upon the eleventh day of his forced idleness, Flopski managed to raise himself by rolling two quarter turns, counter-clockwise from back to stomach. Tucking his knees beyond the folds of his waist, Milton thrust his arms forward enough, with ample momentum, managing to right his mangled, mop of hair skyward. As the laden, pooled, blood drained in a rush from Milton's spongy cranium, he staggered to and fro appearing like that of a bobbing, wind blown weather balloon. A cascade of Caucasian pigmentation soon became evident as the purplish flush receded from his wide-cheek face.

     "It shall be a grand day indeed"...he announced boisterously, standing now full upright, yet squat. His five-foot-two frame shot a pair of extended limbs to it's sides, and Milton stood that way in sway, left to right as if addressing an adoring crowd of cheering, well-wishers...The only reply came not as an encouraging applause...no...the sole sound of a lunch-break whistle at a nearby Twinkie factory, served to remind Milton of the empty grumbling within his internals. As the sweet, freshly baked aroma of cream filled sponge-cake penetrated Milton's nostrils, he felt afloat and light-headed. His eyes rolled under half closed lids, which fluttered as rapidly as bee wings above a pollen filled field of petunias. (continuing saga)

Milton Flopski at the Twinkie Factory

by Bill Crimi

Terror in the Garden

by Bill Crimi 

     After two years of peering into the concrete back-yard of my live-in art studio, I was ecstatic at the site of a large patch of terra-firma behind my new abode in Reading, Pennsylvania. It was near the end of March…soon, I would be able to turn this chunk of neglected soil into a majestic, conglomeration of succulent, scarlet Big-Boys, towering stalks of sprouting beans and delicate puffs of tender greens…

     Surveying the expanse with my feet planted eastward, I spotted the first potential nuisance to my right, just over the southern fence, in a neighbor’s yard. It was a huge old sycamore with arms fat, and long. They had taken claim to a good portion of sky above me, long before my arrival. Though barren of sunlight stealing leaves now, the rather large spot of bare earth behind me, gave indication of what to expect. “Gee”…I thought, “that thing must be at least a hundred and fifty years old.”

     Don’t get me wrong, I ‘love’ trees…but, I don’t appreciate them looming over my vegetable garden. I would have to make concessions to this senior though, it deserved respect, and it had me by about a hundred years. It was so old it was probably senile and didn’t realize the grief it caused. I’d leave it alone; I didn’t have a ladder long enough to amputate its branches, anyway…lucky tree.

     April came in with a sun warm enough to lure me out with a plotted, plan and pitch-fork in hand. I hadn’t been turning soil for very long before I hit clay a mere three to four inches down. CLAY!!!! Clay belongs in my art studio…not my garden!! Hopeful anticipation of lush, loam fell to waves of utter despair. That big ole shade tree blocked half my garden, and the other half turned out to be mostly un-baked brick.

     Fortunately, after hours of toil, my nagging back gave thanks to the few sow worthy spots it found. The next several days found me potting little containers with seed and soil. I carried tray after tray, gingerly up the wobbly, old wrought-iron fire steps, to a makeshift nursery in my third floor apartment.  Eager to get something into the ground, I pompously dismissed all ‘zone’ planting recommendations...certain that Mother Nature would cooperate, and stuck a few seeds into the ground as well.

     About my seventh day in the yard, my second nemesis appeared upon the back porch…Ms Bar-fly. Having ambled out of her first floor apartment with a bottle of brew in hand, her scowled expression well matched her vocal tone.

     “The landlord told me that ‘I’ had the damn backyard”

     It was not the kind of greeting one would expect smack in the heart of Quaker country…Though taken somewhat aback, I managed to maintain a gentleman’s composure, responding in a soft, melodic pitch.

     “The landlord said that you have use of the backyard…we share it. Do you like growing stuff?”

     “Nawww…we buy ours at the grocery. Bout the only thing I ever tried ta grow was ‘ta-may-taz’…’cherry ta-may-taz’…They don’t grow good round here though.”

     “Hmmmnnn”, I thought aloud…”Well…I’m growing tomatoes; you’re welcome to help yourself to some if you’d like when they come up.”

     Ms Bar-fly’s glazed, gaze into space was broken by little Mister Hyper-activity barreling through the storm door, sputtering plastic machine-gun, floppy helmet, dagger and all…There he stood, a four foot-something high, eight year old bundle of clumsy, fury. I was already envisioning those flapping feet, trampling through my vulnerable seedlings. I could hear them cry out in excruciating pain. They were broken and smashed into their little beds…A sudden nightmare of a daydream is what it was…A psychic premonition of sorts; the kind all ‘true’ gardeners develop over time.

     “Johnathan !!! Stop aiming that damn thing at me an get your ass back in the                              

      house where it belongs. Did you do your homework? Tie that shoe. What’s 

      that blue stuff all over your face? Wipe it off…I think It’s about time for your    

      medicine…”

     The poor kid stood there wide-eyed and dumbfounded as mother Bar-fly rattled off a rapid succession of questions and commands: about fifty in the course of a few seconds by my estimate. I was beginning to feel a twinge of compassion for this little plant, trampling butterball…Whimpering, he slammed his way back though the storm door into the house. Once inside, I could hear a barrage of indefinable objects being thrown about over escalating wails.

     “Johnathan!!!!!” The shrill of the Bar-fly almost shattered my eardrums…her  

      long, hard, toxic stare at my freshly turned soil, sent poison into it.

     “You know” she said, “I got two grandkids besides Johnathan who come and

      visit…they’ll be runnin’ all over this yard…they don’t know nothin’ bout no  

      garden. I’ll try and keep em out, but…I don’t know….”

      My eyes drifted upward, and I silently asked…”why…”

     Then…the squirrels came…and the birds…and more squirrels, and more birds…All happily digging, and pecking at my freshly sowed terrain. Where do all these fat tailed rodents come from? I never saw so many in one place at the same time in my entire life. The birds reminded me of that old Alfred Hitchcock movie where flocks of feathered little monsters went on a rampage, pecking at every living thing in sight…including humans…I’ll need to get protective gear.

     Upon investigating, the answer was clear; Bar-fly had hung not one, but ‘three’ seed filled bird feeders on her porch. She glowingly appeared through the screen door proudly pointing to her massive seed dispensers, lamenting about how much she loved to watch the birds come to feed…I knew this must have been my negative karma payback, what you reap, is  what you sow…My mind was spinning as I tried to remember what it was that I had done in the past to deserve such punishment, now. Must have been that tack I put on Mrs. Pizzuro’s seat in Intermediate school.

     Within a couple of weeks, miraculously, the birth of germinated seedlings poked their little heads up from their beds. I stood lovingly in awe and gazed with pride as I gently caressed the tiny, cute leaves and stems. I could tell that they knew me; they recognized the tender voice of their father greeting them. They may have been too young to yet see beyond a haze of shadow, but I had swooned them while in the womb.

      The late frost only killed about half my of shivering babies, but the torrential rains which followed, pretty much finished off the rest. The first late, night storm had beaten them into the dirt. I found them in the morning, smashed, bruised and gasping for air. I resuscitated those that I could from their drowning, then fluffed and coaxed them back up. A few days later…the second storm proved too grim. That angry ogre in the clouds had struck its final, fatal blow.

     Fortunately, I had not yet set out my potted seedlings. They remained safely tucked into their nests within my apartment. My kitten had only eaten a few of them, so I had plenty left to spawn. I re-planted the beautiful little things in awaiting garden mounds, which I had so carefully surrounded with a barricade of wire mesh. The protection would help, but I fully expected squirrels, Frisbees and rubber balls to penetrate over the top…they did.

     Sneaker prints around some mangled plants gave evidence to the fact that Bar-fly’s kid, and his new found neighborhood friends had retrieved dropped or thrown articles on a number of occasions. Damaged roots close-by little holes kept me cursing those squirrels all summer long. Why they chose my garden to hide their nuts, I’ll never know. When I could, I would sit in wait for them then run, screaming like a madman around the yard to chase them away. My antics seemed to scare the neighbors more than those furry, little varmints…the rodents kept visiting…the neighbors stopped.

     I suspect that some neighbors just stopped visiting because they came to expect a poor harvest from my toil, leaving no hand-outs for them. They had all been told to expect an abundance of luscious fruits and vegetables as gifts…a quite normal gesture we devoted gardeners extend. We have a kind, caring heart which forces us to give away bags full of produce to family and friends, whether they like it or not…Vegetable gardeners seem to forget that most Americans are mainly ‘meat and potato’ people.

     Ms Bar-fly actually softened somewhat during the growing season. Perhaps she was receiving a contact high in her association with me and the garden. Her assistance would have been better appreciated though, if she hadn’t been over-watering what I had already watered. Sprinkling pellets of nitrogen laced plant food every other day didn’t help win any praise from me either. I wound up with enough nitrogen in that soil to fill two Hindenburgs…I could have supplied the entire block with enough gas to fry burgers all summer long. Bar-fly was at least trying…it is the ‘thought’ which counts, according to that old worn metaphor. I sure wish that she had been more of a thinker and less of a doer…

     Her kid along with his Nazi friends, and their war games in the yard loaned fuel to my conversion from moderate to radical, liberalistic pacifist. The collateral damage excuse, no longer held weight with me…it took the ruination of my garden to enlighten me. It also served to re-enforce the observation, that Ritalin doesn’t seem to be the panacea for ADD and whatever else doctors prescribe it for. Kids will still wreck your garden.

     Over-all, everything that went wrong in the garden last year, will serve as learned lessons for the future. If you got clay…bring in a few truck loads of top-soil. Never plant early…Mother Nature won’t comply. If you have an empty unit at your house, don’t rent it out…Ms Bar-fly might move in there with her kid. Never donate to a ‘Save the Wildlife’ foundation…become a hunter.

     If you adhere to these few important rules of horticulture…you’ll be better prepared to engage in the abundantly, rewarding activity of gardening, with less chance of having it all gone wrong like I did. Otherwise, you’ll wind up with a mere hand full of spotted string beans, and a rotten tomato or two.

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