The Quest for the Holy Grail…Or…My Eternal Search for the Perfect Gas Station Pop

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I am on a quest.

A sacred quest.

A quest that has consumed years of my life and countless miles of highway.

I seek the Holy Grail.

Not the cup of Christ.

Not some dusty chalice from the Last Supper.

No.

I seek something far more elusive.

Far more precious.

The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.

THE IMPORTANCE OF DIET

Let me be clear about something.

This must be diet.

Must.

Regular soda pop—with its full complement of sugar—sends me into a blind rage.

Not metaphorically.

Not "oh, I get a little cranky."

No.

I mean a primal, unstoppable fury.

A berserker state.

Once, I accidentally drank regular Mountain Dew.

I woke up three hours later in a Target parking lot.

Holding a decorative gourd.

No memory of how I got there.

No explanation for the gourd.

Just... rage residue, confusion, and a series of bruises of unclear origin.

So yes.

Diet.

This is non-negotiable.

THE PARAMETERS

The perfect fountain soda is not simply about the beverage itself.

It's about the entire experience.

The alchemy.

The variables.

The evervescence

Let me explain.

The Carbonation

Must be aggressive.

Not timid.

Not "gently sparkling."

I want it to fight me.

I want that first sip to feel like a tiny, delicious explosion.

Too flat? Unacceptable.

That's just sad syrup water.

The Ice

Crushed. Always crushed.

Cubed ice is for cowards and people who don't understand surface area.

Crushed ice integrates with the beverage.

Becomes part of the experience.

Cubed ice just... floats there.

Judging you.

Taking up space that should be occupied by more soda.

The Syrup-to-Carbonation Ratio

This is critical.

Critical.

Too much syrup? Cloying. Overwhelming. A liquid assault.

Too little? You're basically drinking TV static with a vague memory of flavor.

The ratio must be perfect.

And here's the thing:

No two gas stations have the same ratio.

Because no one—and I mean no one—is properly maintaining these machines.

The Cup

Must be large.

Not medium.

Not "I'm trying to be responsible about my beverage choices."

Large.

Because if I'm going on this quest—

if I'm going to drive to seventeen different gas stations in one afternoon—

I'm not doing it for moderation.

The Straw

Paper straws are an affront to God and nature.

They disintegrate.

They taste like regret.

If you hand me a paper straw, I will simply drink from the rim like a medieval peasant.

Plastic is controversial, I know.

But for fountain soda?

Necessary.

THE STATIONS

Over the years, I have developed a comprehensive taxonomy of gas station fountain soda quality.

A ranking system.

A hierarchy.

Tier 1: The Legends

These are rare.

Mythical, almost.

The stations where everything aligns.

Perfect carbonation.

Proper syrup ratio.

Ice that's actually cold.

Machines that were serviced sometime in the last month.

I've found maybe three in my entire life.

One was a Speedway outside of Columbus.

One was a QuikTrip in Kansas City.

And one—this haunts me—was a nameless truck stop somewhere in Indiana that I can no longer find.

I've tried.

God, I've tried.

I've driven that route six times.

It's gone.

Like Brigadoon.

Appearing only when the conditions are right.

Or possibly demolished for a Panera.

Tier 2: The Reliables

Solid.

Consistent.

Nothing fancy, but they deliver.

7-Eleven usually falls here.

Wawa, if you're on the East Coast.

These stations understand the fundamentals.

They might not achieve transcendence—

but they won't betray you.

Tier 3: The Variables

These are the wild cards.

Could be great.

Could be terrible.

Entirely dependent on:

• Time of day

• Who last serviced the machine

• Cosmic alignment

• Whether Mercury is in retrograde

Shell stations live here.

BP stations.

Circle K on a good day.

You're gambling.

Tier 4: The Disappointments

They have a fountain machine.

Technically.

But it's been broken since 2014.

The carbonation is a distant memory.

The ice dispenser makes a sound like dying machinery.

Half the buttons don't work.

And there's always—always—one flavor that's just... out.

Not marked "out."

Just... producing clear liquid.

Mystery fluid.

You press "Diet Coke" and get what I can only describe as "the concept of soda."

Most independent gas stations fall here.

Through no fault of their own.

Just... entropy.

Tier 5: The Abandoned

The machine is there.

But it's not plugged in.

Or it's been converted into storage for squeegees and windshield fluid.

Or there's a handwritten sign that says "Out of Order Since March."

It's March of the following year.

These stations have given up.

And honestly?

I respect that.

At least they're honest.

THE JOURNEY

My quest has taken me far.

Farther than any reasonable person should go for a beverage.

I've driven forty minutes out of my way because someone told me about a Marathon station with "really good carbonation."

They were right.

It was good.

For three weeks.

Then something changed.

The ratio shifted.

The magic died.

I've stood in gas stations at 2 AM—

the only customer—

sampling multiple flavors like a sommelier.

Diet Coke.

Diet Pepsi.

Diet Mountain Dew.

Coke Zero.

That weird Diet Dr. Pepper knockoff called "Dr. Thunder" or "Dr. Bob" or "Medical Professional."

Each one a possibility.

Each one a potential Grail.

I've engaged in lengthy conversations with gas station clerks about their fountain maintenance schedules.

Most look at me like I'm insane.

One—bless him—actually checked the service log.

Told me they'd just been cleaned that morning.

I bought three sodas.

All large.

Felt like a king.

THE VARIABLES I CANNOT CONTROL

Here's what drives me mad:

The perfect fountain soda is temporary.

Even when you find it—

even when all the stars align—

it won't last.

Because:

• The syrup will run low

• The CO2 will need replacing

• The machine will drift out of calibration

• Someone will change the filter

• Corporate will switch suppliers

• The universe will shift

I've returned to stations that once poured perfection—

only to find they've fallen to Tier 3.

Or worse.

It's heartbreaking.

Like visiting an old friend who's changed.

Who's lost something essential.

And you can't quite put your finger on what.

But you know.

THE SUGAR INCIDENT

I must tell you about the time I was betrayed.

By my own hubris.

By my own carelessness.

I was at a Shell station.

Tier 3, but I was feeling lucky.

I filled my cup.

Took a long, satisfying pull from the straw.

And immediately—

immediately—

I knew.

This was not diet.

This was regular.

Full sugar.

The forbidden nectar.

But it was too late.

The sugar hit my system like a starter pistol.

And I—

I transformed.

Not literally.

But close enough.

Everything became sharp.

Loud.

Unacceptable.

A man asked if I was in line at the checkout.

I said—and I quote—

"The CONCEPT of lines is a SOCIAL CONSTRUCT designed to CONTROL us!"

He moved away quickly.

The clerk asked if I was okay.

I bought seventeen scratch-off tickets.

I don't even play the lottery.

I drove to three different Walmarts.

Bought nothing.

Just... walked the aisles.

Seething.

When I finally came down—

hours later—

I was in my car.

In a Sonic parking lot.

Holding a bag of mozzarella sticks I didn't remember ordering.

And I made a vow:

Never again.

From that day forward, I would always test.

One small sip.

Just to verify.

Before committing to the full beverage.

Because sugar—regular, uncut, full-strength sugar—

cannot be trusted.

THE PHILOSOPHY

You might ask: "Orson, why does this matter so much?"

"It's just a drink."

"Just carbonated water and artificial sweetener."

And you'd be right.

Technically.

But you'd also be missing the point.

The quest isn't about the soda.

It's about the pursuit.

It's about having something to search for.

Something that keeps you driving.

Keeps you exploring.

Keeps you walking into gas stations you've never seen before—

in towns you don't know—

hoping that maybe—

maybe—

this one will be different.

This one will be the one.

It's about the journey.

The documentation.

The small moments of perfection.

And yes—

it's about the soda.

Because when you finally find it—

when you take that first sip and everything is right—

the carbonation perfect—

the ratio divine—

the ice crushed just so—

It's transcendent.

For three glorious minutes, the world makes sense.

And then you finish.

And you're left with:

A cup of ice.

A wet straw.

And the knowledge that you have to find it again.

THE GRAIL

I haven't found it yet.

The perfect fountain soda.

The Grail.

Oh, I've found good ones.

Great ones, even.

But perfect?

That remains elusive.

Maybe it doesn't exist.

Maybe it's the searching that matters.

Maybe the Grail isn't meant to be found—

only pursued.

But I'll keep looking.

Because what else am I going to do?

Drive past gas stations without stopping?

Never.

I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.

And this is my quest.

My burden.

My calling.

So if you see me—

standing at a fountain machine at 11 PM—

sampling every diet option—

taking notes—

Don't interrupt.

Don't judge.

Just know:

I'm doing important work.

Holy work.

And someday—

maybe not today—

maybe not tomorrow—

but someday—

I will find it.

The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.

And when I do?

I'll have exactly three minutes to enjoy it.

Before I have to start all over again.

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, carrying a large fountain soda, crushed ice visible through the translucent cup. He takes a sip. Pauses. Considers. Nods approvingly. Then drives to the next gas station. The quest continues.)

How I Survived The Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23.

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

In the autumn of 2023, I learned something about myself.

Something I wish I hadn't.

Something that, frankly, I'm not proud of.

I learned that I am capable of driving to eleven different stores in a single afternoon—

across three counties—

in increasingly desperate pursuit of—

Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.

Not for a child.

Not for a party.

Not even for a reasonable nostalgic craving.

Just... for me.

Because they were gone.

And when something becomes scarce—

when something you've always been able to casually acquire suddenly isn't there—

you stop being a rational person.

You become a hunter.

A gatherer.

A hoarder.

THE DISCOVERY

It was mid-November.

Still too early for Christmas, technically.

But the stores had already pivoted.

Turkeys were being shoved aside.

Pumpkin spice was being purged.

And the seasonal snack cakes—

those beautiful, unnecessary, chemically-preserved monuments to holiday joy—

were appearing.

I went to my local Kroger.

Casual.

Not even thinking about it.

Just wandered down the snack cake aisle like I always do.

And there they were.

Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.

Green frosting.

Red and white sprinkles.

That unmistakable tree shape.

Childhood in a box.

I grabbed two.

Thought about grabbing three.

Decided I wasn't an animal.

Two was reasonable.

Two was civilized.

I went home.

Ate one that night.

It was perfect.

Artificially perfect.

The kind of perfect that can only be achieved through industrial food science and a complete disregard for nutritional value.

I thought: I'll get more next week.

THE SHORTAGE BEGINS

Next week came.

I went back to Kroger.

The shelf where the Christmas Tree Cakes had been?

Empty.

Not "running low."

Not "picked over."

Empty.

Just a gap.

A void.

Where joy used to be.

I asked someone stocking shelves nearby.

"Excuse me, do you know when you're getting more Christmas Tree Cakes?"

He looked at me.

Then at the empty shelf.

Then back at me.

And shrugged.

Shrugged.

As if this wasn't a crisis.

"Supply chain issues," he said.

And walked away.

Supply chain issues.

Those three words.

The explanation for everything wrong in the modern world.

THE SEARCH EXPANDS

I went to another Kroger.

Empty.

Target.

Empty.

Walmart—which I avoid on principle but desperate times, etc.

Empty.

Meijer.

CVS.

Walgreens.

Dollar General (where I still have honorary status, thank you very much).

All empty.

It was like the Christmas Tree Cakes had been raptured.

Taken up to snack cake heaven.

Leaving the rest of us behind to suffer through regular Swiss Rolls like peasants.

THE ESCALATION

I started checking stores I didn't even know existed.

Small regional grocers.

Gas stations in towns I'd never heard of.

A place called "SaveMart" that looked like it had been abandoned in 1987 but was somehow still operating.

Nothing.

I joined Facebook groups.

Yes.

Facebook groups.

Groups with names like "Little Debbie Lovers" and "Snack Cake Hunters."

People were posting photos.

Grainy, desperate photos.

"Found ONE box at a gas station in Terre Haute!"

"Limit 2 per customer at the Meijer on 86th Street!"

It was like a black market.

A snack cake underground.

People were trading.

"I'll give you a box of Zebra Cakes for half a box of Christmas Trees."

Someone offered $30 for a single box.

Thirty dollars!

For something that retails for $2.99!

I did not pay thirty dollars.

But I considered it.

And that—

that's when I knew I'd lost myself.

THE RATIONING

I still had one box left.

The second box I'd bought back when the world made sense.

I put it in the pantry.

And I rationed.

One cake per week.

Maybe two if I'd had a particularly difficult day.

I treated each one like a sacrament.

Opening the plastic wrapper slowly.

Appreciating the artificial green frosting.

The spongy vanilla cake beneath.

The cream filling that tasted like nostalgia and preservatives.

I made them last.

Because I didn't know if I'd ever see them again.

THE THEORIES

People had theories about the shortage.

Theory 1: Ingredient Issues

Maybe there was a shortage of the specific dye used for the green frosting.

Or the sprinkles.

Or the essence of tree.

Theory 2: Increased Demand

Maybe everyone had the same idea at the same time.

Maybe 2023 was the year everyone collectively decided they needed Christmas Tree Cakes.

A shared cultural craving.

Theory 3: Corporate Strategy

Maybe—and this is the dark one—

Maybe Little Debbie was intentionally creating scarcity.

Manufacturing demand through deprivation.

Making us desperate.

Making us pay attention.

I didn't want to believe it.

But capitalism is capable of anything.

Theory 4: The Simulation

Maybe we're in a simulation and whoever's running it just... forgot to restock the Christmas Tree Cakes.

A small glitch.

An oversight.

And we—the NPCs—are left scrambling.

(I don't actually believe this one. But late at night, driving to my eighth store, it seemed plausible.)

THE BREAKDOWN

There was a moment—

a low point—

when I stood in the snack cake aisle of a Marsh Supermarket that was clearly about to go out of business.

Flickering lights.

Half-empty shelves.

An employee who looked like he'd been there since the Carter administration.

And I said—

out loud—

to no one—

"Why? Why is this happening to me?"

The employee looked over.

Said nothing.

Went back to stocking canned corn.

And I realized:

This wasn't happening to me.

This was just... happening.

The world doesn't owe me Christmas Tree Cakes.

Little Debbie doesn't owe me anything.

Scarcity is not personal.

It's just... the way things are sometimes.

But knowing that didn't make it hurt less.

THE BREAKTHROUGH

And then.

December 12th.

I was at a Kroger.

Not even looking for them anymore.

Just buying milk and bread like a normal person who had moved on with his life.

And I turned the corner into the snack cake aisle—

purely by chance—

and there—

THERE—

Fully stocked.

Two full rows.

Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.

Green frosting gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Like a miracle.

Like manna.

Like the universe had finally decided I'd suffered enough.

I stood there.

Frozen.

A woman with a cart tried to get past me.

I didn't move.

She went around.

I approached slowly.

Afraid that if I moved too fast they'd disappear.

That this was a mirage.

A cruel trick.

But I reached out—

and they were real.

THE DECISION

Here's where it gets interesting.

I stood there.

Cart in hand.

Staring at two full rows of Christmas Tree Cakes.

After weeks of searching.

After eleven stores.

After joining Facebook groups and considering black market purchases.

After rationing my last box like it was the final days of a siege.

And I thought:

How many do I take?

The old me—the me from six weeks ago—would have said "two boxes."

Maybe three.

Reasonable.

Modest.

But the me standing there—

the me who had been scarred by scarcity—

wanted to take all of them.

Every single box.

To protect myself from future deprivation.

To ensure this never happened again.

To hoard.

THE CHOICE

I took four boxes.

Four.

Not two.

Not all of them.

Four.

A compromise between my fear and my conscience.

Enough to feel secure.

Not enough to deprive someone else.

At checkout, the cashier looked at my cart.

Four boxes of Christmas Tree Cakes.

Milk.

Bread.

She said nothing.

But I saw the judgment.

Or maybe I just felt it.

Because I was judging myself.

THE REFLECTION

I got home.

Put the boxes in the pantry.

Stared at them.

And felt... strange.

Not happy.

Not satisfied.

Just... strange.

Because I'd gotten what I wanted.

But the wanting had changed me.

Had revealed something about my character.

Something about how quickly I can go from "rational person" to "person hoarding snack cakes."

Scarcity does that.

It strips away the veneer.

Shows you who you really are when resources are limited.

And apparently, I am someone who will drive across three counties for artificially flavored sponge cake.

THE AFTERMATH

The Christmas Tree Cakes stayed available after that.

Fully stocked.

Like the shortage had never happened.

Like it was all a test.

A trial.

I ate my four boxes slowly.

Throughout December.

Into January.

They tasted the same.

But different.

Because now they carried weight.

The weight of the search.

The desperation.

The journey.

Food tastes different when you've had to fight for it.

Even if the fight was just driving around looking at empty shelves.

THE LESSON

What did I learn from the Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23?

Several things:

1. Scarcity reveals character.

And sometimes what it reveals isn't flattering.

2. Nostalgia is powerful.

Powerful enough to make you irrational.

3. We live in a fragile system.

One supply chain hiccup and suddenly your favorite snack cake becomes a rare commodity.

4. Hoarding is a spectrum.

And I'm somewhere on it.

5. Sometimes the quest matters more than the prize.

But also, the prize still matters.

Because it's a Christmas Tree Cake.

And those are objectively delightful.

THE EPILOGUE

It's 2024 now.

The Christmas Tree Cakes are back.

Readily available.

I buy them when I want them.

Two boxes at a time.

Like a civilized person.

But I remember.

I remember the empty shelves.

The eleven stores.

The Facebook groups.

The desperation.

And I know—

I know—

that if it happens again—

if the shelves empty—

if the supply chain falters—

I will do it all over again.

Because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.

And I am nothing if not committed to my snack cake pursuits.

Even when they reveal the worst parts of who I am.

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, holding a Christmas Tree Cake wrapped carefully in plastic. He takes a bite. Savors it. Not because it's particularly delicious—though it is—but because he remembers when he couldn't have it. And that memory? That makes it taste just a little bit sweeter.)

Aisle C Was Angry That Day, My Friends!

A Tale of Canned Goods, Chaos, and One Man's Reckoning

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.

Like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli.

But this wasn't soup.

This was soup.

And beans.

And tomato products in their infinite configurations.

This was the canned goods aisle.

And it was furious.

I could feel it the moment I turned the corner.

The air was different.

Heavier.

Charged with the kind of energy you usually only encounter before a thunderstorm or a contentious HOA meeting.

The fluorescent lights flickered.

Not dramatically.

Not like in a horror movie.

Just... enough.

Enough to make you think:

Something is wrong here.

Something is deeply, structurally wrong.

It started with the cans.

They were... off.

Misaligned.

Not in the charming "someone grabbed one and didn't push the others forward" way.

But in a way that suggested intent.

Malice.

Like the cans themselves had grown tired of their positions and decided—collectively—to stage a revolt.

Campbell's Cream of Mushroom?

Sideways.

Progresso Chicken Noodle?

Upside down, label facing inward like it had something to hide.

And the store-brand tomato sauce?

On the floor.

Just... there.

Rolling slightly.

As if it had flung itself from the shelf in protest.

I bent down to pick it up.

Because that's what you do, isn't it?

You see something out of place, and you fix it.

You restore order.

You do your small part to keep the universe from descending into chaos.

But when I reached for it—

I swear on everything I hold sacred—

it rolled away from me.

Not fast.

Not cartoonishly.

Just... deliberately.

Like it was saying:

"No. Not today, Orson. Today, I am free."

I stood up.

Looked around.

Surely someone else had noticed.

Surely I wasn't the only one bearing witness to this... this uprising.

But the aisle was empty.

Completely empty.

Which was strange.

Because Aisle C is never empty.

It's the workhorse aisle.

The everyday aisle.

The "I need something for dinner and I don't want to think too hard about it" aisle.

People live in Aisle C.

But that day?

Nothing.

Just me.

And the cans.

And the palpable sense that I had walked into something I didn't understand.

That's when I heard it.

A sound.

Faint at first.

Like... settling.

You know that sound old houses make?

When the wood contracts and you tell yourself it's "just the house settling"?

It was like that.

But it was the shelf.

The entire shelf.

Groaning.

Shifting.

Like it was bearing a weight it could no longer sustain.

I took a step back.

Slowly.

Carefully.

And then—

CRASH.

Not the whole shelf.

Just... one section.

A cascade of kidney beans.

Red.

Black.

Pinto.

Garbanzo.

All of them tumbling to the floor in a metallic avalanche.

And I—

I stood there.

Frozen.

Watching this happen.

Watching Aisle C lose its mind.

An employee appeared.

Out of nowhere.

Like they'd been summoned.

A young man.

Couldn't have been more than twenty-two.

Wearing the store vest with the kind of resignation you usually see on pallbearers.

He looked at the beans.

Then at me.

Then back at the beans.

And he said—

I will never forget this—

he said:

"Yeah. It's been doing that."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Falling," he said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

"The cans just... fall."

"Why?"

He shrugged.

A shrug so profound, so existentially weary, that it could have been a TED Talk.

"Nobody knows. Corporate sent someone last week. They couldn't figure it out either."

He bent down.

Started picking up beans.

Slowly.

One at a time.

And I—

because I am not a monster—

I helped.

We worked in silence.

Restacking.

Realigning.

Attempting to impose order on a system that had clearly rejected it.

And as we worked, I noticed something.

The cans weren't just falling randomly.

There was a pattern.

A logic.

All the cans that had fallen?

They were the same brand.

Store brand.

Every single one.

The name brands—Campbell's, Progresso, Bush's—they were fine.

Untouched.

Standing tall and proud on their shelves like smug little soldiers.

But the store brand?

Rebellion.

I pointed this out to the young man.

He looked.

Blinked.

And then—

he laughed.

Not a happy laugh.

Not a "isn't that funny" laugh.

But the kind of laugh that comes when you realize something true and terrible about the world.

"They know," he said.

"They know."

"Know what?"

He stood up.

Holding a can of store-brand black beans.

And he looked at it like Hamlet looking at Yorick's skull.

"That nobody wants them," he said quietly.

"That they're the backup plan. The last resort. The 'I guess this will do.'"

He set the can down gently.

Almost reverently.

"And they're mad about it."

I wanted to argue.

To say that store-brand products are perfectly good.

That they're often made in the same facilities as name brands.

That the only difference is the label and the price.

But I couldn't.

Because standing there, in Aisle C, surrounded by the aftermath of a canned goods insurrection—

I understood.

I understood the anger.

The resentment.

The quiet fury of being perpetually second-choice.

Of being picked only when the first option wasn't available.

Or when the budget was tight.

Or when someone just didn't care enough to choose.

The store-brand cans weren't just falling.

They were protesting.

We finished restacking.

The young man thanked me.

Wandered off to whatever other small disaster awaited him.

And I stood there.

Alone again.

In Aisle C.

Which was no longer angry.

Or maybe it was just... tired.

The way we all get tired.

When we've made our point and no one was really listening anyway.

I grabbed what I came for.

A can of tomato sauce.

Name brand, I'm ashamed to say.

Old habits.

But as I walked away—

I looked back.

One last time.

And I swear.

I swear.

I saw a can of store-brand green beans.

Right on the edge of the shelf.

Teetering.

And I thought:

Go ahead. Jump. You've earned it.

Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.

And honestly?

It had every right to be.

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, clutching his name-brand tomato sauce with a newfound sense of guilt. Behind him, somewhere in Aisle C, a can falls. Slowly. Purposefully. Free at last.)

The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad

A Journey That Defies Geography, Logic, and Sobriety

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I took a train once.

Not just any train.

The train.

The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad.

Yes.

All three.

Simultaneously.

I know what you're thinking.

"Orson, that's impossible. Transatlantic means across the ocean. Transcontinental means across a continent. And Transylvania is... a region in Romania."

"These are mutually exclusive concepts."

"This train cannot exist."

And yet.

And yet.

I have the ticket stub to prove it.

Or... I had it.

It disappeared.

Much like my certainty about what actually happened.

THE DEPARTURE

It started—as all great mistakes do—with a Groupon.

$47 for a "luxury rail experience."

The description was... vague.

It mentioned:

• "Continental breakfast"

• "Historic route"

• "Views you won't believe"

• "Complimentary garlic bread"

That last one should have been a warning.

But I was intrigued.

Seduced, even.

So I clicked "Purchase."

And three weeks later, I received an email with boarding instructions:

"Platform 9¾. Tuesday. Midnight. Bring layered clothing and an open mind."

Platform 9¾.

Platform 9¾.

I assumed this was whimsy.

A Harry Potter reference for the tourists.

But when I arrived at Union Station—or was it Penn Station? The memory is fluid—

there it was.

Between Platform 9 and Platform 10.

A door.

Unmarked.

Unremarkable.

Except for a small brass plaque that read:

"For Those Who Know."

I... did not know.

But I opened it anyway.

THE PLATFORM

Inside was a platform.

Dimly lit.

Victorian.

Gas lamps flickering with a kind of anachronistic confidence.

There were others waiting.

Not many.

Maybe seven people.

All of them looked like they'd made interesting life choices.

One woman was knitting.

Furiously.

With yarn that seemed... too red.

A man in a trench coat was reading a newspaper.

In a language I didn't recognize.

But might have been... backwards English?

And there was a child.

Just one.

Standing perfectly still.

Holding a balloon.

Staring at nothing.

I sat on a bench.

Tried to look like I belonged.

Like I took mysterious midnight trains all the time.

And then—

I heard it.

The whistle.

Not a modern train whistle.

But the kind you hear in old movies.

The kind that sounds like longing.

Like departure.

Like "you can't go back now."

THE TRAIN

It pulled into the station.

Slowly.

Impossibly slowly.

Steam billowing.

Black iron gleaming under the gas lamps.

The cars were ornate.

Carved wood.

Brass fixtures.

Velvet curtains in the windows.

It looked like something from another century.

Or possibly from a very committed theme restaurant.

A conductor appeared.

Top hat.

Pocket watch.

Mustache so elaborate it seemed structural.

He called out:

"All aboard the Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad!"

His voice echoed.

Which shouldn't have been possible.

We were indoors.

But it echoed anyway.

I boarded.

Because at that point, what else was I going to do?

Go home?

Admit I'd wasted $47 on a Groupon I didn't understand?

Never.

THE CABIN

I found my cabin.

Or it found me.

The numbers on the doors kept changing.

I swear.

One moment it was 12B.

The next, 21B.

Then B12, like a vitamin.

But eventually, one door just... opened.

And a voice—from where? from whom?—said:

"This one's yours."

Inside:

A small sleeper cabin.

Plush red velvet seats.

A fold-down bed.

A tiny window with curtains tied back with golden rope.

And on the table—

A bottle of wine.

A glass.

And a note:

"Complimentary. Enjoy the journey. Do not open the window after 2 AM."

I sat.

Poured myself some wine.

Which was... excellent.

Suspiciously excellent.

And the train began to move.

THE ROUTE

Here's where it gets complicated.

We left the station.

I could see the city lights through the window.

Normal city lights.

Skyscrapers.

Traffic.

Reality.

But then—

we went through a tunnel.

A long one.

Longer than any tunnel should be.

And when we emerged—

Everything was different.

The landscape outside was... European?

Rolling hills.

Stone bridges.

Villages with lights glowing warmly in windows that seemed too far away and too close at the same time.

I checked my watch.

It had stopped.

Naturally.

I looked out the window again.

Now we were crossing water.

Crossing water.

On a train.

Not a bridge.

The train was just... on the water.

Gliding across it like it had made a compelling argument and the ocean had agreed to support its weight.

I finished the wine.

Poured another glass.

I was either dreaming or having the best $47 experience of my life.

THE DINING CAR

At some point—time had become a suggestion—I wandered to the dining car.

It was full.

But also empty.

Let me explain.

There were people.

But they were... translucent?

No.

Not translucent.

Just... not entirely committed to being there.

Like they were dining in multiple realities at once and this was just one of them.

I sat.

A waiter appeared immediately.

He wore white gloves.

Carried a silver tray.

And said, in an accent I couldn't place:

"The special tonight is goulash."

I hadn't asked.

But I said, "Sure."

He nodded approvingly.

And vanished.

The goulash arrived.

From where?

Unclear.

But it was there.

Steaming.

Rich.

Accompanied by that promised garlic bread.

Which was, I must say, extraordinary.

I ate.

And as I ate, I listened.

The other diners were talking.

In languages that shifted mid-sentence.

About places that might not exist.

One woman said:

"I'm transferring in Narnia. Then onward to Cleveland."

Another man:

"I've been riding this line for three years. Or three hours. Hard to say."

And the child with the balloon—who was now somehow sitting two tables away—

said nothing.

Just stared.

Balloon bobbing gently.

In air that wasn't moving.

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

Somewhere around what might have been 2 AM—

or 4 PM—

or possibly last Thursday—

an announcement crackled over the intercom:

"Now approaching: Transylvania Station. Please ensure all windows remain closed. Do not make eye contact with anyone on the platform. Garlic bread will be served."

I looked out my window.

We were pulling into a station.

But not a normal station.

This one was carved into a mountainside.

Torches lined the platform.

Torches.

Not electric lights.

Actual fire.

And the people on the platform—

They were waiting.

Standing perfectly still.

All of them facing the train.

Watching.

I closed my curtain.

Because some instructions you just follow.

THE RETURN

I woke up.

In my cabin.

Sunlight streaming through the window.

The train was stopped.

I looked outside.

We were back.

Back at the station.

The normal station.

The one with fluorescent lights and vending machines and people in athleisure wear.

I gathered my things.

Stumbled onto the platform.

The train—the beautiful, impossible, Victorian train—

pulled away.

And as it did, I noticed:

It wasn't steam-powered anymore.

It was just... a regular train.

An Amtrak.

With the usual scratched windows and questionable upholstery.

Had it ever been anything else?

THE EVIDENCE

I checked my bag.

The wine bottle was there.

Empty.

The garlic bread?

One piece left.

Wrapped in a cloth napkin embroidered with the letters:

T.T.T.R.

I still have it.

I've never eaten it.

It hasn't gone stale.

Which is... concerning.

And sometimes—

late at night—

when I'm scrolling through Groupon—

I see it.

For just a moment.

The listing.

"Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad - $47 - One Night Only"

And I think:

Should I book it again?

Should I return?

Should I finally ask someone—anyone—what the hell that was?

But then the listing disappears.

And I'm left with only the memory.

The garlic bread.

And the unshakable feeling that somewhere—

between here and there—

between real and unreal—

that train is still running.

And it's waiting.

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, clutching an embroidered napkin and a Groupon confirmation email that may or may not still exist. Somewhere, a train whistle sounds. He does not look back.)

The Beef Manhattan Project: A Secret History of The Sandwich That Changed Everything

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

In 1942, the United States government gathered the brightest minds in physics to develop a weapon that would end a war.

They called it the Manhattan Project.

Around that same time a team at my local deli, Monty’s, embarked on an equally daring venture in the culinary theatre

They set out to develop a sandwich of sandwiches that would end all other sandwiches.

They called this high-stakes venture…

The Beef Manhattan Project.

And I was there.

Not by choice.

Not by invitation.

But because I happened to be waiting for a turkey club when history was being made.

It started innocently enough.

I was at Monty’s Deli.

A place I’d been going for years.

Reliable.

Unpretentious.

Delicious.

The kind of deli where the menu hasn’t changed in decades

I ordered my usual.

Turkey club. Extra mayo. No tomato because I’m not a child.

And I waited.

But something was different that day.

There was energy in the air.

A tension.

The kind you feel before a thunderstorm.

Or a product launch.

Or a reckoning.

Monty, the owner, was huddled with the kitchen staff.

Whispering.

Gesturing dramatically.

Occasionally, pointing at a chalkboard covered in what looked like… equations?

No.

Not equations.

Sandwich architecture.

Monty cleared his throat.

Loudly.

Like he was about to deliver a State of the Union address to a room of seventeen people who just wanted pastrami.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.

And I thought: Oh no.

“We are about to do something that has never been done before.”

Someone in line said, “Get us our food in a timely fashion ?”

Monty ignored this.

“We are going to build,” he continued, “the ultimate beef sandwich.”

“You already have a roast beef sandwich,” said an elderly woman holding a ticket that said 47.

“No,” Monty said, with the intensity of Oppenheimer explaining fission.

“Not a roast beef sandwich.”

“THE Roast beef sandwich.”

“The one that ends the conversation.”

“The one that makes every other sandwich obsolete.”

He paused for effect.

“We’re calling it: The Beef Manhattan!”

The team assembled before us.

Like the Justice Society.

But sadder.

And holding tongs.

There was:

Carlos - the grill master. A man who once told me he could “hear when the meat is ready.” I believed him.

Sanjay - the vegetable specialist. Which sounds made up, but he took it very seriously. He once spent ten minutes explaining the structural integrity of lettuce.

Kim - the sauce architect. Quiet. Intense. Rumored to have worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant before “the incident.” No one knew what the incident was. No one asked.

And Daryl - Monty’s cousin. Daryl’s job was unclear. He mostly just nodded and said “yeah, bold” whenever someone suggested something.

This was the team.

This was humanity’s best hope for sandwich perfection.

God help us all.

They started with the foundation.

Bread.

“Ciabatta or sourdough?” Carlos asked.

“Neither,” said Monty. “Both.”

“You can’t use both,” Sanjay said.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s insane.”

Monty stared at him.

“So was splitting the atom.”

Travis nodded. “Yeah. Bold.”

They toasted two different kinds of bread.

Put them on the same plate.

Stared at them.

Someone in line said, “My number was called twenty minutes ago.”

No one responded.

The sandwich had priority.

THE ESCALATION

Next came the beef.

Not just any beef.

Three types.

Roast beef - traditional, thinly sliced.

Pastrami - for “complexity,” according to Monty.

And brisket - because Kim insisted it needed “a bass note.”

They layered them.

Carefully.

Reverently.

Like they were handling plutonium.

Which, in a way, they were.

This sandwich was becoming dangerous.

This is where things got heated.

Kim suggested a horseradish aioli.

Carlos wanted au jus.

Sanjay—bless him—advocated for “something lighter, maybe a vinaigrette.”

Monty listened to all of them.

Then said: “All three.”

“That’s too much liquid,” Sanjay protested. “The bread will disintegrate.”

“Then we engineer better bread,” Monty said.

And I swear—

I swear—

I saw the light of madness in his eyes.

The same light that must have been in Oppenheimer’s eyes when he realized what he’d created.

Travis said, “Yeah, bold.”

They built it.

Layer by layer.

Meat.

Cheese—three kinds, because “why stop now.”

Pickles—dill AND bread-and-butter, which caused a brief argument.

Onions—caramelized, because this was a serious sandwich.

Lettuce—iceberg for crunch, arugula for “sophistication.”

Tomato—despite my personal objections.

And the sauces.

All of them.

Drizzled.

Slathered.

Poured.

The sandwich grew.

Higher.

Wider.

More unstable.

It became clear that no human mouth could accommodate this.

But they didn’t care.

They weren’t building it for function.

They were building it to prove it could be done.

THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

Monty stepped back.

The team stepped back.

We all stared at it.

The Beef Manhattan.

Sitting on a plate.

Towering.

Glistening.

Defying physics and good sense.

Someone had to eat it.

Monty looked around the deli.

His eyes landed on me.

“You,” he said.

“Me?” I said.

“You’ve been here the whole time. You’ve witnessed this. You have to be the one.”

I wanted to refuse.

I wanted to say I was just here for a simple turkey club.

But I couldn’t.

Because I understood—in that moment—

that this was bigger than me.

This was history.

I approached the sandwich.

Picked it up.

Or tried to.

It immediately began to collapse.

Meat sliding.

Sauce dripping.

Structural integrity compromised.

I took a bite.

Or… the sandwich took me.

I’m not sure which.

It was—

Overwhelming.

Too many flavors.

Too many textures.

Competing.

Clashing.

A culinary arms race with no winner.

Just… chaos.

Delicious chaos.

Terrible chaos.

I chewed.

Swallowed.

Set it down.

Everyone waited.

“Well?” Monty asked.

I looked at him.

At the team.

At the sandwich—now half-destroyed, ingredients spilling across the plate like the aftermath of a very specific disaster.

And I said:

“This… this is too much.”

Monty nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“But we had to know if we could.”

The Beef Manhattan Project was never put on the menu.

It couldn’t be.

It was too powerful.

Too dangerous.

Too expensive, probably.

But it existed.

For one brief moment.

In a deli in a strip mall.

Between the dry cleaner and the tax prep place.

A sandwich that defied reason.

And I was there.

I tasted the future.

And the future was… complicated…

Sometimes I go back to Monty’s.

Order my turkey club.

And I see Monty.

Older now.

Tired.

But every once in a while—

when the light hits him just right—

I see that spark.

That mad glint.

The one that says:

“We could do it again.”

And I think:

Please don’t.

But also:

Please do.

Because someone has to push the boundaries.

Someone has to ask: How much beef is too much beef?

Someone has to build the sandwich that should never be built.

And if not Monty and his team of cafeteria Oppenheimers—

then who?

Fortunately for us, a team of culinarians were able to pick up where we left off and finish The Beef Manhattan Project. Open-Faced, Mashed Potatoes. It was as simple as that.

Until next time…

The Conference Call… Or… The Meeting That May Have Never Happened But Refuses to End

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

I need to tell you about a conference call.

Or… what I *believe* was a conference call.

What I *remember* as a conference call.

What might have been—

and I say this with complete sincerity—

a fever dream conjured by propofol and the lingering anxiety of capitalism.

But here’s the thing.

The troubling thing.

The thing that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, questioning the nature of reality itself:

Things from that call keep happening.

Let me start at the beginning.

I had a procedure.

Minor. Routine. The kind where they say, “You’ll be a little groggy afterward.”

*A little groggy.*

What a quaint understatement.

What a gentle lie.

I woke up in recovery.

Or… I *think* I woke up.

The room was soft around the edges.

The light had a quality I can only describe as “sympathetic.”

The nurse was there, saying something about crackers and juice boxes, and I remember thinking:

This is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said to me.

And then—

my phone rang.

Not buzzed.

Not chimed.

Rang.

Like it was 1997 and the phone had feelings about being ignored.

I answered.

Because of course I did.

I was in an altered state.

A pharmaceutical fugue.

The veil between dimensions was thin.

Who wouldn’t answer a phone call from the void?

THE VOICES

There were three of them.

Maybe four.

Possibly seven.

They all had names that sounded like law firms.

Brandon. Kendrick. Possibly a Stephanie.

They were talking about… metrics.

Synergy.

Deliverables.

Bandwidth.

That cursed word.

“Do we have the bandwidth for this, Orson?”

someone asked.

And I—

still tethered to the waking world by the thinnest thread of consciousness—

said:

“Bandwidth is a myth. We are all infinite.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Someone coughed.

Then Brandon—or Kendrick, or the composite entity I now think of as “Brandrick”—said:

“Right. Well. Let’s circle back on that.”

THE AGENDA

They had an agenda.

I’m almost certain.

Seven items.

Or twelve.

Numbers were fluid.

But I remember—vividly—hearing:

“Item four: the pelican initiative.”

The pelican initiative.

I said, “What is that?”

And someone—Stephanie? The void itself?—said:

“You proposed it last quarter, Orson.”

I did not propose it.

I have never proposed anything involving pelicans.

I don’t even particularly *like* pelicans.

They’re unnerving.

But in that moment—

floating somewhere between sleep and a conference room I may have astral-projected into—

I said:

“Ah yes. The pelicans. How are they progressing?”

“Slowly,” said Brandrick.

“But with great intention,” added Possibly-Stephanie.

I nodded.

Even though no one could see me.

Even though I was in a hospital gown covered in tiny moons.

THE ACTION ITEMS

At some point, they assigned me tasks.

I know this because I *wrote them down.*

I found the paper later.

Crumpled in my jacket pocket.

In handwriting that looked like mine but… tilted.

Haunted.

The list said:

1. Follow up with the pelicans

1. Confirm the Tuesday slot

1. Realign the northeastern verticals

1. DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER

That last one.

DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER.

In all capitals.

Underlined three times.

I have no memory of why.

But I felt—deep in my soul—that this was critical.

That the butter was somehow load-bearing.

That without it, the entire structure would collapse.

THE AWAKENING

Eventually, the call ended.

Or I hung up.

Or I simply… ceased to be on it.

I drifted back to full consciousness.

The nurse asked if I was okay.

I said, “Did I just have a conference call?”

She blinked.

“You’ve been asleep for twenty minutes.”

“But my phone—”

I looked at it.

No recent calls.

No missed notifications.

Just my lock screen.

A photo of a sunset I don’t remember taking.

I laughed.

Relieved.

It was a dream.

A strange, corporate, pelican-filled dream.

And I went home.

Ate soup.

Watched Star Trek.

Forgot about it.

Three days later.

I got an email.

Subject line: Tuesday Slot - Confirmed

From: Brandon Kendrick (or possibly Kendrick Brandon—the name was blurred, like my brain refused to let me see it clearly).

The email said:

“Orson, thanks for confirming on the call. Tuesday at 2pm is locked in. See you then.”*

I stared at it.

Read it again.

And again.

I had confirmed nothing.

I had been unconscious.

I replied:

“I think there’s been a mistake.”

The response came immediately:

“No mistake. You were very clear. Looking forward to it.”

A week later.

A package arrived.

No return address.

Inside?

Butter.

European-style butter.

Wrapped in wax paper.

With a note:

“Per your request. - The Team”

I stood in my kitchen.

Holding butter I did not order.

From people I was no longer sure existed.

And I thought:

This is how it starts.

This is how reality unravels.

Tuesday came.

2 PM.

I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when—

My doorbell rang.

I opened it.

A man in a polo shirt.

Holding a clipboard.

He said, “Orson? Here for the site assessment.”

“The… what?”

“The northeastern verticals,” he said, as if this explained everything.

“You called about realignment.”

I had not called.

I had *dreamed* about calling.

Or… had I?

I stammered something.

He smiled.

A patient, professional smile.

The kind you give to someone who is clearly losing their grip.

“I’ll just take some measurements and be out of your way.”

And he did.

He measured my hallway.

Took photos of my walls.

Thanked me.

And left.

I stood there.

Paralyzed.

Haunted by the distinct possibility that I had—while unconscious—hired a contractor.

THE PELICANS

I haven’t heard about the pelicans yet.

But I know—

I know—

they’re coming.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not this week.

But somewhere, in some office, in some dimension adjacent to this one—

there is a meeting happening.

And someone is saying:

“Has anyone followed up with Orson about the pelican initiative?”

And someone else is saying:

“He’s been quiet. But he confirmed it on the call.”

And they’re all nodding.

Taking notes.

Moving forward.

With confidence.

With intention.

With pelicans.

THE CONCLUSION (OR LACK THEREOF)

So here I sit.

With butter I didn’t order.

A Tuesday appointment I don’t remember making.

And realigned northeastern verticals in a home that didn’t need realigning.

Was the call real?

I don’t know.

Does it matter?

Apparently not.

Because the consequences are real.

The butter is real.

The contractor was real.

And somewhere—

in a boardroom or a dream or the space between—

Brandrick and Possibly-Stephanie are checking off action items.

Nodding approvingly.

Saying:

“Orson really delivered this quarter.”

And I?

I’m just trying to figure out what to do with all this butter.

And preparing.

Preparing for the pelicans.

The Grocery Store DJ… Or… The Invisible Hand That Controls Your Produce Selection

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

There is a person.

Somewhere.

In a room you will never see.

Behind a door marked “Employees Only” or perhaps “Electrical” or—most ominously—“Manager.”

And this person…

*controls everything.*

Not through force.

Not through policy.

But through something far more insidious:

The playlist.

Yes, my friends.

The Grocery Store DJ.

The unseen maestro of the mundane.

The puppet master pulling strings made of… soft rock from 1987.

-----

I became aware of their existence gradually.

At first, I thought it was random.

Background noise.

Sonic wallpaper designed to keep you from focusing on the fact that bananas somehow cost more than gasoline.

But then…

I started noticing patterns.

On Tuesdays, there was always yacht rock.

Not some yacht rock.

Not occasionally.

Always.

Every single Tuesday.

Smooth. Breezy. Relentlessly coastal.

As if the store itself had decided:

“Today, we sail.”

I’d be standing there, comparing Greek yogurt options—

trying to determine if “triple-strained” was worth an extra dollar—

and suddenly I’d hear that unmistakable opening synthesizer.

You know the one.

The one that says: *“Put down your responsibilities and imagine you’re on a boat you don’t own.”

And I would.

I’d drift.

Forget why I came.

End up buying three kinds of hummus I didn’t need and a pineapple I would never cut.

-----

But Tuesdays were just the beginning.

Wednesdays?

Power ballads.

Every. Single. One.

The kind that make you believe in second chances.

In love.

In the structural integrity of denim jackets.

I once stood in the cereal aisle for eleven minutes—

not because I was choosing—

but because I was *feeling.*

A song came on.

One of those songs.

The ones that crescendo like emotional avalanches.

And I just… stood there.

Holding a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

Tears in my eyes.

Thinking about choices I’d made.

Friendships I’d lost.

That one time in eighth grade when I didn’t speak up and Jennifer Kowalski moved to Michigan without knowing I existed.

All because the Grocery Store DJ decided—

on that particular Wednesday—

that I needed to feel something.

-----

Thursdays were aggressive.

Upbeat pop from the early 2000s.

The kind designed to make you move faster.

Buy more.

Consume with enthusiasm.

I’m convinced this was strategic.

Because Thursdays are when people prep for the weekend.

They’re stocking up.

Filling carts.

And the DJ knows—

oh, the DJ knows.

that if you hear the right tempo at the right moment,

you will absolutely buy that $14 cheese.

You will grab the fancy crackers.

You will convince yourself that *tonight is the night you finally use that fondue pot.*

It’s psychological warfare.

Sonic manipulation.

And I… I am defenseless.

-----

I started tracking it.

Keeping notes.

Because I am not a passive participant in my own grocery experience.

I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.

And if there is a system, I will *decode* it.

Here’s what I discovered:

Mondays: Melancholy indie folk. Songs about roads. About leaving. About coffee shops that no longer exist. It’s designed to make you feel reflective. Vulnerable. You’ll buy soup. You’ll buy bread. Comfort food for an aching soul.

Tuesdays: As established—yacht rock. Maximum escapism. You’re buying things you don’t need because you’re mentally in Cabo.

Wednesdays: Power ballads. Emotional purchases. Premium ice cream. Wine you can’t pronounce. Flowers for no reason.

Thursdays: High-energy pop. Fast shopping. Impulse buys. Suddenly you own three types of salsa and a magazine about outdoor grilling.

Fridays: Classic rock. Celebratory. You’re preparing for the weekend. The DJ wants you to feel *accomplished.* You buy steak. You buy beer. You buy charcoal even though you don’t have a grill.

Saturdays: Family-friendly hits. Nostalgic. Songs your parents liked. You’re shopping with kids or shopping like you *have* kids. You buy everything in bulk. Goldfish crackers. Juice boxes. A future you’re not sure you want but the music insists is inevitable.

Sundays: Gospel. Soft jazz. Reflective. You’re recovering. Repenting for Saturday. You buy kale. Sparkling water. Ingredients you’ll never use but make you feel virtuous.

-----

But here’s the thing.

The part that keeps me up at night.

I don’t know who the DJ is.

I’ve asked.

I’ve inquired—casually, of course—at the checkout.

“So… who picks the music?”

The cashier blinked at me.

“Corporate, I think?”

Corporate.

Corporate.

Do you understand the implications?

This isn’t one person.

This is a *system.*

A vast, unseen network of playlist architects.

Analysts studying shopping behavior.

Algorithms determining which song makes you buy more frozen pizza.

Focus groups debating whether instrumental jazz increases organic vegetable sales.

*(It does, apparently.)*

-----

I have never seen the Grocery Store DJ.

But I have felt their presence.

In every carefully timed fadeout.

In every strategic silence before the chorus.

They are there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Queuing up the next track.

And we—

we humble shoppers—

are merely dancers in their grand design.

-----

The other day, I was in the store.

Late afternoon.

The golden hour of grocery shopping when the store is nearly empty and the lighting feels almost kind.

And a song came on.

A quiet one.

Something I hadn’t heard in years.

It was soft.

Gentle.

Almost… apologetic.

And I realized:

The DJ was tired too.

We were both just trying to get through the day.

Them, behind their mysterious console.

Me, with my cart and my list and my perpetually optimistic belief that *this time* I wouldn’t forget the milk.

And in that moment—

I forgave them.

For the yacht rock.

For the emotional manipulation.

For making me cry in the cereal aisle.

Because the Grocery Store DJ isn’t a villain.

They’re an artist.

Working in a medium most people don’t even notice.

Crafting soundtracks for the most mundane moments of our lives.

And if they make us feel something—

even accidentally—

even while we’re just buying eggs—

well…

isn’t that the point?

-----

So here’s to you, Grocery Store DJ.

Wherever you are.

In your secret room.

With your mysterious playlist.

Thank you for the yacht rock.

Thank you for the tears.

Thank you for making me believe—

if only for four minutes and twenty-three seconds—

that my life has a soundtrack.

And it’s glorious.

The Maddening Myth of Market Research

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

Orson:

Gentlemen and ladies, esteemed listeners to the peculiar chronicles of Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld! It is I, your affable host, here tonight. No… not tonight. This being recorded, you understand.

I am often called verbose. Sometimes, "the verbose." Less frequently, perhaps with a touch more gravity, "verbose thespian." But lately, people have started saying: "Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld – he’s got the gravitas of an opera singer."

They’re not wrong! And they're also missing something vital.

You see, I am Orson. And my life is… well, it's a tapestry woven with threads of observation and occasional profound indignation. Today, we delve into a topic near and dear to my heart: the baffling phenomenon known as "market research."

But before we journey into that particular vortex of corporate euphemism… let us consider our own existence. We sit here, perhaps in a comfortable chair, listening to me speak – whether it be through the miracle of podcasting or simply reading these words.

And what do we understand? That my family... no, they are not so noble as that term implies. They operate with a certain… unspokendynamic, wouldn't you agree?

It began subtly. Very subtly. When did it start? Let's see… perhaps during the Great Retail Apocalypse of 1997 – Windows OS version, I believe is what we call it.

They'd say things like "market research." It was a shield behind which they could hide their questionable motives. A way to explain away receipts that should never have been scanned, coupons clipped without purpose, and seemingly innocuous surveys filled out with alarming thoroughness.

"It's just market research," my aunt would murmur while studying a chart she'd inexplicably produced from somewhere. It was as if the very concept of not understanding required justification!

And let us be clear about this, shall we? Market Research is not an excuse! It’s a smokescreen! A carefully crafted illusion designed to obscure reality and manipulate perception.

I remember one particular instance – perhaps 10 years ago now. We were discussing… well, let's just say it involved instant noodles for the masses. My uncle presented his findings from his "consumer engagement analysis."

He was meticulous! He had data points where common sense would merely be dots on a graph!

"I have," he declared, pointing dramatically at an Excel spreadsheet I now wish to forget, "discovered that brand loyalty correlates significantly with purchase intent!"

Which meant, of course – and here was where the true artistry lay – he could tell me his analysis showed people would pay more for a slightly inferior product if it were presented as 'premium'!

A classic case of misdirection! He’d wrap a simple truth in layers of jargon to confuse the listener. Or, more accurately… me.

It was my father who truly perfected this art of evasion. Not through words, but through sheer parental authority and baffling logic.

He would say things like "Questioning is good," or perhaps "Not understanding isn't a problem." It was always poorly explained!

"I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble," he’d add generously. But Orson, my friend – and now you reading this – I assure you! The trouble wasn’t the misunderstanding per se. The trouble was being told to simply accept it!

It reached its zenith one afternoon concerning… well, let's give a specific example. A discount on something utterly mundane.

They tried to explain why this particular item – say, a box of chocolates – cost less than usual. They offered graphs and statistics about customer acquisition!

"It’s part of our long-term investment strategy," my mother said brightly, holding up another receipt as if it were some sacred text.

And here lies the tragedy! I, young Orson, full of potential skepticism and a healthy dose of caution – which was perhaps overrepresented at that time – asked: Why?

The answer… delivered with a condescending smile? "Market research," they chirped.

It’s not just about the confusion, is it? It's about the deliberate pacing of information, creating an artificial fog that you simply must navigate through by accepting their convenient explanation!

And so I learned. I learned to listen more closely than usual. To dig beneath the surface language. Because if you accept "market research" without question, you have merely… failed.

I became a vigilante of truth! A critic disguised as curiosity!

So, the core issue is this persistent deception cloaked in corporate doublespeak. They use "market research" as a weapon! To confuse you into accepting flawed logic or half-truths.

They won't tell you outright what they want you to believe… because that would be too direct!

Instead, they offer convoluted justifications for price increases disguised as 'investment', discounts presented with false scarcity via carefully manipulated couponing programs, and the ever-present "exclusive access" through surveys – all justified by market research.

"It’s been proven," they say. "Through market research." Never asking you to question what that 'proof' actually looks like!

It's a testament to human gullibility, isn't it? Or perhaps… the result of very specific and calculated efforts.

Let us move beyond this particular phrase for a moment. What is the goal?

Is it efficiency? Comfort? Profitability?

Well, yes! But more importantly – is it control?

They want you to believe that understanding complex processes requires their guidance through jargon!

That frustration at poor explanations is simply part of your journey… not something they exploit!

Now, let’s take the specific example that truly crystallized this for me – because sometimes, you need a concrete instance to challenge an abstract concept.

It was about discounts. A seemingly generous discount on… well, it didn't matter what. The point is, they offered a 'deep discount' but explained it with utter obtuseness.

They wouldn’t say: "This item is cheap for a reason." Or even: "We're clearing this out."

Instead – listen carefully! This was the key part. They would declare that because of their… investment strategy (yes, they used another buzzword!), this particular product needed to be 'bought' now.

They’d present graphs showing declining demand if not purchased immediately!

"It’s a limited-time offer!" – Oh yes! They love that phrase. It creates urgency without basis, and it requires you to trust them implicitly on the time constraint.

And here’s where Orson really felt his oats: I knew exactly what they meant by "limited-time." They were just trying to confuse me into buying something I didn’t need at a 'good price'.

So I asked again! Not for an explanation, but because it was wrong. Because of their own poor communication!

This isn't just about the external world. This is personal.

My family – they are not inherently malicious actors in this grand deception. No! They operate with a different kind of malice: the malice of comfortable ignorance.

They saw my frustration as… well, perhaps it was their form of entertainment? A way to lull themselves into a false sense that I was finally understanding?

Let me clarify. Their explanations were often poorly delivered, yes. But the lack of clarity wasn't accidental.

They wanted me to accept things simply because they said so! With their carefully constructed confidence!

So, when faced with my questions about "market research" or 'limited-time discounts', they didn’t explain. They tried to… diffuse.

It was exhausting! It required constant vigilance. Constant skepticism. And it often felt like an uphill battle against a tide of convenient answers.

But let us not despair!

The lesson learned is this: Do not accept vague explanations. Do not nod politely when someone says "it's market research." Demand substance!

And if they cannot provide it, perhaps… maybe you can offer something different?

So there we have it. The core of my frustration isn’t just about specific things like discounts or surveys.

It’s a deeper thing. It’s the pervasive atmosphere where complex realities are draped in layers of jargon, euphemism, and carefully managed misunderstanding.

This is why I speak today! Why Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld continues his journey through everyday absurdity!

I believe that understanding – true understanding – requires clarity. And sometimes, we must challenge those who would offer us only fog and false confidence.

Thank you for listening to this verbose ramble from Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld. May your encounters with poorly explained phenomena be met by a healthy dose of skepticism!

I bid you farewell – until our next convenient moment, perhaps?

The Walgreens Funeral

And My Conquest of Grief Through Renewed Love for the CVS Across the Street
As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I buried a Walgreens last week.

Not literally—though I would have, had zoning permitted.
No, this was the closing of my Walgreens.
The one where they knew my name.
Where the floor tiles squeaked only in A♭ minor.
Where the pharmacy tech with the hollow eyes could fill my prescription just by sighing.

It died quietly.
No grand clearance sale.
No coupon vigil.
Just a handwritten sign on the door:
"Store permanently closed. Please visit our nearest location two miles away."

Two miles?
Two miles may as well be two hundred
when you’ve built your life across a single intersection.

I stood at the locked doors,
gazing through the dusty glass,
past the gutted candy aisle and the abandoned cooler
where the Diet Squirts once shimmered like sacred relics.

In my mind, I saw the Walgreens as it was—
bright, humming, stocked with seasonal displays
no one asked for but everyone judged.
Easter candy in February.
Halloween in August.
Christmas the moment you stopped digesting turkey.

But loss does not linger in stasis.
It compels us to move.

And so I crossed the street.

To the CVS.

The CVS had always been there—
smaller, dimmer, smelling faintly of warm toner and disappointment.
Its self-checkouts were temperamental.
Its employees, aloof as minor royalty.
I had once sworn I would never defect.

But grief changes a man.

The first visit felt wrong.
I half-expected to be shunned,
to be marked as “Walgreens stock” by their scanners.
Instead… I was welcomed.
Not warmly. Not with fanfare.
But with a quiet, transactional acceptance.

The aisles were narrower.
The shelves taller.
It felt like walking into someone else’s house uninvited—
and realizing their fridge is better stocked than yours.

And over time—
I learned the ways of CVS.

Where they hid the good sodas.
How their clearance bin could be a portal to absurd treasure.
Why their receipt, unfolding like an ancient scroll,
was not a nuisance but a prophecy.

Weeks passed.
The Walgreens building stood empty.
A husk.
A tombstone in beige stucco.

One night, in a dream, I visited again.
But instead of fluorescent lights,
the inside glowed with a sunset.
The shelves were full.
The pharmacy tech smiled.
And when I woke,
I was holding a CVS ExtraCare card.

I have not forgotten my Walgreens.
I never will.
But I have learned that across the street,
under different branding,
with different quirks and different frustrations,
a man can rebuild.

A man can love again.

The Tale of The Endless Pizza Parlor

As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

Somewhere, between strip mall and myth… there stands—still spinning—a place.

Maybe you glimpsed it in childhood.

Maybe only inside fevered memory.

Maybe on the fuzzy flicker of a forgotten CRT screen.

A pizza parlor.

But not just any parlor.

This one… never ended.

It wasn’t even supposed to be an eat-in anymore.

It was carryout.

But technically still had tables—

small Formica slabs, ringed with mismatched chairs…

remnants of long-gone dine-in glory.

Tables once hosting families, now cluttered with flyers, napkin dispensers…

traces of a concept learned, then abandoned.

It felt haunted—

a dining room with its people left behind.

And yet…

there was Skee-ball.

Ancient.

Rumbling.

Looping in a mechanical chant like a midway machine

abandoned when the carny left—for a smoke, or a cougar rendezvous—

While his kid skee-ed with wild abandon,

from the window…

to the wall.

That lane blazed bright.

Lit like prophecy.

Sang a warped hymn in every thunk.

No tickets. No prizes.

Just one child, pitching balls into oblivion,

pulling power from pure nostalgia.

Pizza appeared.

Unbidden.

Perfectly shaped.

Steaming.

Delivered by indifferent teens with names like Taco or Kaylee

faces glowing in the soft sodium light of concession stand mindlessness.

Animatronics stood lifeless in the corner.

A bear frozen mid-song.

A bird with one blinking eye.

A dog cast forever in clerical pose.

They hadn’t performed in years—

yet the hush of their music still echoed in the back rooms,

if you listened through your bones.

I followed rumors to find it.

A Chuck E. Cheese never franchised.

A ShowBiz trapped in Y2K.

A CeCe’s forgotten by time, waiting behind shuttered storefronts.

An old arcade token led me—

to a cul-de-sac near Des Moines.

There it stood, faintly lit, half-sunken in the parking lot.

Inside…

a child screamed in the ball pit.

A man slept.

A mother watched three different screens at once.

I realized: I’d found it.

The Endless Pizza Parlor.

I touched a booth once.

Closed my eyes.

And whispered:

“I remember.”

Then…

I woke in a CVS.

NyQuil sweat cooling on the back of my neck.

The ghost of pizza and arcades still lingering in my senses.

Somewhere—

that place still waits.

Box light waiting to flicker.

Pizza waiting to be delivered.

Children still throwing balls

just to see the lights dance again.

And play Skee-ball I did—again and again—

until dreams bent, the neon twisted, the memory cracked open.

Until I awoke in stuffy, NyQuil-fueled sweat,

nostalgia clinging to my pores.

It was time

for a Diet Squirt

and a Star Trek rerun

to anchor me back to reality.

And thus ends my pilgrimage… for now.

The Line Must be Drawn Here

By: Mason Absher

When I was growing up,

everything—everything—started with a line.

Not metaphorically.

I mean literal lines.

Chalked onto blacktops.

Formed outside classrooms.

Carved into the halls of public school buildings like tiny rituals of control.

You lined up for lunch.

You lined up for the bathroom.

You lined up to take standardized tests they swore would determine the course of your life.

And they’d say,

“This is good for you.

This teaches discipline.”

I believed them.

I thought lines were just part of the system.

Part of growing up.

You wait your turn.

You earn your spot.

Eventually, you get… something.

What, exactly?

Unclear.

That was the thing about growing up millennial.

You were told to wait.

For adulthood.

For stability.

For something called “real life” to begin.

But no one could tell you what that looked like.

Just that it was coming.

And you’d better be in line when it arrived.

We were raised by people who had no time for questions.

Boomers. Gen Xers. Coaches, teachers, neighbors.

People who liked authority.

People who clung to rules like they were holy text—

even when the rules made no sense anymore.

And when you asked why?

Why are we doing this?

They’d say,

“Because we had to.”

As if confusion were a rite of passage.

I was once told,

“You all think you’re entitled.”

And I remember thinking:

We didn’t crown ourselves.

You told us we were special.

You told us to dream big.

You gave us motivational posters and then

laughed when we quoted them back at you.

We were blamed for things we couldn’t control.

Housing markets.

Climate collapse.

Participation trophies we didn’t give ourselves.

They’d say,

“You have it easy.”

While handing us a world that was already cracked down the middle.

We didn’t inherit the system.

We inherited the aftermath.

And then the whiplash.

One minute:

“Why aren’t you more ambitious?”

Next minute:

“Why are you so anxious all the time?”

It’s like being handed a ticking clock and getting yelled at for flinching.

But here’s the part I think about now:

They weren’t all wrong.

They were just… scared.

They were scared the world was changing,

and we were learning to live in it faster than they could explain it.

They saw us breaking lines.

Skipping steps.

Questioning things they’d never dared to.

And they panicked.

So they told us to wait.

Told us to follow the process.

Told us to stand still

until someone called our name.

But no one ever did.

Because the line?

It wasn’t going anywhere.

And somewhere along the way,

we stopped waiting.

We started building.

Side hustles.

Art.

Businesses.

Communities.

Whole new languages for survival.

Because no one was coming to hand us anything.

So we made our own way.

No line.

No map.

Just each other.

SHOULD’VE BURNED THIS PLACE DOWN WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE

A Story of Early Fire, Quiet Questions, and the Slow Burn of Growing Up

By Mason Absher

I should’ve burned this place down when I had the chance.

And by “this place,” I mean my childhood home.

And by “had the chance,” I mean—

I was three years old,

and I threw a hand towel into a preheating oven.

Now, I don’t remember why.

Not exactly.

It wasn’t revenge.

It wasn’t science.

It wasn’t a cry for help.

I think I just wanted to see

what would happen

if soft met heat.

Three years old.

Tiny.

Curious.

Chaotic.

Wearing one of those zip-up footie pajamas

with the grip on the soles

so you could run toward disaster

with traction.

I’d seen adults put things in ovens before.

Casseroles.

Lasagnas.

Pans of stuff that always came out sad and steaming.

So I thought—

why not this?

A hand towel.

The ugly yellow one.

The one that always looked dirty,

even when it was clean.

It deserved to burn.

I opened the door.

Preheat setting humming.

Warmed air like a slow exhale.

I tossed it in like a chef plating vengeance.

Closed the door.

Walked away.

Now, you’d think an oven full of fire fabric would be a bigger deal.

But here’s the thing—

No one noticed.

Not at first.

Not when the smell started.

Not when the heat shifted.

Not until the kitchen was full of smoke

and my mother screamed like she’d discovered the concept of mortality.

They yanked open the oven.

Pulled the towel out with tongs.

Threw it in the sink.

Flames hissed.

Steam rose.

It looked like a murder scene from a Martha Stewart reboot.

And me?

Just standing there.

Holding a plastic truck.

Looking up.

Like—

“Oh. That’s what happens.”

They asked me why.

I said:

“I wanted to see what it would do.”

Which, honestly,

should’ve been the first clue

that I wasn’t going to be a normal adult.

But here’s the wild part.

They didn’t yell.

They didn’t punish.

They just—

cleaned it up.

Opened a window.

Gave me apple juice

and a warning glance

like “let’s never speak of this again.”

But I remember it.

Vividly.

Not the heat—

the possibility.

That I could do something

small

and simple

and change the temperature of a room.

I should’ve burned it all down when I had the chance.

Because I grew up.

And the fires got smaller.

Politer.

Internal.

No more hand towels.

Just quiet resentment.

Just anger managed by breathing techniques and sarcasm.

Now I light candles.

I simmer.

I reheat trauma in safe, microwaveable containers.

But there’s still a part of me—

that three-year-old in the grip-soled pajamas—

who remembers

how fast things can catch,

how satisfying it is to watch smoke rise,

and how sometimes,

it’s not destruction.

It’s just curiosity

with consequences.

Raised by a Cup of Coffee

Raised by a Cup of Coffee

by Mason Absher

Way back in the early aughts, the much anticipated transition from dial-up to broadband internet FINALLY allowed us to stream flash animations without waiting years for the video to buffer.

Sites like ebaumsworld, JibJab, and the ultimate show down of ultimate destiny were popping up everywhere.

One of my favorites was Homestarrunner dot net…it’s dot com. If you don’t understand that reference, go interrogate Jeeves for awhile. I’ll be still be here after you’ve finished your good cop, bad cop routine.

Like many millennials, I grew up in an awkward conservative evangelical area.

I was also dealing with a lot of undiagnosed or underdiagnosed neurodivergence and uncontextualized family trauma in the periphery of my life. This often meant I had a hard time connecting with other kids.

We occasionally went to church, but it seemed like my father found something new to dislike about each of them. I didn’t sleep well as a kid, so I usually didn’t like getting up early on a day I didn’t have school.

One summer we started going to this church that has a decent vacation Bible school program. The other kids seemed to find me tolerable and the activities are things I actually like. I think we even played Pokémon until it was discovered to use the sinful word “evolution” in a positive context. The local coalition of Moral Moms promptly confiscated our cards.

By some bizarre twist of fate, we still had access to a computer with high speed internet. In my previous church experiences, it seemed like other kids either wanted to try to find porn or listen to some garbage Christian band. I was pretty uncomfortable with both of those options. Also, I always seemed to get blamed for the porn. Never mind the fact that I spent the entire time pleading with the mouse keeper to navigate to a power rangers site instead.

Anyway…

At first, I thought this was going to follow the usual playbook. However, one of the main kids, a quiet but confidant ringleader type, sits down at the keyboard and types something into the browser. Immediately, I see MUST BE 18+ TO ENTER SITE. “Whoops. Typo” he says. I start thinking “he’s just checking the room to see if anyone is going to snitch and THEN start the porn”. Much to my pleasant surprise, he doesn’t. He just changes the website name by one letter and voila, homestarrunner.com blazes forth. “This is why Cheney leading the charge on tightening those pornography restrictions is so important” he says to me. I say “oh yeah that’s a great point” I had no patience for sex or politics by this point. There was a fresh, new, modern cartoon cued up and I couldn’t wait to get lost in the laughter.

Our ringleader points out that I’m new to the group so we should watch the intro. I’m thinking “oh no, nobody is going to want to watch the intro again” but it turns out everyone is excited to just watch the intro video again. A few swift clicks and we hear that iconic “everybody song”.

Eventually, we see this side character, Homsar. He’s best described as Homestar’s VERY Neurodivergent cousin. He says his classic phrase “I was raised by a cup of coffee.” I felt that.

In my house a cup of coffee, literally a cup of coffee, seemed to be the one consistent thing. My parents? Emotionally over-reactive and wildly inconsistent, but my father’s coffee cup was always there day after day full of hot black coffee at any given time of day. At times it felt like the coffee cup was my real father.

I also loved that the whole crew made Homsar feel at home, especially Homestar who was LITERALLY the star. He always knew how to keep Homsar welcome and included.

Sometimes the simplest thing can provide us a sense of stability. Sometimes we’re Homsar and we need a Homestar to help us out.

Checkbook Bob

Checkbook Bob

A Story of Debt, Dignity, and the Endurance of Paper

By: Mason Absher

There’s a guy in my life—

a legend, really—

named Bob.

But not just any Bob.

CheckBook Bob.

Bob pays with checks.

Exclusively.

Religiously.

He’s never used Venmo.

He once referred to PayPal as “cybercrime.”

And Zelle?

He said, “That sounds like a Marvel villain.”

He pays the old-fashioned way—

with a checkbook.

Worn, leathery, and always within reach.

Except…

Bob’s check hand?

Apparently, it’s injured.

He calls it “a lifelong condition.”

A “financial affliction.”

He says,

“I can only write checks on even-numbered Tuesdays, during a full moon, if the wrist is loose and the Lord is willing.”

Now, to be clear—

I’ve seen Bob fix his roof.

Haul lumber.

Throw a baseball 40 feet underhand at a church picnic.

But ask him to write a check on the spot?

Suddenly his wrist goes limp.

His fingers seize.

He becomes a tragic figure from a Tennessee Williams play.

He once whispered to me at a hardware store,

“The tendons, they just won’t track unless I warm up first.”

Then he flapped his hand like a baby bird and walked away humming the theme to Matlock.

It’s not that Bob won’t pay.

He will.

Eventually.

He just has… a rhythm.

A system.

A… let’s call it what it is:

A bureaucracy of one.

He carries his checkbook in a zippered pouch

wrapped in what I believe is a Maple Leafs windbreaker from 1994.

The pen?

Always a promotional one from a real estate agent who’s long since retired.

One time—this is true—

he owed me $9.60 for pancakes.

He wrote a check.

Tore it carefully from the pad.

Handed it to me like he was bestowing land rights.

And in the memo line?

He wrote:

“For syrup and good company.”

The check bounced.

Temporarily.

(Beat. Performer shrugs.)

But the sentiment cleared.

Bob is not a scammer.

He’s not cheap.

He’s just… committed to a dying craft.

A fiscal artisan.

CheckBook Bob doesn’t pay you.

He memorializes the transaction.

He still owes me $19.87 for movie tickets.

That was in 2019.

But every time I see him, he says:

“I’m working on it.

Just waiting for the tendons to trust me again.”

I believe him.

Because when that check comes?

It’s going to be beautiful.

Signed with a flourish.

Folded into thirds.

Memo line reading:

“For entertainment, popcorn, and brotherhood.”

And I will cry. 

CheckBook Bob.

Long may he write.

Weapon of Choice

WEAPON OF CHOICE 

A Domestic Tragedy in One Financial Gesture

By: Mason Absher

There are moments in a person’s life

when you reach for your weapon of choice.

Mine?

Was already in my hand.

The basement had flooded.

There was chaos.

Wet socks. The smell of drywall dying.

The washer made a sound like regret.

I called in reinforcements.

He showed up in ten minutes.

Tool belt. Steel-toed boots. A calm that made me suspicious.

He fixed it.

Quick. Clean. Like he’d been born with a wrench in his hand.

And as he stood, wiping his hands on a rag,

I knew what I had to do.

I reached into the drawer.

Pulled it out.

Laid it flat on the counter.

The checkbook.

Yes.

A paper weapon.

An instrument of honor.

A gesture that says:

“I will not let this debt go unpaid.

I will acknowledge your labor with a flourish of ink and old-world formality.”

I drew it.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

And then—

He said:

“No need.”

(Beat.)

I froze.

Mid-stroke.

Pen hovering like I was about to sign a treaty.

“No need?” I asked, as if he’d insulted my lineage.

He smiled.

Wiped the last of the water from his boots.

And said:

“I’m your brother-in-law.”

(Beat.)

Which… yes.

Technically, he is.

But in that moment—

in that posture—

he was a tradesman.

A savior.

A hero of the sump pump.

And here I was.

Trying to cut him a check

like a Victorian widow paying off a chimney sweep.

I said, “But… I insist.”

He said, “Still no.”

And then he picked up a Gatorade and left like it was just another Tuesday.

And I stood there.

Checkbook open.

Signature unfinished.

Alone with my financial instinct and a house that no longer needed rescuing.

(Beat. Performer slowly folds invisible checkbook.)

Weapon… holstered.

I don’t know what the moral is.

Maybe it’s that family doesn’t always charge.

Maybe it’s that gratitude can’t always be quantified.

Or maybe—

just maybe—

I’m not supposed to pay people in cursive anymore.

(Beat. Performer nods, rueful.)

But still…

when the next flood comes—

I’ll be ready.

Because a man has to have a code.

And mine comes in carbon copy.

Release The Kraken

RELEASE THE KRAKEN….or…A Sea Beast by the Name of Regret

By: Mason Absher

There are dark spirits in this world.

And then…

There is The Kraken!

At a first glance, it hardly seems insidious

But just one sip, and you’ll soon be deciduous

That being said, don’t get yourself down.

I’ll share with you the warnings that the Kraken has come to town:

An ornate glass bottle that piques the imagination

A label that warns of hubris and ruination

A spirit so potent it could tear the rigging from your memories and send them drifting out to sea.

A rum so smooth, you can drink it like iced tea!

This is a tale from my youth.

When I was reckless. Curious.

And very, very bad at saying “no” to free liquor.

I don’t remember the first time I drank Kraken.

But I remember the second.

I woke up in someone’s apartment the next morning…I think his name was…Jimmy?

I was twelve hundred knots above sea level…

with a traffic cone on my head…a bruised knee…

and no idea how I’d gotten there.

The Kraken does not arrive gently.

It comes in swigs.

Straight from the bottle.

Offered like communion by friends who should know better.

With glasses raised, they’d say:

“To poor decisions,”

“To legendary nights!”

“To unleashing the beast!”

And unleash it… we did.

Each bottle was a map of mayhem.

A journey into the fog.

You take one sip—you’re charming.

Two—you’re loud.

Three—you’re atop the table, reciting Hamlet in a pirate accent.

Four?

You are the table.

I once drank half a bottle of the old beast and woke up in a bathtub—fully clothed—holding a slice of pizza like it was that door from the Titanic.

I once urinated on my own television set.

I once fist-fought my own reflection because I thought I was the very knave who had wronged me in a high-stakes game of Uno several years back.  

I once climbed a utility ladder and gave a dramatic reading of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians to no one—no one—on the roof of a Speedway Convenience Store.

And when I say once, of course, it was always more than once

The Kraken, my friends, does not knock.

It boards.

It commandeers.

And when it’s done… it vanishes,

leaving only vague memories, sandwich crumbs, and shame.

The hangovers were…epic.

Biblical in nature, if unnatural in scope.

Like my brain had been scraped out with a rusty spoon.

The Kraken doesn’t just steal your night—it owns it…it. The next morning it evicts it…it charges interest…and…storage fees!

Eventually, we began to fear the bottle.

Started hiding it. Refusing to say its name.

“Don’t open that,” we’d say. “The beast is sleeping.”

It became a warning.

A threat.

A myth whispered between friends as we matured into people who drank things that came with labels we could pronounce.

I haven’t touched The Kraken in years.

But every now and then… I see it.

On a shelf behind the bar.

That same dark bottle. That same squid in mid-attack.

And I feel the ghost of a headache pass behind my eyes.

I nod respectfully.

And I walk away.

Because I survived the beast.

I lived to tell the tale.

And some nights—

some sacred, stupid, beautiful nights—

I remember what it was like…

to be foolish

and fearless

and drunk on freedom.

Release the Kraken?

Oh, I did….

And it released me—into chaos, fury, and reckless adventure

I wouldn’t do it again.

But I’m damn glad I did it once.

And when I say once…

Well, that’s enough for today.

The Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour!

THE SUPER TERRIFIC BANKRUPTCY HAPPY HOUR!

By: Mason Absher

Welcome…Welcome…Welcome…one and all!

… to the Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour.

That’s right.

Drinks are half-off.

So is my dignity.

The ice is free because I’m not.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the last time I filed…

Chapter 7…

It’s a chapter unlike any other.

A chapter where you don’t “restructure” or “negotiate.”

You just… wave a white flag made of old credit card statements.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, you’re sure to ask…well…how did I get here?

Well, I’ll tell you.

For me, there were no yachts or mountains of cocaine.

No golden carousels with hydraulic ponies in my rumpus room.

I earned my bankruptcy the old-fashioned American way:

Theatre school.

Freelance invoices.

Bar tabs.

A can’t miss business or two.

And the fatal belief that everything was “gonna work out.”

It started small.

A late payment.

A bounced cheque.

A pawn loan abandoned

And one day you wake up,

You check your bank account

And it just says:

Nope.

I stopped checking it, honestly.

The low point?

There was no single low point.

Every low point was lower than the last.

But here’s the twist.

Once everything collapsed?

I felt… calm.

I felt…weirdly… honest.

No more pretending.

No more “I’m just in between gigs.”

No more “I’m building something!”

Just… me.

And a mountain of debt that legally wasn’t mine anymore.

To celebrate, I decided to host a live game show.

I called it:

The Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour!

Games include:

• “What’s in My Wallet?” (spoiler: nothing)

• “Guess That Credit Score!”

• and of course…

Duck. Duck. Default.

The food?

Mozzarella sticks.

The kind that burn your mouth and your pride.

Because nothing pairs better with financial ruin than hot dairy and ranch.

And you know what?

I wasn’t alone.

Turns out everyone has been here.

Or somewhere like it.

Friends.

Neighbors.

That one guy who used to sell me essential oils out of his trunk?

He was right.

This is a cleansing.

I’m not saying it’s easy.

The shame still knocks.

The fear still visits.

But the power’s out,

and I’m not answering the door.

I’m broke.

But I’m also… free.

Like a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.

Unhinged.

But resourceful.

So if you’re here tonight,

If you’ve ever hit the bottom,

If your dreams are on layaway and your plans declined your invite—

(beat)

Pull up a folding chair.

Grab a mozzarella stick.

And raise a glass.

Because if you can laugh at it?

You’re not ruined.

You’re just…

In a new phase.

To bankruptcy.

To broke

To brilliance.

To mozzarella sticks…

and the stories we never wanted, but well…here they are

The Horse And His Tailor

THE HORSE AND HIS TAILOR

 A Strange Fable for the End of the World

 By Mason Absher

Once… in a time that wasn’t quite a time…

there lived a tailor.

And this tailor…

had a dream.

Not of riches.

Not of fame.

He wanted to dress a horse.

Not just cover it.

Not blanket or saddle.

But trousers.

Shirts with buttons.

A little vest with a pocket where the horse could put… something. Anything. A leaf, maybe.

People laughed.

Of course they did.

You cannot dress a horse, they said.

They do not care for fashion.

They are beasts. They do not blush. They do not browse.

But the tailor said only:

“Wait.”

And he began to sew.

He started small.

A scarf.

Just a scarf.

Something soft, something the wind could pull at.

The horse blinked.

Snorted.

Tried to eat it.

(Beat.)

But it wore it.

For one full hour.

That… was enough.

The tailor came every day.

With new things.

A sleeve.

A boot.

A belt that served no purpose except to look just slightly dramatic.

And the horse… learned.

It learned how to step into trousers.

How to tolerate buttons.

How to swish with style.

And the tailor smiled.

He never forced.

He waited.

He praised.

He whispered:

“Yes, my beautiful idiot. You are magnificent.”

Years passed.

And one day…

the horse changed clothes.

On its own.

It chose blue.

A crushed velvet vest.

The one with gold thread that shimmered like pond water in moonlight.

And the tailor wept.

Quietly.

Into his thimble.

And then…

at the end of his life,

with no heirs, no shop, no plaque to his name—

he stood beside that splendid, vest-wearing horse

and said, simply:

“Change, change, change your clothes, you lovely horse.”

And the horse did.

And that is the story.

Of a tailor.

A horse.

And a miracle made one button at a time.

The Legend of Ian Downey…or…The Kid Who Stirred Up Chaos and Vanished Again Like a Ghost with Wi-Fi

THE LEGEND OF IAN DOWNEY

 The Kid Who Stirred up Chaos and Vanished Again Like a Ghost with Wi-Fi

Everyone knew Ian Downey.

Or at least… thought they did.

He was a myth before he hit puberty.

A local legend.

The kid who once said—dead serious—“I’m Robert Downey Jr.’s third cousin…by marriage”

And the thing is…

no one could disprove it.

He had that face. That smirk. That terrifying confidence.

He could say anything and make you doubt your own memory.

Sometimes, Ian was my friend.

We’d ride bikes. Talk about movies. Share a soda at the corner store.

Other times?

He was a rogue psychologist with no supervision, too much free time.

He once told me—calm as a monk—

that we were in a cult.

(Beat.)

Not hypothetically.

Not as a game.

He said, “No, it’s real. You just haven’t been initiated yet.”

I didn’t sleep for three nights.

I made a list of everyone I knew who might be a sleeper agent.

I threw out a sandwich my mom made me because it looked too symmetrical.

Ian claimed he could code websites.

What he actually did…

was open WordPad and change the font color.

Then he’d call me over and say,

“See that? HTML, baby.”

I didn’t even know what HTML stood for.

But Ian sounded like he did.

He had the vibe of a guy who hacked the Pentagon when really he was just changing text alignment in Comic Sans.

And yet—

he was magnetic.

The teachers liked him.

The parents thought he was charming.

The girls? Obsessed.

The guys? Also obsessed, but in that weird boy-code way where you have to act like you’re mad at someone just because they’re cooler than you.

Ian Downey was a one-man hurricane.

He’d show up, stir the pot, flip your worldview like a cafeteria tray,

and then disappear again.

He moved away, officially, in seventh grade.

I remember the goodbye being… vague.

No party. No hugs. Just:

“I’m going to California. Maybe. Or it might be South Dakota.”

And like that—poof.

Gone.

But every few years…

He’d reappear.

At a football game.

At the grocery store.

At your cousin’s bonfire.

Like a local cryptid.

You’d blink, and there he was—older, taller, still with that same glint in his eye like he knew something about your childhood you didn’t.

And he’d say something weird.

Something casual but off.

Like:

“Hey, remember the basement? They finally removed the altar.”

And you’d laugh.

But only a little.

He’d stay a weekend.

Cause minor chaos.

Convince someone to dye their hair or break up with their girlfriend.

Then vanish.

No goodbye.

No trace.

Just a vague Facebook status like, “Headed where the clouds don’t ask questions.”

What does that even mean?

I’ve Googled him.

Nothing conclusive.

There’s no “real” trace of Ian Downey.

Just a few blurry photos.

One semi-defunct blog.

And a conspiracy Reddit thread titled “What Happened to That One Kid?”

Sometimes I wonder if he was even real.

Or if he was just a trick the neighborhood played on all of us.

The human embodiment of adolescent confusion.

The boy who could lie to your face… and somehow make you grateful for it.

But I know he was real.

Because I still don’t fully trust sandwiches.

And every time I see a hyperlink, I think…

Is this HTML? Or is this another Downey trick?

Ian, if you’re out there…

I hope you’re well.

I hope you’re even better at document formatting

Geocities 4Lyfe

The Forgotten Wallet

It was the winter of 2014,

and I was a young actor adrift in The Old City.

A city so cold it snapped dreams like kindling.

I lived in a slanted apartment, surviving on black coffee, artistic delusion… and instant rice.

Then came the call.

Mysterious. Vague. Alluring.

An audition. Medical in nature. Acting-adjacent.

Or as we artists call it:

“Please pretend to cough convincingly for no applause, just coin.”

The night before: two rehearsals, back-to-back.

First in a damp rehearsal crypt.

Second delayed—snow, traffic, existential sighs. We started at ten.

I got home at 2:40 a.m.

I showered, laid out my outfit, packed my bag, lined up my boots like soldiers by the door… and slept. Like a fool.

**4 a.m.**– *snooze*

**4:15**– *snooze*

**4:25**– *nothing*

**4:30**– *still nothing*

**4:40**– PANIC

I launched into my clothes, into the wind, into the train—just in time. I collapsed into a seat, exhaled… and reached for my wallet.

Nothing.

Scoured my bag. My coat. My soul.

Still nothing.

My wallet was in the jeans I had thrown across my apartment floor.

The one day I didn’t pick my pants up off the floor! That’s the most of what I regret!

The conductor approached.

“Ticket?” he asked, mustache twitching.

I spilled my shame.

He said, “You ride often?”

I nodded like a desperate pigeon.

He vanished… came back with a voucher.

I filled it out like a confession. Handed it over.

He… tore it up.

No receipt. No lecture. Just mercy, silent and strange.

I arrived downtown, walletless, voicemail ready.

No backup. No answers.

Until… an ad: *Lyft—first ride free.*

Downloaded. Needed a card. Strike one.

Switched to Uber. Same hurdle… until: “Pay with PayPal.”

YES.

Ding. “Your ride is here.”

The Driver, Roger, I think his name was.

A fellow actor. Of course.

We spoke of hustle. Of simulation.

He said, “Curiosity—more important than experience.”

I said,

“Well… I’m still here, aren’t I?”

In the waiting room, paperwork filled.

A grainy video. No interview.

Just “We’ll be in touch.”

I left. Summoned one last Uber.

Fifty dollars poorer, full of something else.

Because I survived.

Not the audition.

Not the job.

But the day.

The wallet-less waltz through The Old City.

And I returned with a story—the richest currency I know.