Skip to main content

Constable and Beach Comber


            “The beach is a veritable gold mine of shells right now,” said the Constable.
            “Ah, no it’s not,” said the beach comber. “I came up from the beach just today, just now, and I did not find a single shell.”
            “That’s because you don’t know what a true shell looks like.”
            “Why, yes I do, I've got one right here.” The beach comber pulled a shell out of his knapsack. “Look here — this is a seashell. The waves washed it up all nice and sound, white as the back of a baby’s hand.”
            “You sure you don’t mean a baby’s palm?”
            “Yes, can’t you tell?” The back of the hand is quite a bit smoother – pearlier, if you will, than the palm.”
            “But the palm has more character,” the Constable argued. He turned his palm up and studied it in the morning light.
            “Yes, I see your point,” the beach comber said, and pondered the matter a while. “Still,” said the beach comber, “This shell doesn't have enough character to be a baby’s palm.”
            “Why, I never said that shell was a baby’s palm! In fact, you just said so but I never did. I said the shell was like a baby palm, that’s all, more than the back of a baby’s hand.”
            The two men stood on the pier and wondered about the issue.
            “Dickens!” exclaimed the Constable. “If there was not a single shell on the beach just now, where did you get that shell?”
            The beach comber gulped. “Oh, this is not a shell. I never said it was! It’s quite the opposite. This,” he said with emphasis, “Is an anti-shell.”
            “What is an anti-shell?” The Constable wanted to know.
            “An anti-shell looks and acts like a shell, and gives the appearance of being a shell, but it absolutely is not a shell.”
            “Ah!” the Constable exclaimed. “Like fools’ gold!” he paced. “Let me see that again so I know for sure what’s a shell and what’s an anti-shell.”
            “You can’t see it.”
            “Why not?”
            “I threw it over the pier just now.”
            “Blimey!” hollered the Constable, “What did you do that for? Now some poor sap is going to find it and think it’s a real shell!”
            “Ah,” sighed the beach comber, “No one could be fooled by that sort of shell but you. Do you know the difference between a shell and an anti-shell?”
            “No! How could I, since you threw it over the pier? You hopscotch!” the Constable growled.
            “You’re wrong again!” The beach comber shook his head. “I did not throw the anti-shell over the pier, I threw the shell over the pier.” The beach comber pulled the anti-shell out of his pocket.
            “Ah! Idiot!” the Constable accused. “Why did you do that?”
            “Because anti-shells are more bonafide than shells! Anti-shells are worth something, you know. Everyone knows about anti-shells being bonafide.”
            “Not everyone,” declared the Constable defensively. “I didn't know until you told me.” He tucked in his chin.
            The beach comber looked away sheepishly. “Well you’re absolutely right I’m afraid. . . . You’re the Constable, aren't you, and that’s someone, isn't it.”
            Silence.
            The beach comber rubbed his chin. “Ah! You’re someone but not everyone! So am I, and I am right.”
            Silence.
            “Tell me something, mate," the Constable folded his arms. How do you have a shell if there was not a single shell on the beach?”
            The beach comber threw the shell over the pier and held his open palms up, grinning. “I don’t have a shell! Not a single shell!” He whistled and strolled down the pier, winking at the gypsies and nodding at the Ferris wheels.
            

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Which is why they have sailed

I. It’s strange for Claudia, who has never been boating before, to live in a boat. Its name is Arden.             “Why do we live in a boat if we never go boating anywhere?” Claudia once asked her father. Her parents are both short, so at least they fit under the snug roof. Claudia won’t be short, but for now she is. “Bah,” Her father says, “We’re always going somewhere. Just think of Attila the Hun.” She always thought that comment did not make sense. He flips an egg on the stove, “Just use your imagination.” If you walk by you can see how charming the Arden is—look at that little window with Claudia’s father frying eggs. Look at his kind face with his curly, white-haired head too-big-for-a-hat. He is moving back and forth in a kind kitchen, with a miniature flowerpot on the windowsill. These are clay flowers—they keep on living even if they have been forgotten (except that Claudia broke one of the pedals recently, on accident, and turned the miniature flowers so the wo
Post a Comment
Read more

There aren't any servals in the zoo.

Have you met my older sister Kayla? She’s short with light eyes, and she’s full of wisdom. “When you sit down to do something, you’ve just got to do it,” she says, with determination. She’s a stubborn one. At some point she decided to have a garden of petunias and pansies, and she did it, didn’t she? They bloomed up all purple and velvety. We like to sit out there with the flowers and have tea. You can count on Kayla to say what she’s thinking. “There are demons inside of you,” she says at our tea party today. One of the things she likes to do is to scare me. Isn’t that what older sisters are for? To take away a bit of childish wonder. Kayla will sometimes linger in the dark hallway by the bathroom and one time I was walking to the bathroom and just saw her body there and slowly felt her to see if she were real, and she said “boo!” What a terror. Older sisters are the worst. “I believe you,” I say, about the demons. I feel the demons inside of me sometimes, eating porridge f
Post a Comment
Read more

Pulitzer

I. I am reading a children’s book called Hamish and Trieta , in which Hamish is a cow and Trieta is a bird. These two become fast friends. Good pals. Buddies. Sometimes the bird sits upon the cow’s back. Often the cow wishes he might sit upon the bird’s back, but of course this is impossible. The poor darling bird simply flits away, c hirping, chirping, always chirping, full of nonsense, not explaining. They fall apart, like many others in this fickle universe. Separated. I close Hamish and Trieta . What a hideous story. I was seduced by its whimsical cover, entranced by its gilded pages. Mother bought it for me ages ago from some downtown bookstore with cerulean walls.  Pulitzer, declares the cover, in golden script. I do not understand what a Pulitzer is and I do not particularly care.             I am a child, yet I know that horrid things do not deserve Pulitzer awards. Rage, like vomit, pools in my throat. The tip of my jaw is numb. I chew on my rage as if it is
1 comment
Read more