Dab of Honey


She clutched her handbag to her chest like it was a frightened cat. A plonging kerplank sounded from the floor and she squeezed too hard, breaking the clasp and sending cosmetics, change, sanitary napkins, and a TV Guide out through the top flap like dough from a tube of biscuits. The glass door opened. She squeaked, and then a reassuring hand was on her shoulder.

“All done. Let me help you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve never been in any kind of laboratory before.”

“It’s all very routine,” said the short man with the mustache, “The airlock just ensures you aren’t bringing in any strange pathogens. We have some delicate concoctions brewing in here, and we’ve had more than one experiment ruined by outside chemical agents accidentally contaminating our supplies.”

The short man with the mustache took her purse from her and then carefully put her things back into it. As he lifted each item, his nose seemed to jump as the nostrils flared on either side of his ghastly proboscis. The thing was a monster. Each pore was like the drain in the bathtub of a truck stop motel. If you squeezed it, you would get a handful of blackheads like ricotta porcupine quills. Maybe he didn’t have a mustache at all…just petrified danglers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, staring, “but I didn’t get your name.”

“I’m Dr. Trepid. And the quiet fellow is Dr. Lincoln.”

The one called Dr. Lincoln was hugging his elbows, a dopy grin on his face. He was cock-eyed, and had the kind of stringy yellow hair that let you see the red streaks of his scalp where he parted it. It was quite possible he had never seen a woman this close before. She pooched her hips out and let him see the top line of her garters. His chin visibly dropped.

“Hi,” said Dr. Lincoln to her breasts, “I’m in charge of fruits and whites.”

“Of course you are,” she said.

“Dr. Trepid does browns. Both sweets and savories.”

“Wow,” she said, smoothing her skirt back down.

“You know: chocolate, caramel, butterscotch. Meats and potatoes. The hard stuff.”

“Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, “I’m Honey.” She looked at the watch that dangled from the charm bracelet on the underside of her wrist. “So. Do you want me to do you both at the same time, or one after another?”

The two men exchanged nervous glances. Dr. Lincoln got very red in the face and then put his hand over his mouth, stopping a giggle.

“Because it doesn’t matter to me,” said Honey, “But, either way, I’m supposed to get the money up front.”

Finally, Dr. Trepid took her hand and shook it. Briskly.

“No problem at all, Honey. We understand completely. The girl on the phone spoke too quickly for me -- my Spanish is atrocious, you see – so I wasn’t quite sure how much it was going to cost. I’m amazed that she got that I wanted an American. I was afraid we’d have to send you back.”

“I’m not an American anymore,” said Honey, sizing them up, “But it’s gonna be five hundred American dollars an hour. Up front, EVERY HOUR, or I’m out of here.”

“Naturally,” said Dr. Trepid, reaching into his lab coat. He pulled out a thick money clip and counted five hundred dollar bills into his hand. The wad didn’t even lose a belt loop.

“This should be sufficient. Just let me know when you need more,” said Dr. Trepid, handing her the stack.

She could get used to this, she thought.

“Alright. Let’s go, then. You’re first, Snowflake,” said Honey to Dr. Lincoln.

Dr. Lincoln gulped.

“Wouldn’t you like to see the rest of the lab?” asked Dr. Trepid, stepping in, “I mean, you just got here. We have all night. Maybe you’d even like a bite to eat?”

Honey shrugged.

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious what it is that we do here?”

“Not really,” said Honey, “Maybe a little bit. There’s government scientists all up and down the border. Most of them don’t order out for call-girls though, I’ll admit. Some do. I once did a birthday party for some NASA guys over in San Cristobel. But it was in a hotel.”

“I would think a girl like you gets a lot of business,” said Dr. Trepid.

“I get enough,” said Honey, “I suppose you are going to want me to sign something saying this never happened, right? So you don’t get investigated by some congressional subcommittee.”

“We don’t work for the government,” said Dr. Lincoln, proudly. “We are Flavorists.”

“What’s a Flavorist?” she asked.

“We make flavor,” said Dr. Lincoln. “We make things taste.”

Honey stared at him blankly.

“It’s a really important job,” said Dr. Lincoln. “You just wouldn’t believe.”

This was going to be about as interesting as reading the back of a shampoo bottle. She could already tell. Some guys got off on impressing women more than they did giving them the old epileptic unicorn ride. But Honey had yet to meet a man who was as impressive as a new pair of pumps. She pulled out a compact and put on some lipstick.

“Are you gonna fuck me or not?” she asked after a full minute of silence.

Dr. Trepid and Dr. Lincoln looked at each other nervously again.

“It’s complicated,” said Dr. Trepid, “Perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the lab.”

Honey sighed.

“It’s easier to explain with examples,” said Dr. Trepid, “Please. Follow me.”

Dr. Trepid pressed a button on the aluminum desk in the corner. A door swished open along one wall and Drs. Trepid and Lincoln scooted through, lab coats swishing. Honey applied more lipstick, smacked her mouth together to even it out, and then followed. What else was she going to do?

The halls were dark and quiet, and seemed to go on forever. It looked like there must be a sizable staff during the day. They passed locked door after locked door, all with brass panels affixed to the front and etched with the names of food items. Giblet Gravy, Suckling Duck, Crème de Menthe, Fresh Tomatoes, Applesauce, Pepperoni. Actual products – ones she recognized from the grocery store – were on some of them. Speedy Demon’s Microwave Pizza Nuggets, for instance. She’d been eating those for years.

There was a whole hallway dedicated to toothpaste and cough medicine; another room said “Envelope Adhesive.” There was dust on the handle of that one. She put her hand on the knob as they passed, but it didn’t turn.

“We’ve given up,” said Dr. Lincoln with a wink.

“So you guys make all this stuff?”

“We make the flavor,” said Dr. Trepid, “We make it better, faster, and more pure.”

“It’s the smallest ingredient in everything nowadays,” said Dr. Lincoln, “Only measured in parts per million. Always last on an ingredients list, and we don’t even have to say what’s in it. A single drop of coconut extract, for instance, is enough to flavor a swimming pool.”

“Doesn’t food already have a flavor?”

“People expect consistency,” said Dr. Trepid. “They demand it. Even hippies want every organic vegan quiche to taste the same. Good flavor makes this possible. Hippies usually buy things with natural flavors, though. Natural flavor comes from natural ingredients and artificial flavor comes from chemicals. Operationally, however, there isn’t much of a difference, to tell you the truth.”

“Naturally,” said Honey.

Dr. Trepid turned left and stopped in front of a door marked “Research and Development.” There was something strange about the air in this place. Honey couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Here we are,” said Dr. Trepid, stepping inside with a theatrical flourish, “This is where the magic happens.

The room wasn’t very big. It felt like the interior of a passenger jet: one long hallway with little cubicles evenly spaced along the side. At the far end, next to a hulking machine with see-through panels, was a small kitchen and a table with a white tablecloth rakishly strewn over it; the kind you would find at a French bistro. There was a single red candle melted over an empty bottle of wine burning in the center.

In each cubicle were rows and rows of what looked to be hydrogen peroxide. At least, everything was in the same brown bottles you’d buy at the drugstore. When Honey looked closer, she could see that they were labeled with long chemical names she couldn’t pronounce and didn’t care to try. Not all of them. One said “Taragon.” Another said “Salmon Roe.” There must have been a million of them.

Dr. Trepid picked one up. Curiously, it said “New Oldsmobile.” He opened it and gently brought the cap (which had a built in eye-dropper) up to his snout. His nose wriggled like a jellyfish impaled on a steak knife. He closed his eyes and let out a moan of ecstasy.

“The FDA has approved 3,000 chemicals for the production of flavor for United States markets,” said Dr. Trepid with his eyes closed. They fluttered open and he replaced the cap on the bottle. “What you see here are samples of each of them, divided up into tone and complexity. These are our tools. Our notes. There are other people who work here -- hammering out unimportant details and dealing with representatives from various food companies -- but Dr. Lincoln and I are responsible for the real work. We compose flavor. It is simultaneously the hardest, most thankless, and obscure job to which an artist can aspire.”

“He flatters me,” said Dr. Lincoln, looking at the floor. “He’s the real genius. I’m just an assistant, really.”

“Don’t denigrate yourself,” said Dr. Trepid. “This was your idea, and it’s a damn good one. I have a feeling it’s going to work.”

“What was your idea?” asked Honey.

Dr. Lincoln shuffled and balked.

“Flavor is a misleading term,” continued Dr. Trepid. “90% of flavor is composed of smell, and a significant percentage of its power comes from the texture and composition of the food to which it is applied. Subsequently, we mainly deal in smells here, and how they translate to the tongue.”

With long, tapered fingers, Dr. Trepid selected a brown bottle and uncapped it. He held the dropper out to Honey. She leaned forward and sniffed.

It smelled just like Maraschino cherries soaked in whiskey. Her mouth watered and she could almost feel the swizzle stick on her tongue as she gulped down a whiskey sour.

When he took the dropper away, she suddenly realized what was strange about the air in here. It had no smell. None at all. Not even the indelible trace of human dander. Honey realized that she had never smelled NOTHING before. She found it quite refreshing and wondered how they did it.

“What’s that machine do? Does it take the smell away?” asked Honey, pointing with her pinkie to the steel monstrosity in the corner.

“Quite a nose. Very few people can smell a clean staff. But no, scrubbers in the vents take care of that. What you are looking at, my dear, is a gas chromatograph. It allows us to determine the chemical substance of any fragrance in order to duplicate it. It is why we are here in Mexico, chasing a dream, instead of back in New Jersey with the rest of the fold, laboring away for the corporate teat. 3,000 notes are not nearly enough to make opera. Not by a long shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“The reason why the two of us have left the safety of the American empire and are living on the wrong side of this dingy border town is because we are engaged in a quest of mythic proportions. We are making perfect flavor,” said Dr. Trepid.

“Have a seat,” said Dr. Lincoln, lighting the candle on the table and putting on a pair of oven mitts that looked to be made out of Mylar. “I’ll make you something I think you’ll like.”

Honey unstrung her purse and sat down. She crossed her legs demurely. Surely they would be getting around to a blowjob soon. Surely.

“Perfect flavor is not the subjective quality to which other artists are held. If you’ll notice, we have significantly more than 3,000 bottles here. We demand an excellence that will transcend the current idiocy of consensus expectation. We make flavor for a future beyond queasiness. The common consumer doesn’t have the appetite for excellence and leans on the government to rob them of their right to taste. We are manufacturing for a time when demand and need overrun the ingrained human instinct to gag at repulsion.

Perfect flavor, you see, is flavor that can be no better. It is flavor that reaches beyond actuality and delves into structures in the brain that create fantastic expectations that are rarely satisfied by even the choicest specimens of their attendant tastes. It is water in the desert. The pastry behind glass. And, until now, it has been impossible. The world is too dark and terrible for what it desires.”

“It’s not all strife and gloom. We are making progress,” said Dr. Lincoln, leaning over what looked to be an industrial stove. He was stirring something in a cast iron pot.

“Indeed we are,” said Dr. Trepid, “Our first success was new strawberry. Have you ever had a strawberry flavored lollipop or piece of candy?”

“It’s not my favorite,” said Honey, “But I’ve had strawberry popsicles before.”

“Then you understand the frustration. Strawberry flavor is complex. Not as complex as coffee or meat, but very tricky nonetheless. We weren’t satisfied with its current incarnation. It didn’t have the cool ripeness or the scratchiness on the roof the mouth that seeds and pits make. No fuzziness. No stem fragments. Strawberry flavor tasted more like the color pink than an actual strawberry. So we took a year and we went exploring. This was the kind of problem our laboratory was created for. A problem those limited to 3,000 paltry notes couldn’t solve.”

“We had to go to Ecuador,” said Dr. Lincoln, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“No, it was not,” said Dr. Trepid, “I lost my wife over it. But it was an investment and I had a hunch, you see. It’s a tired old cliché, but in this business one must always follow one’s nose. After several months of dead ends – investigating the eating habits of natives and trying to delve deeper and deeper into the rainforest based on spurious accounts of a flower that had the elusive pitch we were seeking – we came upon our triumph. It wasn’t a flower at all. It was Colyanthisis sinestra. The Left-turning Crimson Anther Maggot, a delightful little critter that lives inside pungent tropical blossoms and eats them while circumnavigating their rims with the eventual goal of turning into a Left-Spinning Crimson Anther Fly. When crushed, dried, and mixed with an infusion of mustard seed and ceiling mildew, there is no more perfect synthetic strawberry flavor. It tastes more like strawberries than strawberries do.”

“That’s when our battle began,” said Dr. Lincoln, removing his mitts, “This is nearly done. When do I add the lemon essence?”

“Give it another minute-and-a-half,” said Dr. Trepid.

“Are you trying to tell me that there are crushed up maggots inside strawberry popsicles?” said Honey. She wasn’t sure if they were putting her on or not. She was disgusted, but she had lost her gag reflex a LONG time ago.

“Not until this past year,” said Dr. Trepid, “The FDA wouldn’t have it. Even though the amount of Colyanthisis in any given sample of flavoring was microscopic, they were childishly paranoid about the repercussions if anyone was to discover what they were feeding their constituent’s children. But there are other markets. China and Japan bought our flavor almost immediately. France went next, and suddenly French candy companies were eating into the American share because of STRAWBERRY, for God’s sake. The little flavor no one liked. A black market started in gourmet restaurants along the Eastern seaboard, which I’m sure we had nothing to do with.”

He gave her a sly grin. Ho ho ho, what a dandy rogue am I. With his nose and mustache, he looked exactly like a cartoon mole rat. Honey giggled.

“Eventually, the FDA had to cave. The pressure from the National Association of Pastry Chefs and Candy Distributors was too much. There was a bit of unpleasantness from Sweetytang, LTD because they didn’t have the money to make the switch, but they lost their credibility after a bad batch of Sweetytang Tarts killed some children last Halloween. Now all strawberry products are made from new strawberry derivatives and we basically have the market locked. No one knows about Colyanthisis, and no one cares. As a result, a series of extremely lucrative contracts has allowed us to move into other ventures.”

Dr. Lincoln bustled over with something fluffy and yellow in a crystal goblet. In his other hand was a spoon. He set them both down in front of Honey and then practically leapt out of the way like a fretful waiter.

“Give it a try,” he said, “It’s a mousse made out of new butterscotch. We’ve yet to release it to the public.”

Honey stared at it.

“Fish guts and baby poop,” she said, “No thanks.”

“Not all of our products are flavored with conventionally repellent additives,” said Dr. Trepid. “New butterscotch is one of my favorites. It’s pure inspiration.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his money clip. He started counting.

“Here’s two thousand dollars,” said Dr. Trepid. “All you have to do is take one bite. If you don’t like it, you can walk out of here: no questions asked. If it isn’t the most wonderful thing you’ve ever eaten, the money is yours. I’m willing to bet that not only will you love it, you’ll love it so much you’ll turn the money down just to finish the bowl.”

“It’s not drugged or anything, is it?” asked Honey dubiously. “Because that would be ridiculous. When you pay a call girl, you pay for a sure thing, and there’s nothing I won’t do willingly.”

“No, it isn’t drugged,” said Dr. Trepid, sitting down across from her. “You have my word as a scientist.”

“I WILL take your two thousand dollars if it tastes like shit, too. Don’t think I won’t. If you think it’s funny to hire call girls and make them eat shit, I think it’s pretty funny to take your money and then have some guys come over here and break your arms.”

Dr. Lincoln leaned over, grabbed the spoon, and took a big heaping bite.

“See?” said Dr. Trepid.

“Marvelous,” said Dr. Lincoln dreamily, “Just marvelous.”

Honey took the spoon from an insensate Dr. Lincoln and used its edge to nudge a dollop into its basin. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. Her toes tingled. It smelled…well…perfect. Rich and creamy, with just a hint of freshly baked bread. Sweet, but not sentimental. Like Grandpa’s aftershave.

She put the spoon in her mouth.

Never before in her life had she tasted anything so absolutely awesome. It was like diving into a whirlpool of fresh creamery butter, being sucked down into the center, and finding that at its heart was a bright golden sun that blazed only for her and had the sweetest light a soul could feel. Pulsations from her mouth rippled down her body and made every hair stand on end and sing John Lennon songs. Her tongue lifted from its foundation and flipped like an orca reaching for the moon. The skin between her toes relaxed into flesh jelly and her shoes fell off. She realized that she had never actually tasted butterscotch before: merely shoddy kindergarten renditions of this unbelievable ideal. For a split second, she thought she might faint.

And the aftertaste? She didn’t wait for the aftertaste. Before she realized it, she had finished the entire cup and was licking out the inside like it was J. P. Morgan’s asshole and she was being paid by the link.

“My God,” she said, eventually regaining her composure. “This should be illegal.”

“Well, technically, it is,” said Dr. Trepid.

“You are going to make a billion dollars. What’s in it?” she asked.

“Carrot essence, lemon essence, Styrene, Wasabi, cordovan, oleander, ferret scrapings, margarine, peat, barrel grease, nutmeg, taro, refined sauerkraut, maltodextrin, and banana yoghurt. We figured that last one out by accident. The formula only tasted right just after I’d finished my mid-morning snack.”

“What’s refined sauerkraut?”

Dr. Lincoln coughed. “The body removes certain impurities in sauerkraut during its first digestion. It’s a whole different substance afterward. A whole different smell.”

“So you see,” said Dr. Trepid, “These notes aren’t anything you couldn’t find laying around your house. The tricky part is making them sing. In the case of new butterscotch, there is some difficulty due to the fact that ingredients must be added in stages. This is only a logistical problem, though. We are already experimenting with time-release crystals for the lemon essence and peat.”

“It’s amazing. How do you do this?” asked Honey.

“I am simply one of those fortunate people who never stopped putting things they shouldn’t in their mouth. With the absolute freedom to create, each day we make something spectacular here. And the blatantly unpalatable items won’t be illegal forever. We already have a deal with Ludoviccio’s in San Francisco for truffles using new butterscotch. They don’t care what’s in it: they just want to sell it.”

“You’ve convinced me. You are crazy as hell, but you make magic. So why am I here?” asked Honey, “What do you want from me?”

“Get the bottle and some towels,” said Dr. Trepid. Dr. Lincoln nodded deferentially and left.

“As you may have already figured out, we didn’t ask you to come here because we want to have sex with you. We asked you to come here because we need something from you. Something for which we are willing to pay top dollar. Something only you can provide.”

Honey casually picked up the two grand and stuck it in her bra.

“This is for listening to whatever else you are going to say,” said Honey, “Go on.”

“Fine. Take it. You stand to make a whole lot more.”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” said Honey.

Dr. Trepid nodded.

“Right now, we are deep in the composition of what promises to be our crowning achievement. My masterpiece. A flavor I have been studying and dreaming about for my entire career. It will change the market, and it will change the world.”

He licked his lips.

“New. Chocolate.”

He let the words sink in, and then he started pacing.

“Chocolate, though insidiously simple, is the hardest flavor in the world to master. Since the death of Abraham Toblerone in 1937, Flavorists have given up even working on it. It has driven many an obsessed flavor magnate to an early grave and haunted entire corporations with its promise of infinite wealth. Hubert Nelson Hershey called it “the ugly brown bitch that stole my wallet and heart and never let me rest long enough to cut out my tongue and move on.” There’s just no figuring it. It twists; it turns. One bite can taste like the richest, strongest, most luxurious dainty in the world – and the next can taste like burnt chalk soaked in dishwater. I spent my thirties canvassing the cocoa fields of South America, literally traveling from tree to tree and making notes. I spent my forties building an empire that would allow me the freedom to follow my heart and live for a goal that would not die. And I have spent my fifties striving. Tasting. Smelling. Thinking. Doing the work, and doing the math. And now I know what they don’t know. I know what has driven so many brave, good Flavorists insane with torment and rage, and I know what could have saved them. They say chocolate is impossible. Peaked. That it is a fool’s dream, and a dead end. They say milk and powder is the best we can do, and the best we’ll ever be able to do.”

His nose twitched. He seemed to gaze off into an impenetrable middle distance. Suddenly, he made a fist and banged it down on the table hard enough to knock the crystal goblet onto the tile floor and shatter it into vapor. The spoon bounced into a table leg and caromed across the lab. He didn’t even flinch.

“And I say balls to them! They just don’t have the courage. Never did. New chocolate may be the Flavorist’s Philosopher’s Stone, but I have cracked it. Oh yes. At the conference in Stockholm next year, it will be Aksel Trepid who takes away the Golden Bud. It will make me immortal, and more importantly, if you help me, it will make you immortal. They say it can’t be done. But I know now what it needs. I have all of the other ingredients: the cork, and the mango rind, and the tin foil. There was just one final touch. One final note. And tonight I figured it out. It’s just a matter of grasping it. Seizing it. Putting my big fat tongue around it, and SWALLOWING IT WHOLE!”

“You are crazy, aren’t you?” said Honey. She stood up. Dr. Trepid grabbed her wrist.

“Please. You can’t leave. I have suffered…I have suffered for years now…but I know EXACTLY what I have been missing. It was at eleven o’clock tonight that I realized with the sudden catastrophe of recognition what was wrong with my formula, a formula I have been working on for longer than you have been alive. I told Dr. Lincoln -- I shouted it to the heavens in triumph and despair -- and Dr. Lincoln gave me the number for your service.”

He pressed the entire wad of cash into her hand. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“This is fifty thousand dollars. It is so simple. All I need is a single flavor, a single smell, and the symphony will be perfect.”

His eyes locked onto hers like prison searchlights.

“I need the smell of a beautiful woman’s moist vagina in the dead of night in Mexico. The true smell of romance.”

Dr. Lincoln walked back in and gasped. Dr. Trepid let her go.

“Dr. Trepid! She must be willing, you said!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his face falling, “I’m so sorry.” He fell to his knees and blew his nose into a massive handkerchief. It sounded like a foghorn. He tried to stand and instead slipped on broken glass. Dr. Lincoln bent to help him.

“No,” said Honey, sitting back down. “I’m sorry. You aren’t crazy at all.”

Honey thought about it. Someone would do it eventually. It might as well be her. Imagine! All those people. Each one tasting a dab of Honey. Tasting perfection. She shivered.

“I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”

Dr. Lincoln and Dr. Trepid stared at her. Dr. Trepid began to laugh.

“You will? You will seriously do this for me?”

“If you can make perfect chocolate, I’ll give you my own blood.”

“Whatever you need,” said Dr. Trepid. “We have tapes, toys, anything. We’ll be glad to help out in any way we can.”

“I’m a professional,” said Honey, “I don’t think I’ll need any tapes or…um…help. But…hmmmm…if you REALLY want a good sample…”

“Yes?” asked Dr. Trepid. He leaned forward, his fingers scraping her knee. “It’s been awhile for me. But we’ll do anything it takes. It’s true what they say about men with big noses, you know…”

“Do you have any more of that mousse?” asked Honey, stopping him before he was completely in her lap.

“Of course,” said Dr. Trepid, laughing. “Of course.”

There was a snapping noise behind her. Cold steel suddenly bound her wrists. She tried to stand, but she realized that she had been handcuffed to her chair. And the chair was bolted to the floor. The bolts looked new and tight.

“What are you doing?” asked Honey.

“Don’t worry: the deal still stands. Fifty thousand dollars for an adequate production sample. This is really more for your protection,” said Dr. Trepid. “Could I have the bottle please, Dr. Lincoln? And could you clean up all of this glass and make me another batch of butterscotch mousse?”

“What are you talking about? My protection?”

“We don’t want you trying to escape when it becomes unbearable. Then we’d have to knock you out, and nobody wants that.”

Dr. Lincoln opened a supply cabinet and took out what looked like a homemade sump pump. There was an attachment at one end that looked like a sponge in a plastic jockstrap. It was ribbed.

“Wait,” said Honey, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not willing anymore.”

“It’s too late, I’m afraid. You’re just saying that because you’re scared,” said Dr. Trepid. “You’ll be fine. You have flavor in your soul. This is going to be wonderful.”

Dr. Lincoln handed Dr. Trepid what looked to be a gallon pickle jar with the label removed. Dr. Trepid set it down in front of her.

“Consistency is important, you see,” said Dr. Trepid, “You are definitely the right girl for the job and we don’t want to have to do this again with someone else. So we are going to need a rather large amount. We could insist that you come back every week, but what’s to keep you from fleeing the country when we need you most? We’d prefer to get our gallon all at once. That should be enough for the next ten years or so, and by then, who knows where we’ll be?”

“Please, don’t do this. Can’t you just take a little bit and then replicate it?”

“Oh, Honey,” said Dr. Trepid, beaming, “How would we do that? You’re one of a kind.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek. His cheeks were moist. He had started weeping again. From joy, no doubt. She felt sick to her stomach.

“Dr. Lincoln assures me he has some experience with this, so I’ll leave you to it. He even says the suction device he has constructed won’t leave any lasting damage.”

Dr. Lincoln nodded, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“We have as long as it takes, so go at your own pace. We can’t thank you enough, and I’m sure I don’t have to warn you about what might happen to you if later you decide someone else needs to know about our little arrangement. We’d much rather pay you than a hitman, but we have no problem doing both. Just keep thinking about the chocolate. The perfect chocolate. Remember: pain is temporary, but flavor is forever!”

Interview with Angus Morning


(Reprinted with permission from The Atlantic Monthly, September 2002)

It was a hell of a trek finding the place. I stood on the corner of 4th and San Jacinto, luggage in hand, asking each pedestrian that strolled by if they knew how to get to a street called South Congress. Most of them just ignored me. Some told me to get a job. Others tried to figure out what I was ranting about and then gave me change.

There was a Congress Street, but no South Congress, and Congress didn’t run north and south according to the compass in my wristwatch.

I could see the people laying out this city in my head. It only took one strapping engineer and his passive aggressive assistant. The engineer decided where the streets would go and got all of the attention from comely architecture wenches at fancy Texas nation-building parties (“Fiddle-dee-dee, I just adore a French cornice”), while his assistant stayed up late into the night – alone -- growing sour and malevolent on the light from rendered whale fat and the smoke from gritty Kentucky tobacco and trying to name everything. It wasn’t long before the assistant began to take petty, subversive revenge. Later they were both hanged. The story probably became a folk song that would only irritate me if I heard it.

Finally, I decided to call a cab. Enough local color.

I tipped the cabbie with my street corner earnings. 1050 South Congress wasn’t very far at all, actually, and I almost felt foolish. I rang the doorbell on a quaint ranch house and prepared myself for…well…for ANYTHING. This was Texas. This was where the crazy people who weren’t pretty and plastic enough for California ended up. The state to which society’s disgruntled rejects were bounced like Pong pixels after finding an ocean barring their way further west. These perpetual drifters either formed huge multinational corporations and tried to sell their sunshine back across the grim, Middle American wasteland – like Hollywood and Walt Disney – or they came to Texas to sit in a rocking chair with a shotgun and tell the smiles and candycanes to move along. This was surely some sort of tumbleweed, sassafras purgatory. And Austin was its capital.

Mr. Morning was expecting me, and I took that as a welcome sign. He met me with a tray of refreshments and a warm towel. He was a tall, husky man who seemed uncomfortable in the rumpled suit he wore. I told him to relax and he just smiled and offered me a beer. I took a little cucumber sandwich instead. Then he showed me the sheaf of death threats he had received. He was collecting them and making a collage in his entryway. Suddenly I was the nervous one.

“It’ll be nice to get some good publicity for once,” he said, “You don’t know what it’s like to live here. You can’t say nothing without it being something. Most people don’t say anything at all.”

I asked him where the best place to do an interview was and he led me into his backyard. We sat at a stainless steel picnic table underneath a great heaving Magnolia tree. The backyard was otherwise ordinary, except where an ordinary person would have a birdbath, he had a Mayor McCheese and a pair of Fryguys, the kind you would find at a McDonaldland Playground. I stared at them. He noticed.

“You know why they all suck up to Ronald? In the commercials?”

“No. Why?”

“Because he could eat them. Except for Ronald, all the McDonald’s characters are edible. Even that damn bird will one day be McNuggets.”

“What about the hamburglar?”

I turned on my tape recorder.

Morning: All shoplifters will be prosecuted. And eaten. So what do you want to ask me first?

Me: Um, why don’t you just…uh…tell me why exactly you are interesting, and then we’ll go from there. I’ll probably want to ask you a whole bunch of stupid questions. Just tell me the whole story first.

Morning: I mean, don’t you know all that already?

Me: No, see…the gimmick is that I am this really cranky and contentious bastard who they send out to interview people who are either flashes in the pan as far as the national interest is concerned, or just nuts. The joke is, though, I really am a cranky and contentious bastard. So I refuse to do any research. I just go where they send me.

Morning: Huh. I thought this was going to be something else.

Me: Nope, that’s what this is.

Morning: Well, that’s fine by me. There’s not much to it, anyway. Which am I though? Unimportant or nuts?

Me: Can’t tell yet. Although, the insane usually make better finger food.

Morning: So you’ve never heard of the National Day of Morning then?

Me: No…I don’t think so. It sounds familiar, but it also sounds like something I would ordinarily ignore.

Morning: Well, that’s what all of this is about. I’m Morning, you see.

Me: Oh, morning! Not mourning…with a u…

Morning: No, no. Morning.

Me: Fascinating. So what’s the deal?

Morning: It’s a long story, I guess. It all started when I decided to violate my rule.

Me: Rule?

Morning: Yeah, I’ve always had this rule: never work for anybody unless you can tell they are obviously doing something evil. It’s never let me down.

Me: Why is that your rule?

Morning: Obvious evil is the only real good. See, everybody’s doing evil things all damn day. But the more a person has to hide it, the more dangerous they are. Churches and social workers really give me the crispy shits. In the time it takes the real professionals to tell you hello and howdy, they’ve already clapped on the chains and taken your wallet.

Me: Seems like a hard rule to follow.

Morning: Nah. I mainly try to work for immigrants who are pretty sure they are breaking the law, but aren’t sure how. Maybe they aren’t paying enough taxes. Maybe they are trying to squeeze two dollars out of me by not paying me weekend overtime. Something venial. I see what they are doing, so they are safe. Extremely lazy people are the best. Evil is always vigorous.

Me: So what happened?

Morning: Well, I got burned. See, I was working for this guy Cooper Sweeney. He had a fireworks stand past the city limits that was only open two weeks a year: New Year’s and the Fourth of July. Anyway, one day I’m sitting there, minding my own ass, when police sirens go off and twenty government ninjas raid the place. Holy shit, right? It turns out they are trying to crack down on illegitimate fireworks dealers, because terrorists have been importing ricin in Mexican firecrackers or something. Well, Cooper certainly isn’t a terrorist, but he also doesn’t have a license. Anyway, to make a long story short, I end up testifying against him to save my own skin, and I still land myself probation. All of my friends are sitting there saying: “See, I told you so. Time to get a real job.”

Me: So you did.

Morning: So I did. I worked a connection, like everybody else. I decided to be legitimate. My buddy Milky got me a job working in a McDonald’s factory uptown. We made McPlayground rides. Tubes, and little seahorses on springs. Jiggly hamburger cages. It was a real bullshit job, and it was a lot of hard work. Even just getting there was a pain in the ass. I’m not stupid, right, but I don’t like to drive. So I’m late a lot because I have to take the bus, and when you finally get to work, you can’t even talk to anybody next to you because that slows down your productivity. That’s like, a whole day’s worth of silence. I try anyway, but nobody has anything interesting to say. Yeah, work sucks. Yeah, life sucks. Hey, you know where I can buy some weed? Hey, you know the one about the wetback who climbs a tree to Heaven? Anyway, I start to get in trouble pretty much daily. My supervisor is this arrogant ITT Tech asshole with this little dopy mustache. Like Stalin except curly. I start calling him Josef, but he never gets the reference. He’s that dumb. I start fighting back, you see, out of sheer boredom. You get a fifteen minute break every four hours, but you are strongly “encouraged” not to take it. Nobody else does, for instance. I take mine. Oooo. Big deal, right? But this is bad news. Other people start taking their break, too. Josef realizes he has seriously fucked up by hiring me, but he has no good reason to kick me out, and he’s afraid of just arbitrarily canning me because I’m smarter than he is, and he suspects I may know a lawyer. So he just tries to muscle me out. But I’m an even bigger threat than that. I start unionizing.

Me: You can unionize in Texas? I thought Texas was practically Guam.

Morning: Sure, you always have the right to form a union. But they also have the right to fire you and hire scabs if you strike. You can do whatever you want, but so can they. It can get pretty ugly. Especially since they have all the money and guns. I organize slowdowns and little demonstrations to scare them with solidarity. One time I get the whole factory to take a 20 minute break, for instance. They have to blow an airhorn to tell us all to go back to work. It’s awesome. Then Josef starts cheating. He starts firing other people, since he can’t get to me. What a dick! There are some people who still won’t talk to me because of it.

Me: So then what happened?

Morning: Then I start to go a little crazy. In my head, I declare war on this guy Josef and his whole damn factory. I stop caring about casualties. I’m a single dude, you know? What do I care? So I start to get creative.

That’s when I invented the National Day of Morning. It was supposed to be this really elaborate strike, you see. Nobody would show up to work because of this fake, dubious holiday. It’s a holiday I’d been thinking about for years – drawing up in my head -- and I thought I would put it to use for a noble cause. A holiday that sounds patriotic, but is mainly neutral. A celebration of morning, and all of its glory. Pancakes. Not getting out of your robe. Sitting around and talking with your family about whatever crazy crap is in the newspaper. Ultimate laziness. Ultimate good. Like a Sunday without guilt or church. Morning all day long. See, when I was a kid, my favorite meal was always “breakfast for dinner.” I never enjoyed breakfast at breakfast time, but I always got a kick out of it being the last meal of the day. Why not make a holiday out that? There are stupider holidays. Holidays built around shit that wastes the day off completely. Holidays that don’t make you feel good at all. Easter, for instance. I would rather go to work than celebrate Easter. I wanted a holiday that wasn’t given to people by the state or religion, and was about something everybody could enjoy. No presents and no traditions. Sleeping in and doing nothing. Actively, and now…for a good cause.

Me: Did it…hmmm…accomplish its task?

Morning: Hell no. I missed a day of work, and then got fired. Maybe two other people stayed home that day, too. I cooked them eggs. But I learned later that they took a sick day at the last minute. They got scared. It was a giant, whopping failure. Best thing that ever could have happened to Josef – that itchy little prick. Who knows what damage I might have done if I had stuck around? Still. National Day of Morning. Harmless. Forgettable. I learned my lesson though: if you can’t tell how they are evil, they are evil all the way. Clean through the center, like burnt steak.

Me: So why am I interviewing you then? I mean, it sounds like a good idea and all…

Morning: Well, the crazy thing was, college kids really got a kick out of it. I made a bunch of flyers for the factory, but how they got a hold of one, I’ll never know. There were some college kids working there, but they were so stoned most of the time that I never really felt like talking to them. And then all of a sudden my face is on the local news! Disgruntled activist responsible for college walkout. Let me tell you something, I am not an activist. And I am not disgruntled. I am pretty cheery most of the time, really. It wasn’t supposed to be a political thing. I hate politics.

Me: Uh-huh.

Morning: I think it was the timing. It’s all this terrorism crap. I guess college kids thought I was satirizing all of the false solemnity of September 11th bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for satirizing the overblown hysterics of World Trade center-related idiocy. 100 times as many people die from suicide as from terrorist attacks every year, and you don’t see any war on depression. Ha. I’d love that. The National Guard mobilized to give senior citizens hugs and to listen adamantly to the concerns of teenagers facing the stark realities of a dismal, hateful world. But making a bold political statement wasn’t my intention. I just really like mornings. I really, really like mornings. And I hate work. I really, really hate work. The best part of a three-day weekend isn’t the three days of weekend…it’s the four days of work.

Me: I believe you. You hate work. But give me details. Why is there a collage of death threats in your foyer?

Morning: Well, so there I am on the news, right? Local Man Trivializes Patriotic Death. Earnest, mindless college students are brushing the dreadlocks out of their eyes to tell cameramen about debt relief at the World Bank while wearing National Day of Morning t-shirts. This is Texas, buddy. If there is one segment of the population that is roundly despised around here, it is college students. They are whiny, unemployed bitches who just sit around learning things. Mostly learning about how you suck, whoever you are. Anybody responsible for college kids being on the news is bound to get death threats. And that’s me, right now. I think it’s probably the same people that just send them to everybody. Maybe some church organizes death-threat writing, and everybody in the congregation has to write the craziest thing they can with a crayon in their left hand. To let off a little crazy steam.

Me: So do you regret the whole thing? Is that what this is about?

Morning: Not really. I’m all for it taking off. But I want it to be understood correctly. It isn’t about anything except morning. Mainly, I just want people to have a new holiday. Maybe there could be a National Day of Afternoon and a National Day of Evening, too. A National Day of Night. But those are for other people. I’m Morning and that’s what I represent. I want people to feel good about squandering a day for its own sake. Not using a day, but enjoying it. Maybe it will become a habit. How many people eat really bitchin’ biscuits and gravy anymore? How many people know what they’re missing?

Me: You know, I can’t stand mornings. They make me feel antsy and I want the morning to end as soon as possible so I can get on with the rest of the day. To me, a National Day of Morning sounds like hell.

Morning: And that’s precisely why we need one. So we can remember how to spend them. Pop tarts and CNN while stuffing yourself into starchy work clothes: that’s most people’s morning. Pretty soon the robe itself will be a bygone artifact of a forgotten culture. Good morning will be entirely lost as something you say or have. I must fight this. WE must fight this. For mornings. God made them wonderful so you could wake up to something, you know, inspiring. Someday he’ll smite us all for needing six cups of coffee and seven different TV torsos to shepherd us through his masterpiece without paying any attention.

Me: Holidays need traditions to thrive. And consumer backing. Even Memorial Day has its liquor concession. You’ll have to cave somewhere.

Morning: Just because it’s inevitable doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m sure breakfast cereal companies will take my idea and create some sort of magical cereal unicorn that comes in the night and fills all the pots and pans in your house with toys and oatmeal. But as long as I’m alive, the National Day of Morning will be a rejection of that. It will be about not doing things. Not buying things. Spending zero dollars. Spending the maximum amount of time doing whatever it is you’d rather be doing while you are at work. Fucking. Playing with your kids. Chunking eggs at federal buildings. Whatever.

Me: Sounds good to me. I hate holidays. Maybe its time for a holiday that leaves its celebration up to you.

Morning: Exactly. A Rorschach blot that closes down the banks and gives you an excuse to screw your employer out of a paid day. If we don’t agitate for more holidays, we’ll just keep losing them. It’s our job to be adversarial about these sorts of things. There ought to be somebody lobbying for a new paid holiday every cycle. Why not?

Me: Fair enough. It’s both crazy AND sort of stupid, but you’ve convinced me. I don’t like Easter either. Pastel makes me nauseous. I had an older brother who used to hold me down and make me eat synthetic Easter grass.

Morning: That’s terrible.

Me: When is this National Day of Morning, by the way? What day?

Morning: October first. A binary palindrome. The occult and mystical significance is surely obvious. That’s when the weather starts to change around here, too. When the sun stops being a slick go-getter and starts getting grandfatherly.

Me: Stay safe. And good luck. It’s tough being a political martyr, but it will pass.

Morning: Yeah. Thanks. I just wanted to get everybody out of a day of work, and look where it’s got me. Thanks for the interview. Maybe my tale will give you a funny little article.

Me: Maybe.


Angus Morning took his own life in January of 2003, after six months of unemployment and a second failed marriage. His ex-wife Fiona claims he never recovered from efforts of the Federal Holiday Commission to discredit his story regarding the origins of his Day, linking him to underground political protest and launching several civil lawsuits on behalf of the victims of 9 / 11. His holiday lives on.

HAPPY NATIONAL DAY OF MORNING, 2004!