We Are Hungry Men!

When I was a child, I asked my father if there were any singers that he didn’t like. After some thought, he replied, “I like almost all music… except David Bowie.” I was stricken with guilt by this statement. Mr. Bowie was my friend. Unbeknownst to my father, I had met him, though only once. He came to my Cub Scout den to strum his wooden guitar and sing Christmas songs, earning us an extra gold arrow point. My father is often too quick to judge others by their appearance. On this day, Mr. Bowie wasn’t wearing those scary, spacey/silvery tights (his bulge wasn’t on display) and his hair wasn’t rebelliously spiked. He was wearing a conservative, rainbow striped sweater and a matching scarf. I asked him if he watched Danger Mouse. “Yes, Danger Mouse is very popular in England.” Then, before waving goodbye, he gave me a warm hug, “You are the best behaved little Cub Scout that I have ever met.” I felt the soft wool sweater against my cheek, and he handed me his scarf. “This was woven by the laughing frost gnomes of the North. It’s magic, but you can only use it once.” I have kept it for twenty years, that is, until last night.

You see, I made a snowman, and, to complete the cliché, I wrapped the scarf around his icy neck. Then I went inside to finish off my Red Baron thin crust-supreme pizza. Within minutes, he was making these irritating scraping noises at my front door with his twig hands. I answered in a huff. “What you want?” His mouth of stones turned downward, he pointed at the pizza crust in my hand. “Sorry Frosty, you’re too fucking late!” Icicles began to stream from his eyes. I gained a little sympathy. “Look, I’m out of food.” If only I hadn’t gorged myself on the coffee cakes the night before. Then I remembered that Shoney’s offers an all-you-can eat soup, salad, and vegetable bar for $4.99. So, I threw him in the trunk. Things were fine until he ate the cabbage n’ beef soup. He started melting, and, to my horror, I saw what was hidden underneath the snowy flesh. It was a wet little boy, wearing a Cub Scout uniform with about nine arrow points. And there was something devilish – the intensity of his red hair, the smirk across his unsightly freckled face, and the $4.99 that I had just blown that infuriated me. “Get out! Get the fuck outta this fine family dining establishment!” He laughed, obscenely displaying the cabbage mush in this mouth, and ran out the door. I sat alone for a minute, considering grabbing a bowl for myself, before sadly recalling that the Shoney Bear decrees, “From my bar, there shall be no sharing.” But then an even more scorching revelation crossed my mind. My scarf! That little, thieving bastard!