Stale Soup

By Renee Reizman

“If you move it a little to the right, you’ll fill the room much better.”

Interior design was not Jamie’s forte. In fact, arranging a room was a new life experience for his artistically challenged mind. Luckily, Jamie’s loyal, blonde companion was at his side, pointing out his faults, as usual, to benefit the world around him; or, in this case, the world of art.

“Those painting are ridiculously tacky, too. Did you find them at a rodeo clown’s garage sale?”

Jamie had been dubbed as Kari Robins’ sidekick since long before he could remember. She was glued to him; he could hardly remember the last time he had spent a conscious half-hour without her presence.

There are many words that can be used to describe a person such as Kari. The most obvious term is “Blonde,” ironically followed by the word, “genius.” Stereotypes forgot to brand Kari as a bimbo, gracefully giving her natural blonde hair and the mental capacity of a potential Noble Prize physicist. This did not mean that she used her brain. The amount of strikingly intelligent phrases that came from Kari’s lips was slim to none, thus leading to the third and forth words commonly used to describe her. “Weird” was closely followed with “insane,” and finally, according to the high school burnouts, marching band, and football team, Kari was, quite simply, “really hot.”

“I like to think of them as subjective,” Jamie protested. “Besides, I found them on display in your basement.”

“Oh, you know my father has bad taste,” Kari protested upon further inspection.

“When you first bought those paintings, you were bragging about them for weeks.”

Describing Jamie would be like describing any other teenage, skinny, jet-black and shaggy haired, punk rocker wannabee with a closet full of black clothing, minus the hardcore drugs and obsession with whiney, wailing, emotional music. Jamie was smart enough to keep up with Kari’s insanity, or had simply developed immunity for madness. He was proud to be the bass guitarist for a collection of failed political rock bands with enticing names such as “Osama Bin Trippin’,” “Weapons of Mass Seduction,” and “Abort This!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, for I have never seen those paintings in my life, nor do I have a basement,” Kari said, as she pushed a red reclining chair a foot to the left.

Jamie surveyed the room they were rearranging. This was the result of another one of Kari’s ‘secret adventures;’ events conjured to satisfy Kari’s need to always be on the move. Jamie blindly arranged the settings for these escapades, following loose descriptions to make a room look exotic or thrilling.

“I’m not sure where I’ve spent a good quarter of my life, if that’s the case,” Jamie muttered remorsefully. “Didn’t you tell me to move that chair to the right?”

Kari’s blue eyes settled sharply upon her jet-black haired companion. She dashed across the room to face Jamie before snapping, “Your right. This is my left. Now, hush! The room is complete!”

The scene featured a large couch, two old, wooden oak nightstands, the red recliner, and three tall lamps that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, notorious for being fire hazards in the radical 90s. There were also the two grotesque paintings upon the wall, depicting colorful, abstract people in acrobatic positions, riding what looked like waves of what could have been sour cream. The room was spaced out, and easy to maneuver in.

“I don’t get it, Kari. What is this supposed to be?”

An excited grin cracked open on Kari’s face. “This,” she began, “is the epic battle of you, me, and the Land Pirates!”

Jamie looked at his friend wryly, “The who?”

“The Land Pirates!” Kari exclaimed. “Fierce scallywags who prowl upon land, ruining the games of children, burning toy stores, picking up loose babysitters off the streets, and pillaging candy shops everywhere!”

A pained look crossed Jamie’s face. “Don’t you think this is a bit juvenile? We’re 17-years-old.”

Kari pointed an accusing finger towards her skeptical friend. “For that, you will be playing the part of the villainous Professor Tom Tracey, the worst Land Pirate of them all! You are the syndicate, Land Pirate mafia leader who plans all the treachery against children. You are a fiend!”

Jamie was taken aback at these harsh words, “Me? Tom Tracey? I refuse to take such a wretched role in our adventure! Thou art a villain”!

“Oh, be quiet,” Kari replied, clasping her palm tightly over Jamie’s mouth. “You don’t have to be Tom Tracey, but he’s still our enemy. I am taking the part of myself. I mean, honestly, you can’t create a better pirate than I!”

Jamie trudged over to the couch. It was an old, musty piece of furniture with an atrocious flower print. “I guess I’ll be, uh, your right-hand man. This will be our boat, the Churninator! We bought it from the Amish, see?”

“Good idea! We’ll attack the Land Pirates by coming from the sea! It’s that kind of thinking they’ll never expect!”

Jamie plopped down upon the couch, placing a hand thoughtfully on his chin. “A reverse reality? I like it.”

Kari pounced upon the couch, sending dust mites everywhere. “Cut the philosophical crap! It’s nine p.m., Eastern Standard Time. The sun has set, and we’re approaching the shore quickly.”

“Do Land Pirates live in New England?”

“Of course! How else would could Professor Tom Tracey pull off his devious plan of forcing children to eat nothing but clam chowder for the rest of their lives?”

Jamie shrugged his shoulders, as he pointed to the reclining chair. “There’s Tracey’s fortress. Watch out for the lever, that beast can tilt back from zero to 60 in point five seconds!”

Kari gasped, “That scurvy land-dog!” The blonde reached up to pick the hair tie out of her scalp, letting her locks fall over her shoulders in a beheaded rage. Stretching the tie from her thumb and forefinger, she launched it dead onto the switch of one of the hazardous lights. It flicked on, illuminating the room, casting dark shadows over the old, moldy furniture, and revealing the position of the two soldiers, “Come and get us, Tom!”

The battle started with a bang. A barrage of invisible cannons flew past the makeshift shores of shag carpeting, scattering stale pillows and dust mites everywhere. Kari made a leap for Tracey’s tower, wrestling through invisible, musclemen guards. Jamie struggled to anchor the Churninator, as a mass of Land Pirates sought to prevent the pseudo-punk rocker from defending future youth from endless bowls of a New England delicacy.

When Jamie had run out of cannons, he resulted to using one of his guitar picks as a weapon, as any good bassist would keep one handy. It was used in a thrusting technique; Jamie jabbed and prodded the Land Pirates, successfully poking one or two in the eye. The army was no match for this jet-black haired warrior. Land Pirates began to flee, jumping overboard and landing clumsily in the water. As expected, a Land Pirate was not an expert swimmer, and they flailed helplessly in the psychedelic carpeted sea below.

Kari’s way through Tom Tracey’s tower had, so far, been triumphant. She conquered all that met her, until she met face to face with the syndicate professor himself.

“Tom Tracey, I demand you surrender!” Kari shouted, pointing accursedly at the brute.

Tracey’s imaginary hand fell upon the nightstands, “It is too late. As you can see, I already have the vats of clam chowder right here, and I am ready to force feed the children!”

Kari dove for the nightstands, clawing away at the figment openings to the vats. “Not if I can help it! I’ll devour all the chowder myself!” Her hands took heaping scoops of the thick, soupy substance, and she stuffed her face with the vile gumbo.

“You witch, you’ve mucked up my plan!” Tracey bellowed in rage. “I can’t believe you have the decency to devour that! I’m ruined!”

Kari jumped to her feet, a feeling of victory settling into her skin. “Ah, ha! Jubilee!” The world around her was struck with finality, and the room was no longer New England terrain. It was the old, stuffy basement that Kari and Jamie had started in, with a few rearrangements in furniture.

The two crusaders fell heavily upon the couch, no longer acknowledged as the Amish battleship.

“Next time we have an adventure,” Jamie said between deep breaths, “could it be something more mature?”

“Alright,” Kari replied, “we can be a small business fighting corporate America.”

“Could I be the president?”

Kari grinned widely, “Haven’t I taught you anything? I’m the brain behind the operation. You’ll have to settle for C.E.O.”

Jamie sighed, “Well, at least I’ll be getting a good bonus this year. You know what I’ll do with it? I think I’ll buy a big ol’ bowl of clam chowder.”