I ALREADY FELT GUILTY about lying to my imaginary friend about the chances of his poems ever getting published. Now, when I thought about it, I had no reason left to live. I was a total washout. A liar, a loser, and a clumsy, absent-minded, self-absorbed oaf. I'd really blown it this time. I'd ripped all of Chief Leopard Frog's carefully crafted poems into packing material.
Yi, yi, yi, yi, yi! I thought. Bring on the spiders! Bring on the bees! Let me take my own portrait with a ghost camera!
I deserved to be the last kid in Paisley, Kansas.
Who could possibly want me for a friend?
After a sleepless night in my nest, I got up the next morning and sent a letter to Milton Swartzman.
Dear Mr. Swartzman:
Sixty "lucky" authentic Indian-carved bee tree burls are en route to you by Sushi Shipping Services. I expect you will receive them within your lifetime.
You will note that each is carefully packed in layers of paper to protect it from damage from rough seas and careless dockworkers. As it turns out, wadded up within this protective paper are the very poems that my friend wants published in a volume to be titled Burl Hives: Poems by Chief Leopard Frog, Sac and Fox Tribe, Paisley, Kansas.
Please don't ask me how the mix-up happened, as I feel bad enough as it is. Also don't give me any advice about the title because the author is adamant about his goofball choice.
You will recall that you said it would cost about three hundred dollars to print my friend's book. How many copies? And how will you handle distribution and national television appearances? Do you know Oprah? My mother watches her show all the time.
I am prepared to give up my three-hundred-dollar compensation for the talismans if we can work out a book deal Please note, however, that I still need the money. As you suggested, I'm keeping an eye out for a famous-looking pumpkin. So far, I've got one that seems to be shaping up to look like the Wal-Mart smiley face. What would that be worth to you?
Sincerely,
Spencer Adams Honesty
Paisley, Kansas
A fortnight passed.
By now, September had just about sung its song.
Uncle Milton replied.
Dear Kid:
If all I do is exchange letters with you, how do you expect me to get any work done? No sign of your talismans yet, but I know the shipping line and they're as reliable as they come in this part of the world. I could do the book for the price we've agreed and print five hundred copies, which is all that the poetry world can possibly swallow, even if we were talking about the poet laureate of the Cayman Islands. I will send a dozen of them out for review to the leading journals and newspapers, hold back fifty copies for my catalog—it's definitely something you thought you'd never find—and send the remainder to you and your friend to peddle from the trunk of your car, which is basically the way poetry is meant to be distributed.
If you ask me, which you didn't, you are wasting your money. I do hope that you're doing this for the right reasons.
YOUR OBEDIENT SERVANT,
MILTON SWARTZMAN
President and Publisher, Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find
PS. Don't try to con a con man, kid. Every pumpkin looks like the Wal-Mart smiley face.
P.P.S. On the other hand, if you've got one that looks like Sam Walton, or even his wife, Helen, I could give you fifty bucks. His dog Ole Roy is worth seventy-five.
"Anything yet?" Chief Leopard Frog inquired, sticking his head into my room.
"They're on the case," I assured him. "They're going to publish it, but it'll take a while."
"Keep me informed," he insisted.
"Oh, I will," I said. "This means as much to me as it does to you."
"Really?" he said. "How kind."
I was down to my last roll of film. After my morning shower, I took a walk with my camera up toward Shiba Inu Ranch, where once a Japanese American family raised prizewinning wide-eyed dogs.
The roof to the house had caved in. The kennels had been removed and sold for scrap. Vegetation and fat grasshoppers ruled the roost, so to speak.
I got a shot of one grasshopper head-on, staring into the lens. I took one regular shot of the house, thinking that's the way to get the ghost picture, and then I photographed a tiny white flower. A bindweed, I think it's called.
From Shiba Inu Ranch I walked up to the Foo Farm, once a thriving goat-raising enterprise, and according to local legend, run by a Wiccan, a member of a devil-worship cult. I found some bones there that were interesting to photograph—they looked like goat bones to me—plus I took pictures of the house and silo, which seemed to be in pretty good shape, all things considered.
On the way home, I took a few more shots at the Baldersons'. White mums were blooming by the porch, and the dust-covered window to Maureen's room looked interesting. I also found a keyless key chain in the dirt. It was gold-colored and bore the initial M.
Before pocketing the treasure, I photographed it.
Then, for some reason, my eyes filled with tears.