| |
“Snowflakes all look the same.” – P.D.
The winter of 1775 struck Philadelphia like an ornamental vase to the face. No one seemed to expect the onset of cold weather, snow, and the icy wind that nipped at all exposed areas. Zippy’s teeth chattered to the point of driving me insane. It was so loud, I couldn’t hear myself think or talk. After two days of hearing her go on without end, I set out to find an apparel shop. I perused their selection of women’s muffs and picked out one that roughly matched Zippy’s fur color. When I returned to the print shop, I shoved the muff over Zippy’s head and her two front legs. The muff was a perfect fit, covering her entire midsection, keeping her toasty.
At least once a week, I tried to get some exercise by taking a brisk walk around the city. I forced Zippy to come with. My miniature mule made sure to mark her territory whenever she was presented with an opportunity. Every few yards, she’d get bored and slowly lean to the side until she’d fallen into a snowbank. I’d walk over to where she’d sunken several feet into the snow and bellow, “Zippy? Be thee alive?” Like an erupting volcano of fur and hooves, she’d kick and fight her way out of the snowbank, and we’d continue our walk.
When Old Stan Winter was at his most unruly, I was five months into my six-month arrangement with BJ. I’d had little luck finding other work. Everything I put my hands to seemed to fall to pieces. All those years working with Paps at the cork factory must have given me superhuman grip strength. Even though it came easier every day, typesetting wasn’t really my gulp of tea.
Then it hit me. I was sleeping in a ball on the cushion in the print shop. Zippy was curled on top of me in a still smaller ball. We were like peas in a tapered pod. Without warning, I was nearly drowned in a deluge of drool loosed from my mule daughter’s mouth. Zippy showed no signs of waking after I poked her several times, so I picked her up and held her over a bucket until I was assured her slobbering had ceased.
Drenched in the drool of another, I couldn’t fall back asleep. I laid Zippy back on our shared cushion, lit a candle, and began to write a letter home to my dear old friend the constable. I’d hardly gotten the greeting down when my hand slipped, and my quill fell into my mule’s drool pail. I fished it out and continued to write my letter. I was worried her slobber would stain the stationery. After all, someone could’ve thought it was my drool. To my amazement, it dried without a trace.
Back in Rinky-Dink, for a short while in my youth, there had been a crier who delighted the town with a number of illusions and modest scientific demonstrations. Some called him a witch. I called him by his real name, Brody. He was run out of town, but not before showing me and a few other children how to use invisible ink to send letters to spirits. You know, on second glance, maybe he was a witch. Zippy’s drool gave me an unusually bright idea. Perhaps her slobber had similar properties to lemon juice in that it was potable.
I bet I had you going there. You thought I drank from that pail—ha! No, but BJ did. He grabbed a ladle, and before I could stop him, he’d drunk half of it. I successfully masked the expression of disgust which was plastered on my face by slamming my hand in the printing press. After he set the ladle down, I asked, “So... Benji, how do you feel?”
“Fine—that water’s a bit off, though. How long has it been in that bucket?”
“Ages, probably. I’ll toss it out.” I didn’t actually pitch out the bucket’s contents because I was struck once more with a novel idea relating to invisible ink. What if Zippy’s drool had the same vanishing, message-carrying properties? When Frankie left the shop, I tried writing a brief note on a piece of stationery using the slobber as ink, allowing it proper time to dry. The words I’d written were undecipherable once dried, but when held near the light and heat of a candle, the words came back into view.
“We’re in business, Zippy! We’ll be rich or, at least, financially comfortable! Quick, before you forget, what did you eat last night to make you drool so much?” My miniature mule couldn’t recall, but I found the remains of a few turnips on her end of our shared feeding trough. “Guess what we’re having for dinner again tonight?”
“Hee-haw?” I phrased Zippy’s response here in the interrogative because I interpreted it to have been asked in the form of a question.
“No, not pineapple. Pay attention, Zippy. It was a leading question. We’ll be eating turnips.”
I helped Zippy don her muff and set out in search of bottles that we could fill with Zippy’s Secret Sauce, as I’d decided to call it. When we came upon unattended bottles, we filched them before anyone noticed. We didn’t have the capital necessary to purchase a crate of them, and besides, the statute of limitations has long since expired. When it became difficult to walk without dropping the bottles, we headed back to the print shop.
By then, I’d already thought up a design for the labels. It was a sketch of Zippy, holding a quill in one hoof while the other hoof was raised to her snout in a gesture of discretion. Unfortunately, I’d left my art supplies back in Rinky-Dink, but I managed. After a few hours, I’d made enough labels for the bottles we’d found. Zippy’s slobber also had incredible adhesive qualities, so we didn’t even need to buy glue for the labels. Those who bought the first few bottles will tell you the drawing on the label looked like a stick figure with long ears attempting to eat their hand and write about it. Art is great like that. Everyone sees what they want to see.
Anyway, what I lacked in artistic ability, I made up for with my slimy sales persona. I figured the invisible ink might help the colonial militias and make me some loose change at the same time. Later that week, I had my chance after Sammy busted my chops. Since I’d fallen on hard times and slipped on ice during a lunch recess, I’d been bringing my lunch to the congress. I’d just pleasantly drifted off to sleep, as was my wont. Sammy slammed a fist into my lamb chops, thoroughly busting them. The incident frightened Zippy so much that she nearly choked on her lunch—a little tin of pureed alfalfa drenched in Worcestershire sauce.
I stood to my foot and declared, “I’d like to present all of you fine, honorable, intelligent, deserving, discerning, brilliant, handsome specimens with a once-in-a-trillion-lifetimes opportunity. Yes, today and today only, my mule and I are here to tell you about the best new product to hit the market in espionage goods.” Zippy picked up a basket filled with sample bottles and began passing it around to the representatives. “That’s right. Zippy’s Secret Sauce, a versatile tool for espionage, personal, political, or business. What’s the sauce? What makes it so special? Well, I’ll tell you. This liquid is a miracle in a bottle. Yes.... Don’t drink it, BJ!” Frankie had pulled the stopper from his bottle and was sniffing the liquid.
“As I was saying, it’s a miracle. It works just like invisible ink but smells far worse. The British won’t get anywhere near stationery that’s been written on with this very special product. I’m talking a lot. Let’s hear from one of our oldest customers, Post.” I hopped over to my old pal’s seat. “Tell the folks how Zippy’s Secret Sauce has changed your life.”
“Uhhhh. It good.” Post never was an eloquent lad.
“How about you, Cheddar. You’re a sporting gentleman who no doubt has a few things he’d like to make disappear.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been applying this product topically to my letters for days with great results.” Cheddar then held up his sample vial and made various sweeping hand gestures to show it off for everyone.
“You’ve heard it, men. I’ve written up what I believe to be a fair and equitable contract, making my company the sole supplier of invisible ink to the congress. What say you?”
Long story short, they said they needed to think about it. Two weeks later, after the free samples had proven satisfactory, the measure passed unanimously with two abstaining votes. Cousin Sammy and I abstained because of the obvious conflict of interest. Zippy’s Secret Sauce proved invaluable over the coming years. The British never discovered that such foul-smelling stationery—which to the naked eye appeared blank—could hold the congress’ most crucial secrets.
