MAGNIFYING GLASSES 

These were useful devices, commonly found in office desks, and collectors’ tables. Sherlock Holmes used one to help him solve his cases.

Ray was a little different from other magnifying glasses. Objects around it were tired of being alarmed every time Ray panicked for no reason.

If, for example, a tiny insect crawled across the office desk, Ray would cry out that a huge monster had invaded their domain. A floating speck of dust was a meteorite about to crash. A pen leaking a bit of ink was a major flood coming their way. A strand of hair, a venomous snake.

Neighboring letter openers, stamps, paper weights, calculators, even office chairs, were constantly startled.

Once, an old, wise, tape dispenser told Ray the story of Peter and the Wolf, hoping that it would get the message. It didn’t work. Finally, one day, Ray’s owner found it on the floor by the desk, its glass shattered. The man looked around for clues, but all he could see was a bunch of poker-faced office supplies.

photo: Francisco De Legarreta

FURNITURE

Nobody’s considerate enough to tell their furniture that it’ll be moving to another house. So when the movers come in unexpectedly and start wrapping them up with plastic, and padding them with blankets, and pushing them into the back of a dirty truck, panic strikes.

Now, panic in furniture is hardly perceivable. A drawer knob may turn nervously, a shelf may slide back and forth a few inches, consoles with skinny legs may tremble a bit, and while subtle sounds may be produced, no screams will be heard.

In its new home, furniture may be distributed differently than before; a side table might end up far away from the sofa it was intimately close to for many years. An armchair could be separated from its twin, and placed on another floor where they’ll never meet again. Disgraceful, yes, but it could be worse: furniture that doesn’t fit in the new place is stored in damp, cold garages or attics, given away, or dismantled for firewood.

One way or another, moving is a trying experience for furniture, with all the inappropriate handling by the sweaty hands of strangers, let alone the inevitable pain of scratches and dents.

REPRODUCTIONS 

Mary loves the work of Giacometti. She’s seen his Walking Man at a museum in Pittsburgh. She noticed it was securely fastened to the floor with big screws.

One day she finds a ten-inch tall reproduction at a store and buys it. Eighty-five bucks. Quite expensive for her, but it’s made of high quality resin and comes with a Certificate of Authenticity for Fine Art Reproductions. To release the piece from its display, the store owner, a grey-haired Asian woman, has to fumble with a key for a while.

Mary gets home and tries to find the perfect place for her little sculpture. She tries the bookstand, the coffee table, the mantelpiece, and finally settles for a window ledge.

But whenever Mary is sleeping or out working, the Walking Man… walks. So she finds it in unexpected places, like on top of the fridge, lying on the sofa, inside a vase. Sometimes it hides so well, it takes Mary a day or two to find it.

She takes it back to the store.

“The Walking Man doesn’t seem to be happy anywhere in my house,” Mary says to the store owner.

“Maybe you’d like to exchange it for a seating man?” the owner says, and shows her a miniature of Rodin’s The Thinker.

Mary’s not sure, so the owner also shows her also a small version of the famous seated figure of Abraham Lincoln by Daniel French.

“These are nice,” Mary says, “but they seem like rock mountains unwilling to move even an inch from where they stand. The Walking Man was, at least, curious.”

“Sorry,” the store owner said, “but these are the only two kinds of men you will find here. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

FOOTBALLS 

New York (Reuters) — A football was run over by a black Tesla at 9:36 a.m. today on 68th and Madison. Contrary to the old adage “behind a ball there is always a child,” in this case there was no child. Although several witnesses were on the scene at this busy hour, nobody could say for sure where the ball came from. Police speculated that it could have been dropped from the window of a building or a car.

After close examination, forensics declared the ball unrepairable, since its bladder had exploded and all of its seams had bursted under the weight of the vehicle. Textured leather panels were scattered on the pavement as far as 100 yards from the site of the accident.

“Soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs and even golf balls are often victims of hit and run accidents like this one,” bureau chief Muller of the NYPD said, “typically, drivers don’t feel obligated to stop and help the injured spheres.”

HOSPITAL ELEVATORS 

They never get used to the crazy disparities between the music coming out of their speakers and the tragedies going on inside their fake wood walls.

Elevator favorites like The Girl From Ipanema will play while a girl from Indiana dies from overdose.

Louis Armstrong’s rendition of It’s a Beautiful World won’t soothe a mother’s heart as she holds her sick child.

Dave Brubeck’s Take Five will only make the man who lost all the digits in his hand feel worse.

Henri Mancini’s Mr. Lucky’s Theme sounds cruel when the poor soul riding the elevator is a homeless man beat up by delinquents.

Though it looks like it couldn’t get worse, it does. When they finally gather enough courage to leave their jobs, hospital elevators find out that this is a job they can't move away from; only up and down.

PLACES OF WORSHIP 

In 1977, a temple collapsed in India, killing hundreds of its faithful members. Did it express any remorse after the tragedy? Not a smidgen.

Temples, churches, mosques, synagogues, are not religious. They’re atheists, insensitive to human feelings, and that’s because they’re built with the same materials used in bridges, office towers, penitentiaries, and other non-religious structures.

While most of us feel awe as we enter a cathedral, cathedrals couldn’t care less about what they represent. While their ambience induce us to meditate, places of worship are obsessed with the erosive power of time. Organ music and bells make their ears hurt. They see no meaning in life and can’t wait to become dust.

At night, churches unlock their own doors to let thieves in, to steal their baroque saints, and to scrape their gilded walls.

SIMPLE SALAD RECIPE 

Ingredients: 1 head of lettuce, 2 tomatoes, 1 red onion, oil, vinegar, shredded Parmesan, salt and pepper.

Chop the head off a lettuce. Discard the body. Slice the tomatoes and drain their blood. Sprinkle salt and pepper on the open wounds. Thinly mutilate a red onion and pull its rings apart. Mix the oil and the vinegar — it won’t be easy; their mutual hate is legendary, and they’ll do everything to separate. To toss the salad with the dressing, pinch ingredients from the bottom with tongs, lift them at a good altitude and let them drop inside a hard bowl. Repeat until lettuce leaves look beaten up. Take a piece of Parmesan cheese and scrape it against a sharp grater over the bowl until it turns into a pile of curling shreds. Spoon a portion on your plate, stab the salad with a fork and chew it to a pulp.

UNREAD PRESIDENTS' SPEECHES

As everyone knows, presidents don’t write their own speeches. They have ghost writers just for that. Once the last word is put down on paper, speeches come to life and want to be delivered immediately. Anxiety dominates their lives, as they wait inside the dark pockets of overpriced suit jackets.


Unfortunately, we now have a president who prefers to ignore these carefully crafted texts. Why? Ghost writers are trained to avoid offending minorities and jeopardizing diplomatic ties with other nations, which are among this president’s favorite things to do.


As a result, the poor stacks of depressed A4’s and their diplomatic, inspiring content, are left unread in those silk-lined pockets. Worse of all, they’re forced to listen to the vulgar discourses that replaced them. When that happens, it’s wise to keep them away from paper shredders.

TATTOOS

    I couldn’t fall asleep that night. I kept feeling a tingling sensation on the inside of my left arm, like something was trying to call my attention. Finally I realized it came from the small tattoo I had gotten just the day before. As I turned the light on, it spoke for the first time:


“It’s disheartening. One day you’re ink in a bottle, next day you wake up and find out they made you into something else — you could be a flower now, the name of a pet, the flag of a football team, la virgen de Guadalupe, a carp. I don’t know what the hell I am.”


“You’re a Chinese monogram representing a fisherman’s net,” I said.


“Why a fish net?” the tattoo said.


“It symbolizes being open to whatever comes your way.”


“But I didn’t choose to be that. Neither did I choose to be stuck with you for the rest of my life.”


“It’s the same thing with people; we can’t choose to be born a human, a squirrel, or a tree. We don’t get to pick our birthplace, our parents, or even our names. But we’ll never be happy unless we welcome it all with open arms, like a fish net.”


“Bullshit. I want to be removed by lasers.”


“How do you know about lasers?”


“That last girl who slept here, she had a tattoo on her back. A bird. You fell asleep while hugging her, so the two of us were face to face all night. The bird told me the girl used to have a star of David next to him, but it was removed when she converted to another religion.”


“Fine, we’ll get you wiped out tomorrow, but be aware that erased tattoos don’t go back to the ink bottle. They just disappear in thin air.”


It let me sleep after that.