TIME IS A PRETZEL

TIME IS A PRETZEL

By

Les Clark

“What?”

“What what?” I returned her serve.

This marital ping pong game has been going on for the many decades Myrna and I have been married.

“Your lips were moving, Rick. I came down the stairs and you’re sitting there talking to your coffee.” She came over for her morning hug, a kiss on my forehead before shuffling off to find her wildflower coffee mug.

“I’ve got your coffee here, hon. Sit and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.”

Myrna plopped onto her chair, pulling her bathrobe against the morning chill. “How many years have you been giving me facts only you understand. Why we aren’t wealthy from game shows is beyond me.”

I, Riccardo Nicopapsas, am only a second grade teacher, known to my kids as Mr. N, but I’ve been fascinated by science ever since I figured out I could transfer chocolate milk faster with a straw, eliminating my dripping brown mustaches. Two straws were a great leap forward.

My wife continued. “So, what brainstorm has control of your mouth. Save some muscles for your goodbye kiss.”

I gave it a go. “Do you know how they make pretzels, love?”

She put her face in her hands. “I’ll take pretzel-making for $400, Alex. They stamp them out by the billions in Minnesota or someplace. Good answer?”

“Ha ha, M, but wrong. Watch for how they made them years ago before automation.” I pinched my fingers on both hands, crossed them, flipped the invisible strands through the air before dropping the finished product on the table before me.

“You forgot a ta-dah, Rick.”

“Myrna, listen. What did you see just then?”

She took a sip, looking seriously over the rim of her cup. “Something I’d have a hard time describing to the EMT’s.”

“No, you saw me move my demo left and right, up and down, back and forth. But what else?”

My wife brightened. “It took you time to bore me.”

“Exactly, wife. The other dimension was time. But here’s the problem. Everything you saw is gone. We can’t play it back. We’re stuck in the present because nothing else is happening and we’re now living in the future of my pretzel-bending. Unless I was videotaping, we have no recording of my prestidigitation. That time is gone.”

My wife took a deep breath. “I’m making you a short stack with bacon, muffins with butter and jam. You’re gonna need calories when you battle with those little kids. What’s the lesson plan today? Was today’s demonstration just for me or do you intend...?”

I made my eyebrows move like caterpillars.

Pans were clinking, bacon was sizzling, pancakes were flipping. I think I heard Myrna mumble, “Those poor little kids.”

“No, honey, they will love it. I’ve got some really involved kids. That little Reese Rosenbloom is going to snap her arm off trying to get my attention. Jackson Jackson is a champion high-fiver. Phil Sweeney, Eden Paradiso, that English kid, Carleton Montclair; all eager, bright gems. I’ve been thinking of an experiment I can factor in after morning exercises.”

I looked hopefully at my wife. “What do you think?”

“I’ll sit at the back of the class during the next parents’ night. I may wear a wig.”

I finished my hearty breakfast. Before sending me off with an equally hearty kiss, Myrna whispered an inch from my face, “It was nice knowing you.”

*

I stood in the doorway to my classroom at the McCauliffe Science & Math Academy. The kids were lining up, fidgeting like they’d forgotten to make a pit stop before dashing out to catch the bus. I don’t think it’s in my purview to advise they go before they go; there are rules, but I have a way of getting around that. Have you taken care of business? They get the message.

The first student got a low five, Reese spun around, dancing in to stuff her coat and lunch into her cubby, ToniAnn gave me a toothy grin, Monty bobbed his head very reservedly and at the rear of the twenty kid conga line, JJ formally shook my hand. That lasted a second as he started his routine. “Hot sun on your nose, Mr. N. Stay cool like me.”

Hot sun, indeed, here in the South Dakota winter. But JJ is cool. His middle initial is another J. I smiled at a fast passing thought of how he’ll introduce himself in the future.

We finished the morning routine of Pledge, weather report given by Reese (“My older brother said his pee froze this morning, Mr. N. I’m scared.”), and what their favorite things they’d done over the weekend. “I got a yo-yo, Mr. N,” JJ shouted out of turn. “I can walk the dog.” I gave him a thumbs up.

After phonics, sentence construction, struggling through analog time (what a chore) and a brief reading test, I told them we were going to play a game, but I phrased it in the form of a question, liken the quiz show. How ingrained that is. The day before, I had taken a miscellaneous handful of geometric blocks, rods and spheres which connect together (beautifully vibrant primary colors) and just randomly made an oddball shape. I had pictured it and without any thought, one shape went together with another. I put this bizarre contraption in a paper bag, folded it shut and today, set it on a small table centered in our circle.

The day before was now the past. Suspicious looks followed my every move.

It’s always JJ. “You got a ferret in the bag, Mr. N?”

Now, why hadn’t I thought of a hole in the bottom, sat it on my lap and made something inside move? They would have loved a good scare. But no, sitting in Mrs. Cosgrove’s office explaining, no answering, why I’d made kids wet themselves was not in the best interest of my future.

“No, JJ, no ferret, snake or octopus.”

“Aw,” he said with a pouty lip and crossed his arms over a Transformers T-shirt.

Undeterred, I went on. “Now I’m going to think hard about what’s inside. You take your string bags, fill them with anything from the big bin of wood shapes, take it home and see if you can make what I made.”

Reese’s arm shot up faster than a heavy lifter rocket shot in Florida. “Will there be a prize, Mr. N? Huh? Will there?”

“Of course, Ms. Rosenbloom. I have some great stickers. But we have to do one more thing. Everyone reach out and hold the hand of the person next to you.” I sighed. “Yes, JJ, ToniAnn won’t hit you. I’ll even sit between you two. Okay, now everyone close your eyes and think about what’s in the bag. I’ll count to ten.” When that was over, I admonished them no social media to compare what each had built. To cover my bases, I included a note for the parents along with various artwork suitable for framing.

The day ended on a high note as kids babbled about what they would build. I entered the Teacher’s Lounge for a cuppa, as the British say. I sat before a steaming cup of Earl Grey, closed my eyes and pictured time forward.

“Rick. Rick.”

I heard the voice of someone I knew but couldn’t place it. There was a hand on my shoulder.

“Rick, it’s time to go home. You fell asleep.”

I was still in the lounge, but it was dark out. I had a certain unease, like I’d done something out of my control. One of the teacher’s aides bent down at my eye level.

“Tough day, Rick?”

“No, just focusing on tomorrow’s projects. Thanks.” I called Myrna and told her not to worry.

“Did you forget the kids are coming over for supper tonight. Get a move on. They’ll be here shortly.” Then she added “Love you.”

*

“Jacky Jackson, you get those blocks off the table. Mr. Nicopapsas will definitely be unhappy with spaghetti sauce on his teaching stuff. By the way, what are you going to build?”

JJ shrugged. “I think a giraffe, mama.” Then his eyes glazed over.

*

“Those are beautiful colors, Reese. Can I help you with your project?”

Reese Rosenbloom wrapped her thin arms around the colorful mismatched geometric shapes scattered on her bed. “No, mummy. Mr. N said we had to do it on our own. I can do it, I can.”

*

“Master Carleton, I’ve set your, uh, blocks on the rug. Shall I arrange them by size or color or shape?”

Monty closed his eyes to slits, pursing his lips until they trembled. “No, indeed. I shall do this on my own and I shall be mad should you let Shelley loose to bat them about.”

Whoa. Warren, the Montclair’s manservant stiffened. Where did that come from?

*

All over that Sioux City neighborhood, twenty, seven-year-old kids gazed unblinking at blue triangles, green spheres and assorted other shapes before their little hands started moving in a blur. In the morning, dozens of parents looked quizzically at the strange connections their children stuffed into string bags.

*

I got home in time and ahead of our twins. One, a daughter, ironically in private practice as a therapist. I can hardly wait for Amelia to comment on my state of mind. The roles are reversed now for when she was a rebellious teen. I spoke to many a slammed door. Fourteen was tough. Our son, Porter, a Marine sergeant, came with his longtime girlfriend. Sofia is a lovely girl. We’re hoping for grandkids some day---after the nuptials of course. Marines follow orders.

They don’t knock, they just pile in for supper like they did after backyard soccer battles. Hugs, handshakes and a kiss or two for both of us as they got seated around our table loaded with salad, a tureen of pasta fagioli, ziti with broccoli, garlic bread and a red Myrna picked out. She is so organized.

Later, when tiramisu was served, Myrna looked around the table, barely able to suppress the snort she has before laughing.

“Do you know what your dad made this morning?”

In mock indignation, I stood and pointed a finger at her. “Years of loving marriage and you ambush me?”

Porter used his DI voice. “Dad! Sit, sir!” Sofia put an engagement ring-fingered hand over his mouth.

Undeterred, Myrna went on. “He made air pretzels. Something about his display of four dimensions.”

“Well, they are salt free,” Amelia offered. Snarky is her skill.

After the laughing stopped, I went into my routine just to keep my wife quiet. “I moved my fingers to show mom how my hands went through three dimensions to hand twist the salt (free) snack and that the time it took was the other dimension.”

Suddenly, when I said that, a chill whipped through me.

“You okay, hon?” Myrna touched my arm.

I shook it off. “But then I said we can’t, unless we record it, see what I started, time moved past and that I couldn’t know what it looked like a second later. That we can’t move faster than the time we’re in.”

“Who knew you were so deep, Dad?” That Amelia.

We finished the evening with football talk, some political back and forth and when it was time, we shooed them out the door. Amelia couldn’t resist.

“Those pretzels are good for your diet, Dad.”

*

In class the next morning, all my second graders sat with their string bags in front of them as they sat cross-legged on the rug. Off to the side, sitting on the class table was my paper bag containing a kluge of tactile blocks.

“Are we ready for the big reveal, guys?” I stood like a magician over a top hat, ready to pull the rabbit out. They wouldn’t know that reference. I reached in and gently lifted free my connected blocks. I wasn’t expecting twenty kids screaming. JJ was on his feet, dancing around his shrouded creation. Eden was crying with joy.

“What’s going on here,” I shouted. “Calm down. Is it how beautiful my blocks are?”

Reese raised her hand. “Mr. N, mine looks like yours.” She carefully opened her yellow string bag. Laying before everyone to see, her assembly was identical to mine: same colors in the same shape order. ToniAnn shyly held hers up like a trophy. Same as mine. Every kid unwrapped their prized copies, mirror images of Mr. N’s. I stumbled back to my chair. It wasn’t possible.

JJ skipped to my side. “You okay, Mr. N?” He grinned. There must be a tooth under his pillow. “Thanks for the message.”

“What do you mean?” I took his hand.

“I looked ahead.”

*

The next Saturday, searching for a snack with my beer, I reached into one of the kitchen cabinets, the one full of chips (take that, Amelia), nuts, cookies and the like. I pulled out a bag I didn’t recognize. I opened up a cello sack of pretzels, spilling a bunch into a deep bowl. Then I looked carefully.

Like a Christmas string of popcorn, every pretzel was connected to every other pretzel. I flattened the bag to look for the manufacturer. Over and over around the crinkles, moving hands twisted dough ropes into pretzel shapes. I’d never seen anything like that before. My eyes widened when I saw they were made by the

MR. N’s HANDMADE PRETZEL COMPANY

Squeeze the individual flavor packets inside

Shake the bag for your customized flavor

The “USE BY” date was five years in the future.