Pete's Place (Advice Column Stand-in) (Patreon)

Dear Reader, 

Your usual host Ray Smuckles was inconvenienced by a rash this week, and so finally called upon me to step in and serve as his willing and capable understudy. I have overcome many troubles in my time, both of the ho-hum and the truly unique variety, and in my replies you will sense that I am no stranger to turning the shark’s eye on that which offers to destroy me.    

I promise to read your questions fully, consider them from a place of generosity, and submit a practical plan for easing your situation. Where possible, I will follow-up to see how my advice has served you, but it is highly unlikely you will notice me. You may believe you detect a scrap gone missing from your icebox or pantry; I consider that “fair violation” in exchange for the time I have given you.    

—Peter H. Cropes, Author

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Ray, an online friend of 11 years learned of some false accusations against me, basically that I'm a creep who does creepy things. Rather than stand by me, he seems to believe these allegations, and has decided to take a break from our friendship. Should I give up on him, ask his girlfriend (whom I'm friendly with) to intercede on my behalf, or what? — Wizeman

Dear Wizeman, 

Empty is the life of a man who lazily forsakes truth for the easy thrills of the harridan’s wagging tongue. This “online friend” (there is no such thing, but we will use your wording) was clearly already disposed to betray your goodwill, and as such fell in naturally with your accusers. By not confronting you directly on the matter he has shown you the yellow stripe of his character, and you may expect encore performances by his worthless hide any time it suits him. You do yourself a kindness to shed those who would so easily dispose of you, for only in the assertion of self-worth can we truly become whole. 

Justice is another matter, and its exploration rests at a loftier plane of philosophy than we consider here. If you wish to discuss it, there is a double-sided bench in Claemuir Park, closest to bus stop 4768, in your town. 4am Saturday. Begin speaking when you hear three sharp coughs. 

—PHC  

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Dear Ray - I'm spending my free time designing systems that create large scale objects out of popsicle sticks and plastic hubs. It's a lot of math and I often get burdened by the mindset that so much math causes. The thing I am making will be large, useless, and pretty. How do I deal with the period of time between now (burdened by calculations) and then (gazing upon my works)? — RJ

Dear RJ, 

Oh, how your letter awakens a particular memory within me. 

Many years ago, when I was just old enough that my breath had turned, Mom-mom and I took a bus several hours north to Breakfast Gap, where I was to be fitted for an orthodonture on special government weal. We had to travel under the “story” of visiting an auntie, for Daddy was inflexibly against any such charity, so the trip was sweetened by an early taste of the giddy freedom of deceit. 

The bus made a convenience stop in Frametown, which then as now was little more than a strip of collapsing shanties and a pump, but in a window there sat a hand-lettered sign which announced, “Hot Pizza.” We had never seen such a thing, though I did have a scrap from an old phone book on which an advertisement for “Giuseppe’s Pizza” — with a joyful illustration of the mustachioed foreigner Giuseppe —  foretold of this mysterious cuisine. I was always a child with a strong appetite, and this, combined with Mom-mom also feeling some shade of whimsy, got us knocking. 

A girthy and unkept man of some many years, with a shock of wild white hair around the crown of his bald head, waved us silently toward a card table on which sat two water glasses. As he filled them from a reused two-liter pop bottle, he asked if we would like “pepperoni” or “duck” on the pizza. I did not wish to anger him by rejecting what was clearly an animal of his own capture, but the promise of an exotic ingredient like pepperoni animated me to request it. Mom-mom winced at my choice, but softened when she saw the man's reaction. 

“A gourmet child,” he said, breaking into a brief smile. Few were the times I made her proud, so this stays with me. 

The pizza, as I now know it, was terrible. But to my young senses, it was a marvel of warm dough, buttery cheese, and the entrancing, powerfully ethnic coins of meat, which had just begun to sweat under the heat of the broiler. When the man saw my eyes widen from the experience, he knew he had an allegiant, and asked Mom-mom if I would like to come to a back room and see something. It was the way in those days for a parent to automatically agree to such a request, so off we went.  

Oh, what a treasure I beheld there: a hand-made marble run, so old the wires of its track had corroded in the humid climate, perhaps once observed by Benjamin Franklin himself. The shiny chrome balls would glide, twist, accelerate, and leap through the air on their gleefully long path downwards. At the bottom, a motorized ladder would carry them to the top again. In between coughs into a handkerchief flecked with blood both fresh and dried, the man showed where he had overridden the coin-switch so it would operate in perpetuity without payment. I would never have left this mesmerizing whirligig had the bus not laid low and long on its horn, summoning its flock of stragglers. 

Several years later, as a grown man of his own errands, I happened through Frametown. I will admit a yearning hopefulness filled my chest as I rolled down the strip, but the man’s shack had long fallen in on itself, no doubt taking the marble run with it. Ah, Life In These United States. All is decline, inevitable as we wade into the ground like a man walking slowly out into the tide.  

So, I encourage you to complete your contraption of wonder. Perhaps it will dot a child’s life with a smile, however briefly, on his own twisted journey. 

—PHC

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Dear Ray, my world is becoming increasingly uncool, do you think it would ever be possible for a human to visit the animal underground? How would I go about that respectfully? The last thing I'd want to do is human things up for y'all. -blasé in boston

Dear BIB,

I should strongly advise you against it. Humans are widely seen as carriers of disease against which we have no prevention, and you will be met only with glares, oaths, and furtive calls placed to emergency services. Furthermore, our portion sizes are sure to frustrate you, and you will hit your head on most things, when it is not being hit for you by the locals. Keep to your world, where you are safe and can possibly know the rules. 

—PHC 

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Confidential to Randolph_Sweetnlow: A tonic brewed with the sap of the common lowland red ash will clear up the irritation, and you will once again be able to digest mustard.    

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