"How I Became Famous" by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

I vaguely recalled that Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, had submitted this piece for WriteOn Joliet's 2021 anthology.

So when he started reading it at WriteOn Joliet's mic night on Thursday night at the Book and Bean Cafe, the first since Calkins Day 2020, I was quite unprepared for where it was going.

Ed's wife Nancy Calkins read after Ed (You'll have to wait for the video. I don't have her hard copy). 

Listening to them read, I felt stunned, humbled, and slightly embarrassed. No, they do not work for me. Yes, if I had a real marketing team, I'd hire them on the spot.

Because they are unabashedly sincere in the kind things they say. And sincerity, some days, seems like a rare commodity.

BTW, my winning the lottery really wasn't canceled. I won the day I met Ed Calkins.

So here is Ed's piece: "How I Became Famous."

You might think that dying in my sleep, going to heaven for some face time with God, and being sent back might be something noteworthy in a man’s life. For me, however, it’s just another day at the office…HIS office. Now, I can’t claim to be sure, because I don’t remember any of this happening, but, based on the facts, it isn’t hard to imagine.

              God’s office is about ten stories high, wide as it is long, about three football fields, and made of fluffy white clouds. In the middle sits the Almighty about five stories hig, sitting at his desk made of brown oakwood colored clouds cluttered with books and papers all to scale for the bearded, robed, and haired Creator, all of those things long and white.

              “Hey, you old so and so, sit your big old butt down on that cloud chair over there so we can chew the fat.” (So and so is about as close as God gets to profanity.)

              “You should talk, Best Buddy,” (I call him that.) “You’ve got the biggest oldest butt in the universe.”

              I tell him that as I sit on the cloud just large enough for my rear, but about a football field too small for his. God isn’t sensitive about his age or size, which is just a number, but in God’s case, it’s an infinite number.

              “Thanks for saying so, Little Buddy,” (He calls me that) “Let’s get you up where I can see you better.” Which, I’m sure you all realize is just God using an expression. He can’t see better because he already sees perfectly.

              The cloud chair floats to just about his desk where I can see the pictures in back of Him. The walls from desk level to the ceiling numbered about one trillion of Gods closest friends and associates. The Angel of the Eon, past popes and Dalai Lama’s mingled with other do-gooders, dare devils, patriots, rebels and of course, his very good friends. I can’t see it. There’s too many to see, but I know my picture is on that wall somewhere. As you might have guessed, God and I go way back…he goes farther of course.

              “So, little buddy, how about a Mourning Drink?”

              Let me tell you a little secret least you embarrass yourself should you ever be invited into God’s office for some face time. If you speak English, you might hear ‘morning’ drink and ask for tea or coffee. God will cover your mistake, but you’re only going to get tea that’s maybe three to six times as the best tea you’ve tasted or nine to five and three quarters the best coffee you’ve tasted. If you answer correctly, you’ll get the best drink you will ever taste and the story to go along with its creation.

              ‘Mourning Drink’ is the translated name of a beverage made but rarely consumed by the Procon people of the 36th galaxy, five billion eons ago give or take. They can be best remembered for two things: healthy food and being disagreeable. As the name suggests, all of Procanius was divided into two groups; the Professionals, who were educated, wise, fair, and right in all things and the Convicts who were unscrupulous, stupid, unworthy, and always wrong. The Pros and the Cons agreed on almost nothing except the importance of healthy food, but the thing they disagreed strongest on was which group was the Pros and which was the Cons.

              Anyway, they crafted a drink made of all the heathiest fruits and vegetables blended together into a kind of green, smelly, soup. All of these plants tasted disagreeable enough by themselves, but combined, they took ‘disagreeable’ to a whole higher level. Of course, no one could stand the tastes, but each Procon pretended it was the staple of their diet.                                                                                                                   The drink got its name by the way actually use. If a person died who left you a better job, a large inheritance, or a better locker and you needed to seem sad about the person’s death, a glass of the stuff could keep you crying all day. Still, Procons produced and purchased far more of this drink than they ever consumed so when they became extinct during a planet wide hunger strike, they left behind barrels of the stuff to age.

              Normally fruits and vegetables ferment when aged but the bacteria responsible could not survive on such disagreeable of food source. Trapped inside a barrel, the hostile flavors were forced to battle each other as the eons continued to pass. Flavor against flavor the biological slop continued fighting and fighting until the disagreement could sustain no more. When every last fiber of disagreeableness is spent, the now single favor simply surrenders.

              God knows the precise moment when the Mourning drink is ready for heaven. An industrial barrel will materialize on the desk between you and the Almighty. God will hold up his finger in a dramatized pause. Then the barrels top will spit upward, the barrel will spill toward God’s very large cup, pour with the consistency of a thick milkshake, filling the air with the most agreeable aroma imaginable, then pitch backward and fill your cup before falling of the desk and into a trash basket.

              But what does it taste like? There are no words, of course but if cream were just creamier, if fruity were just fruitier, if refreshing refreshed better, if delicious just had a better taste, maybe I could describe it. Put it this way. Everything the slightest disagreeable is banished from this experience. The creamy concoction will start by agreeing with your tastebuds and nose, then topple down your throat agreeing as it does. Stomachs? The Mourning drink couldn’t agree with them more. In fact every part of your body will find a harmonious singularity with what you’ve put in your heavenly body. You’ll find the perfect satisfaction with a drink that leaves you ready in the extreme to begin your day of heavenly hobbies or sports such as bridge, backgammon, baseball, surfing, cloud riding, or if you’re lucky enough to make a team, newspaper delivery.

              Best Buddy God, after polishing off his drink, puts his chin in his palm and leans towards me smiling.

              “So, little buddy, how did you enjoy the life I designed for you?”

              “Man, was it ever great. Winning wars, accepting awards, flying through space in my fleet of star ships while managing solar systems while trying to avoid being taken prisoner by desperate supermodels begging to join my harem…”

              God seems unimpressed. So I added, “And my real life was really good too.”

              God brightens. “That wife I saved for you had something to do with it, I bet.”

              “Boy was she great! I hope she wasn’t too missed in her troop of little angels.”

              “We managed without her,” He allows. “Anything for my Little Buddy. I knew you’d enjoy the imagination I gave you too.”

              “Who wouldn’t,” I replied gratefully.

              I finish the last gulp of my mourning drink and lean back on my cloud just enjoying the feeling that pours through my entire body. Of course, when I leave His office, I’m sure to find that I’ve been drafted by some heavenly newspaper delivery team with a high enough draft pick to afford me. Then I noticed something in God’s face.

              “Something seems to be troubling you, Best Buddy,” I tell him. “Care to talk about it? I’m here for you, you know.”

              “Now, funny that you should mention that, Little Buddy, because I am trouble by what my divine foresight is telling me. It seems that my little friend is about to give me some advice.”

              God stares at me in accusation.

              “Well…’advice’ is a strong word. Maybe a little suggestion…”

              “You think I should make your birthday a national holiday.”

              “I’ve thought about it all my life,” I try to sound convincing. “It would be really good for the economy.”

              “Little Buddy, you do realize that I know everything!”

              “Don’t I,” I quip. “You’re the biggest know-it-all in the universe. That makes you a super-nerd. Why, I’ll bet that if you knew a little less, you’d have a girlfriend right now.”

              God’s eyes get all twinkly.

              “Little Buddy, that’s true on so many levels,” But the twinkling leaves replaced by annoyance. “I really too smart to ever need a little buddy’s advice, don’t you think?”

              “Come on, Best Buddy, I’m not the only person whose ever tried to suggest what you should do to help.”

              “True enough,” He sighs. One of the disadvantages of being everywhere at once is that I have to be at all the churches, temples, and mosques of the world to listen to people asking me to do something in specific detail as if I was some kind of divine idiot that needed a blueprint. The only thing more insulting is when that try to flatter me in an effort to gain my favor. Don’t they know I love them? They say they do, but the so and so they put into prays…well, they mean well.”

              “Yeah, isn’t it silly how that ask you for things instead of just letting you decide? That’s why I never went to church…”

              God shoots me a glare.

              “Look, Little Buddy, if you wanted your birthday celebrated, you should have done something to make you famous.”

              “But I was busy running my imaginary universes. Do you know how much time that took? Those spaceships don’t fly themselves and those supermodels get smarter every year…”

              “Might I remind you that I created everything? I think I know how much time it takes to run a universe.”

              “But did you ever create an imaginary one?”

              “I don’t have too. Everything I imagine is reality.”

              “So, I guess maybe you don’t…well OK you do but…”

              “Listen, Little Buddy, there are only 356 days in the calendar year, but there are trillions of people on Earth and nearly every one of them wants to be remembered. You know your…”

              “You’ve told me many times, God. I’m not the only person in the world, blah blah blah…”

              Now, I’m in trouble. God’s eyes narrow as he looks down on me with furrowed bushy white eyebrows. Even little buddies can cross the line.

              “Er what I mean, Mr. Best Buddy God sir, is the other people work so hard at a Blah Blah job. I just think they work too hard. Don’t you?”

              For a long minute, God just stares at me. Then, much to my relief, His eyebrows unfurrowed, and he sighs.

              “They do,” He agreed with resignment.

              “And most of them only get three days off per year, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. Oh, there are other holidays that aren’t important enough, but what if there were three holidays in a row? Wouldn’t that be special?”

              God almost groans.

              “Let me guess. You think that Lincoln’s Birthday and Valentine’s day should book end ‘Little Buddies’ day. I told you I don’t like you pulling rank. You were supposed to keep our friendship secret.”

              “It doesn’t have to be ‘little buddy’s day’, it could just be Ed Calkins day. “(that’s my name)

              “It doesn’t matter. National Holidays are made by an act of Congress, not an act of God.”

              “But you could use your influence…”

              “Believe me, Little Buddy, those guys don’t ever listen to me. Your life is over. It’s time for you to enjoy eternity in heaven. To make you famous enough for a holiday, you’d have to go back among the living and do something really incredible, something really heroic.”

              “You could help me, right?”

              “Of course I would. When have I not? But you’d have to do it…whatever ‘it’ is.”

              “I’d be ok with that.”

              God gives a heavy sigh before waging his finger at me menacingly.

              “I indulge you way too much, Little Buddy.”

              I nodded in grateful agreement.

              Still glaring at me, he picks up his divine phone which must be on speaker as I could hear both ends.

              “Gabriel here.”

              “Listen, Gab, there’s going to be a change in the Divine Plan. We have to put a hold on the next ice age. Remember that reporter that we’ve been watching…the one with the two last names and a bunch of kids.”

              “Denise Baran-Unland?”

              “Yeah…I need you to cancel that winning lottery ticket. Give it to someone else, I don’t care who.”

              “Are you sure, God? She could really use the money.”

              “I know. That’s the whole point. She’ll have to deliver newspapers as well as write for them to make ends meet. I’ve got a character for her career as a novelist, and she needs to meet this guy in person. Oh, another thing. Tell the AOD (Angel of Death) squad that I’ve got a returner in my office. I want him back in his body before it gets cold.”

              “Roger that,”

              He hangs up the phone.

              “Ok Little Buddy, go down there and be a character. I won’t bother asking you to keep quiet about this whole ‘trip to heaven’ thing because we both know you can’t keep a secret. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t remember.”

              “That would be great! I love you Best Buddy.”

              “I love you too, annoying Little Buddy.”

              That would have been thirteen years ago.

              Again, I can’t claim to be sure about all this, but it isn’t hard for me to image this happening because suddenly I lost my job when competing newspapers consolidated. To make things even better, I couldn’t find another one except the offer that required more work, longer hours, and more stress, all at less money with nearly an hour’s commute. I was going to take that job until I could find another, but the hours were so long that I never got around to it. Good fortune never looks like it.

              What I did get around to is meeting some of the best people I’ve ever known and will never forget. But also, just as it must have been in the revised Divine Plan, I met Denise, who was writing a novel and agreed to include me as a minor vampire type character. And I know she tried her level best to keep me a ‘minor character’ in what started as a novel, became a series, and is currently working its way to a franchise. The ‘Bryony’ Series is three books long and includes Bryony, Visage, and Staked. Now, you might say the series is a cautionary tale, and you’d be right. But you might also say the series is about a young woman turned mom and her struggle with her heart and the damage vampires do to it when she falls in love at a too young of age. You’d be wrong! What the books are about is Ed Calkins, of course and the cautionary tale is; if Ed Calkins asks you to marry, he might only ask once.

              Once the series was a thing, Denise, who never won the lottery, wrote a five part prequel she named “Before the Blood’ which traces the lives of a young woman and three men before they were vampires. Although the piece is brilliantly written as it’s again, all about me, she never mentions my name which angered her fan base. So, in an effort to save her from the cyber bullying and death threats I offered to write my own prequel.

              Heroes are seldom celebrated in their own time and Denise is hardly finished as a literary powerhouse, but to come to the consensus that she is the greats writer in human history will take several decades to find clarity. Though “Ruthless”, my prequel will never rise to the level of Denise’s work, it will be noted that the publishing of it likely saved the greatest writer of all time and for that, Calkins Day is sure to be celebrated on Feb. 13, started with parades all over the globe.