OREOS.
Adrian Korpel 

   Dear Mr. CEO, 

I realize that you are extremely busy, and would no doubt like to pass this letter on to one of your minions. However, as company president it is you who bears the ultimate responsibility for the pain and suffering caused by your OREO cookies. Therefore I urge you to read on. 
   No doubt you'll know the cookies I refer to. They consist of two blackish disks, held together by sugary glue. I used to eat your cookies frequently when I was a kid, but haven't touched them since. Until last week, that is. 
   Last week I found myself on a plane traveling to a meeting in Cleveland. I was sitting in the center seat between a pregnant woman on the aisle side and a fat man with prostate trouble near the window. My body was scrunched up with my feet resting on my briefcase, as the overhead compartments were full. You are probably unfamiliar with that situation, but I assure you that it is very uncomfortable. 
   Shortly before landing, we were offered lunch, or more precisely, the metaphor for lunch that the airlines hand out these days. My little cardboard box contained a fat-free turkey sandwich, two lettuce leaves, a radish and two OREO cookies in individual wrappers. It is the cookies that I want to talk to you about
   I assume you are familiar with the little cellophane wrapper your cookies come in. It is blue and white with your company's red logo hidden away in a corner. The text is simple: OREO CHOCOLATE SANDWICH COOKIES. On the bottom part of the wrapper is a list of ingredients: riboflavin, niacin, thiamin mononitrate, the usual chemical cacophony. The lettering here is extremely small -- to save your customers anxiety I imagine. 
   At this point in time I no longer remember why I decided to eat one of your cookies; too much has happened. Maybe I was overcome by nostalgia. Such things do occur, forgotten images come to mind (I once had a girlfriend who used to unscrew your cookies to get at the sugar with her tongue.) At any rate I made the fateful decision to partake, and proceeded to pull on the wrapper where it said PULL HERE. 
   Now, usually one finds a little tab on which to pull, after which the wrapper sort of unfolds. In the case of your cookies the "HERE" in "PULL HERE" refers to nothing in particular. It is a generic instruction, of ritual significance possibly, but not functional. After several unsuccessful attempts to tear the cellophane, I decided to use my pocketknife, which was in my right jeans pocket. 
   I now want you to visualize my situation, as it might, for example, be sketched out in some detail by an experienced lawyer. As told before, I was sitting scrunched up between two voluminous people. This time, however. I was restricted upwards by my luncheon tray yet. The person in the next row, having finished his lunch, had leaned his chair backward and gone to sleep. My actual maneuvering space had become negligible; my posture was that of a praying mantis. To try and get a pocketknife out of the pocket of tight jeans in those circumstances is madness. Nevertheless I tried. 
   What follows is not easy to describe, and I would rather not dwell on it. Suffice it to say that I ended up with my hand deep in the left jeans pocket of the pregnant lady sitting next to me. It was a mortifying experience, the more so since I was twitching my fingers in order to locate my pocketknife. 
   Explanations are of course insufficient in situations like this. Besides, an account starting with the urge to unwrap a cookie does not carry conviction. I apologized as best I could, glad that the lady had not started screaming, but such relations as we had remained strained, and our small talk came to an end. 
   It could be argued that I should now have given up, but my wrath at your product made me obstinate. This time I tried to tear the cellophane apart with my teeth. In retrospect, I see that the situation had its scary aspects. There is something unsettling in the spectacle of a large man, wedged into a center seat, tearing at an Oreo cookie like a lion mauling a carcass. Witnesses tell me that I actually made growling noises while vigorously shaking my head. That may explain why my pregnant neighbor started crying and the fat man in the window seat launched his preemptive attack. 
   I bear you no grudge, Mr. CEO. Life is too short for that, and punitive damages just cause pain without cure. It may interest you though that various kind people, hearing my story, are making donations to a special amelioration fund in my name. It is located at the First National Bank; you may want to contribute. I trust we will never meet in court. 
   Sincerely, AK.

EDEN

Adrian Korpel 

Artwork: Adam and Eve by Botero

Courtesy www.1st-art-gallery.com

Waking up, my side hurting, I found her lying next to me, 

a being like me yet not like me, 

a curved softness, wet ebony gleaming in the dawn, a smell of coconuts, 

she confused me, stirred me. 

I touched her hair, stroked her breasts, brushed her lips, 

I bent down to her nakedness. 

Much later G. told us our work schedule. 

What fun we had giving the animals names! 

Hirla, the striped hors, 

Mabu of the great mane, 

Tuwulo, the long-necked.

In the end we got silly about the naming, 

called the little hairy one with the eight legs Yucka, 

the fat, warty one Mr Gross. 

(That was Eve’s idea, but G. scolded her for being childish,

and called her Woman.) 

The reptile didn’t want to be named, and gave us a lot of trouble. 

I thought Dimon for the diamond pattern, 

but Eve called him Snake for sneak, 

for his sliding and slithering and hissing, 

for his forked tongue, for his belly crawl, 

for being a bad kind of animal. 

One morning he hid in the apple tree that G. had made, 

and when Eve picked an apple for breakfast, 

he bit her. 

When she died, I lost interest in G. and his garden. 

I buried her near the rock where we woke up that first morning. 

Then I collected the animals, 

opened the gate, 

and left.

A LONG NIGHT AT THE OPERA: 

IL TROVATORE 

Adrian Korpel 

It all starts when the gypsy Azucena throws her own baby into the fire instead of the Count di Luna’s little baby brother which is surely a dumb thing to do, but who can blame her being confused what with seeing her mother burn at the stake for bewitching the count’s baby brother and noticing the Count’s sardonic grin, and so making a small mistake in dealing out vengeance, wouldn’t you have ? 

Azucena brings up this wrong baby B as her own son and names him Manrico, this being a manly name, but he becomes a troubadour also known as Trovatore, and then falls in love with a hefty lady singer called Leonore of whom as it happens the Count di Luna is also besotted, so the two become bitter enemies though they are brothers but don’t know that, are you with me so far? 

Now Leonora loves Manrico passionately at first sight, but the Count di Luna not so much as he sings bad Italian at her with a Russian accent, so of course the two men come to blows and Manrico wins in spite of being a small troubadour, but he makes the mistake of not killing the Count which really complicates matters and makes an opera much longer than it needs to be anyway, don’t you think? 

A number of hours pass while the two men sing not so much of being in love with Leonora as hating the other one for thinking he is more in love with her, but finally the Count di Luna gets the upper hand by treachery and deceit, and sends Manrico to the block whereupon Leonora poisons herself, and Azucena tells the Count he has killed his own brother which makes him gasp audibly just as the curtain falls. 

THE END

THE PHLEBOTOMIST

Adrian Korpel

Art: health.state.mn.us

See this guy here lying on my couch? Looks peaceful, doesn't he? He came in around ten to give blood for his prostate operation.He's in his sixties, like most of them, all swagger with a scared little boy inside. Look at him now, in his stone-washed jeans and his purple shirt. Pathetic, isn't it, at his age? He's a professor you know. You should have been here when he came in. 

   "My name's Aubrey Stone," he says, "you   can call me Aubrey." 

He lies down on the couch and winks at me. 

   "Well, let's get started," he says," Do your worst and suck me dry." 

Great line, I think, really original. I ask him to roll up his sleeves, and notice that his veins look really poor. I take my syringe and stick the needle into the best one. Nothing. So I poke around a bit: Nothing. He has turned away his face, like they all do, but I see him wince. 

  "Does it hurt?," I say. 

  "Yes," he says, "you're hurting me." 

I decide to stick his hand instead, and this time I'm in luck, the syringe fills up nicely. I take 5 cc of blood, label it and send it to the lab. Then I measure his blood pressure, and find it's 145 over 102. 

   "It's a bit high," I say, "something must be making you nervous." 

   " Yes," he says, "you are." 

Blaming me again, I think. I give him a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, and tell him to look at the pictures to calm down. 

   "Those pictures may be too exciting," he says, "don't you have a Ranger Rick?" 

Smart Alec, I think, just wait till you see the big needle. When his count comes back from the lab, it's 42, so I can go ahead. I take his blood pressure again, and it's gone down to 140 over 90. 

   "That's better," I say. 

  "I'm not surprised," he says, "that magazine you gave me is full of pictures of flowers. It wouldn't excite a rabbit." 

He pauses a moment to think, like those professors do . 

   "Maybe I'm wrong," he says, "maybe rabbits eat flowers." 

I look at him, but he's serious. He must drive his wife crazy with that way of talking. 

   "Well, are you ready for the big one?," I say. 

   "Sure," he says in a kind of pinched voice. 

I put the elastic strap around his arm and take out the big needle. That's when he makes his mistake: he looks at the needle and faints -- 

So there we are. I suppose I'll better get a doctor. Look at him though, all peaceful in his stone-washed jeans. I bet you he's dreaming. Probably about rabbits eating flowers.

SEDONA

Adrian Korpel 

So we’re sitting on Cathedral Rock, waiting for the Andromedans to take us to their galaxy, and it’s cold and sleeting, totally not the red-rock Sedona of the travel brochures, and I say to Feather Angelheart, where are those people? 

She just looks at me through that misty angel cloud of her hair and smiles.

Look, I say, I’m not complaining, really, you’re an attractive, spiritual woman, and I can sometimes see your aura shining through the chakras of your body where the Ch’i flows in and out, but nobody has shown up yet, and I’m wet and hungry. 

Trust the Vortex, she says, and hands me an oatmeal power bar with pine nuts. 

Don’t misunderstand me, I say, I’m grateful you fixed my inner child, and Eagle Feather Clearing with you was a lot of fun, and I loved the Iconic Footbaths and the Full Moon Ritual we did together, but I really came here to be taken to Andromeda. 

They’ll come, she says, just wait until the Medicine Wheel has made a full turn. 

You know, I say, I’m beginning to feel guilty. I told my wife I’d be here to study the Supai formation and the Coconino layer, and I haven’t touched a rock yet other than this cold slab of wet sand stone we’re sitting on. 

Your secret is safe with me, she says. 

I respect your psychic regression, she says.

And we did have fun, didn’t we, she says, touching my face. 

Yes, we did, I say, holding her hand and thinking it over –- 

Let’s go down and do Animal Whisperings again, I say. 

OTHELLO LITE

Adrian Korpel

art:Allposters.com 

Okay people, let's get started, we have a lot to do. First, thank you for coming early; I know how difficult that is. We've all got our regular jobs, we're tired, and nobody pays us for this; we're not professional actors. So, again, thanks for being here on time. 

   Now this is the situation: two months from now we're doing Othello, and we haven't even read the script yet. So let me give you a synopsis. Othello, a Moor and a Venetian general, is married to Desdemona, the daughter of a Senator. Iago, one of his officers, has been passed over for promotion in favor of Cassio and is hell bent on revenge. He makes Othello believe that his wife is having an affair with Cassio. A lot of complicated stuff happens, and in the end Othello kills Desdemona. In fact, he smothers her with a pillow. Then he finds out the truth, is sorry, and kills himself. 

   As you'll notice, this is pretty heavy stuff, and I think we have to lighten it up a little. Let me tell you why I think that. Half a year ago we did Hamlet, and from a dramatic point of view it was a disaster. We all know that. Art Johnson, who is no longer with us, turned Hamlet into a stand-op comedian. At the soliloquy people started to giggle already and by the time Art came to "Alas poor Yorrick ...," they were rolling in the aisles. 

   I realize that Art wasn't the best actor in the world; in fact, with all due respect, he was pretty lousy. But that's not the point. The point is that people laughed; we got more laughs than when we did 'Blithe Spirit'. So I've been thinking, 'why not do it again with Othello?' But this time, let's go all out, make it into a real comedy. 

   Now, how do we do this? Until the final death scene, things shouldn't be too difficult, I figure. True, Iago is a nasty, chilling character, but we can tone him down a bit, make him more into a buffoon, sort of. Maybe dress him in baggy pants or something. As for Othello, we make him stutter, for example. An enraged, jealous stutterer is always good for a laugh. The real difficulty, as I see it, is the death scene when Desdemona is smothered with a pillow. Offhand, there's not much humor in that, so we've got change it. 

   Here's what I have in mind. Othello approaches Desdemona with the pillow, and the audience expects the worst. People are hiding their faces in their hands. But then comes he surprise: Othello starts a pillow fight, and he and his wife have a merry romp on the bed, feathers flying and everything. End of performance. Well what do you all say? Is that a great play or what?

AT TARGET 
Adrian Korpel 

 When I enter the coffee shop at Target, a chorus line of fat, happy bagels and sinuous pretzels welcomes me. I choose a bagel studded with sesame seeds like a diamond-encrusted ring, order a double cappuccino, sit down, and look up at the commercial spectacle above me.

 From the store’s ceiling, gridded with fluorescent lights, posters hang down like banners for the Good Life, the Life you have a Right to, the life guaranteed by Mastercard. The poster closest to me shows a deeply contented pharmacist, smiling broadly while holding up a bottle of cough syrup. Close by hangs a paper housewife in a pink, subtly swelling tee shirt, also smiling and carrying a half-gallon milk bottle in each hand. She is using them as semaphore signs to signal the pharmacist, her paramour. They spell out my love, my love, my adorable apothecary, drop your white coat and run to me, drugged by desire. 

 But she is not the only one yearning for the apothecary. Another woman, much farther away than the tee-shirted signer, is running toward him along the ceiling. She is a lawyer in full stride, arms swinging. Her gray business dress is Simple yet Elegant, Sober yet Attractive, Prim yet Alluring. She knows that Great Design Doesn’t Have To Cost A Lot, as she tells me in three-inch bold letters beneath her feet. Will she reach the pharmacist in time before the semaphore siren has lured him to her grotto? It’s problematic, there are choices involved, arrows that point to other caves in the store: Jewelry, Cosmetics, Health, Beauty, Lingerie, Men, Women, Maternity. 

 I sip my coffee, bite into my bagel, and watch the drama unfold high above me in the cork-tiled heavens. There is nobody else around, there is only me and the ineffable universe of banners and bagels, pretzels and coffee, the sufficient metaphysics of my desire.