Inside FIFA’s Philly Takeover
A hot July brings glimpses of Martha’s Vineyard and Ruth’s woodland visit.
The State of the Paper
The blaze of summer has arrived with oppressive temperatures hitting Philly this week. Please stay cool and hydrated out there, readers. Speaking of heat, I have some writing news hot off the press. As of Monday the 29th, I have received my first rejection from a magazine. This is not terribly unexpected news, but disappointing nonetheless. I know I have a solid story and it's just a matter of patience and perseverance until someone publishes me. For now I can start my book of motivation where I keep all of my rejection letters to get inspired by.
In this month’s edition we take an inside look at FIFA’s Fan Fest at Lemon Hill. I do some boots on the ground reporting as they say in the biz. A barber shop experience gets shared as a Martha’s Vineyard’s fan is revealed. The next volume of Claude-by-Cheese drops and it's an action packed one. Finally, Ruth’s Book Club takes a twist and our beloved mouse goes to a woodland paradise. That’s all I have for you this month and as always thanks for reading.
-Niall
The Inside Fan at FIFA’s Fan Fest
Saturday June 13th, with a blazing sun at its 3:00 zenith, I trudge through FIFA’s Fan Fest at Lemon Hill south entrance alone. My fellow investigative journalist, tied up with sleeping off a hang over, left me flying solo to cover the event I have been keeping a close eye on.
My first thought was “Wow there are a lot of Ecuadorian fans here.” The national team would be playing the next day against the Ivory Coast in the first host match of the World Cup that Philly would have. Yellow, red, and blue spread out all over the place as I ascended the steep hill they had the water station set up on. Giant fans blew mist right next to a line of automatic water dispensers arranged like beer taps. My 15 minute walk over had already got me sweating and in need of hydration.
Surveying the scene before me I took in the music festival-like atmosphere. There were game stations and food vendors. A beer garden that consisted of a dozen or so picnic tables sat under partial shade, and a massive screen with stage set below it, took up the far end of an open dusty field. I headed straight for the shade and for a beer. I almost got in line for a Coca-cola fan experience but quickly realized they weren't gonna give me a refreshment and bailed. Armed with a stadium priced Mango Cart, I squeezed myself into the sliver of shade that barely stretched onto the only available standing table. I settled in to watch some of the Qatar and Switzerland game. Little did I know it wouldn't be long before I became an honorary Ecuadorian.
Three middle aged dads showed up to the newly vacated standing table next to me. In an attempt to not block some other watchers, they scooted their table next to mine and we swiftly got to chatting. Visiting from LA, Texas, and Florida respectfully, they asked the standard things you do when meeting strangers at a World Cup Fan Fest. Do you follow soccer? What teams are you rooting for? Where are the bathrooms? Would you be able to save our table later when we have to leave for a bit? We would buy you beer and maybe a stripper. All standard stuff.
I had to politely decline the offer of free alcohol and “entertainment” because I had a dinner date planned with my wife right after the game ended. They found this to be the only acceptable excuse I could have offered. They chatted some more, and we cheered when Qatar scored a last second goal. The match had been a snooze fest up until that point. As I made my goodbyes they ceremoniously explained that I was now an honorary Ecuadorian and compelled to cheer for them. Unfortunately, it seems I was anything but a good luck charm for my new homeland’s team for they lost the game against the Ivory Coast.
My time at fan fest did not end there, because just a couple of days later, Taylor and I got in line on June 19th with thousands of others to watch the USA take on Australia. Showing up an hour and twenty minutes before kickoff apparently was almost not enough time to get in to see the start of the match. The line took a long time to filter through security and we had only 15 minutes to find a spot to watch the game from.
The Czy Creeks (a chair that sat directly on the ground) we brought fit well in with the contingent of blankets and lounging fans under one of the lone trees in direct view of the main screen. This sitting down area did not last long as more people filed in front of us standing and blocking the view of the people sitting right behind them. So those sitting fans stood up and that just caused more people to be blocked and have to stand up to see. This continued until we were all up on our feet and cheering as the USA slotted their first goal. The atmosphere was akin to a music festival, people beelining for beer or the bathroom in between the action. The energy was palpable and infectious as we jumped up and down. An impromptu passing drill even broke out during half time.
All in all, the Fan Fest has been a wild success for Philly, seeing more visitors than any other Fan Fest this World Cup. The experience on the inside is pretty fun, especially when you are surrounded by hundreds of like minded fans cheering on the action. Definitely worth a visit if you can make it out to Lemon Hill.
Barber In Fitler Square
The older man and I share bemused looks at the empty barber shop. He checks the bathroom while I sit next to the pile of laundry taking up two seats. The washer spins away through its cycle and the wind down to the morning show blares in the background. Finding it empty he returns to stand and worry his hands together. I offer that they are probably across the street and will be back any minute. He doesn't look too convinced. My barber proves my point, coming in with a steaming coffee. The older man’s barber isn’t too far behind with a cheery hello and a floppy-eared dog. Megan nuzzles my hand as the barbers set up, and I scratch around her butterfly collar.
We are sat in purple vinyl and jacked up into position. His barber snips away with scissors and mine picks up clippers as I ask for four on the sides. The question of vacation came through an easy tee up for the start of summer.
“Oh Martha’s Vineyard, I have never been but I have read and seen so many movies about it. I feel like I have to go.”
The older man smiles at the three letters inked below his barber's eye.
“In twenty twenty I was locked up…for doing something not great. Just for thirty days. I didn’t want to leave my cell cause the guys out there…they were used to everything…I just didn’t want to get into that. So I stayed in my cell. My cellmate had a book in there and he asked if I wanted to read it. I stayed in that cell and just read that book.
It was about this lady who ends up moving to Martha’s Vineyard and she meets this guy and they obviously get together. It was really nice. But ever since, I’ve wanted to go there. It seems like one of those places I have to go to now.”
My barber had me facing away but I could see his head bob in the mirror. I left after handing my barber his due. Saying goodbye to Megan, I tousled her ears one last time. I hope to know that desire for a place like Martha’s Vineyard. An unbridled child's excitement in a grown man’s body is a strangely wholesome thing. Out the door I couldn’t help smiling, thinking about the older man’s barber drinking a Frosé.
Claude-by-Cheese Vol. 4
As much as I would love to write that my first instinct upon seeing armed creatures enter my building was to flee, I will not lie to you here. At the end of the day, I am an academic at heart and academic hearts are not prone to fast action. I stood there on the balcony staring at where the group of dark clothed figures had been just moments ago. The sudden plunge of fear locked my limbs together, not able to look away from where they had just been.
All of a sudden, I was released from my frozen state, and I stumbled back inside. Looking frantically around I knew I had to flee before the figures got up here, but I found it difficult to drop everything and go. I grabbed my leather satchel and scooped the coded rhyme and warning into it, along with my trusty atlas and hunk of swiss wrapped in wax. Always handy to have a block of cheese on paw for a quick get away. My satchel slung, I stuck my head out of the front door of my apartment.
Just as I was casting my gaze down the hallway, the elevator dings, its metal doors gleam and slide open. The cloaked figures stare back at me through their shadowed hoods. I squeaked a rather unattractive cry and slammed the door. Throwing the bolts to my door, I suddenly wished I took security like Reg did. Rushing back out to my balcony I stared at my escape route with a sinking feeling. There was no fire escape attached to my building that I could clamber down. Besides jumping down to the street below which would surely shatter most if not all my bones, the only other option I had was an identical looking balcony across an eight foot or so gap. It was precisely eight feet and two inches and theoretically I could make the jump.
You see, a couple of years ago, the mouse who lived in the apartment that accessed my escape route balcony, locked herself out on the metal platform. It was a particularly windy day and as one does in a scary situation, she was freaking out. I happened to hear her calls for help and after dialing for a really tall ladder to be brought, I tried to provide emotional support. I am apparently not the most reassuring fellow because her panic only climbed higher. At one point she tried to threaten me to jump over to her and save her. I obviously did not do such a dangerous stunt and she was successfully rescued.
In the aftermath of the whole situation, I couldn’t get the thought of jumping over to her balcony out of my head. Being of an inquisitive mind I sat down and did the calculations to see if it was actually possible for me to jump across the gap. Long story short, I could do it.
Knowing you could theoretically do something is a whole other thing than actually throwing your body into the open air. As I contemplated how best to psych myself up, my pursuers were trying to get through my front door. The sounds of banging and then splintering wood got me to turn my head around. A dinner plate sized hole was taken out of my front door and two gleaming red eyes narrowed at me. Listening to my reflexes I leaned to one side and a knife whistled right by head spinning off into the night and clattering to the street below. My wits were barely marshaled as I clambered atop the balcony railing. There was another loud crack and I swear I felt some little splinters of wood on the back of my neck.
Without looking behind me I launched myself out, pushing off with all the strength that coiled in my legs. The wind rushed and cut through me as shouts nipped at my tail. Those eight feet flew by in an instant and my paws were scraping the bottom part of the balcony across from mine. I clamped on with all I had in me and cried out as my flight was jerked to a stop. I swung there for a few precious seconds, turning my head briefly to see the hooded figures piled out onto my little balcony. A few curses were spat at me and then another glint of a knife flashed in the moon light and I instinctively let go.
My original plan had been to climb up and onto the balcony banging on the door for the mouse who lived there to let me in. Now with my instinctual reaction, I was falling down to a new plan. A balcony shot by me and I grabbed for it, my paws banging painfully against the railing and failing to latch on. I cried out as I looked down, seeing I only had two more opportunities to arrest my descent before I met the sidewalk with some inevitable broken bones. I flung my whole body at the next railing, hitting it with a whoomp and an audible crack.
My lungs wheezed painfully in my chest as I hung draped over the side of the balcony. It felt as though I might have cracked a rib, lances of fire raced through me with every breath I took. I could just hear the commotion of my pursers above me, rushing to get off of my balcony. I knew I had to get moving, they would be down sooner rather than later, every second counted in this deadly chase I was in.
With an effort I levered myself up and over the balcony crashing with a significant clang. The glass door in front of me swung open and a bewildered looking squirrel stared down at me.
“Someone’s chasing me, gotta…get…away.”
Speaking was an effort, especially when it was combined with the herculean effort of getting my feet under me.
“Woah there buddy, just calm down. I'll call the Police and we can get this all sorted.”
I grunted mostly incoherent noises and pushed past him into his apartment.
“You can’t just barge in here! How did you even get on my balcony?”
I frantically sprinted through a living room and combined kitchen into a bedroom. I turned back out in confusion, locating the exit of the hall to the living room and making a beeline for it. The squirrel started to get in my way but saw something in my eyes that made him jump back as I trundled by as fast as my painful body would allow. Out in the apartment building’s hallway I search for an exit sign or stairwell, finding neither. I rush over to the elevators. There are two sets of doors and I mash the down arrow between them. The right set of doors ding open and I am inside and jamming the first floor button. Just as the metal slides between me and the hallway I hear the ding of the other elevator and see a sliver of black rushing robe before I am whisked down ward. My pursers were hot on my tail, hopefully they didn’t notice my swift exit from that floor.
There was no time to really think because I was out, grabbing my satchel that I had dropped in my daring leap to escape, and hustling down the street. Traffic was almost non-existent at this time of night, but the rattle of trolley wheels had me scurrying to hitch a ride. I swung myself up and onto the back wincing as my ribs continued to shoot stabs of pain into my chest. Just as I was whisked around a corner, I saw the red gleaming eyes of my pursuers stopped and staring with malice from the middle of the street. One of them held a gun up, pointed as if we were two gunslingers facing off, but the trolley had already disappeared taking me along with it. I slumped into a seat and tried to formulate a plan on what to do next, but sleep gathered me up and lulled me into her dreams.
Ruth’s Book Corner
This month I am without a book review for you fine gentle readers. Not from lack of reading, mind you. No, my problem lies in the fact that the books I read didn't spark a good source for a review. Thankfully I was recently in a place that was certainly sparky enough for me to write about.
No, it was not a power station, I see why you thought that with me dropping spark in back-to-back sentences. I swear I’ll avoid any more electricity adjacent verbiage to clear up any confusion for the rest of my segment.
It was Everdell, I went to Everdell. After the boss man came back from Memorial Day Weekend spouting about how great it was, I thought I would see what all the fuss was about. Let me tell you the fuss was well founded.
To the best of my ability I will try and paint a picture for you. A pastoral woodland paradise run by animals, building communities in harmony and nature. I visited a couple towns that had thriving diverse populations, hares running general stores and bats studying in belfries. I was welcomed in and lended my paw towards gathering materials to build a school house, a stately bespectacled crow overseeing matters. I met a badger running a popular inn which was tucked into the trunk of a great tree. I even had time to chat with a wise cravat wearing tortoise whose occupation as judge amounted more to resource adjustments than sentencing misdoers.
It was a wonderful time, seeing so many helpful and caring animals come together. My heart was heavy when my time in Everdell came to an end. I made my goodbyes to my new friends with more than a mist in my eyes. Vowing to return soon I headed back to the hustle and bustle of the city.
Much to my delight I have found that there exists a boardgame that replicates the experience of Everdell so humans can enjoy the critter wonderland too. It sounds like the perfect get away for a rainy weekend inside and I will have to give it a try when I am feeling nostalgic for the dappled paths of Everdell.
-Ruth
Philly Prepares for a Wild June
The World Cup approaches along with the next Claude-by-Cheese vol.
The State of the Paper
May succeeded in being my worst month for writing this year. I got about 100 words into my novel which is far short of the 6-8K benchmark that I was hoping to hit. There were times this month that shook me out of the rhythm I had established for myself this year. It felt like there was always something that popped up to drive away my focus and desire to write or to create. You have to fight, sometimes, to hold on to that drive, to establish yourself back into that zone. This past month I didn’t have that fight. It’s what makes us human at the end of the day, that we fail, that we suffer, that we struggle. It makes the sunlight special, the good days great, and the success meaningful. Not that you have to create points of conflict for yourself so that you can feel those good points. Life is hard enough being on this planet that getting through the week, through the day makes it worth it when you see the beauty that life and the community around you holds.
Apologies for the rant on the human condition. It pays to not only think about these things but to also write them down.
On to the meat of the matter. This month’s edition looks at World Cup preparations happening in Philly. A quick piece on the wild parts of Philly. The Claude-by-Cheese adventure continues in vol. 3 and Ruth rounds us out with a short but impactful novel by Claire Keegan. Thank you as always for reading. Oh and check out the new website I have. I will be putting the monthly editions there as well. It’s a work in progress still but it was high time I made one.
-Niall
World Cup Preparation
With the first world cup match only days away, the city is in full swing with preparation mode. The Fan Fest at Lemon Hill is getting thrown up with all the haste of a last minute homework assignment. Trash and recycling cans are being placed on almost every possible corner, making the years of bemoaning their absence seem a mere ripple in the ocean that is FIFA’s clout. Last, but certainly not least, we have the creme da la creme with exorbitant prices.
In June of 2022 it was announced Philly would host a few World Cup games. My lifelong friend and neighbor growing up, Brett, sent me the announcement to which I excitedly texted back that we should go to a game. Even if it was the most random of teams on the most random of days, it would be pretty cool to see a game in your own city. Fast forward four years and neither of us bought a ticket. Not our fault entirely, it turns out both of us like our arms and legs too much to trade them away. As I write this now, the prices of a single ticket are just shy of $1,000. As much as I love Brett and a matchup between Ecuador and the Ivory Coast, financial responsibility outweighs them both when I would have to drop a grand on tickets. These tickets are well out of the price range of the majority of Philly residents. Which is a terrible shame, because the next generation of athletes that could see the world’s best playing right in front of them won’t have that opportunity.
With all the bemoaning of the impact this World Cup will have at least FIFA is giving a legacy gift of 1 Million dollars to Philadelphia to foster youth soccer in the city.
Oh wait Philadelphia hasn’t received that money yet?
Only one of the eleven host cities have received the Legacy Gift?!
Well that’s very cool FIFA, just like the Americanized halftime show featuring Madonna, Shakira, and BTS is going to be. I think my first tattoo will be I <3 FIFA.
This is a Wild Sity
A large white shape is painted with black lettering that reads “A BIT OF WiLD IN THE SITY. It sits on the crook of two trees watching over a scattering of plants on the sidewalk of Spring Garden. I have been charmed by this little art project/statement. Throughout Philly I have been able to observe some bit of wild creeping into this historic city. Even the people embody it. Just the other day I crossed the street with a man shouldering a long purple flower like he was a character straight from the pages of One Piece. There are the squirrels chomping on chicken bones staring from our fence that bring the wild to our backyard. This all to say lets keep Philly a little wild.
Claude-by-Cheese Vol. 3
The door slammed shut, Reg disappearing in a flash leaving me holding the warning by myself in the alley. Like any sensible mouse, I hightailed it out of there. Back in the safe confines of my apartment, I started working on the rhyme. In my adrenaline-filled flight away from the alley and Olde-Town, my brain went into over time. The child’s rhyme was the only thing I could focus on, which tickled some feeling that there was something more to it.
As my heart rate returned to normal levels behind a locked and bolted door, I placed both the warning and the rhyme side by side on my desk. I took a seat with pen and ink at my disposal to uncover what secrets it may hold. After looking through the rhyme again I was convinced there were directions hidden there. I highlighted the following lines as important.
We will look to the quarter wheel
Don’t miss the brown bear’s meal
Never waver the heading is real
And when you least expect a bee
The sting reveals our town on keel
From the old mouse’s tale of finding Claude-by-Cheese by way of boat and the mention of keel in the rhyme, I knew I would have to find a ship and captain to shepherd me on my quest. Before that could happen I would need to figure out some more concrete directions for the ship to go by. The problem was, I had no idea what those directions could be.
I passed hours straining my eyes at the lines, rewriting them in hopes of finding a clue. Nothing came of it and I was forced to take a break, night having already fallen and my hopes with them too. My small apartment had a little balcony attached to it, there was barely enough space on it to squeeze myself onto it. Despite the size it was my favorite thing about the whole place. A view of my street hustling and bustling even this late into the evening filled me with this sense of realness. It was invigorating to be there looking down and feeling the sway and pulse of the city in my veins.
When I stepped out onto my balcony I did not look down as I usually did, but I found myself looking up. There, shining bright, above was the moon; the tail end of its waning gibbous light bathing my fur in white on this clear night.
“Almost ready to enter the quarter stage aren’t ya.”
I said mostly to myself, but also to the moon. As the words left my mouth, the line from the rhyme sounded in my head.
“We will look to the quarter wheel, that means the moon! The quarter moon is the quarter wheel!”
I all but shouted my discovery into the night. Despite the balcony’s best efforts I was still able to dance out a little jig on it in celebration. It seemed the hunt was back on. In that moment of exhilaration something in me made me look down to the street. There in the glow of the street lamp a pack of four dark clothed shapes bunched around the entrance to my building. I peered over the railing at them and almost called down to them but as I went to do so, I caught the glint of gun metal as each one of them drew a weapon forth. A chill shot up my spine and before I could blink the group wrenched open the doors to my apartment building and rushed inside.
I had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly what door they were headed to. My own.
Ruth’s Book Corner
Clair Keegan, an Irish writer who coincidentally studied at Loyola University, New Orleans, the sister school to the boss man’s own alma mater, is probably best known for her 2021 book Small Things Like These. While I have read Small Things Like These, today’s review centers on what according to Good Reads metrics is her more well-liked book, Foster. Sitting just shy of a 100 pages at 92, Foster, like much of Keegan’s work, is short. This is never an impediment for the talented author. Keegan manages to weave a compelling and satisfying story within her pages, leaving room for interpretation while not straying far from her central thesis. What is that thesis you might ask? Well it’s how a child in a not-so-ideal home situation can grow when given the room. It tells of the bonds we forge with parental figures in our lives whether they be of blood or not.
Underlying this all is the deep bones of Ireland. It wraps the sentences and peppers the scenes. It wrenches at your heart in this soul scraping manner that makes you yearn for a bright day in the midst of cloudy gray. Maybe because my foremice hailed from the Emerald Isle do I feel this mindful and masterful story move me against the white tufted surf that froths with the unanswerable question of what it means to be alive. We all need parents in some way, someone to look out for us, to care for us. Foster is such a tale, and impressively executed to say the least.
-Ruth
Cig Butts Keep Falling On My Head
A trash journal goes international and Claude-by-Cheese vol. 2 drops.
The State of the Paper
Ups and downs have bounced me around the weeks of April. In an up-swing moment I submitted my first piece of fiction to a literary magazine. This is technically my second submission since, way back in high school, I sent a rough manuscript of the first book I ever wrote to a local publisher. I feel bad for anyone who had to even read the first page of that. This time around, I am far more confident in my work despite some sacrifices I had to make to get the piece within the word count limitations of the magazine. There is excitement in either receiving a yes or in getting a rejection. The latter might sound weird to some, but any movement on my writing makes me feel more like a writer and less like a keyboard tapping robot.
For those waiting with baited breath on an update about my novel will be happy to know I am entering the last fourth of the book. My progress has slowed but I am keeping myself in it, and hopefully will swing the ship into port in a month or two, depending on how fast I can type.
As far as this month’s edition goes, I have a piece on the distance trash travels and a new trash mystery. The Claude-by-Cheese series continues (thank you Ruth for your transcriptions), and finally, we close out with the ever popular Ruth’s Book Corner, this edition taking a philosophical bend. I hope you enjoy, and as always thank you for reading.
-Niall
How Far Will A Trash Journal Go?
Like all of my great ideas, my wife came up with this first. Well, that’s not exactly right. I don’t know who exactly came up with Trash Journaling first, but my wife definitely bears credit for planting the idea back into my brain. A couple of months ago, she mentioned doing a trash journal and that got me hooked on the idea of doing the same. I already had a journal I was sorta doing collages in already, so it was an easy transition to trash journal for it. For those who don’t know, trash journaling is defined by me as taking trash from your day or things you would throw out and putting them (usually with glue) into a journal. I wanted to use more of the trash that I found around Philly (as the founder of Philly Trash Paper, this only seemed apt).
We will quickly step away from trash journaling for an important contextual sidebar. Trust me, we will get back to trash journaling and it will make sense in the end. So let’s talk about tourism. More specifically tourism in Philly. As a noncontiguous Philly resident for about 5 years now, I never think of the city as a preeminent tourist destination. It’s home to me, but that’s not the case for many. According to the city, in 2024 there were 26.6 million visitors which had an economic impact of $7,000,000 being generated for Philadelphia. Those numbers are only set to explode in 2026. With the FIFA World Cup to have 6 matches in Philly, as well as hosting the PGA Championship nearby, in addition to the MLB All-Star game, and to add on top of all of that the America’s 250th celebration will take in part here. The city will see an influx of travelers like it has never seen before. I could talk about the impact these events will have on the city and how it is preparing for it all, but that’s an article for another day. This truly was a quick sidebar about tourism.
As March closed its doors to us, I picked up my first piece of sidewalk trash while on an evening stroll with Taylor and the dog. It was a Peanut Chew wrapper, a Philadelphia-made candy of dark chocolate with a chewy peanut interior, one of Taylor’s favorites. I thought this was a truly fitting piece to start my trash journal with. I didn’t pick up my second piece of trash until a few days later when out on my own with the dog, I spotted a larger than average ticket stub. Scooping it up I saw a ferris wheel on it right before I stuffed it in my jacket and continued on our merry way. Back in our apartment, the ticket turned out to be a far flung surprise. A stub that traveled 4,333 miles from Austria. The Wiener Riesenrad is Vienna’s “giant ferris wheel”, an approximate 10 hour flight from Philadelphia. Somehow it had ended up a mere couple blocks from the wrapper that had originated in Philly itself. Both now glued side-by side on the same page of a trash journal. In this day and age, it feels like the world is so scrunched together, but finding a piece of trash that had flown thousands of miles to be left in my neighborhood feels like an incredible feat. It makes one think about the kind of trash I will find this summer. Scattered amongst the restaurant fliers and miller lite cans, what little bit of another city, another country, another continent, might I find?
The Peanut Chew wrapper next to the Wiener Riesenrad ticket.
The Great Trash Mystery
A Philly Tash Mystery has landed in my own backyard. Cigarette butts have been appearing in and around the back area of our apartment. A 5 foot high wood fence surrounds the space and it is off of a tiny alleyway that only residents and occasional delivery people will use. We started finding the butts towards the end of March. A couple would be near our car which is parked on the other side of our fence, and one or two more would be under the table or chairs we have in the backyard. At first all of the cigarettes were Marlboro alternating between menthols and golds. But lately it has been a mix with some Camel and hand rolled popping up. They also appeared some time between when Taylor and I went to bed to when we woke up and checked the backyard.
One even made it onto the wipers of my car.
In the past I had seen some next door neighbors smoking in the alleyway, only a couple of feet from our backyard. This was a rare occasion but I jumped to conclusions and assumed they were the culprit. Some uncourteous smokers toss their butts into our backyard for whatever reason. But we continued to find butts and I hadn’t seen anyone smoking next door. I then turned my assumptions skyward. The roof top decks of the building next to ours and the one attached to the building we were in, could be the only ones tossing it in our backyard, or so I thought.
After inspection and a closer thought on physics, it was determined that the rooftop decks were too far back to be able to toss a butt all the way into our backyard with the accuracy that was being displayed by the mystery smoker. The butts continued to pile up with 35 butts appearing in the back or around the car over the course of a month. Suspicion moved onto our upstairs neighbor. He had a window that was directly over our backyard and he would spend a lot of time by his computer which was right by that window. We thought that he was smoking out the window and tossing the butts into our backyard. This flew in the face of what we thought had been a pretty good relationship with him up until that point. He had asked us last year not to make fires in our trash-picked fire pit, because the smoke was going directly into his apartment. We said not a problem, and have texted back and forth with him since then. My perception of him was that he was a nice, if not quiet, guy that would on occasion yell at his cat not to do something. It just didn’t fit that he would be the smoking bandit.
The butts have slowed their descent in the beginning and middle of April, only 5 appearing between April 3rd to April 26th. We recently had to evacuate the building (gas leak) and I made sure Josh (upstairs neighbor) and his cat got out safely and let him know when it was safe to reenter our building. Taylor ran into him the next day and they chatted amiably on the stairwell. She came back into our apartment convinced that our neighbor was not the one dropping butts on us. So we are back at square one with this mystery and exhausted our list of potential suspects. Well, there is still one that is such an out there possibility that I discounted it way back at the start of this mystery when Taylor posited it as an explanation. The squirrels. We have a couple of squirrels living in the walls of the building that use our backyard fence as a highway. You can watch the backyard and within the hour you are all but guaranteed to spot a couple squirrels. Taylor’s hypothesis is that since she has left out some nuts for them in the past, the squirrels have decided to reciprocate with gifts of their own. How does one tell a squirrel that they don’t smoke? I will keep you posted on whether these furry tailed creatures are our true culprits or there really is a smoking bandit out to drive us crazy.
The board of butts found in the backyard.
Claude-by-Cheese Vol.2
The day after getting the verbal account of the ol’ salt mouse’s time in Claude-by-Cheese and the mysterious cheese master there, I turned in my assignment on the effects of maritime work on mice. Upon doing so I immediately cashed in my healthy stock pile of vacation days. In my apartment the night before, and even on the train to the institute early in the morning, I could not shake the idea of the town that didn’t appear on any maps.
My supervisor wasn’t terribly excited by the prospect of my fable hunting vacation.
“Are you sure about this? That old sea mouse has probably seen one or two many oars to the head to be a reliable source of information. Besides, how many concussions can a mouse brain handle?”
This sent Dezi down a mouse hole concerning medical testing on mice brains as it related to head trauma. My supervisor, and if the weather was right, my friend, was the definition of a Golden Mouse. Some assistants had a running joke that Dezi was how Webster came up with the genus of the Cricetidae family. Thick golden fur with feet with an underbellymore white, and grey whiskers, gave her the appearance of someone who was a warmhearted pushover. She was anything but.
“I have the time off for it and you are always telling me to use it. I can’t see a better chance.”
This was a half truth, I had a distant cousin of mine getting married next month which technically would have constituted a better use by my mother’s standards. However I had been looking for a way out of attending, and spending all my time off seemed like a pretty good excuse.
“I told you to go on a vacation so that you would get out of my hair for half a second. Not so you could get killed on some wild tail chase. If you died I would have to replace my best researcher. Don’t get yourself killed, it would be too much of a hassle for me to deal with. You can get maimed as long as it’s not your writing paw.”
That was the closest I was going to get to a blessing out of Dezi, so I scurried out of her office before she could change her mind.
Before leaving the institute, I ducked into the maps department. A quick check of their archives confirmed my initial research from last night. There was no trace of Claude-by-Cheese on any current records. If I was going to get to the bottom of this, or even the start of it, I was going to need to go digging off the record.
My second stop took me away from the orderly shelves and systematized records of the institute and into the gloomy hubbub of Olde-Town. For those unaware, this section of the city was one that the general populace liked to forget existed. Gloomy, crumbling, and ancient is a pretty succinct way of putting it for those who know its depths. For those who don’t, they simply call it seedy.
Learned mice, particularly those of an anthropological pursuit (amongst which I consider myself a part of), should see no difference between the padded luxuries of the rich and the leaky roofs of the not so rich. My mentor Bernard was fond of saying “A good scholar studies every bit of life they can grasp, and even ones they can’t.”
Because of this outlook, I have fostered many contacts and friends amongst the different folds of the city’s populace. One such contact happened to have an extensive collection of documents “rescued from destruction” and lived in the heart of Olde-Town.
Reg opened their front door after clanging six different locks. Tucked far back in an alleyway behind a bakery, it fit the secrecy that Reg brought to every aspect of their life. Slightly bigger in stature than I, Reg squeezed themself through the narrow door to take a quick appraisal of the alleyway and myself. They were a vole of deep brown fur that had faded colorless at the edges from the lack of time spent outside.
“Quickly, were you followed?”
“Never, I made sure to cover my tail even if I was.”
The caution Reg displayed was a common trait amongst most Olde-Town residents, but, coupled with their crippling paranoia, made them believe that malevolent forces were conspiring against them. I personally did not think this fear was justified, but also didn’t have the heart to talk them out of it.
The alleyway passed Reg’s inspection and we scampered inside, Reg securing the bolts back into place and locking us in. The interior of Reg’s house was dim and vast. Small tufts of glowing moss were strategically placed to give some lighting, since open flame and electricity cause Reg to have panic attacks about their collection burning down. The only thing besides a small living room up front were endless rows of shelves, all containing mounds and heaps of documents, records, and unimaginable dossiers.
“So what brings you to my lovely abode unannounced?
“I was hoping you would have something on a town called Claude-by-Cheese. I heard a story about it being home to a cheese master and it does not appear on any map the Institute has. You know I am with a mystery.”
“Cant ever leave it alone, I know. Well I don’t know anything off the top of my head, but let’s see if I have anything in my collection that could help shine some light on this. Metaphorically speaking, which reminds me, you don’t have anything that could cause a spark do you?”
I showed Reg that my pockets only contained a small notebook and my trusty Mouseblanc fountain pen. With that precaution seen to, Reg grabbed a jar of glowing moss and we set off down the main walkway that ran between the sprawl of shelves. I found myself shivering in spite of the mild temperature in the room. The rows of documents spilling over into their neighbors and puddling on the floor gave an eerie sadness to the place.
“If you remember, my system looks chaotic to the untrained eye but I would go so far as to say it’s the most advanced document sorting and cataloging system in the world. That’s part of the reason I’m being targeted like I am. The things they could do with this system, it chills you to the bone just thinking about it.”
I muttered agreement and tuned out the rambling diatribe Reg was building up to. We had reached a section of shelves that made the ones before them to be orderly and organized. Folders were jammed in every crack and crevice the shelf had to offer. Stacks of paper filled the space between the shelves, coating the ground in mounds of white and yellowed documents.
“Just through here, we should find something.”
Reg waded into the chaos without a second of hesitation. I watched as their clawed feet scampered over folios and brown bound books, sheets of paper shooting into the air and raining down around me. I lost sight of them and only with the occasional toss of documents in the air did I know Reg was on the hunt. I chose to stay out of the mess and looked through the things I could reach from the safety of the clear aisle.
Flipping through some dry cleaning receipts of political officials and first drafts of inventory reports for the agricultural department, I was hit with the feeling that maybe this really was a useless endeavor. What were the chances of finding a scrap that told me where this fabled town existed? The situation was seemingly more and more like a needle in a whole hay field of other similar looking needles.
In my moment of doubt, I knocked a large, tightly wound stack of folders out of position and onto the floor. Bending to retrieve them, I couldn’t help but glance at the large block letters crawled across the top facing folder.
“The Crimes of DIESIST.”
Reg was suddenly at the my elbow, taking the folder from my paws and tucking it under their arm.
“You don’t want to look at that, I can’t have another soul dragged under their ever-watchful eye and ever-present hand.”
“What do you mean? What is Diesist?”
“For your own health and safety you should forget you heard that name.”
“But…”
“Oh look, I was able to find this on your ghost town.”
Reg held up a torn letter, filled with scribbled words. I took it and quickly glanced through its contents. The letter was re-telling an old children’s rhyme about how to find Claude-by-Cheese.
Gather round and take your leave
We will look to the quarter wheel
To find our Claude-by-Cheese
Don’t miss the brown bear’s meal
By way we find the way to please
Never waver the heading is real
And when you least expect a bee
The sting reveals our town on keel
“What does this mean?”
Reg just shrugged their shoulders.
“That sounds more of your area of expertise than mine.”
Thanking Reg for their help while navigating back to the front of the rows of shelves, I pondered on the words. The more I turned them over the more I thought there was something there.
“Thank you as always Reg, pleasure has been all mine”, I said while the bolts snicked to let me out. The door swung wide and gloomy sunlight blinded us. When our eyes readjusted there was a surprise pinned to the door with a wickedly sharp length of metal. A piece of paper written on with red bloody letters spelling out;
CEASE OR DIE
Reg and I shared a look, their features pinched in a story scrunch.
“It looks like they know about you and your mystery town.”
Ruth’s Book Corner
I might be a tad bit dumb. It took me until the second book in a series to see the skeleton of Sherlock Holmes underneath it all. Let me explain, the book in question is A Drop of Corruption, the follow up to The Tainted Cup. These two books are set in a world of leviathans set on wreaking havoc on the expansive and corruption filled Empire. Our hero of the story takes their due in two characters, the lead investigator of the Empire’s internal investigation division (think FBI/Internal Affairs) Ana Dolabra and her assistant Dinios Kol.
I loved The Tainted Cup; its characters, the mystery, the world, and most of all the dynamic between Ana and Din. I don’t know how it escaped me until I was a third of the way through the second book (A Drop of Corruption) before it hit me, Ana was Sherlock and Din was Watson. To be fair to my little mouse brain, it is thoroughly entrenched in a rich fantasy world and the comparisons are not one to one. Robert Jackson Bennet does not lift Sherlock up from Victorian England and gender swap the character into a dark and gritty magic system. There are tweaks and changes here and there to make the character its own person. But the skeleton remains, fondness and use of mind altering substances, melancholy after a case is finished, figuring the mystery out far before everyone else, but not revealing it until the end. The list can go on, but I think you get the point. This is still relevant for Din, though a little less so. Bennet makes more significant changes to our assistant to make him less of an audience proxy and more of an actual character.
Seeing the bones of Sherlock below the surface of the book didn’t at all diminish the reading experience. It did however bring up the thought of whether or not the detective genre will always have the ghost of Sherlock looming over its shoulder. The tropes and themes that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle popularized through Sherlock are what all modern detective fiction is built on. Just like how modern fantasy is built on the back of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, it feels inescapable when drawing the line through detective fiction to not end up at the deer hunter’s cap of Sherlock Holmes. Here I have no further elucidations for you, I am still wondering over the pull and push of the giants that genre fiction is built upon. Great writers are able to pluck useful threads from what came before and spin it into the what comes after. Literature is an ever evolving beast running wild in the pages of our imagination.
Read (or listen, the audiobook is well narrated) The Tainted Cup and A Drop of Corruption for a detective fantasy mystery that you won’t soon regret. The third book is set to be published this year so catch up on how Sherlock’s ghost lives on in cross genre fiction.
-Ruth