Friday, September 11, 2009


F developed an engine that ran on jellybeans. Buy a bag, dump it in, and off you went. The black and white, F said, provided the most oomph. But he could’ve been making that up. F’s engine was real but he was given to tall tales. He claimed he talked jellybean fuel with Ronald Reagan, the chief jellybean man, but he was either in jail or incognito during those years; insisted he’d found a way for Lucky Charms to replace household batteries; said he blended Cadbury Crème Eggs and mystery ingredients into the ultimate healing concoction. F was hailed as a genius, bringing his peapod jellybean machine to car shows, races, and invention expos, until one day, the car stopped working. Couldn’t figure it out, even tried some alterations. Nothing. Whispers of collusion, disgruntled murmurs under his aging breath, the jellybean makers changing their recipes, payoffs from auto and oil. The years went by and his theories and inventions all fizzled. Nothing new under his sun. He’d arrive at shows, dressed in fine Italian suits, and throw jellybeans at the new inventors. Security would haul him out as he kicked and screamed in protest. He died from drinking too many Yoo-Hoos mixed with ginger and artichoke, the key to long living, he claimed.

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