Phylox, The Wonder-Spatula (Part 2)

Removing my only form of self-protection from my belt loops, I laid it upon the stump and began to assess my situation. The afternoon, in its current weakened position, couldn’t last much longer, certainly, and soon it would give way to the fullness of the jungle night, complete with soporific influences of natural and, yes, even supernatural origin. Already, I felt a weariness borne of the stresses of travel and uncertainty, the same sort of fatigue a soldier might experience after a long march deep behind enemy lines— without the bloodshed, of course. Of course, having never actually been a soldier, this, too, is mere speculation based on some very vivid dreams I’ve experienced while attempting to shrug off the effects of LSD, magic mushrooms, peyote and/or copious amounts of Budweiser. Maybe I should just say I’m freakin' tired and leave it at that. Consider it done… I was tired, okay? Jesus, everybody’s a critic, these days.

At any rate, I decided that if I were to make it through the night, with only a generously sized protective cup (certainly much larger than the average guy might require, I assure you… maybe not exactly John Holmes-sized, but worthy of the run-of-the-mill porn star) and a fair-sized wooden spatula with a good-sized spoon going for it, I would need to employ all my wits in defending myself and maybe even finding something to eat. In the back of my mind, I briefly entertained the thought of a fire, but dismissed it summarily, realizing I had neither tinder nor matches, much less flint. I suppose I could have tried smashing one of the shells and striking it against a rock until enough sparks were generated to light some tinder (if I could find any dry enough). No, any dinner the forest provided would no doubt be comprised of invertebrates incapable of withstanding or hiding from the vicious swipe of a rounded surface kitchen appurtenance, and if it rained, well, all bets were off. Suddenly, I questioned the wisdom of my decision to go for a long walk in the rain forest. In my defense, however, I must tell you, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Such is the history of my decisions, especially those that start out seeming inconsequential.

In waning light, even the most well pronounced of features can seem distorted, so at first glance, the presence sitting before me offered a wispy contradiction in terms. It emanated from the glyph-stump yet its shimmering essence left me with the impression that it attempted separation from its sarcophagus. Now, armed with only the vaguest of knowledge regarding the inner-workings of the supernatural, i.e., I once saw a being on a bus who was either an alien or an incredibly skinny man with the largest head and eyes in the known world, and a spatula, I decided to make contact. I’m not brave, but I have been known to push the envelope on occasion, especially when common sense might have dictated a different tack. Call me impetuous…

As I sat stock-still, my hand wrapped around my spatula with a grip I can only describe as vice-like, I watched the apparition (if, indeed, that’s what it was) disengage itself completely from the stump and stand before me, its vaguely- reptilian eyes questioning but not threatening—at least they didn’t seem threatening, it’s often difficult to discern such complexities at first glance.

“Phylox”, it said, extending a forelimb in my direction.

I must tell you, at this point, that it was much more impressive as a glyph than as a jungle presence. It stood roughly five and a half feet tall (and I’m being generous) and its squat, over-weight body tended to make it look more like Mr. Potato Head than any conception I might have of a god.

Without any notice whatsoever, and with a dexterity I could never have anticipated even if given a ten-year head start and a mind so open that virtually nothing would remain inconceivable, it grabbed that spatula from my hand and turned its back.

Gyration. Back still turned to me, but I swear the thing was gyrating. Then, my spatula placed to its mouth, it spun around and instantaneously I heard music… and not just any music, either, it was honky-tonk piano, bass, drums and saxophone doing a magnificently-conceived rendition of a 12-bar blues riff, only with the tempo speeded up to a frenetic pace.

“Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

A-when you're rockin' and a rollin',
Can't hear your mama call.”

The little guy didn’t miss a move. Dude was a dancin' fool! I doubt Little Richard himself could have done greater justice to the performance. I felt my head begin to nod in rhythm with the music and I had to stop myself from grabbing my cup and pretending it was a microphone. I was getting into it…

“Goin' to the corner gonna buy a diamond ring,

When she hugs me and kiss me make me ting-a-ling-a-ling

Good golly miss Molly, sure like to ball,

A-When you're rockin' and a rollin', can't hear your mama call.”

Phylox, indeed.