Quilight Time © Golly the Great
You're traveling to a new creation
a city on a hill, a journey thru a land of quiet constellation
In the still of the night, a candle in the window
breathe deep the gathering glow
It's QUILIGHT Time
Golly the Great, Joe Little 2016 spellingprogress at gmail
Golly-short for Goliath-was a big, lumbering man-child, which made his habit of stealing cups of coffee a fruitless endeavor. Golly liked coffee but what he loved was stealing it from anyone at the group home where he lived. Well, attempting to steal. Thievery rarely succeeded despite his practice of pressing his finger to his lips and whispering "shhhhh" to turn invisible. Mind you, Golly could be seen- and heard- like an oversize chain-mail cat. A hulk of man with the toddling, talking capacity of a two-year-old.
Nobody knows when Golly developed a hunger for heists, but he had it when Henrik arrived at the group home for what turned out to be a six year stint as staff worker there. As a husband and dad father Henrik brought a warm strength to the mix, and many were encouraged. Caretaker, staff worker, call it what you want, folks like Henrik are angels in the infield of group home life, working with the life-issues of men and women - with their range of developmental disabilities.
It's a little bit bitter, life in a group home. Coffee, too, but that didn't stop Golly from trying to lift it from fellow residents, guests and staff, even Henrik- especially Henrik. Though ever charmed by Golly, Henrik stayed vigilant for golly-heists, and kept watch in his periphery.
"Golly," he would say out of the corner of his mouth steadily, warmly, if Golly's body language signaled a nearby cuppa. "Chill down bro," or something similar. Golly would just grin and turn away shyly. But not too shyly. And not too far away.
The thing is, Golly's penchant for theft wasn't limited to coffee: soft drinks and juice were fair game as were sweet and sour confections of all shapes and sizes. Indeed, the entire fridge was a prime target - especially at night when all but a tired skeleton crew of staff were asleep.
Golly, who wore flannel pajamas, would get up and tiptoe to the fridge. You couldn't hear him till he crinkled empty food wrappers. Night after night: crinkle. This pattern finally inspired Henrik to get Golly a pair of polyester PJ's. They had a shimmer, which Golly liked, and a crinkle which Henrik liked. The next night, as Golly tiptoed to the fridge, Henrik met him there.
"Ah HAH," whispered Henrik, firmly, warmly as Golly approached him at the fridge.
"Ah CHOO," sneezed Golly, while holding a finger close to his mouth. It had failed to stop the CHOO into Henrik's face, or start the invisibility shield he somehow hoped for.
Night after midnight he remained in the dark concerning the connection between his new PJs and the abrupt end of nighttime snacks in his diet.
Though Henrik helped and trained a variety of residents during his stint there, Golly was The Character, the one you recall and speak of wistfully - though an exception would be the day Golly tried to burgle the truckaroni office.
Truckaronis. Everyone has 'em. Rabbit's foot, lucky penny, seashell, etc. In Golly's case hard, uncooked pasta shells. Odd objects of affection…and even odder rewards for good behavior.
But little things are key especially when they are cute and well-crafted- like exotic macaronis, which are cute, well-crafted shells, not unlike seashells. By the time Henrik was introduced to this miniscule reward system, truckaronis had evolved to keys, bolts, tiny screws, dominoes, even a cabinet handle. Cute, but safe. Henrik used tiny, man-made objects as rewards, but never knew why the glorified pasta were truckaronis.
There's no point asking a toddler such queries- especially when he's trying to break through your office door.
Maybe he was channeling his inner Goliath but more likely he had begun to equate the office with truckaronis. Even a toddler knows patterns when he sees it: Golly would do nice sharing with a resident or cleaning up his stuff - so Henrik would head to his office returning a minute later with a truckaroni. The office was the source, so it shouldn't have come as a shock when Golly abruptly left a task one day, beelined for the office, and started manhandling the locked door.
"Truckaronis!" he moaned, as Henrik and a second attendant caught up to him.
In a remarkably calm way Hendrik and the attendant pried Golly from the door and restrained him. In short order, Henrik, in particular, was able to pacify Golly enough that three and a half poignant words came, haltingly, from his lips: "Ah-want-datruckas." Translation: "I want the truckaronies."
It was the closest he had ever come to a four-word sentence- and the nearest to desperation. It was a sad moment.
Not long after, Henrik took Golly to his first film - at the theaters. Part emotional salve, part nod to his developmental progress at the home. Despite the office door incident and despite the attempted heists Golly was a nice lad: generous sharing, pleasant interactions, and quick obedience to staff directives. So on this red-letter day, Henrik accompanied Golly, truckaroni in hand. Today, it was the cabinet handle, metallic and slender. But not a handle; a truckaroni.
"Brrrrr", said Henrik as they walked down the dark aisle, "it's chillier than a chilly willy in here."
"Chilly," agreed Golly.
"If I had a blanket and tape I'd go over to cover up that air conditioner vent," grumbled Henrik, pointing to an eye level AC vent to their left as they approached the first few rows.
"Chilly-willy," repeated Golly.
"Well at least you can keep your truckaroni warm in your hand," sighed Henrik as they settled in their seats near the front of the dim, sparsely populated theater minutes before showtime.
"Trucka-roni," exclaimed Golly proudly, handle in hand, as a father and tween son sitting in the row ahead of them turned around to determine the source of the weird word and voice. Golly displayed his handle; Henrik displayed a wan smile.
Sure enough, minutes later, after the movie had commenced, Golly dropped his truckaroni on the sloping, sticky-slick floor of the dark theater. First, he reached down to find it. When that failed within seconds, he went with plan-B.
"Truckaroni!" he exclaimed worried-Geronimo style, as he scrambled head-first over the top of the chair, and shoulders, of the boy sitting in front of him, struggling toward the floor where he suspected the truckaroni handle had slid.
"Arghhhhhhh!" exclaimed the kid crunched under Golly's girth.
"What the!" exclaimed the dad and Henrik simultaneously as a Golly-shaped blur lunged onto and over the kid into the space where the cabinet-handle likely lay.
Amid the chaos Golly vanished into the dark. Meanwhile standing, yet leaning forward, Henrik did his best to placate the mad dad, console the stunned kid, and eyeball Golly. He was 0 for 3. The dad and son cut their losses and beelined for the exit. Henrik stared into the floor.
"Golly, where are you?" he whispered loudly, perplexed yet sure his large friend would pop up in a microsecond. "Where are you?" None of the dozen patrons scattered around the theater could hear him amidst the din of the screen. More importantly Golly, who normally would have heard Henrik's familiar, friendly search-light voice well, couldn't hear him at all.
A second later Golly popped up in the front row; not the cushy front row he expected. Instead of wood, hard plastic and upholstery he found hard, flat metal. Instead of dark dimness and a sea of empty seats and a wall of screenshine-open air, a bleacher of loud folks and sunshine.
And trucks.
Yes, trucks, as far as the eye could see. A parade of trucks. A cavalcade… every model and make under the sun. Golly, still standing, stared in awe, transfixed by the trucks. Pickups, of course, lead the way. Dodges, Fords and Chevys. Even an old-time Model TT. If it's a motor vehicle and it's designed to carry cargo, Golly saw it: garbage trucks, fire trucks, dump trucks, cement mixers, vans, tractor trailers, 18-wheelers - even a cute column of remote-control toy trucks, technically motorized and designed for cargo.
"Did you enjoy the truckaroni parade?" asked a man, seated next to him.
Golly, startled by the non-Henrik voice coming his way, replied, "Sure, I mean, wow," he said, unhaltingly. "Hold on! What did you just say?"
"Truckaroni parade," said the man who wore a helmet or crown shaped like a pickup. "We've been planning it for a while."
"Truckaronis! You said 'truckaronis'! What's going on? What is this place?" exclaimed Golly.
"Why, Truckaronia, of course," said the king. "I'm the king, these are my subjects, and we've been expecting the arrival of the great Golly. You're the great Golly, yes?" asked the king.
"Well," said Golly, surveying the audience, which was starting to exit. "I'm Golly, but I am not great. In fact, I do well to put three words together. I think you've got the wrong Golly."
"Ah, yes, that," said the king. "Golly, let me tell you something. Greatness isn't measured in syntax, though I guess a sin tax can steer folks away from badness. Get it? Syntax, sin tax?"
Golly just sighed.
"No, sir," continued the king. "Greatness- like beauty- is in the eye of the beholder, and we in Truckaronia, well, it's hard to put a finger on it. We think you, sir, are great, brilliant even, just the way you are, especially in your interactions with Henrik."
Golly blushed.
"So we invited you here to honor you with a special truckaroni parade," said the king.
"Invited me here?" said Golly. "I didn't receive an invitation. I was searching for my truckaroni, landed here and now I don't know what to think."
The king, turning pensive, pondered Golly, who continued. "Perhaps I dented my head along the way," said Golly-examining his forehead with his hand. "You haven't noticed a truckaroni laying around, have you?...a cabinet-handle-shaped truckaroni."
"I don't know about all that," said the king, "but this I know: a cup of Truckaronia's finest truck- stop chili will help you do what you need to do."
He lead Golly over to a box-truck featuring a larger-than-life cup-of-chili emblem and a serving window featuring a lady wearing a hairnet.
"Gladys," said the king, "this is our guest, the great Golly. He has misplaced a truckaroni and, well, will require the services of a cup of your finest chili- with all the fixins."
Gladys gazed at Golly. "Golly, it's you, it's really you!"
Golly, gazing back, blushed again, redder than before.
"Gladys!" interrupted the king, "a cup of chili for Golly."
Gladys, regaining her composure, handed a full cup, superhot, to Golly who had yet to regain his composure.
"That," exclaimed Golly, as spicy aromas wafted from the cup, "is the best smelling smell I've ever smelled." He grinned a hot, spicy smile, partly in reaction to the heat of the chili. "And it is hotter than hottie-hot." He set the cup down on the ground.
"Don't lay that down," said the king abruptly but it was way too late: like a bolt from the zoo, a monkey, indeed a chimp, appeared from nowhere, grabbed Golly's cup, let out some form of victory squeal, then scampered pell mell around the back of the bleachers.
That was far and away the craziest thing Golly had ever heard or seen, and he doubled-over laughing. Within a split second, though, Golly straightened up enough to give chase around the bleachers which were attached to a big shed, or vice versa. Again he doubled over at the idea that he was involved in a Keystone-Cops-style chase for a chimp and his chili from gazy Gladys, courtesy of the King of Truckaronia, after a truckaroni parade for himself.
"You can't make this stuff up," he wheezed, barely getting the words out, yet again regaining his composure enough to see the final swinging of a dog-door at the bottom of the shed door.
"You can't get away from me, chili thief," said Golly laughing as he crouched toward the hard still flap. "Gimme my chili!" He paused to catch his breath, pushing the flap in and reaching thru the opening. "Chili chili chili!" he chanted, amused by the rank silliness of this latest event.
Reaching as far as he could Golly groped blindly for chili, thief or both, never considering the prospect that thieves don't give up loot without a fight or bite. "Chili, chileeeeeee," he intoned, wearily, but no less giddily. As he did, Golly's hand felt an object. Not cup or chimp. Metallic, slender to the touch. He grabbed the item, pulling his arm back thru the door to see, but was distracted by a familiar voice.
For minutes upon minutes upon minutes Henrik had calmly, persistently searched for Golly in the darkish, emptyish theater, reaching under empty seats and waiting for loud film scenes to move to a new seat or row. Golly's disappearance was strange, but Henrik never considered him gone; he just couldn't find him. He knew Golly was keen to find his truckaroni on the floor, but when the film ended and the audience left, and there was no Golly, it was panic time. But Henrik didn't panic, for it was right then he heard words that brightened his countenance, and seemed to lighten the theater itself.
"Chilly, chilleeeee!"
"Golly! I'm coming," yelled Henrik then ran to the voice he had heard at the far left. "Stay right where you are." As he neared the wall without seeing Golly, Henrik added puzzledly, "Where are you?"
"Truckaroni!" exclaimed Golly, pushing the cover of the air conditioner vent, which popped off on to Henrik's head.
"Golly! Good God," exclaimed Henrik, rubbing his own forehead. "No wonder you were chilly, chilly. How in the world- oh, well, let me help you out, and dow-" but he was interrupted by a falling Golly, who was intent on helping himself out- and down- and onto Henrik himself. Both fell to the floor, Golly grinning, Henrik groaning, which turned Golly's grin upside down.
"I'm ok, Golly," said Henrik, raising his head and doing a eye-diagnosis. "Yeh, I think I'll live."
Golly, well into Henrik's personal space, seemed happy but sober-minded. "Ah, found, mah, truckaroni," he said haltingly- shoving the recovered cabinet-handle truckaroni very nearly into Henrik's nose. Yet he said it, all four words of it and Henrik understood all of it instantly.
"That is great, Golly," said Henrik, still dazed from the fall, but lucid enough to appreciate this developmental breakthrough- especially as it fell right in his lap.
"You, ah, great," said Golly, as a pensive smile grew in his face.
"Great!" interjected a strident new voice. The theater's janitor stood over them, sipping a cola with one hand, dust-vac in the other. "Time to clear out, knuckleheads."
"Yes, sir," said Henrik, with a ticked look on his face. As Golly and Henrik slowly scrambled to their feet, the custodian walked away toward the entrance in the back of the theater, set down his cola and began the noisy thrice-a-day work of sucking up the leftovers of theater-goers.
"Well, Golly, you heard what the man said: we gotta clear out, buddy."
"O...kay," said Golly, softly, haltingly.
And as they ascended the aisle, passing rows along the way, Golly paused at the can of cola left unattended by the custodian, whose attention and face were turned away. Henrik paused, too, of course, glancing at Golly and the can. For a pregnant moment Golly stood still, staring at the can, face flushed and breathless.
"It's o..kay," he exhaled with a sigh, smiling. Spell-bound, Henrik stared at Golly, who put his hand on Henrik's shoulder as a goad to continue walking - then repeated, less haltingly, "It's o-kay," as they finished their exit from the theater and headed home.
Post script: They say beauty is the eye of the beholder. Sibling of beauty, greatness isn't earned or bought. It is caught-like a great disease. The greatness disease- it is breaking out all over. Catch it while you may. Golly the Great did, and returned the favor, just in the nick- of Quilight Time.