There
were not many rooms remaining to be meticulously ransacked by the courteous but
still immoral robbers Misters Smyth and Callahan. Ransacked may be too strong a verb. It can dead lift 200 pounds, while
robbed is still working on passing 80.
Either way, the gentlemanly con artists had only stolen a few select
items. To be more precise, only
Mr. Callahan had stolen anything from the giant, abandoned mansion: a dirty, old book. And Mr. Smyth did not know his partner
had taken it.
“Well,
should we make our final decisions on what we would like to loot?” asked Mr.
Callahan. They were now in the
bathroom.
“You
seem jittery. Are you itching to
take something from this bathroom?
I must say, it is a rather nice washroom, but used soap is not my idea
of buried treasure,” replied Mr. Smyth.
Mr.
Callahan paused before responding.
He did not want to ruin his cover and reveal that he had stolen the
mysterious book. Also, by pausing
he realized that he was in fact itchy.
His scalp was drier than usual; he had run out of conditioner earlier
that week. After a few satisfying
scratches, he responded. “No,
nothing of interest here. We can
move on.”
“I
didn’t mean to be pushy. If
something tickles your fancy here, by all means take it,” said Mr. Smyth. At this, Mr. Callahan desperately
fought the urge to rub his scalp again.
Maybe he was simply going bald.
“But
let me know first,” the flaky-skin-free cohort continued. “It would simply be a demonstration of
poor manners if you stole something without notifying your partner.”
Mr.
Callahan’s heart skipped a beat.
It was playing a playground hopscotch game, but it was the awkward
second grader who could not yet control his limbs with precision. When the heart’s owner had regained solid
control of this vital organ, he replied, “No, I’m fine. Let’s move on. We’re almost done here, and I think
there may be a few holdouts. No
reason to waste precious storage space on a bottle of moistening
conditioner.” Mr. Callahan was a
stoic and strong-willed man to fight the urge to swipe the aforementioned
bottle. But he knew he could only
privately steal one thing without Mr. Smyth catching on, and barely even that.
Mr.
Callahan decided to take the lead back into his robbing hands. He abruptly turned away from the smooth
tiled shower wall and walked briskly out the door. After glancing over each shoulder to pick a direction, he
chose right and went left into a strange room. He had seen nothing like it and neither had Mr. Smyth, as
could be presumed by the fact that upon entering he stopped and stared for
several long moments. The room was
full of books.
“I
had heard of such rooms, but I did not think they truly existed,” whispered Mr.
Smyth.
“Same
here,” agreed Mr. Callahan. “It’s
quite the sight.”
“It
is. An ugly and wasteful
site. I cannot imagine who would
keep such a stash of dirty, old books.
Such as waste of a room.”
“Maybe
this was a quarantine of sorts,” Mr. Callahan suggested. “A place to keep these horrid objects
apart from the rest of their belongings.”
He spoke the words, but he was harboring a latent curiosity. He wanted to remove the books from
their dusty shelves, peruse through their yellowing pages, and smell their
musty scent. He was not sure if
this would be pleasing, but nevertheless, these actions piqued his interest.
“Mr.
Callahan, are you listening?”
Apparently Mr. Smyth had been speaking about books’ uselessness as his
partner was submerging himself in his pool of thoughts. “I’d rather not dilly or dally in this horrific
space any longer, so let us move on to complete our grand tour of this
mansion.”
“Right. Lead the way, Mr. Smyth.”
As
the two partners in crime left the home’s library, Mr. Callahan wanted to steal
one final glance at the remnants of a culture long gone. Mr. Smyth just wanted to steal
something valuable.
Pavlov’s Hopscotch
Condition. Verb. To psychologically habituate someone to react to a stimulus
in a predetermined fashion.
Conditioner. Noun. Someone who performs such an act.
Ivan’s
legs wobbled to and fro. They
shook not from lack of muscle control, but from a surplus of nerves. Not extra physical nerves of sensory
input, but metaphorical nerves of anxiousness. He stared at Katarina.
She was an expert in every sense of the word (there is just one, in case
you were curious). In record time,
she leaped, weaved, and gracefully landed at each position. No one could best her in her own game: hopscotch.
The
name was not an affable one to Ivan.
He could not hop with dexterity, for starters. And he was not even Scottish, so he had no backup trait of
worthiness. No, he could try all
he might, but his jumps could only be called stumbles, his prances not even
worth mentioning. Ivan had tried
for years to excel at this playground pastime, but to no avail. His parents assured him that when he
grew he would suddenly acquire the skills necessary to succeed at hopscotch,
but Ivan could not wait. His schoolyard
reputation hinged on his ability to jump on either one or two legs, switching
at whim, without stumbling.
Impressing Katarina required this skill, too.
This
day at recess was no different.
The children had all lined up, barely holding in their excitement over
another round of hopscotch. Ivan
had joined them as he always did (he decided long ago that it was better to hop
and make a fool of himself than avoid the game and be seen as an outsider), but
calling his emotion “excitement” would be an outright lie. And even elementary school-age children
know that lying will make you go bald.
As
it neared Ivan’s turn to hop, he felt the familiar sensation of anxiety
beginning its course through his body.
And just like they always did when he felt nervous, his arms began to
shake. And because his arms were
quivering, his body felt it necessary to make his legs quiver. And when legs are trembling, playing
hopscotch is impossible.
Ivan
stepped up to the first square. He
glanced across the board at Katarina, who simply raised an eyebrow at him. Ivan looked down. A single square first. He slowly raised one quaking leg into
the air. The knee on his other
bent slightly. With a might push,
he launched himself a few inches into the air.
And
he fell.
Now
at times like this, one expects that the other children will point and laugh at
the kid who made the gaff. As a
culture, we are trained to react this way and anticipate the same behavior in
others. But not so with Ivan’s
schoolmates. No, it was not
because his peers were abnormally kind and caring for their age. It was because of Ivan.
Ivan
had come up with the brilliant idea that every time he fell, he could give
lollipops to his classmates. With
candy in hand, they would not think of laughing, both because they had solid
sugar preoccupying their mouths and because they felt indebted to their clumsy
friend for the free sweets. After
doing this for a few weeks, Ivan ran out of lollipops. Curiously, his peers still did not
laugh whenever he fell. They also
licked their lips as if they were eating an invisible lollipop. Ivan did not know what caused this
strange behavior, but who was he to question it? After all, they had ceased causing him social pain.
Ivan
picked himself off the ground and brushed off his pant legs. He glanced around, just to make sure
the teasing behavior had not restarted.
Everyone was silent. Ivan
looked at Katarina.
She
licked her lips.
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