A Chronicle of Chroniker Confusion

“…and a whole lot of raisins!” I licked my lips in anticipation of the baked goods I had just ordered. Loved by few and hated by most, raisin cookies were one of my favorite snacks to devour on a cold winter day. I thanked the baker, Mr. Moreno, and began to walk home, careful not to slip on the ice since my ankle had been recently broken. There was very little snow on the ground, but the morning frost was lain thick; each ice crystal catching a ray of light and glinting off the one beside it. Breathing in the crisp air, I stopped and examined some beautiful hoarfrost forming on a nearby bush.

I did not know much about the science behind frost, but I knew writing. To be a writer, one must also be a sort of investigator. How could I describe the true magnificence of the ice crystals if I did not know what they were? I spent hours of my career simply investigating the wonders of life: the way a hummingbird appears to hover in place as it beats its wings 88 times per second. A cheetah running at a seemingly impossible seventy miles per hour. The stars in the night sky that reach up to 200 million degrees and 750 million miles around yet seem insignificant from where we stand. Without the knowledge of the world, how could I write about the world? I continued my trek towards home, where I could grab my seventh cup of coffee to enjoy with my raisin cookies.

I opened the beautiful turquoise door to my home, and nearly jumped in surprise. My friend and co-worker, Mr. Jeff Chroniker, was waiting inside. Jeff, you must know, is virtually an inanimate object. He weighed, at the time, approximately five hundred and seventy pounds, and has most certainly increased since. He shuffled slowly across the room to water my aloe vera plant, which is literally an inanimate object.

“Hiya!” Jeff exclaimed in his voice that was as deep as his midriff was wide.

“Jeff!” I smiled, “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Was I supposed to dress fancy?” Jeff looked at me with confusion.

“What? No. How could you have? Even I was not aware you would be here!” I answered with a look even more befuddled than his.

“Oh, my apologies, I thought you said this meeting way fancy.”

“Well, perhaps I did.” I raised one eyebrow. Jeff never was the sharpest thorn on the rosebush. He was more like the biggest apple on the tree, which looks appealing at first, until you realize it tastes the same as all the other apples and just takes longer to finish eating.

“Would you like a cookie laden with dried grapes?” I inquired with my best British accent, trying to sound fancy as Jeff had suggested.

“Pinot Noir would be great, Thank you.” Jeff answered with his best British accent and a cheesy grin.

“No, Jeff, I said cookie.” I furrowed my brow.

“And wine?”

“Raisin cookie, not wine, Jeff. A crushed grape is wine, a dried grape is called a raisin.”

“Oh…” Jeff shook his head. “Well, I suppose I’ll take one anyway.” His meaty hand reached out to pluck two cookies off the plate I had set out.

“To whom or what do I owe this visit?” I asked Jeff, trying to start a conversation and distract Jeff from eating the rest of my cookies.

“Right,” Jeff was still staring at the cookies. “I suppose fifteen or twenty bucks should cover the travel fees.”

“Hm?” I blinked several times, as if trying to wake myself from a bad dream.

“You asked what you owe, so I said that fifteen or twe---"

“I know what you said, Jeff! But why would I owe you money?” I was starting to think that the hoarfrost could understand me better than Jeff Chroniker.

“Well, you don’t, but you asked what you owe, so I thought I would answer.” Jeff said, sounding exasperated. The doorbell rang just then making both me and Jeff breath in sharply.

“Will you answer that?” I looked at Jeff, “I’m going to grab some coffee.”

“I did,” Jeff looked at me like I was stupid. “I answered you! I said fifteen or---"

“Please just answer the door, Jeff.” I was getting desperate now. Jeff walked past the grandfather clock in the hallway and opened the door.

“Hello!” Wheezed a tall thin man, who looked like he was Jeff’s opposite being from another dimension. “May I come in? I had an appointment with, ah, that writer fellow, the one who drinks too much coffee?”

“Yes, he does,” Jeff replied.

“He does have an appointment?”

“No, he’s making coffee.” Jeff pointed back at me in the kitchen. The wheezing man wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, then straightened and held out his hand.

“Right then, I’m Phil! Dr. Phil McGuffin! And you are?”

“I’m single” Jeff replied sadly. Phil looked back at me.

“Who is he?”

“Jeff Chroniker!” I shouted back to him while dumping the coffee beans into the blender.

“So, you sell clocks?” Dr. Phil turned to jeff. “How ‘bout that big ‘ol grandfather clock in the hall there, how much does she run for?”

“Jeff stood expressionless. “She doesn’t run, it’s an inanimate object.” I shook my head from in the kitchen and began to noisily grind the beans.

“Okaaaay,” Phil squinted, “So what’s your answer?” Jeff threw his arms up in exasperation.

“Fifteen or twenty will be fine!” Phil stood with his mouth hanging wide open. Not as wide as Jeff, mind you, but still plenty wide.

“Well, I’ll take it! I’ll call a truck right away!”

        “I thought you had an appointment with---" Jeff was cut off.

“Of course, I do, I never said otherwise.” Phil smirked in confusion. Jeff looked suspicious.

“Didn’t you say you were leaving?”

“No, I need to try some of this famous coffee!” Dr. Phil smiled. Jeff rolled his eyes and lumbered inside. Phil followed the massive man close behind.

         I walk out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and prepared myself for a very confusing meeting. Phile spoke first.

         “So, now that I have purchased your clock, I feel like I know you much better! Let’s get started!”

         “I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “my clock?”

         “Yes, your butler sold it to me for fifteen dollars.” Phil replied matter-of-factly. I was flabberghasted.

         “I don’t have a butler!”

         Phil looked at me with confusion. “Mr. Chroniker sold me the old chroniker!” My face slowly slid into despair, then I buried my face in my hands.

         “This is a nightmare!” I moaned

         “Oh, yes,” Dr. Phil’s face turned serious. “Tell me about these reocurring dreams you’ve been having.” He took out an oversized green notebook with notes, scribbles, and poorly drawn bunnies written lackidaisically all over the page.

         “I haven’t been having nightmares, Dr. Phil, I broke my ankle, remember?” I kept my hands over my face.

 Jeff spoke up. “So are you the real Doctor Phil, or are you just some random Phil who happens to be a doctor?”

         “Um,” Dr. McGuffin glanced at me briefly, only he could not see my face, because my hands were still covering it. “The Dr. Phil on television is a Psycologist, not a medical doctor.”

          “I don’t think he’s that crazy, so it may be a bit insensitive of you to call him psycho.” Jeff finished by shaking his head. Phil stared blankly. I banged my head on the coffee table while keeping my hands on my face.

           “Well then,” Phil said carefully, “I’ll take a look at your ankle, and be on my way!”

           Dr. Phil McGuffin proceeded to put delicate pressure on my ankle. I winced a few times, but he never pushed too hard. Phil took out an ankle wrap.

           “I’ll just wrap it for support, but otherwise, you are on the road to recovery!”

           “What state is recovery in?” Jeff asked. “also, I find rap quite obnoxious, so I don’t see how that could help.”

           “No not rap, wrap.” I sighed. Jeff pursed his lips.

“That’s what I said.”

Phil rose from his sea to look out the large window in the front room.

“The truck has finally arrived!”

“What truck?” I asked

“Why the chroniker truck, of course!” Phil responded with glee.

“I don’t own a truck.” Jeff mumbled.

“You were serious about that?” I shouted, “that clock was my great-grandfather’s! It’s over one-hundred years old and very valuable!”

“I know, that’s why I was so surprised when Jeff said it ran for only fifteen!”

“It doesn’t run! Its inanimate!” Jeff fumed. “Why does no one understand this?”

I was angry now. “Jeff! How could you have made such a huge blunder!”

Jeff straightened his tie and leaned back.

“Well, I would have taken a look at a normal blender, then I probably would have measured it, and then increased all the dimensions by the same amount.”

“No! I said blunder! As in mistake!”

“I don’t think I could miss a steak, they’re just too juicy.” Jeff licked his fat lips. I knew if I didn’t calm down, I would be making his lips fatter.

“Can I ask you one question?” Jeff turned to Dr. Mcguffin.

Phil shrugged, “Go ahead, shoot.”

Jeff stared at him in horror. “Are you sure?” He quavered.

“Of course! There are no stupid questions. Just go a head and shoot.” Phil smiled. I covered my face again, while Jeff pulled out a handgun and shot.

Jeff Chroniker was aquitted from his charges of murder after his lawyer declared him incompetent and mentally unstable, to which Jeff replied: “I should certainly hope so, because I really don’t want to live in a stable with those smelly horses. The chroniker truck left my house after much explaination, and the old grandfather clock was restored in its rightful place in my hallway.

I relaxed at home until my ankle completely healed, then I walked through the sunshine, past the hoarfrost, and over the snow to Mr. Moreno’s where I bought another bag of cookies laden with raisins.