The Pancake That Saved Silicon Valley and other NaPoWriMo Poems 2013 Read online

  in 1975, 1976, 1977

  How can that be conjured

  in a different time,

  another place

  Like all I’d need to do is close my eyes

  and be there

  Late afternoon or evening sun acts like a time machine

  and once again

  I’m ten years old

  without a care in the world

  Juror #18

  I had never been called to serve before

  I had no idea what to expect.

  As it turned out, taking public transport was the best part.

  The rest of the day leaves me feeling weary.

  But not as worn as juror #18.

  She was pregnant,

  what she told the judge as soon as she could. But he paid no attention;

  she was jury fodder

  like the rest of us.

  “Do you think severe morning sickness

  cramps and bleeding would preclude you from serving?”

  Was he serious, I wondered.

  Why didn’t he just let that woman leave?

  More questions, defense and prosecution,

  more blah blah blah.

  More blah blah blah than I could ever shake a stick at,

  then juror #18 asked permission to be excused

  to the restroom.

  She didn’t make it,

  getting sick, on her knees,

  into a waste can

  three feet from where I sat.

  Then she was excused, but it was too late.

  She shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  My previous view of the criminal justice system was average;

  checks, balances, etc etc etc.

  But I am a person,

  not jury fodder.

  That woman

  with life inside her

  wasn’t given the courtesy the defendant was shown.

  (And let’s not forget how many people were late, coming back from a two-hour lunch.)

  This is a rant, at the end of a long day.

  Juror #18 was excused, so was I.

  But I won’t forget her anytime soon.

  We Call Her Gracie

  For that’s her name;

  Gracie Allen rose.

  Rose isn’t capitalized

  as it’s not actually part of her name.

  But a flower by another

  could be misconstrued

  as a daisy, a carnation, a lily.

  However besides being a deceased entertainer

  and wife to the late George Burns

  Gracie Allen

  is also the name of one of the roses

  in our backyard.

  The others don’t have monikers

  but they have histories –

  two came with the house,

  one of which was transplanted

  (and survived)

  in order for an A/C unit to be installed.

  Four in the front yard sort of came together,

  two fragrant

  two not.

  White and red, yellow and red

  all beautiful.

  Something special about roses

  whether they grow as if long-stemmed

  (red fragrant)

  or prolific and odorless (the other red which

  lives near the garage, surrounded by

  golden California poppies).

  Gracie is a cluster rose, with petite

  blooms and a scent to die for.

  Swirls of yellow and red

  make her one of the prettiest around.

  She lives near a short peach tree

  and another tall rose bush

  sporting singular buds that will be a

  peachy-pink when open.

  (But that has nothing to with the

  neighboring peach tree.)

  Another bush sits a few feet away;

  it’s also pink, smells nice.

  On the other side of the yard

  grows a wild cluster rose

  fighting geraniums for attention.

  It offers a plethora of blooms,

  as if wanting to be noticed

  so far away from the rest.

  But I always come back to Gracie

  for that lovely name

  her spectacular colours

  but mostly her charming personality

  which is a blend of scent, hue,

  bloom potential, and shape of flower.

  She’s not tall,

  will probably be overshadowed by the

  peach tree one day.

  Yet she’s sweet,

  unassuming,

  willing to proffer some of the loveliest roses

  I’ve ever seen.

  I never enjoyed Burns & Allen

  but for as much as George loved his Gracie

  I adore mine.

  The Pancake That Saved Silicon Valley

  As soon as she saw the first special of the day

  she knew something was coming.

  A little bit of nirvana

  she smiled to her husband –

  graham cracker chocolate chip pancakes

  with fresh strawberries.

  “Oh my goodness

  I know what I’m having for breakfast.”

  They sat,

  the place deserted

  but then it was 6.25 in the morning

  Sunday morning.

  They had gotten up late

  for them

  yet it was still early enough

  that only Melissa the waitress

  and Robert the cook/owner

  and his staff

  were present.

  And a husband and wife

  who inadvertently

  saved the entirety of Silicon Valley

  on that particular Sunday morning.

  They sat down, chuckling

  as Melissa didn’t bother with menus –

  the wife would have a half-order

  two pancakes instead of three

  while the husband had most of his usual:

  two eggs over easy

  extra grilled onions

  over cottage potatoes

  and wheat toast

  but no bacon.

  The other oddity

  was that he ordered a hot chocolate.

  He never had anything to drink

  but water

  while his wife asked for a double latte

  when normally she had a single.

  One might assume it was those

  out of the ordinary beverages that altered

  events.

  But they were just red herrings.

  It was the pancake,

  one pancake,

  as the wife only ever ate one.

  Two would have been too much,

  and besides, there was always their sleeping youngest daughter

  who might want it.

  Maybe, but if not, the wife

  would eat it later

  perhaps during the Giants-Padres

  game that wouldn’t have taken

  place if not for the one

  pancake that was devoured.

  One little, well, not so little,

  but in the grand scheme it was

  a pretty darn innocuous

  pancake; one pancake would

  rise above all else,

  and rescue a whole valley.

  But first, let us examine the pancake –

  it was the top pancake

  of course,

  with syrup and butter on the side.

  But the wife never employed

  those extras.

  “They’d overwhelm the chocolate,”

  she told her husband

  as Sandra the other early Sunday morning waitress arrived,

  wishing them a good morning.

  The pancake was topped with sliced fresh

  and otherwise unadulterated strawberries

  that were festooned with chocola
te chips

  melting from the heat of the pancake.

  Chocolate chips swirled within

  the pancake, mostly settling in the center

  which had turned into a gooey but delicious

  mess by the time the wife had worked her way

  to that part of it.

  She compared that pancake to the other breakfast highlight of her life,

  two Christmas Eves ago

  at that same café;

  chocolate chip pancakes

  topped with crushed red and green candy canes.

  She liked a little carbohydrate with her sugar

  on Sunday mornings,

  she joked to the

  older man who joined them,

  the only ones besides Melissa, Robert and his crew,

  and Sandra.

  They were the only witnesses to

  the pancake that saved Silicon Valley.

  Once breakfast was eaten,

  conversations shared,

  coffee and cocoa sipped,

  the husband paid the check,

  left a tip,

  good Sunday morning to all exchanged.

  The extra pancake,

  which later served its purpose,

  was tucked into a large styrofoam box,

  held by the wife

  as the husband drove them home.

  They didn’t live near the café, which was

  nestled in the beginnings of the Santa Cruz Mountains,

  but still at the bottom of the valley.

  It was there the trouble started,

  a rogue car blocking both lanes

  of Highway 17

  before it turned into Interstate 880.

  Yet, as it was still early,

  barely seven a.m.,

  the couple’s vehicle was the only other car on the road.

  No one sat in the parked average-looking sedan,

  the driver’s door opened,

  the engine running.

  Smoke billowed from under

  the hood,

  wafting into the crisp morning air.

  “Well, what now?”

  the wife asked,

  strangely not worried.

  She was running on heavenly pancake fuel;

  only their own car suffering a flat

  might have bothered her, just for the nuisance of

  having to change the tire.

  Her husband rolled down his window,

  for reasons still unknown.

  “Layla” boomed from the stopped car,

  the guitar-driven intro

  as if the song had just begun.

  That set the tone,

  as a catastrophe in the making unfolded.

  Now usually the wife would be prone to

  rolling her eyes

  shaking her head

  shrugging.

  She wasn’t the most patient person,

  well, she could be,

  but she didn’t easily suffer fools.

  Yet the pancake had been so tasty,

  satisfying,

  perfect actually.

  If not for that chocolate chip strawberry pancake

  percolating not only in her tummy

  but easing its happy way through veins and arteries

  the day would have been very, very different.

  Unknown to the couple

  and everyone else on the planet,

  aliens had picked that morning

  to tease humanity

  choosing Silicon Valley

  for its wide variety of inhabitants

  and its technological pulse.

  The North Koreans might think they were in charge

  but the aliens hovering over the southern tip of the

  San Francisco Bay Area

  could have obliterated all of North Korea

  with little more than a blink of their eyes

  if they had eyes.

  Instead their focus was the very southern

  edge of the most

  advanced collection

  of persons

  and hardware

  on all of Earth.

  Weapons were superfluous;

  The future was all about innovation.

  Yet, the aliens had no way to measure

  the power of chocolate

  and fresh strawberries

  shared in a quiet, favored

  location

  with an additional dose of milky caffeine.

  Even more unrealized

  was the capacity

  for good

  endowed upon one woman’s

  often cynical heart.

  “Stop the car,” the wife said.

  “We are stopped,” her husband sighed.

  “No,” she grinned,

  over which the aliens took note.

  “Kill the engine.”

  “What? Are you serious?

  This could be…”

  A litany of disasters filled the car,

  but the wife gently shook her head.

  The aliens paid attention to that too,

  surprised at her willingness to investigate

  a situation destined to stir a small initial panic

  that would insidiously infect

  the entirety

  of the most plugged-in

  segment of human society.

  New Yorkers or Los Angelinos

  or Tokyo residents

  might assume they owned that title.

  But it was here

  in Silicon Valley

  where social media

  and a well-cultured

  yet fully exploitable

  techie indifference reigned.

  The wife got out of the car,

  then looked back at her husband,

  who gripped the steering wheel.

  Her extra pancake,

  like insurance, rested safely inside

  styrofoam

  on the car’s dashboard.

  Then she faced the stalled but still running vehicle,

  Eric Clapton’s aching voice

  pouring from the driver’s open door.

  “Anyone there?” she called,

  pleasing the aliens.

  She assumed someone was in the car,

  waiting to strike,

  to attack, to…

  “Layla,” she sang,

  taking the aliens’ attention from their

  nefarious machinations.

  In the realm of space,

  their ploy would later be tried

  by a court of other life forms.

  But at that moment,

  no one in the galaxy had noticed their deeds,

  which in the grand scheme

  wasn’t more than illicit graffiti sprayed on freeway signs.

  The wife trilled along with Clapton

  as if she was alone in the world,

  unafraid and enthralled.

  The aliens weren’t at all prepared

  for her boldness in the face of potential and unforeseen tragedy

  nor the beauty and strength of her voice.

  “Layla,” she continued,

  along with Derek and the Dominoes, as she fearlessly approached

  the car,

  smoke still rising from its purring engine.

  In later space-court testimony,

  the aliens’ appointed attorney claimed his clients were only looking to test

  humanity,

  and merely one small section of it.

  Grand-scale warfare hadn’t been their goal;

  although if their strategy had been executed properly,

  the prosecuting lawyer rebutted,

  over two million people would have been killed,

  half of those in San Jose alone.

  As these facts were presented to the jury

  the aliens squirmed in their chairs,

  their faces, or what sufficed as faces,

  pointed toward the floor.

&nb
sp; “If not for the actions

  or more correctly the reaction

  of one female

  an entire region of

  humans

  would have been obliterated.”

  The prosecutor

  then faced

  the defendants,

  offering a nasty glare

  which the jury and judge

  could not see.

  Then the prosecutor looked at the judge;

  “If not for her calm,

  albeit chocolate chip pancake

  With…” The prosecutor retrieved his notes.

  “With,” he said forcefully,

  “fresh and unsweetened strawberries,

  death and wanton destruction

  would have engulfed the most

  technologically savvy spot on Earth.”

  Some in the gallery sniggered,

  mumbling to themselves:

  Some techie hub my ass.

  Others chanted Lay-la, Lay-la

  or Clapton is God.

  The presiding judge banged her gavel:

  “Order in the court!”

  All quieted, eyes on the defendants

  who like the jurors

  and the lawyers

  and the judge

  could not believe

  how utter mayhem

  had been thwarted

  by the simple joy

  produced by a single

  chocolate chip pancake

  laced with strawberries

  no butter or syrup involved.

  Attorneys for both sides

  proffered their closing arguments –

  the defense claimed their clients

  had eaten too many intergalactic Twinkies

  and weren’t in charge of their faculties.

  The prosecutor reminded jurors

  how the woman, fueled on human consumable bliss,

  had confidently walked to the open driver’s door,

  singing “Layla” in a loud voice

  then turned off the car,

  silencing the music

  but not herself.

  She continued singing,

  the lawyer said,

  with no musical accompaniment

  as if to God himself,

  alerting space authorities

  attending to a disturbance on Mars.

  As the woman stepped away from the still-smoking sedan,

  galactic cops far overhead

  surrounded the aliens’ craft,

  severing their connection to the vehicle blocking the road.

  To the wife’s, her husband’s, and those in a few SUVs

  idling behind the couple’s car

  total surprise

  the wayward vehicle became elevated, drifting from the freeway

  into the sky, then

  disappearing from view.

  The woman stood motionless for only seconds

  then glanced at her own car,

  noting the styrofoam container on the dashboard.

  “What in the hell was in that pancake?”

  she said aloud, smiling as she walked back to where

  her husband

  and others

  were waiting

  wondering if what they had witnessed was real.

  The jury deliberated for less than ten minutes.

  Guilty, the judge pronounced

  as the charged aliens sighed,

  led away from the courtroom to a chorus of jeers

  and a few lingering shouts of

  Clapton is God.

  Meanwhile, back in Silicon Valley,

  in the bottom of the fourth inning,

  the Giants at bat,

  the wife removed that extra pancake from

  the toaster oven.