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There was a time when I thought I had everything. My ideal genetics gave me good looks and intelligence. Of course, money and women soon followed. In the workplace, my word was law and nobody dared question my decisions. My friends all held me in deep adoration.

 

One day, I went to a Chinese restaurant specific to the Xizang region. I had a date or coworker with me, but who exactly is irrelevant. The rice and noodles were still on the menu, but any slight alteration to the spices wasn’t what made the place special.

 

At the end of the meal, they gave us our fortune cookies. I customarily crushed it in my fist and took out the two-inch ribbon of paper from beneath the crumbs. It read, “It’s better to be a tireless braggart than engage in false modesty. You should work on that.” I sneered at the message and brushed the cookie from my hand without eating any.

 

I called to the waiter, “What kind of joke is this? Your fortune cookie just abused me.”

 

He answered, “Ah, these are resolution cookies. We believe criticism that leads to self improvement will be of greater value to you than any Earthly treasure.”

 

“Great, thanks.”

 

When the waiter left, I snatched the cookie from my dinner guest’s hands and crushed it too. This one read, “You may be able to intimidate your associates, but you can’t intimidate me.”

 

The restaurant was some miles from the office, but it became my regular spot to have lunch. Even when I lacked an appetite, I would order a meal, take two bites and smash open a new cookie.  Eventually, I built a vast collection. They said, “Don’t talk in circles, when an exit immediately presents itself,” “If you walk a mile in somebody’s shoes, disinfect afterwards,” and “Work on your signature wrestling move.”

After the first few, I suspected the cookies weren’t taking me seriously…

Dressed in black and covered with dust, Jared stumbled through the rolling, desert sands. His arms and legs scratched from brush and his lips cracked, he dropped to his knees and forced some air into his heavy chest. Finally, he submitted and lay on his back, only vaguely aware that he was in a shady spot beneath a cactus. 

Though it was a sunny day, the sun lacked any bite. The wind kicked up, tossing grains of sand on Jared’s eyelids. He wiped them away and then resumed his death pose. The wind forced a few more grains between his lips. He sputtered for a bit, took a quick swig of water from the canteen at his side and then turned on his stomach to avoid further harassment from the natural elements. 

The world was prepared to ignore him for a while, but after a solid hour of the display a fat vulture fluttered overhead and perched on a branch of the cactus above. The bird craned its neck down to get a good look. It blinked a few time, looked in both directions and then lifted its head and gave an annoyed caw. Jared gave a slight jolt, and only then became aware of the visitor above. 

In a weepy tone, he said, “I suppose you’re here to eat me then.” 

The vulture responded, “Well, not if you talk to me like that.” 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle you.” 

“No, it’s not that. You’re still living. I only feed on the dead. If the organs are still undulating and gurgling I completely lose my appetite.” 

“Well, you needn’t wait long then.” 

“Good,” exclaimed the vulture. 

The black and white feathered scavenger flexed its wings and then began grooming the tuft of white feathers on its chest with its beak. It was a Sunday and he feasted well the day before, so he didn’t feel hurried to snack on the creature below. The breeze picked up again and the vulture gave way to mirthful bouncing. He leapt from his perch to walk on the ground below for a time, and gave his next meal a better look. 

The vulture perked up, asking “Does that canteen have water in it?” 

Jared turned over slowly, and then sat up. He grabbed the green, plastic container attached to his side. Jared sloshed it back and forth and then admitted it did. 

“You, tit. You’re not even dying are you,” screamed the vulture. 

Jared insisted, “Sure, I am. Look at this place. How can a person survive this desolation?” 

“Well, you seem to be managing nicely. Where’d you get the water?” 

“I brought it. I thought I might get thirsty.” 

“Thought you might get thirsty!? You came out here on purpose, didn’t you?” asked the vulture reproachfully. 

It waited for an answer, but Jared wouldn’t say a word. A locust was heard ticking in the brush several yards off. The vulture sighed and said, “In that case, I’m off.” 

“No, wait,” said Jared. 

“No.” 

“But I will die, honest.” 

“Not in my lifetime,” said the vulture. 

“It’s just I’m at a loss for what to do,” Jared implored. 

“Get up and out of my desert. Then find yourself a therapist, they make far better scavengers.” And with that, the bird was gone. 

Jared felt a bit silly after the exchange, but picked himself up anyhow. He pulled out his keychain to disarm his car alarm, then got in and drove off. 

 

Siberian winters are seldom the subjects of great esteem. Perhaps Vlad was feeling that he’d rather be sculpting sand on a Hawaiian Beach than huddled beneath layer after layer of clothing. He stuck a gloved hand into his outer coat and pulled out the plans for his visionary sculpture. He held the plans in front of his eyes, the only exposed part of his body, and gave a wide smile beneath his mask. It would go on record as the first Tater Tot Man made entirely out of ice.

There were small patches of crowd, adding color to the barren, ice field. The turnout was never huge, but as good as could be expected when one can’t find two degrees to rub together. The competition ran from dawn until dusk, and the cold, yellow sun had just peeked over the horizon. Vlad took his chisel in one hand and with the other he waved to his fans who cheered and slapped glove against glove. Then he approached the 7ft. block and looked it up and down. After giving it a few test cuts, he exhaled deeply and began his laborious art.

At three cuts per second, it was quick, skillful work. Professional sculptors threw themselves into a trance when working and only come to suffer the pangs of their sculpting the following evening which, of course, would be full of heavy drink, as tradition dictates. Minute by minute, the blocks across the field began to take shape. Nobody talked about their plans beforehand, but within two or three hours the figures became obvious to all. The joy of attending the competitions was not only to watch the skillful work of the sculptor, but also to see their vivid imaginings slowly fleshed out.

There were always a few dragons, and this year was no exception. Teeth were the early clue, and when the sharp cones appeared there was a knowing “Aah!” amongst the audience. One bushy-eyed, senior sculptor who had carved dragons for nine years running did a variation this year and instead carved a crocodile. A newcomer carved an oak tree that seamlessly emerged from the snowy ground below into countless sinewy branches. There was also a crowd favorite that recreated the story of Rapunzel, carving a 6ft. tower with the women’s head hanging over the top and her wavy locks flowing to the ground.

 

By midday, the competitors were forced to take a break and only two works remained a mystery to all, Vlad’s was one. The sculptors were given coffee and warm sandwiches. Vlad pulled down his mask and set to his very sluggishly. His intent demeanor could be read in his face, as his tiny, blue eyes seemed to sparkle. His mind was on days past, and childhood trips. A middle-aged man and all he could only create one short-lived work after another. Every winter he built a repertoire and every spring the Earth destroyed it. He wiped the crumbs from his face and replaced the mask.

 

Curiosity steadily grew over Vlad’s work. It appeared to be five cylinders connected to a central cylinder by toothpicks, two on the ground, two to the side and one on top. When the form was to his liking, he smiled, did some mild stretches and then began texturing. Flecks of ice were tossed in every direction. Vlad had worked into a rhythm; for every long cut heard there would be three short ones.

 

The sun had reddened, as the day was closing. The old timers finished with their dragons early, and another was just finishing with the long strands Rapunzel’s hair. Vlad cut away the supports last and the thin arms had successfully supported the weighty hands. Content, he brushed off the flakes and moved back to admire it at every angle. It was like a photo of his memory and he was proud. This was the one work they couldn’t take from him.

 

Vlad didn’t linger to hear the judges’ responses. He expected it would be ranked last. It was, however, ranked next-to-last, as another had carved a saguaro cactus and the irony was lost on the judges. But beyond a few who thought it was a futurist work, the 7ft. Tater Tot Man was considered a giant flaw.  The harsh truth is that, though they have the ingredients, there are no Tater Tot Men in Russia. The prize went to Rapunzel that year.