Time for something I just made up out of the cesspool of my mind.

The Casserole Brigade

By Jimmie von Tungeln

The Casserole Brigade started showing up two days after Dora Mae’s funeral. There were a half-dozen members appearing from the mist of John Paul’s despondency like soldiers emerging in dim shapes from no-man’s land. To them, he appeared numb and vulnerable, no doubt dazed from the damage his loss had caused, so suddenly and unexpectedly had it burst upon him. Easy pickings.

At first, there were evening treats designed to soften him up for later assaults. A plate of spaghetti or a surplus Chicken Tetrazzini from a dinner for a sister. “My late husband used to call it “Chicken Tetrachloride” but then he always had more money than taste, ahem.”

And of course there were the casseroles. They came in every form imaginable and some that, quite frankly, John Paul could never have imagined. There were ham and cheese casseroles, egg and cheese casseroles, egg and anything casseroles, and casseroles made, apparently from whatever lay uneaten in a refrigerator at any given moment. Consuelo Remindez, wife of the late manager of “La Casa Ensinada” even once brought him a Chili Relleno casserole that had nearly taken off the top of his head. His vote for most bizarre was though, for a considerable length of time, a broccoli and corn bread casserole that Emily Kesterson had left at his door one evening with a note that said simply, “We must each find a way to get over our grief.”

She was always the shy one.

She would come late, and on the few times she knocked on his door, she knocked softly, so softly he could scarcely discern it from the noise of the city.

“I’m sorry.” That’s the way she always began.

The others weren’t as subtle. Marcella Goodwin, for example, would catch him in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “Gonna bring you a brand new dish tonight,” she would announce in a voice audible to anyone near. “That’ll be two, counting me, har har.”

Folks felt good about it. John Paul and Dora Mae never did seem that they could afford to live in the building. He must be suffering both emotionally and financially, it was surmised. A little help from the ladies here and there must have been welcome. Everyone commented on how well John Paul seemed to be doing. Besides, he enjoyed the casseroles and welcomed them, most of them at least. As long as he smiled and dined, they kept coming like products on an assembly line.

It went on like this for some time. When those at the morning coffee gathering tried to remember later, reminisces ranged from a month to three months. At any rate, it was long enough for Parker Thompson to start a pool. He called it the “Land John Paul Pool” and it is whispered that he had collected nearly a hundred dollars before the news hit the condo like a tsunami.

One day he just wasn’t there anymore.

“Not here?” Someone asked. “You mean he went on a trip?”
 “No,” a daughter explained. “He and a friend moved to New York.”

“You mean he had a girl friend?” Marcella said. “Whose casserole won?”

“No, it was his friend Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Yes, they have leased a place in Manhattan.” Complete silence settled on the room. From that day, no one ever mentioned his name again, much less the power of the casserole.