"The Teaspoon"

25th Annual Writing Contest Fiction Winner

Published: Feb 2, 2011

Evan M. Lopez

ABOUT THE WRITING CONTEST: This year, exactly 306 pieces of poetry and 108 pieces of fiction were submitted to our annual writing contest. All authors' names were removed before the entries were delivered to the judges. There will be a public reading by the winners and judges Wed., Feb. 9, 8 p.m., at L'Etage (624 S. Sixth St., 215-592-0656, creperie-beaumonde.com).

On a small hill there was a big house, and in the big house was a fancy dining room, and in the dining room was a long table, and on the table there was a spoon. A teaspoon, in fact. Now, this teaspoon was very proud of her place on the table. She delighted in her ability to measure out the exact amount of sugar to drop into the grandmother's cup of tea, and she loved the way her concave scoop made perfect swirling eddies in the tea, to mix the sugar in thoroughly. The teaspoon was content with her role in life, and she was happy to be of service.

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Until one day she was set next to a wicked steak knife. She introduced herself to him pleasantly, but he sneered at her and said, "Look at you, so small and round and blunt! What good are you?" And so she told him about how she measured out the sugar, and how she mixed it into the tea. "And," she said, "as for being small, well, I'm quite happy to be dainty."

"Dainty?! Hah!" the steak knife replied. "With that bulging protrusion of yours? You don't even lie flat on the table like a proper piece of silverware. Your hump makes you wobbly and unstable!" And he turned away and started eyeing up the butter knife.

The teaspoon was cut to the quick. No one had ever spoken to her that way before, and no one had ever suggested that she had a negative side. She was always so pleased with what she could do that she never thought about what she couldn't do, or what she did badly.

But now every time she was dipped into the sugar bowl she didn't think about the sweet crystals she was scooping up, but the ones she was thrusting aside with her hump. And when she stirred the tea she began to worry that her convex surface was creating counter-eddies that canceled out all the good eddies from her concave side.

And the final straw came when she was set before the young son of the house and he accidentally put his water glass down on her edge and she flipped up and sailed end over end across the table and landed in the grandmother's mashed potatoes. How undignified and decidedly un -dainty.

So she went to the steak knife and said, "You were right! What can I do? How do I get rid of this awful protrusion?"

"Well," he answered, "every now and then I get taken down to the basement to get sharpened. There's a grinder down there, and I suppose he'd be able to remove that hump of yours for you."

So that night she crept down to the basement, found the grinder and asked him to help her. He said, "I will, if you could help me. I'm in desperate need of some oil." So the spoon found the tin of oil, pried off the lid, and scooped out some of the liquid. Then she returned to the grinder and poured it exactly where it was needed. "Hah!" she thought. "Let's see the steak knife do that !"

"Ahh, thank you," said the grinder, "I feel much better! Now, I think I can get rid of your hump, but you'll have to hold still. It may hurt a bit." She nodded bravely, and moved closer, and he began to grind away the metal on her reverse side.

It did hurt. Incredibly. And she flinched at the sight of those little specks of silver flying off all around her. But she yearned to get rid of the pushy, protruding, unstable side of herself, and so she held still. And after a bit it all went numb and she didn't feel anything at all.

"OK, that's it, you're done," the grinder said, and the spoon rushed back upstairs, feeling lighter both physically and emotionally. She was so excited to test her new stability that she laid herself on the table and tried rocking back and forth. Nothing. She was as sturdy as any steak knife; not about to go flipping through the air. She was so relieved she fell asleep right there on the table.

The next morning the teaspoon felt herself being lifted up by the grandmother, and dipped into the sugar bowl. This was the test of her new self. And she passed! She slipped into the heap of sugar without pushing aside any grains at all. But her success — and her happiness — was short-lived. As she was lifted up, she felt all the crystals slide through her; she couldn't hold on to any of them. Then she was dunked into the teacup and stirred around, but the liquid hardly made a ripple, let alone an eddy. What was going on?!

She felt herself being lifted out of the cup and carried into the kitchen and then thrown onto the countertop as the grandmother dug in the silverware drawer for another spoon, and took it back into the dining room.

The teaspoon shook herself, bewildered. She pulled herself up in front of the toaster and looked at her reflection in its chrome side. She saw a thin metal rim around where her scoop used to be, with nothing inside of it but air. And as she turned back and forth in front of the toaster she realized what she had done. She saw that her negative side and her positive side were just two halves of the same shape, and that by getting rid of one she had destroyed the other.

She was crushed. What good was a spoon without a scoop? Was a spoon really still a spoon if she wasn't able to lift and hold things? No. She decided she wasn't. And what was left for a spoon who wasn't a spoon? Nothing.

She decided to end it all. She dragged herself over to the sink, looked down at the tub of hot, soapy water sitting there, and she hurled herself into it.

No sooner had she hit the bottom then she was fished out by the father of the house, who was doing the breakfast dishes. She felt herself lifted up in front of his face, and turned back and forth. And then she felt a light breeze blowing through her, and out in front of her appeared a shiny, thin, delicate bubble that floated away over the sink, and then bumped into the wall, and popped.

She found herself being dropped into a cup, with some soapy water poured on top, and handed to the man's young son. He carried her out into the sunshine, and held her up in the bright air, and blew. And from the empty space within her came streams of shining bubbles that floated up and out into the world.

Judges Comments: Fiction

Sophisticated simplicity. The writing in "The Teaspoon" was sharp, clear and concise — not only on the sentence level, but also on the idea level. The writer captivated us throughout the entire story, skillfully growing the tension to a redemptive, satisfying conclusion, with an illuminating perception shift to boot. Some consider allegories out-of-fashion. Submitting an allegory seemed brave; submitting a smart yet demonstrative allegory proved effective. It's not often we feel sympathy for inanimate objects, but these utensils engaged us fully.

—Alicia Bessette and Matthew Quick

About the Judges: Alicia Bessette is the author of Simply from Scratch (Dutton). Matthew Quick is the author of The Silver Linings Playbook (Farrar, Straus & Giroux) and Sorta Like a Rock Star (Little, Brown Books for Young Readers). Together they run the blog Quest for Kindness at aliciabessette.com/blog.

Comments

Oh City Paper, really? I'm so disappointed in you. That was the most insipid, bland, horrible piece-of-white-bread story I've read all year. That was like something a high school freshmen would churn out when asked to write "A Cute Little Fable". The direction and conclusion of the thing was clear after the first paragraph, but I forced myself to keep reading, thinking, "No... no way this is going to be some vague moral lesson wrapped inside a saccharine little tale." Then it was. With all the creative talent in Philadelphia, you couldn't find something edgy, new, creative, different? You choose this trite piece of shit? A good short story should transport the readers, align them to the lives of the characters, however briefly, and have them come away from it thinking about something new, or about something old in a new way. I love City paper, but I gotta call foul on this one. It truly sucked.
by Amy on February 3rd 2011 9:47 PM

Oh City Paper, really? I'm so disappointed in you. That was the most insipid, bland, horrible piece-of-white-bread story I've read all year. That was like something a high school freshmen would churn out when asked to write "A Cute Little Fable". The direction and conclusion of the thing was clear after the first paragraph, but I forced myself to keep reading, thinking, "No... no way this is going to be some vague moral lesson wrapped inside a saccharine little tale." Then it was. With all the creative talent in Philadelphia, you couldn't find something edgy, new, creative, different? You choose this trite piece of shit? A good short story should transport the readers, align them to the lives of the characters, however briefly, and have them come away from it thinking about something new, or about something old in a new way. I love City paper, but I gotta call foul on this one. It truly sucked.
by Amy on February 3rd 2011 9:47 PM

Amy- I read your entire comment, expecting to find something of value, an insight, something other than pathetic whining. So this story didn't appeal to you, clearly this "moral lesson" was one you never learned, as you managed to exemplify what the story was trying to get at. Have to wonder though, is this just sour grapes because your submission didn't get picked?
by dr squid on February 4th 2011 10:55 AM

I've read a lot of allegory, some of it good, and some of it not so good, but this story falls in the former category. Applying human characteristics to inanimate objects is a good stylistic trick, and this story maintained its tone and narrative thread throughout. Well done, Ms. Blumberg!
by Deep Mission on February 4th 2011 11:53 AM

Wonderful piece. I found myself emotionally invested in the spoon, hoping she wouldn't allow herself to be mutilated, hoping that she would see her ability to scoop the oil as a strength and not go through with it ...

I am glad that the story ended on a positive note, that the author found a clever way to give her suicidal protagonist new purpose.
by Shelle on February 4th 2011 12:00 PM

A very cute story!
by Camillereads on February 4th 2011 12:09 PM

I thought this story was beautifully written and very creative. The author's message spoke to me, reminding me of my recent growth and self discovery! Keep up the good work!!
by Becky on February 4th 2011 12:26 PM

Very good writing. Wonderful story.
by Amy on February 4th 2011 1:37 PM

What a beautifully touching allegory. I, too, hoped the spoon would realize its value whilst applying the oil, and was saddened when it went ahead with its mutilation, only I imagined that the grinder would flatten the spoon, not hollow it out. I literally felt shock and devastation when I realized what it had done, making the joy and hope I felt when it redeemed itself at the end all the more palpable. Excellent work by the author, and kudos to the judges for realizing and rewarding its worth. As to the first commenter, what a thick-headed and unimaginative whiner.
by Chitownreader on February 4th 2011 9:02 PM

That story didn't inspire me to write at all. It was written very nicely, but it didn't make me feel anything. It's like a standardized test story.
by Victoria on February 5th 2011 3:05 AM

Also, I agree with Amy's statement.
by Victoria on February 5th 2011 3:08 AM

Actually, to be honest, the best thing I've read on this page was Amy's post.
by Victoria on February 5th 2011 3:11 AM

Surely this story could not have been the best submission. I kept looking to see if this was a contest for middle and high school students. The first Amy's post was spot on. This reads like a fairy tale, suitable for a child's bedtime story. Very disappointing!
by Kaffee on February 5th 2011 11:42 AM

If Amy didn't come away from "The Teaspoon" thinking about something, well, I think that's a reflection on Amy, not Andrea.

Clearly, the writing in this story had as much to do with the judging as the story.

And, maybe it's me, but I'm a little tired of the "edgy" requirement for something to be good fiction (21st century immigrant lands in U.S., then shock & life lessons follow).


(I'm also tired of whining!)
by Bleudogman on February 5th 2011 12:56 PM

I really enjoyed this tradional type tale, but mostly I enjoted the fact that beyond "be careful what you wish for" it carried a message of hope and redemption. A lovely tale.
by katherine Allan on February 5th 2011 4:00 PM

His back was turned at the moment of impact so he didn't technically witness the accident. If he was ever questioned he could say he was just walking by. It had the advantage of being true. The wreckage had just happened to be there. What could he do? “I don't own a cell phone” he thought, “I can’t call it in.” And if he was asked about the money? Well “the trunk was wide open, and I ain’t a doctor but that driver was dead for sure. What the hell was he gonna' do with it?”
Craig was an honest guy, mostly. He would tell the truth -- he had only been walking the neighborhood. Sure, most folks would find 4:30 in the morning to be an odd time to be doing so but, though he wasn’t very well educated, Craig knew some things most folks don't. Those big-chain carry-all pharmacies schedule the people who re-stock their shelves for the overnight shifts. Since most people are not inclined to buy electronic equipment or Barry Manilow CD's while shopping for PreperationH, certain items don’t sell well at those places. Every now and then, if a CD/DVD player accumulates enough dust, they just toss them in the dumpster, where Craig gets first crack at the goods. So, this being trash night, he didn't think twice about the fact that the two-car collision at the intersection was not a CVS dumpster. If he thought twice about the bodies it didn’t show as he “trash-picked” the duffle-bag full of cash from the busted up Beamer.

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As a dishwasher at the Van Rijn Hotel, Craig’s crowning achievement was the U-shaped bald spot on top of his head. He was big eyed and narrow shouldered. His infamous third nipple was both horrifying and not a nipple. He made people laugh despite the fact that all of his jokes were meant to offend the person he offered them to. It was a rare but useful talent. Maybe it was the boisterous laugh that followed? A slow rolling cackle that gained speed as it went. Either way it kept him from getting fired more than once.
At thirty-six, he'd accomplished nothing with his life. But no one would ever think to ask Craig how he felt about that. He was a simple man; it was safe to assume that Craig didn't think much about those sorts of things. He had gotten the job through his mother, who he lived with in a row-home behind the hotel. She drank Brandy Alexander’s on the dime of the same dead husband who left her the row-home. She was a regular at the hotel-bar and when Craig was first released from prison she convinced the owner to take on her son as a favor. Craig's mother was a product of a free-love environment and home-schooled her son. His lessons involved Bob Dylan after breakfast and the movie-theater’s latest releases after lunch. As he reached adolescence she wasn't around much. He fended for himself as best he could but money was always tight. When he was a kid Craig's mother never worked so, as a young adult it never occurred to him that a job would be the easy solution to his lack of funds. Instead, at nineteen years old, he embarked on his short-lived career as a thief.
The victims of Craig’s first and only crime were the fat family who lived down the street. There was the fat mom, the fat dad and the four fat little kids. The kids, with the ever present Twinkies or Twizzlers hanging out their yaps, were easy to spot. Craig figured that to feed a house full of four fat kids you’d need a lot of food. He'd thought about breaking in and stealing their food several times. “One quick raid and I'd have eats for weeks” he thought. When he finally attempted the heist it was out of sheer desperation and it was not well planned – okay, there was no plan at all. What was that saying? Never steal groceries when you’re hungry?
Unbeknownst to Craig, the fat family happened to be very close with widow next door. The mother would often ask her to pop in and check on the kids when they were left alone with the oldest daughter. Craig had filled up only half a trash bag when the oldest of the four fatties walked in on him in the kitchen. The sight of the family’s food being stolen prompted a gut-busting scream. Craig lunged to grab her so he could cover-up her fat mouth. With the widow who heard the scream at the front door fiddling to find the right key to enter the house, Craig tossed the girl aside, grabbed what little food he'd bagged up and ran out the back. His career as a burglar ended six blocks away where he was arrested eating half frozen fish-sticks from a freezer bag. Charged with breaking and entering and attempted assault on a minor, he was handed a five year minimum sentence. When asked what he was thinking Craig simply said “I was hungry.”

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Part of Craig's job at the hotel was to collect the bus pans from behind the bar. This afforded him with the opportunity to watch TV for a few moments each day. The news was on and images from the accident were being shown. Words were flashing in the lower third of the screen: FATAL CAR ACCIDENT IN FAIRMOUNT, THREE DEAD ON SCENE. Patrons at the bar were shaking their heads in disbelief of the mess of twisted metal and death only a few blocks away from where they sat. Craig stood quietly for a moment, then grabbed the dirty tub of dishes and headed back toward the kitchen; he had already seen the news -- first hand. The anchorman went on to report how some members of the investigation were working on connecting a gun found at the scene to a homicide that took place in the city earlier that night.
Bill Blazer was already infamous in the city for his part in a multi-million dollar real-estate scam a few months back. The City Newspaper told how he and his son Teddy were entrusted with millions to help re-establish the integrity of the Kensington area where Bill was raised. Blazer bought up blocks and rows of condemned houses, and then hired Teddy's construction crew to fix them up. Teddy did his part and had his crew simply do a polish job on the fixtures. After Teddy's men had the houses looking livable, Blazer began moving in tenants on a rent-to-own basis. Most of the tenants were desperate illegal immigrants who jumped at the idea of owning their own home. To their dismay, the houses almost immediately went to shit. After only a few months the city had received so many complaints they had the houses re-condemned and the tenants evicted. Hundreds were left with empty promises, empty pockets, and nowhere to go. Bill Blazer was nowhere to be found until he turned up with a bullet in his head. Rumor has it that one of his eviction victims with some questionable connections came up with a solution to their problem. Bill was given a number --1.5 million -- for his life. 1.5 million -- Craig soon found out that he had just enough room to squeeze it under his bed.
The buzz in the city lingered for weeks. After authorities connected the gun found in the Beamer to the murder of Bill Blazer the rumor-mill couldn’t stop spinning. For every bar in every neighborhood there was a different theory about the whereabouts of Bill Blazers millions. The theorists who believed that there was a second man in the Beamer were challenged with the argument that no man could have walked away from that collision. When someone would raise the argument that the Beamer held only the gun and that a second car had obviously fled with the money, their enthusiasm was curbed by the fact that some of Blazers money was found left in the trunk. How could anyone know that Craig, who just happened to be passing by that night, decided to leave a little of money behind just in case the driver survived?

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Craig wasn’t the most well-kept man. His hands, worn rough from cleaning chemicals, were always wet when he shook hands. He wore a different version of the same basic outfit every time he went to work – a pair of tan corduroy cargo-pants and a Local Brews T-shirt that was left over from an event the hotel had hosted a few years back. His oversized shoes made an awkward clomp with every plodding step. He had a bad habit of smoking cigars: cheap ‘Phillie’ blunts in packs of eight. He would take one from the box, use his worn hands to crack it in half, light one half, and then stick the other into his cargo pocket to save for later. The whole routine left him reeking of cheap stogies at all times. Some of the staff claimed they were able to accurately determine the moment Craig entered the hotel premises by the change in the atmosphere caused by his arrival. The first change in Craig’s lifestyle after finding the money was a well-made solid steel cigar cutter, and a better brand of cigar. Not enough to arouse suspicion, but he was able to arrive at work anonymously.
Cigars aside, Craig’s life didn’t change much at all. He was a simple man. Not stupid by any stretch; he understood that making any large deposits or fancy purchases in the same neighborhood that a million dollars had gone missing in may attract unwanted attention. So he waited. He waited until the people on the news had forgotten about it. He waited until the police involved in the investigation had forgotten about it. He waited until he almost forgot about it.
It had been about a year since he found the money when the news reported on the sentencing of Teddy Blazer for his part in the real-estate scam. Craig watched the reports and waited just a little while longer.

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After taxes Craig Lehman made just under five hundred dollars a week as a dishwasher at the Van Rijn Hotel. He was twenty-four years old when he started his tenure there and was motivated by the knowledge that he would receive an increase of fifty cents an hour for every year he stayed. It was all the incentive Craig needed. He knew where a life with no income led (someone else’s kitchen) and therefore had no intention of losing the only job he was ever given. It was this dedication that enabled Craig to stay on board through twelve years and three owners.
On the day after Craig's thirty-seventh birthday he made his first deposit of the 1.5 million. The staff at the hotel had pooled some cash together and given it to him as a birthday present. He decided that before he went to the bank he would take a few hundred from the bag under his bed and add it to the money he had received from his co-workers. If anyone asked he would say that the money was given to him as a gift. When the deposit went through without anyone batting an eye he decided he would do it again the following week. It quickly became a routine. Every payday Craig would empty money from the bag under his bed and deposit it along with his dishwasher check.
By the time Craig had turned fifty he had only deposited about a third of the money. It had been twelve years and he still had over a million dollars in cash under his bed. On the verge of becoming an old man, Craig started noticing that his body was having a hard time handling the physical demands of his job. He figured “at the rate I’m going, I’ll be dead before I’m done depositing all the cash in this damn bag.”
Craig found an unexpected but surprisingly easy solution to both his problems. The man from the bank helped him make the necessary arrangements. When the time came all Craig needed to do was sign a few papers. He had worked at the Van Rijn for twenty-six years and when he was handed the documents to sign he realized that the only other time he had used a pen was when he was asked to fill out his employment application. With the paperwork completed he would be able to deposit larger sums of cash without anyone suspecting a thing. As the new owner of the Van Rijn Hotel Craig had just one more problem -- his hotel needed a new dishwasher.
by slug on February 7th 2011 8:17 AM

I vote for the story above
by slug on February 7th 2011 8:19 AM

I was surprised this was the winner. It lacked strength and an original voice. I did not get the sense that the author really needed to write this. I thought the "Upside Down Frown" had a voice and was much more interesting and impactful. I think the fact that the judges (I think) write kids books probably had some influence on choosing the Spoon story and giving more weight to cutesy.
by Robert B on February 7th 2011 8:48 PM



Also In This Week's Cover Story Section

"house in mind"
by Alison Hicks

"An Upside-Down Frown"
by Alexander J. Vuocolo

"Cackleberry"
by Erica Hoffmann

"canoeing at night"
by Alison Hicks

"Somewhere Near Peaceful Valley"
by Sean Webb

 
 
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