TOO BIG TO FAIL

by Melodie Johnson Howe

While contemplating these iffy economic times I had a glorious revelation. I sauntered into my husband’s office to share it with him. He was busy cutting the Wall Street Journal into paper dolls. He looked up at me. His hair was unduly ruffled and his glasses were slightly askew.

“I’m too big to fail.” I announced.

“At what?”

“Anything.”

“Have you gone crazy?”

I thought it best not to bring to his attention that he was the one slicing up the Wall Street Journal. “No. I was thinking that there are a lot of people who depend on me. That’s why I’m too big to fail.”

“Who depends on you?”

“I have a readership. I think.”

“What else?”

“The children.”

“We have old children and they all have their own careers.”

“My hairdresser depends on me. It’s not easy being blonde. And the people who run the gym. Keeping this body isn’t easy either.”

“And?”

“The dogs. If I don’t give them kibble they don’t eat. If they don’t eat, the kibble-people don’t eat.”

“Kibble-people?” He was cutting out the shape of a head with the words Chrysler/Bankruptcy on it.

“And those people who cut down trees to make paper really depend on me.”

“You write on a computer.”

“I print out all the time. I also write longhand. All those journals I fill up with great thoughts and ideas.”

“How do you know they’re great? You can’t read your own handwriting.”

“That’s not the point. The journal-people and the ones who bind them depend on me. And the people who make pencils.”

“Pencils?” Snip. Snip. An arm was forming.

“For my crossword puzzles. I could do them in ink but sense I can’t fail it doesn’t matter. And then there are my friends. They all depend on me.”

“For what?”

“A good laugh, a good cry, good gossip, good editing, good shoe shopping. My God, think if I fail what will happen to all the cobblers in the world.”

“How did get cobblers get into this?” He was now working on a skirt, or maybe it was a paper doll with very wide hips.

“They are in it because I’m too big to fail.”

“But you have failed.”

“When?”

“On and off through out your life. How about that role you didn’t get in that Mike Nichols film? Ann-Margaret got it.”

“Only because she didn’t have a last name and I did. If I had just been Melodie …”

“Actually your entire career as a model, an actress, and a writer has been filled with rejection. I bet you’ve heard the word NO more that you’ve heard the word yes.”

“But that was then. This is now. I will never hear the word NO again. Do you know who freeing that is? I can write anything and never get rejected. I bet if I wanted to I could go back to acting. Those furtive little producers with Blueberries grafted onto their hands….”

“Blackberries.”

“… would accept me with open arms. Of course I’d have to play older roles. Bikinis are definitely out, and I’m not doing horror films. They always put older women in horror films. Or make them horrors. I mean Jane Fonda had to play the monster-mother-in-law from hell with J-Lo.”

Scissors in repose, he gaped at me.

“I can now give my narcissism free reign. I am Queen of the Hill. I’m to going call Janet Hutchings at EQMM and tell her not to bother reading my short stories before she accepts them. I’m too big to fail.” I strutted out of his office to the quick frantic sounds of snip, snip, snip.