Kate

Ode to a Marlboro Thermos
###
###On a winter morning before school,
###another day of second grade,
###I held you in
###shivering mittened hands and sipped
###hot cocoa,
###warmed by you and
###the rumbling heater of dad’s Ford.
###
###Once,
###from the yellow-flowered linoleum,
###accompanied by a button-eyed ragdoll,
###I asked to borrow you
###but mother said no,
###you were for “grown ups”
###and I should stick to
###my aluminum Popeye lunchbox
###(with no thermos).
###But I tried to sneak you anyway—
###and dropped you,
###frozen as
###you clattered down
###each wooden step
###farther and farther
###out of reach. Finally,
###lying there,
###stilled by gravity.
###
###Now nearly lost amongst the broken
###CB radios, empty Schlitz bottles,
###jars of miscellaneous nails
###and screws and
###two decades of grime,
###still red and white.
###A flag on this shelf—invoking
###misplaced patriotism.
###
###The price is five dollars.
###
###The next owner,
###will they clutch you in both hands,
###inhaling a faint
###whisper of smoke and coffee,
###a hint of drug-store cologne?

Kristy

My Marlboro Thermos
###
I hated being dragged along on fishing trips, I hated being up at six a.m. on a Saturday during the summer, but I loved that thermos, the one bright, red and white spot in my seven-year-old existence.
###
The Marlboro Thermos, filled with tap water and ice chipped thick from a block, held the scent of old plastic and every trip to the reservoir, the backwaters, lakes, ponds, and boat ramps where my family threw their lines out in hopes of great catches and memories. It was my uncle’s thermos and he let me carry it, so I’d drag it around with me like an old doll. It was my thermos on those days, and I would drink from it greedily, my small mouth covering the thick rectangle spout. I’d play with the spout, too, pulling it up and pushing it back down, the cool condensation on the lid revealing the dirty condition of my hands, brown water bubbles on my fingers, my momma warning that I would break the spout if I “kept on messing with it.”
###
I was sitting Indian-style against the wall of the house boat, staring at the dock, the quiet shoosh of small waves made by motor boats swaying me. I gazed at the fish popping to the surface for air as I held the thermos in the space between my legs, flicking the spout subconsciously. Then suddenly Jenny, my cousin, was standing on the dock and I witnessed her make her move, but the boat was moving the waves toward and away from the water-logged wood of the dock, and she misjudged the distance. She sank down, arms flailing, then her head bounced back to the surface and she gasped for air. Uncle Bobby jumped in after her. I stood up, leaving the thermos on the deck in front of my Punky Brewster sneakers. My aunt came running from the side of the boat, my mom and grandmother from my left. In all the commotion, the thermos was knocked from its position in front of my feet and rolled off the deck. I gasped, no longer concerned for my cousin who had been pulled to safety and was at present crying; my one little red and white joy had been taken from me.
###
“Momma,” I called hysterically.
###
“It’s okay, Baby. Jenny’s fine.”
###
“My drink!” I cried, pointing out into the water unable to find the words to describe my loss.
###
“Oh,” she responded, trying to contain her amusement, her arm around my shoulder, “It’s alright, I brought some drinks. You want a Sprite?”
###
I shook my head “no,” my lower lip trembling at the onset of tears.
###
I watched, helpless to save my one pleasure as it floated out and traveled silently under the darkened dock into the light on the other side, tears swelling in my tired eyes as the red and white thermos bobbed up and down like a cork with a nibbling fish on the line.
###
I left the deck to sit at the little yellow table in the kitchen where the scent of stale backwater was sucked into every corner. I opened a box of saltine crackers and a can of Prairie Belt smoked sausage and stared at the little boy on the label, wondering if maybe he knew how long this day would now be.

Carl

Brad

Putting the thermos in the jeep before leaving for my hike is the last thing I remember. Hiking alone is how I spent most weekends on the island. Now as I lay in a hospital bed a man who says he’s a police detective is questioning me about a local boy named Kimo whose body was found brutally beaten two miles away from where the search and rescue team found me.

###My memory of the day’s events is like a jig saw puzzle with pieces that don’t fit together. I can recall fragments but nothing in a straight and coherent way. Yes I remember where I started my hike I answered. It’s where I always start my hike. Yes there was a light rain I said. I was guessing and the detective knew it. I had made up most of my answers. The detective looked at me and said you know I don’t believe you but I can’t prove you’re lying…not yet anyway. You need to get some rest he said as he was leaving the room. Then he turned back towards me and said, and when you’re feeling better we’ll try this again but next time try answering my questions without all of the bullshit. I nodded and closed my eyes.

### It’s been 10 years since I last hiked that area. Staring at a thermos that sits next to a construction worker I flashed on the few memories I do have. The day I came very close to being accused of killing someone named Kimo. The day I hit my head during a fall and the amnesia that followed. And how close I came to a murder charge. I’ve struggled with what really happened that day? I will never know. Maybe I should be in prison. To think you might be capable of murder has been my sentence and I’m still serving it today. I think it’s time to think about something more pleasant.

Frank

Funny what attracts me to men. In his case it was the hands. Big and rough as they circled his pie. The one hand around the plate protecting it. The other scooping mouthfulls by the fork. His Lee jeans filled out the stool he was perched on pretty well as his elbows leaned on the cafe counter. Helena, Mountana was not where I was planning to fall in love. In fact I came to get away from the last broken relationship and finally write that first novel that had been harboring in the back of my mind for years. So no, big, cowboy, man will have to wait. I will just finish my ice tea and get on up the road to Bob and Cheryl's place and house sit for them as they travel Europe and do my writing. ### Then again, the dirt on his boots said to me this is a guy who works on the land. Ted was a Broadway Director, no wonder it did not work. Ted was in love with his scarves and glasses and scene stealing actors, not me. ###He has a big belt buckle. The shirt seems pressed. Why would he wear a pressed shirt to rustle cattle, as they say in the movies? He had kinda a Don Johnson two day beard. No wedding ring. What does that really mean today though? He was not with anyone. The guy next to him was taling to the person to his left and there was a stool between them. Just like there is a stool between him and me.### I scooted over. I saw his eye that was towards me twitch, but he kept eating then shoved his coffee cup towards the back of the counter which signaled the waitress behind it to come over for a refill. She looked me over. His girlfriend? Or was I just getting the "you ain't from these parts" look? She left and I put my menu down which I hoped would signal her to return and take my order.### "What'll it be?" "I will have what he is having." I knodded at Tex. "Rhubarb pie comin' up."

Elizabeth

Maeve was watching her, waiting. ###
What had she just been saying? Shit! Jean couldn’t remember a thing. She glanced over to the shelf and stared at the thermos for a second, then dragged her eyes back to Maeve. ###
OK, think of something to say, something that covered all the bases; maybe Maeve would think she was listening.###
“Well, Maeve, I don’t know, I just really don’t know.” She looked straight at her boss and cocked her head slightly. Jean was usually an expert at looking like she was listening when really she could give a crap. ###
Maeve squinted her eyes at Jean, considering, then went on talking, slapping the desk every once in awhile. She would go on talking and talking, gesturing, bobbing her head, never ending complaints and arguments how she was right and everyone else was wrong. Didn’t matter about what, she just had to be right. Jean breathed deeply in and out slowly so that Maeve couldn’t see the long sigh. Her eyes flitted back to the thermos and it seemed to stare at her in a sort of apology. Red and white, with the Marlboro logo on the side. ###
How old was that thing, anyway? Cigarette companies didn’t actually give away free stuff anymore, did they? Not since, what, Joe Camel or whatever his name was. Or maybe they did . . . ###
“Jean!” ###
She started. ###
“For God’s sake, where are you? I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.” Maeve was pouting, now, her mouth slightly turned down. ###
Oh, man, you’ve done it now. ###
“Maeve, I’m sorry, it’s just I was thinking about this morning and, well, I was in a little accident. The car, you know? It’s got me distracted.” ###
“Hmph. Well. You OK?” Maeve made a minimal attempt to look concerned. ###
“Yea, really it was just a bump, but now I’m worried about insurance, maybe it will go up and I’ve got all these other bills. You know.” She glanced at the thermos again, starting to sweat now. Maeve followed her eyes, then looked back at Jean. ###
“Yea, we’ve all got bills, that’s nothing new.” She leaned forward and stared at Jean, elbows on the desk. “We just have to get, well, creative about how to pay, that’s all, right?” She turned in her chair to look at the thermos. “Cool, isn’t it? Found that today, right outside in the parking lot. What do you think? Worth anything?” ###
Jean felt a slow flush come over her, realizing that Maeve might be smarter than she seemed. She looked straight at Maeve, and this time when she cocked her head she wasn’t trying to look like she was listening. “I don’t know, Maeve, maybe. I mean, it’s got to be a collectible or something, huh?” ###
“Mmmm. Probably.” Maeve got out of the chair and moved toward the thermos. ###
“Have you looked in it, yet?” Jean got up, too. ###
Maybe she saw, maybe she knows. ###
Better not have, you piece of work. It might not be good for you to look. ###
“Nah. You wanna see? Curious?” Jean sensed something from Maeve but couldn’t quite figure what. Maeve was reaching for the thermos. ###
“I wouldn’t do that, Maeve.” ###
Maeve turned back and stared at Jean. “Really? No?” She smiled and her face got grim rather than pleasant. Her hands were reaching for the thermos. ###
Jean rose up, knocking over the chair behind her. Maeve’s smiled faded for a second, alert, then came slowly back. ###
“You really are interested, aren’t you?” She turned back and started to pick up the thermos. ###
Bad move, Boss Lady. Bad move. ###
“I wonder what’s in here.” Maeve turned back to see Jean reaching for the thermos, too slow to stop her from snatching it out of her hands. Her smile turned to a sneer. “Oh, that’s right, I already know. And I guess you do, too, huh?” Jean was backing away. “Yup, we all have to pay our bills. That gonna help you pay your bills?” ###
Staring straight at Maeve, Jean slowly unscrewed the top of the thermos, and took it off. Maeve frowned, unsure. Jean glanced down quickly, once, then threw the contents at Maeve before she could duck. Maeve gasped, the only time Jean ever saw her surprised. ###
Guess she didn’t know what was in that thermos. ###
Laughing, she backed out of the office and left Maeve, water dripping on the desk in pools. ###
And you never will know, Boss Lady. It’s what lies beneath, as they say. ###
Gotta pay those bills.

Jonathan

Haiku

Funny what you save####
When my brother sank out there####
They only found this

Shelagh

Weekends were spent in the low dunes on the island. The four of them and the dogs. She was with Sailor then; he was big and blond and hovered over her as if she were a boat one had to rig and rudder up. Always had his hands wrapped around something: a nip of rum or a coil of line, or clinging onto Gil’s belt hook with his red thumbs. Gil and Bea wandered down to the inlet, kicked at the dead horseshoe crabs and piles of oyster shells left over from the last party and sang that last sad song Andy had made up. I know some sea shanties, he slurred one night: Ride me down in the waves, my love, my love, sail for a skirt and anchor for a heart and he looked over at Gil, his lips curling under, eyes fiery red and right then she knew Bea would guess. Coolers of beer, jugs of cheap red wine half buried in the sand. And the old thermos Andy always brought in from the dinghy––swiped it from an old oysterman, he told them once, and if you breathe hard you can still smell whiskey––and a bit of the briny sea. He thought he was Irish that Andy, fancied the accent and all that, and Bea grabbed the Thermos, with the old Marlboro logo still on it and she ran down the beach and Gil caught up. There’s Sailor, she said pointing to the furthest jetty. And Sailor stood out there, hands cupped over his eyes, spanning the horizon, looking for something and Andy stood nearby gathering driftwood for the fire. Isn’t he enough? Bea asked and looked at Gil, then slumped down in the sand, the old thermos open now, weeping whiskey into her mouth. She dug a hole and buried herself up to her waist, torso peeking out, one free arm pouring herself more booze. And night came and they built the fire and Gil dug out Bea from the sand and dragged her back and Sailor went to town to buy more whiskey. Bea’d had way too much and was lying down near the fire now, eyes all glassy, the thermos tight under her arm, empty now and Andy barked once because the dogs were too quiet back near the jeep and he put his arm around Gil and pinched her cheek hard then shouted, You’re the one. You’re the one! to no one in particular and he jumped up, started running down to the shore, stripping his clothes off in all directions and Bea looked up and winced and the fire’s glow showed the whole of them: Gil hunched over, arms wrapped around knees, Andy kicking at the dark surf, Sailor’s shadow coming out from the flames, and Bea curled sideways and Gil looked up and smiled and the summer went away.

Deirdre

Caroline was furious at her brother. Once again he was late which meant, once again, she had to do most of the work.###
Their mother had died three weeks earlier at the local Hospice and her house was going on the market as soon as it was cleaned and de-junked And Caroline was convinced most of it was complete junk.###
The garage was full of the family good old days. Bikes, sleds, golf clubs, tennis racquets, every ball needed for any game and even their late father's beloved Fiat Spyder.###
He had died twenty six years ago and this relic of the early seventies had survived the two people who cherised this little, school bus yellow, two seat, convertible.
Caroline knew this car had no value beyond memories and as soon as the 'Buy and/or Haul Junk' guy arrived it would be the first thing out of the garage and in the dumpster.###
Caroline tugged at the trunk door and when it popped open the old wicker picnic basket was the first thing she saw. She opened the basket and saw that it still had the small set of plastic dishes, stainless utensils, metal tumblers and the red and white Marlboro thermos. She smiled at the stash of happy remnants of her parents love story.###
Bill and Carol Brucker bought the Fiat on their tenth wedding anniversary in 1971. It was almost scandalous back then because they were struggling to keep the doors to their business open, they had seven year old twins and it only held two at a time.###
It cost less than two thousand dollars and they both were absolutely thrilled to have it. Bill moved Carol's station wagon out of the garage and the Fiat was carefully fitted into its new home.###
Bill took it to work if it wasn't raining. Carol drove it on the weekends to run errands. They both sped away in it to dinner dates, house parties and activities at the club.###
Caroline and George were invited to ride either as one only or as two, if one of them wanted to lay down in the back ledge between the seats and the trunk, for the ride.###
The Fiat was definitely their parent's joyride and the kids were just tag-a-longs.###
Caroline and George hated the Fiat.###
As they grew, they both experienced identical feelings of being left out of their parent's secret 'Fiat' life. Most families expand and contract adapting to the needs of their children but Carol and Bill decided to make the Fiat an expression of their marriage and it worked for them.###
When Bill died too soon and too young, Carol kept the car and drove it rarely. The kids were long gone and living on their own.
After a time, the car stopped leaving the garage and like the rest of the house stayed where it was left.
The picnic basket held the fun and energy of Carol and Bill's love and the old thermos, a gas station freebie, held the party.###

Wendy

She had to be the only other American in Dijon. She looked like Dolly Parton in velor sweats.
###
“I always think it’s nice to meet fellow Americans and share a bit of information on those beignets y’all are chowin’ down on.”
###
Half a warm, soft pastry was crowding my mouth. I settled in for a story.
###
“You should know how this little patisserie ended up in all them fancy guide books—American ingenuity.
###
“Note the smoky, maple flavor? Well, that touch is an import.”
###
I shook my head. Nothing too surprising about imported maple syrup.
###
“In the 1950s, there was a cattleman up in Jackson Hole, called Jerome Kitchen. Maybe it was the name, but he spent the days roundin’ up cattle, smokin’ Marlboro, and takin’ in mountain views. Evenings he spent with his mother, bakin.’
###
“Soon enough, he stole off with nothin’ but his beloved rolling pin and a brand name Coleman camping edition thermos he’d sent away for with 25 Marlboro box tops. He’d show it to anyone, dead useful thing to have for a cowboy.
###
“He picked his way east and a Vermont diner took him on for desserts. He shed his ten-gallon for a hair net. Soon the only traces of the old cowboy were his cigarette breaks, his thermos and the holster under his apron.
###
“Kitchen’s maple sticky buns, made with sap from a local sugarhouse, soon won him a listing in Gourmet magazine.”
###
“And this place imports the maple?” I asked.
###
“Yep, but there’s a bit more to it. His ego got the better of him.”
###
“His ego?” I asked, no longer really caring how my pasty came to be. I was eyeing another.
###
“He had recognition now, and the rebel in him longed to break one of mother Kitchen’s rules: No smoking while you cook. Soon after, he was alone at sunup, in the diner, bakin’ sticky buns with a Marlboro hanging out one side of his mouth, when he heard a rustlin’ out the window, then a sufflin.’ Suspecting a bear—big black bears are common up east—he turned his head so fast, some ash fell from the very tip of his cig and landed smack in the folds of an otherwise gorgeous bun.
###
“He ran outside, pulled a pistol from under his apron, and caught it, right between the beady eyes. When it fell, the thump was soft. Turns out it was just a biggish raccoon. He called a furrier friend to make it a hat for Momma.
###
“That morning the town’s mayor and his little wife arrived. Young Kitchen sauntered over, tellin’ his coon story, placed down the prized bun and tipped his hair-netted head. But you can guess what happened: His most important customer bit into a little pile of ash.
###
“Now, the mayor was a forgivin’ man, and turned the whole incident into a joke. He said the raccoon spooked Jerome Kitchen. Kitchen called his momma up that week and said, ‘Momma, toss that coon hat I have comin’ to you. It spooked me.’ But his momma shared the hard truth, ‘Jerome, you need an ego check.’
###
“But where could he get his ego checked?”
###
“Paris?” I ventured.
###
“Right-o! He read it in that same issue of Gourmet. The best chefs apprenticed in Paris. He set off and learnt humilty straight away. The first chef smelled smoke on him, and sent him out here to Dijon. Paris kitchens won’t even hire man who needs a smoke break!
###
“On the way, Kitchen gave up cigarettes and stopped at a street market for some chewin’ tobacco. To keep this new habit a secret, he brought his thermos to his lips not to drink, but to spit.”
###
I gulped my espresso.
###
“His next chef, at this very patisserie, never suspected. Not even,” she whispered, “when a pretty American woman caught his eye, causin’ him to tip the Coleman thermos right over, into his what is now his signature maple glaze.”
###
At this she paused to stare at the grizzled old man in the oven room, beyond the front counter, holding a red thermos to his lips.

Morrow

My grandfather wanted to be Hollywood but turned out more hobbit instead. He never reached more than five-foot-three in height and had a face like a sweet potato. He was the child of a couple who met in their 50s and assumed they’d never conceive. When my grandfather came along, he was considered nothing short of a miracle, and thereby doomed to an outsized sense of himself from the start. He loved to talk about all he might have been, but for circumstances beyond his control, as if God had to balance out the perfection He had wrought with a set of human-appropriate flaws. The ultimate blow occurred at age 20, just as he was planning the move to Los Angeles to pursue his acting career. His wife, Anna, had become pregnant with my mother, and he resigned himself to an ordinary living as a traveling salesman. After that, my grandfather poured his thespian aspirations into his tobacco habit. Most men of his generation smoked, but my grandfather took it to another level. In any environment, he was rarely seen without a cigarette. Unlike most folks, who were happy enough to stick one between their fingers and let it burn without much thought, he was utterly deliberate about the way he smoked. After attending one of his Sunday matinees, which he always did alone and with the reverence of a churchgoer, at home or in whatever town he found himself, he would leave the theater excited to try out a new style, imitating whatever detective, gangster, or lover had played out his fate on screen that day. He especially resonated with Eastwood’s Blondie and, according to my grandmother, had walked around with his eyes narrowed and a cigarette clamped between his teeth for weeks in 1966. I guess it was no surprise that Marlboro became his favorite brand, the only one I ever saw in one of his small hands with their stubby fingers. When he retired, he couldn’t give up life on the road, and he and my grandmother began traveling around the country. The ashtray in their RV would be overflowing by noon, so my grandmother bought him a large thermos with a Marlboro logo to use not for hydration, but as the repository for his butts. When he’d arrive at our house for a visit, the first thing he would do was empty the thermos into our kitchen trashcan. My sister and I loved to watch the ashes blossom out like fairy dust, while our mother frowned with disgust. The trips eventually ended when my grandfather’s emphysema chained him to an oxygen tank. Last week, we took him to California on his last journey, enclosed safely inside the thermos, one of the stranger terms of his will. Under cover of night, we spread him over the walk of fame, and let the wind assimilate part of him into the angelic city’s dense atmosphere while the rest lingered among the sidewalk grit. Before turning homeward, we said a short prayer wishing him happy trails on the heels of stars.

Lauren

He showed up out of the blue on a hot, cloudless Wyoming summer day, inquiring if there was any work we needed to have done on our family’s ranch. All that he had with him was his dusty cowboy hat, a beat up mutt, and a Marlboro thermos. I was 15, but looked young than my years, and I knew the ranch as well as any girl would whose parents believed that being outside and out of their hair was the best way to raise children. I knew that there was fencing in the lower pasture that needed attention as the younger cattle were getting out with increasing frequency. I told him that if he’d like some work, I could help him get the tools needed to repair the barbed wire fencing and take him there. All that he asked for was $20 and a meal for himself and his dog, whose name was Stoney. ### When we got to the barn, he filled up his Marlboro thermos in the tack room to help combat the heat of the day that was rising every minute. These were the days when you actually walked your ranch instead of driving on some fancy ATV. We walked in silence down the path that led along the stream where the cattle were now gathering to escape the blasting heat of the sun. When we reached the spot where it was obvious the fencing needed repairs, he nodded and tipped his hat and told me he’d return to the house when he was done with his work. I could tell that he was the type of man who was more comfortable in the company of dogs than with people, so I left him to his work. I walked the short path up to the pastures and turned around to glance back to see what he was up to. You can tell a lot about how someone works on simple tasks, he took some work gloves out of his back pocket and put them on carefully like a surgeon puts on his rubber gloves in the OR. I knew from the care he took to get his tools in the right places that the fence line would be fixed well before dinner. ### He returned around 4 pm with Stoney trotting behind him; he knocked on the screen door of the kitchenand casually told me that he had finished up early and put the tools back in the barn where they belonged. He mentioned that one of the cattle had a nasty cut from the barbed wire. He figured it had gotten caught when it tried to get thru the fence. He had come up to the barn to get some salve to put on the wound. I thanked him for the extra care he took with the injured animal and he said that he felt obligated to help animals since they can’t speak for themselves. I told him dinner wasn’t ready but that it would be shortly and he thanked me and said he’d go sit down beneath the shade tree in the front if that was OK with me. I told him to make himself at home and that I’d fix a plate for him when dinner was ready. When I took the plate out to him I asked him if it was OK if I joined him and Stoney for their dinner – I felt like he wanted someone to talk to and I think I needed the company more than him. We moved to the porch and sat on the glider and ate together – I had fixed a plate for Stoney and the dog ate it carefully and then wiped the sides of his muzzle with his paws, leading me to believe that he had once been someone’s house pet and not a stray. ### The man, who never told me his name, shared his water from his Marlboro thermos with both Stoney and myself. The water tasted so cold and sweet, I couldn’t believe it had come from the tack room faucet. He told me he had found a spring on the far side of the property and he had filled the thermos from it before heading back to the house. I thanked him for the work he had done and for his company during dinner and he nodded and thanked me back. When he turned to leave he refused the money he had rightfully earned from his day’s work in the heat. He told me sometimes something unexpected like finding that spring was all the earnings he needed for the day. He said that the water had revived him and made him feel like a new man. He tipped his hat, gathered up his thermos and whistled to Stoney to signal that their time at our ranch had come to an end. Even though I had drunk from that spring hundreds of times in my youth, it never tasted as sweet as that day when the nameless stranger shared it with me from his battered and worn thermos.

Russ

Dear Philip Morris Cigarette Manufacturing Concern,###
###
To whom it may concern. I am writing you to express my sincere gratitude for the free promotional Marlboro thermos which I did receive from your representative at the Bentonburg Annual 4th of July Liberty Square Dance and Fish Fry last summer. It has proved to be uncommonly useful. I especially appreciate the generous amount of handle, which allows for the thermos to hang comfortably from a person’s forearm should their hands be otherwise preoccupied.###
###
On a recent fishing trip I had the occasion to really put this thermos and its performance capabilities to the test. Not only did it keep my wife’s World Famous Six Time Blue Ribbon Award Winning Four Alarm Chili hot all the way on up to the lake, but I also found that with a little ice, it will keep things quite adequately cold for hours and hours. Please allow me to express my utmost gratitude by way offering up my personal testimony.###
###
As I have already mentioned, the promotional Marlboro thermos which your good representative kindly furnished did accompany me on a fishing trip which turned out to be quite unfortunate. The trip that is, not the fact that the thermos was in attendance. I will refrain from boring you with trivial details, but suffice to say that an accident involving 20 pound test fishing line and a somewhat overly excitable bloodhound named Bucket had the unhappy result of amputating my pinky finger clean off my hand. Apparently, though you may not think so from looking at it, 20 pound test line can sufficiently cut through tissue when applied like a band saw. At least that is how Dr. Hancock explained it.###
###
It was an honest shame to have to give up a thermos full of my wife’s World Famous Six Time Blue Ribbon Award Winning Four Alarm Chili. As I could not carry a fifty pound ice chest with just one working hand however, I had no choice. Bucket managed to lap up half of the chili before I could pack my pinky on ice in the thermos, so at least it all go to waste. The chili came back to haunt Bucket later on, but I don’t imagine dogs are capable of regret. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.###
###
The ice had only begun to melt by the time Bucket and I made it into the city. I am happy to report that Dr. Hancock says I can hope for up to 85 percent functionality to return to my pinky with the year and I owe it all to your company’s generosity.###
###
Most gratefully yours,###
Austin “Lefty” Dobbs###
###
P.S.###
Dr. Hancock was quite impressed by how well the thermos performed and would like to inquire about getting one for himself.###

Robert

Karen tossed the trowel down at her feet and allowed herself the deep, growling sigh she'd wanted to unleash for so many hours. She turned to survey what was behind her: rows and rows of mounds of dirt. None of it looked like anything right now, but in the coming months little green hands, then arms, would begin to poke out to reach the light. And then the bounty; fresh vegetables all her own by her own hands. ###
She removed her gloves and tosses them to the ground next to the trowel. Karen drew a dry hand across her brow and wiped away the sweat. She stepped toward the house to find her phone and to take a picture of this upturned patch of dirt and text it to Brian with a cute little message. Karen wanted anything to keep her hands occupied. Usually, after work like this, she was dipping into her right pocket for the pack and her left for the lighter. But not anymore. She was healthy now, as of very recently. ###
Brian's phone buzzed against his desk. He flipped it over and found Karen's photo and the message she's settled on. (“Now make it rain!” A silly joke they shared.) Brian was ready with a reply, but he couldn't work his fingers to type it yet for the impish smile bending his lips. Thank god he had an office to himself. No one would respect a boss who chuckles. ###
“Great work”, he typed and hit Send. A pause for dramatic effect. “I can't wait til the sprouting starts”. Pause again, this time just a blink or two longer. “I made a pitcher of water for you but forget it on the counter. Sorry.” Brian cleared his screen and slapped the phone back down on his desk. The intern stationed just around the corner from his office didn't consider the reason for the fit of hee-hee-heeing she'd just heard leak through the door. ###
I hope the water's still cold, Karen . She backtracked to the kitchen and saw the oversized thermos as promised, right next to the sink. The bastard, she thought. Karen spun the cylinder around to confirm her immediate outrage. ###
It was just the one. The stupid thing she'd saved box labels for all during their honeymoon camping trip. Karen told Brian that with enough miles or “buckz” or whatever they were calling them, she could buy a canoe and before the end of summer they could make the trip again but float down the river. She tucked the scraps of box in pockets and in her backpack, but at the end of the trip what she'd gathered plus what she always had at home in former blush box were not nearly enough for the the canoe. The best she could do was a thermos, and one emblazoned with the logo of her awful habit. At least it was something. ###
Karen unscrewed the top and upended its contents into the sink. None of that dirty water, she thought. ###
Brian's phone vibrated against his belly as he licked his fingers clean of cart-grade chili dog. He couldn't wait for Karen's reaction, and she'd made him wait already over an hour. With is pinkie, he navigated the screen to his text messages. Karen had sent a picture. He opened it; no text, just a picture. She'd found a use for the thermos as a planter. Only, it wasn't a plant positions straight up in the dirt. It was an object he knew more by feel than by sight. He took it as a sign she wanted to out to a movie that night. ###
“Fair enough”, he replied.

Jeannine B. Everett

I lived in the fields that summer, the last before they mowed down the Queen Anne’s Lace and the sumac to make way for more houses. It was hot and dry, and the grass smelled like straw and crunched when I walked through it. The crickets flew ahead of me as I made my way to the old apple tree. I was still angry, and glad to see the world part to make way for me. ### I slumped under the tree, wishing I’d brought a book. I picked at a scab on my knees just to spite her, feeling a certain satisfaction when it came loose and began to bleed. ###“I thought you might need this.” ### I jumped with surprise, the low hum of anger having drowned out the sound of his approach. He held the thermos out to me. It bore a Marlborough logo, although neither of my parents smoked. My father brought it home from his weekly trip to the pony keg. He charmed it from some other customer who was happy just to have the cigarettes and had no need for a glorified water jug. It took its place with the hotel soaps, the jelly jar glasses, and the towels that came with the laundry detergent. I didn’t realize how little we had until I was grown and knew how much was possible. ###It was old and worn even then, the red faded, the bottom scraped from being dragged across pavement. He never threw anything out, saying “It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly good.” Boxes of free goods lined the garage shelves, detritus of commerce, the offspring of box tops, ready to be pressed into service when the unlikely need arose. ###After a moment’s pause, I took it from him and took a deep swig. The water was cold and slightly metallic. He must have drawn it from the hose in the backyard. ###“May I?” He gestured to the space next to me, and I shrugged. He sat down, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Lord, it’s hot.” I offered him the thermos, and he took a drink, tipping his head back, pouring the water down his throat without his lips ever touching the spout. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, tipping forward so he could reach behind. Still, half of it hung out the back of his jeans. He’d been working in the yard when I stormed out the house, the screen door banging behind me. He’d probably had the water out there with him. ###We sat, silently, as I wondered if I could just stay out here. I’d thought about it before, living in the field. But in my imagination I’d planned better, with food and a sleeping bag and a tent. I’d have my sketchbook and my journal and the library books piled up on my nightstand. I fought back the tears. ###“What did you fight about this time?” he asked. ###I couldn’t even remember what had made me so angry, the time and distance melting our words, the water washing them away. “It doesn’t matter, she’s wrong.” ###He chuckled. The sound was deep and reassuring. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she felt the same way.” ###“I’m not coming back all the same.” We both knew I was lying. It still felt good to say, even if she wouldn’t hear. ###“Okay.” He handed me the thermos. It was wet, a combination of condensation and dripping water. “Take your time, and cool off.” He stood up, brushing the back of his pants. “Be home before dinner, and bring that back with you.” He pointed to the thermos. “It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly good.” ###He walked off, the grass crunching under his boots. All I could think was, sounds like a few people I know. I never did give it back.

Jenni

Significant Object Story Submission: The Red Thermos
by Jenni Keller
###
Dehlia reached high over her head to tug on the loop at the end of the knotted kite-string cord at the bottom of the attic steps. The bare bulb illuminated slight footprints going both up and down the center of the staircase and thick dust clumps in every corner of each step that didn’t really resemble dust-bunnies at all she thought; more like desiccated carcasses of what she wasn’t quite sure. She curled her lip in a sneer of disgust, grabbed the railing and pulled herself slowly up the stairs.
###
What had she come up here for? She had needed to get something from the attic; now what was it? She paused for a moment with her hand on her ample hip considering that Alzheimer’s was, perhaps, really setting in this time. She pondered that thought and slowly scanned the dozens of bulging, water-damaged liquor boxes stuffed beyond all reason with things she couldn’t even remember anymore. She stared for a minute, not focused on anything in particular when she spotted it – the tacky red and white thermos with the Marlboro box on it. It was resting on top of scads of Howard’s beloved tchotchkes that he collected over the years. Just the sight of the ugly thermos tugged lightly at her heartstrings. “Harrumph,” she mumbled out loud, breaking the dusty, indifferent silence of the attic. It was just one of those things he wanted to have. The amount of coffee he could drink out of it would keep him going all day long at the job, he cajoled her, but she knew he just wanted it for the factory-tattooed Marlboro box emblazoned on the white screw-top. Oh how Howard loved his Marlboro’s. He loved his coffee, but he loved his Marlboro’s more. The clunky thing just appealed to him, but, as with all of his other in-the-moment purchases, it found its way to the attic in short order. She sighed and gingerly leaned over to inspect the red-ribbed, heavy plastic thermos. It still smelled of smoke. She plucked it from its resting place, dusted it off and unscrewed the top. She peered down into its silver-lined insides – phew, nothing inside except the faint smell of stale coffee.
###
She slowly twisted the top back on until it was sealed shut. She stood motionless for a time fondly recalling far simpler times; all these items surrounding her represented small bits of her dear, sweet Howard. As the memories flooded her insides with warmth, the corners of her mouth drew up into a little smile and she clutched the thermos to her chest. She realized she was ready to part with all these things. She no longer needed them to remind her of him anymore; he would forever and always be in her heart.

Todd

Marlboro thermos story for Studio 360###

It was many years ago and in a town not far from here. My older sister used to tend bar at the local dive during the day. Why I don’t know. It was a dank oppressive place with beaten up floors dilapidated tables and chairs. The center cork from the dart board had been eaten away by repeated piercing and the coin operated pool table with its chipped balls and bent cues felt the abuse nightly from the would be sharks sitting on its edges and spilling both brew and ash on its once green now browning felt. The jukebox which hadn’t been played in years was stuck on the last song it had been playing, “Runaway” by Bon Jovi the night two foul breathed oafs squared off, traded blows and landed on top of it.###
Overall it was a depressing place to hangout. The sun could be shining. The birds could be chirping but it didn’t matter for as soon as the place opened at 10 in the morning the grizzled old men sprouted from the bar stools like mushrooms and began to drown their dried up sorry lives with beer. Their glory days of youthful exploits and memories of love lost were called to memory by the VCR movies that my sister picked up from the rental on the way into work. The day for these moldering mushroom men consisted of drinking beer, watching movies, wagering on KENO and scratch tickets and smoking cigarettes. They smoked a lot of cigarettes. I don’t know why my sister worked there. It couldn’t have been the company? Maybe it was the perks? Along with her tips, I didn’t know mushrooms had pockets, the men would give her the coupons off their cig cartons. Now keep in mind these were the good ole days for the tobacco companies when a cartoon character could entice a would be otherwise healthy child to drop his vegetables and pick up a cigarette instead. Thanks Joe. ###
Along with Joe and his cool desert oasis complete with scantily clad models holding long cool drinks The Marlboro man offered a more American Midwest dream in the form of Marlboro“bucks” which could be traded in for neat outdoor active gear such as 50 coupons for a Tshirt, 100 for a backpack, and this very thermos priced at 75 which as soon as my sister had enough bucks for she ordered. My sister was not one to ever use a thermos nor was she the outdoor rugged adventurous type that these products implied they were for. She had good intentions but instead of hiking off to the mountains she used this thermos to hold the coupons that the mushroom men piled on her. For many months she would come home and jam the tickets in this thermos for safe keeping. Sometimes she would count them. With 10,000 you could get a mountain bike. With 500,000 you could earn a little pickup truck but it was the grandest prize of all that she was saving up for and dreaming about. The largest prize offered was a dude ranch out west complete with the likeness of the Marlboro man who would saddle up and ride off into the sunset each and every night just for you. This amazing dream prize was to be had for the staggering amount of one million coupons! Don’t laugh for it be true. Remember around the same time as this coupon fad a rather large soda company offered a real Harrier jump jet as their top prize in a TV ad and a kid managed to save up enough for it much to the bewilderment, and subsequent firing of the ad men who came up with the crazy idea. I wonder if the kid ever got his jet? ###
What seemed like years and a ton of cigarettes burned up in smoke my sister was getting closer to owning her own ranch but then The United States Congress rode in like Teddy Roosevelt up San Juan hill with guns blazing. They shot the Camel and shackled
the Marlboro Man They put an end to the programs and cartoon enticements in the name of saving kids lives and they put an end to my sisters dream. ###
So hold this thermos dear my reader for what used to hold hopes and dreams may now hold your coffee or cold beverage.###
END

Alexander

Five hundred Marlboro Miles equaled one hundred packs of Marlboro, which in turn equaled one shiny, plastic, read and white thermos with the words Marlboro emblazoned upon it. There it was, neatly packaged and delivered to our two- bedroom Brooklyn apartment. I couldn’t help but wonder whether we would display it in the living room, the way we displayed the Marlboro robot, assembled from empty packs back home. No. The thermos would get no such honor. It would simply be stored in the pantry, never to be used again. Thinking back, I realize that it has never been used and we had never had any use for it in the first place.
###Here in America, Marlboros are sold everywhere. My father would simply go into a store and buy a pack or a carton. He would walk outside and smoke a pack of Marlboros, not as a sign of social or financial status, or political affiliation, or a sign of subversive attitude towards the government.
###Back home, however, a pack of Marlboros, or a robot put together from empty packs, says that my father has traveled across town to a poverty-stricken neighborhood to find an elderly woman wrapped in rags. She is sitting on a short stool out in the street, with a potato sack of pan-roasted sunflower seeds, which she sells by pouring them into a cone rolled from old newspapers. She recognizes my father as the nice lawyer man who helped her obtain a document saying she is too old and sick to get arrested. She takes my father’s order for Western gum and cigarettes. She then lifts the potato sack to expose another sack filled with forbidden, capitalist goodies, same goodies I was taught in school would decompose my spirit and ruin lives of working folks. The hidden sack is like a treasure chest with a glorious glow.
Once the deal is done and the cigarettes are smoked and the gum is chewed up, we are left with empty packs and wrappers that are a constant reminder of how much better things are beyond the border. To people that enter our dwelling and see these badges on display, it is a message that they entered a place of certain views, opinions, and politics.
###Here, in Brooklyn, the thermos will not be displayed in the living room because the Marlboros were not purchased in secret, under fear of governmental scrutiny. The thermos will not be displayed in the living room because it is 1992 and the Soviet Union is no longer in existence. The thermos will not be displayed in the living room because it no longer signals social and political ideas to outsiders coming into the apartment.
###The thermos will be stored in the pantry, never to be used, because its symbolism is now a footnote in the history of my family.

Robert

Jimmy saw it the moment he walked into the thrift shop; a Marlboro thermos. He stared for a few seconds. He picked it up, and slowly turned the bottom up. He saw the scratched-in letters: Big Jim.### "Son of a bitch."###
"I can make you the proud owner of that for $1.50."###
"I don't know about the proud part, but I reckon I'll be the owner."###The door squeaked as Jimmy got in his truck. He placed the thermos on the seat, and stared past the crack in the windshield. He closed his eyes and thought of that night.### "Jimmy, we're going up to the gulch tonight. Them damn coyotes are getting too many calves. Bring plenty of ammo, and fill my thermos."###Jimmy saddled the horses, and secured the packs on the mule. They arrived at the cottonwood Big Jim liked at dusk. After supper, they settled around the fire. Jimmy loaded his Henry.###"You ain't said two words since we started."###Jimmy stared into the darkness.###"Sometimes a man has to do things."###"You hurt Momma bad."###"She don't listen."###"Momma says she's gonna leave if you don't stop."###Gripping his Henry, Jimmy's knuckles were white.###"You'd like to shoot me, wouldn't you boy?"###After a few minutes, Big Jim said, "You ought to head up in theose rocks. Near full moon, we'll have good shooting light."###Jimmy found a spot with a good view of the gulch. He thought how hard and cold the boulders were.###About midnight, they could hear yipping. Jimmy levered his Henry, and sighted down the draw.###Big Jim was making his way up the rocks, when he lost his footing. He managed to grab ahold of an outcrop. As he hung on, he shouted, "Shit."###Jimmy leaned his rifle against a rock, stretched across the outcrop, and grabbed Big Jim's arms. As Big Jim was about to gain a purchase on the outcrop, Jimmy's heel kicked the butt of his Henry. The hammer was still cocked when the rifle hit the ground.###Jimmy opened his eyes, and started the truck.###He muttered, "How appropriate, your last word."

Kevin

Angry Red Marlboro Thermos
“Throwing Down a Challenge to Toby Keith”####
####
“Toby Keith, you are so shortsighted, your Red Solo Cup is NOTHING without me. Are you a joker or WHAT? Your diddy about a cup being your “friend” is lame and silly. I imagine your Mom is as proud of you now as when you worked in the exact change lane at the toll bridge. “ Is Red mad? Yes, and insulting too. ####
It had been a very long night for the Coleman Thermos and, well, he just wasn’t feeling it for the performer and his pop- country crossover tune. Red was taken up to Greasy Lake last night, carrier of boxed wine and a few ice cubes for college kids home for the summer, kids out for some young adult time to share. Over and over. . . and over again . . . they played “Red Solo Cup”. The lyrics became implanted in the memory of the container. But like its friend the dental implant, it was implanted alright, but this was not the fun and pretty type of implant. ####
“ . . . I fill you up, proceed to party, proceed to party …., MY EYE” muttered the little red jug. First of all thought Red, “I, ME, and myself…I am the one that “fills you up” and without Red, the party would not even be planned. Give me a break Toby!” ####
Long before the FDA asked for photo image warnings on smokes, the Marlboro-branded drink purveyor was on the job, and still is. In fact, the lack of progress in changing the basic form of a thermos is astounding. Advances in plastic changed the thickness of the containers, but the basic design is the same. Surprised at the small changes over the years, yes. But also, Red prides himself on that fact. “These red cups are johnnys-come-lately. And the CUP is getting all of this attention. It is a recyclable waste of precious plastic. Me, I am forever baby.” Red was on a roll. ####
“Maybe I watch too many movies but, ‘I coulda been a contendah’ “, he says mockingly emulating Brando.
“Red Solo Cup, good grief.” He’s always been known as “Red” but the drink cylinder is capped in white consuming about 1/3 of its form, and bears a white carrying handle.####
“My creators at Marlboro and Thermos were good to me in making me durable for sure. Look, I am the first to admit that it hasn’t been all fun and games for me. But listen to this, in the sixties, oh the sixties, that was a world of fun. The seventies weren’t bad for the first half, but then somebody’s mom used me to store cat litter for eight years. That was a sentence better suited for a red solo cup, useless piece of trash! After that, there were years of boating, hikes, camping, skiing and loads of fun. I carried soft drinks and hot chocolate, wine and cocktails, lemonade and iced tea. ####
Then little Kevin took me to college. Although I spent winters in the closet, for 8 months a year, we ‘proceeded to party.’ He and Monica took me to the beach and concerts, afternoons on the mall, Myrtle Beach and Grand Rapids, and we had a ball. Another sentence to storage followed, but this time it was just dead storage for me in the basement. Now, Kevin’s kids are using me and I may be going back to college soon. ####
In between I’ve been drop kicked, thrown from the top story of a dormitory, lost and forgotten, had my white third colored by little kids, and you name it. But I am still here. Let’s see a Solo Cup do that !! Or should I say SO LOW Cup. ####
Here’s my challenge Toby: do the right thing. Write me a song that is a fitting tribute to the red thermos and next year, take me along on the red carpet at the American Country Music Awards. Afterwards, we can pick up our swag and attend some of the late night parties. And, for my part, I can teach you how to “party like it’s 1969.”
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Kevin Carlin 609 947 1188
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