Her name was Babs. Babs McGee.

It was a quiet Tuesday evening in the middle of September, that month where the summer heat dies down and the brisk morning air reminds you that autumn is right around the corner. I found myself sitting on a bench in front of the Walter's Life Sciences building on campus, where I was actively engaged in the consumption of my evening meal. It was a meal that was purchased with one of those "Welcome to Knoxville" coupons you get in the mail. I had clipped out a few that had caught my eye, just like my mother had taught me long ago, and had kept them in my backpack for a time such as this. This particular coupon was for Chick-fil-a, and was set to expire within a week. What a waste to let it expire, I thought. So, with it, I had procured a tasty grilled chicken sandwich w/ fries for 50 cents under retail value.

The air outside was particularly fresh that evening, perhaps due to having been cooped up in the classroom or studying in the library all the livelong day. The evening sun was like a blazing orange ball that had just begun its descent over the distant horizon. As it did, it set the sky ablaze over Neyland Stadium, turning it from an azure blue to an fiery orange. The foliage had taken its seasonal cue from mother nature and, little by little, was beginning to show signs of the grand permutation that it would soon undergo. A few ambitious leaves had already fallen here and there, and at this time of day, you could hear the wind rustling those leaves through the street nearby. A few people passed here and there, each going their own way, like the leaves. It was tranquil. And, as the day had been long and exhausting, its tranquility was not unwelcome.

In a setting such as this, all the day's thoughts can't help but to settle - like a cloud of dust that billows behind a car on an old dry dirt road, and then slowly dissipates into the wind as the car fades away into the horizon. As I sat there, lost in reverie, taking the occasional bite out of my grilled chicken sandwich, and allowing the swirling dustcloud of the day's thoughts to settle into place, the only thing that occupied my overactive imagination was one of my childhood dreams. It was an idea that undoubtedly had some correlation with watching Robocop, and also an idea which I am somewhat reluctant to share: I would have detachable forearms that could be replaced with a multitude of instruments. Practical instruments. For example, I could replace one with a shoehorn. Whenever I or someone else was about to put on my/their shoes, I would simply remove one of my forearms and attach the shoehorn - Voila! My arsenal of forearm attachments would know no bounds. I could have one for every task conceivable - a hammer for building things. A knife to cut things. Well, then again, my mom wouldn't let me play with knives, so maybe just a butterknife. Various cooking utensils like spatulas and wooden spoons, or metallic, if you prefer. Toothbrushes. An all-purpose food blender with variable blades and blending speeds. Maybe even a toilet scrub brush? Oh, how easy life would be with this assortment of detachable tools! This was the coolest idea ever! Well, at least, it was 20 years ago in the mind of a 7 year old. In the midst of all this juvenile reminiscing - which, hopefully the reader will forgive and understand as the effects of fatigue - something in my peripheral vision suddenly demanded my attention. I cast a quick glance down the sidewalk..

and, there she was...

They say that love is like a butterfly: is you chase after it, it will run away, but if you just stand still, it will land on your shoulder. I'm not sure if I believe that anymore, but her - I know I had seen this butterfly somewhere, but where? She looked so familiar. Ah, yes! That one time in the University bookstore. We were both there in the literature section. She was perusing through Charles Dickens. "Great Expectations", I believe. I was just about engage her in conversation over this fine piece of literature, for I had recently read it myself, when she abruptly replaced the book in the shelf and left in a hurry. As she rushed passed me, the aroma of her perfume overwhelmed my olfactory senses with an indescribable delight.

And here she was again. She was tall. She was elegant. She looked intelligent. As she walked, or rather floated nearer, time seemed to have come to a halt. The wind blew through her long mahogany hair, which cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall. A single ray of light shone forth from the heavens, which had perhaps been ordained to shine in just that spot at just that moment in time, and made her silver earrings shimmer like a star in twilight sky. This must be how a fish feels, I thought, at seeing those shiny lures sparkle and glimmer underwater. Luckily for me, I wasn't a fish. But, if I were, she was lucky that those earrings weren't loaded down with earthworms and night-crawlers.

Lo and behold, she sat down next to me, and she did, that same perfume could be faintly detected in the breeze. I decided I was just gonna play it cool. Besides, who needs romance? I needed romance like a needed a major coronary. So, I assumed a casual disinterest. I did this by staring at the ground and watching the ants below assemble around the all crumbs that had fallen from my sandwich; mere crumbs to me, but for them, a hearty meal for the entire colony. And, in these hard economic times, even for ants, was something to be regarded as nothing less than a miracle, almost like manna falling from the heavens. The ants below were seizing the opportunity that good fortune had afforded them, and so I decided to do the same.

"What's the name, toots?", I said looking off into the distance, squinting as if I was trying to unravel some profound philosophical paradox. It was at times like this that I wish I smoked cigarettes. I could blow one of those nice rings of smoke that would dissipate in the air.

"The name's Babs. Babs McGee", she responded, coolly.

Her name was more of an anachronism than the Latin language. In my entire life, I had only known one other person by the name of "Babs", and that was "Beboppin' Babs Brown". And she had to be over 70 by now. Maybe 80. I knew the name had to be phony. I noticed she was carrying a large bag.

"Whatcha got in the bag, hotlips?", I said impassively, watching a flock of geese fly overhead.

I had heard that girls liked to be called names like that. Her eyes seem to light up at my question. She reached into her bag, and extricated the most beautiful spatula I had ever laid eyes on. It was shiny. And, I could tell it was top quality. I admit, I was excited, but I needed to maintain my composure. And, I did.

"A spatula? Who carries a spatula in their bag?", I said taking another bite of my sandwich.

At that moment, she looked around, almost as if to make sure no one was watching. She opened up the bag and displayed a whole set of kitchen cutlery - spoons, knives, both wooden and metallic, chopsticks, spatulas, and on and on. All so shiny. All so new. Never in my life had I seen such a fine assortment of cutlery. I wanted to ask her if she had any shoehorns, which would perhaps lead into a conversation about the detachable forearms, but better judgment prevailed.

"Listen kid," she said, "what would you say if I told you that this set of kitchen cutlery could be yours for only $149.99?"

"$149.99??"

"Plus...... a lifetime warranty." She added with a seductive smile.

Beads of sweat gathered over my brow and I bit my mustache. I wanted that set of cutlery badly, but was short on cash. Even so, I felt obligated to buy something from her - she was so beautiful! Maybe the butterfly was landing on my shoulder - how could I chase it away?

"Tell you what, toots. What's the lowest price you can take for that spatula?"

"$14.99"

"I'll take two", said I, with as much insouciance as I could muster.

The exchange took place, and our eyes met for the first time. The eyes seem to have a language of their own, capable of conveying profound meaning without even a word being spoken. Her eyes seemed to betray pleasure at my purchase. I guess a woman likes a man who knows his spatulas?

She got up and left. But before she did, she handed me this card, on the back of which was scribbled multiple methods of contacting her: office fax, office phone, office email.


And then, with a wink, she walked off. I sat there on the bench finishing off the last few fries, as she recommenced her walk to - wherever she was going. The fiery orange sun had nearly completed its descent, and she seemed to float right off into it. I didn't know where she came from. I didn't know where she was going. I didn't even know if we'd ever meet again. All I knew was that I was the proud owner of two brand new top-notch spatulas and that her name was Babs. Babs McGee. Cutlery Extraordinaire.