Once upon a time (because that is how fairy tales, flights of fantasy and all good stories of “make believe” are supposed to begin), there was a tribe of elves, known as the Pols.

In accordance with elfin cultural disposition, most elves were good-natured, worked hard, and liked it when things were the way they were supposed to be (and stayed that way).

However, the elf tribe of Pols was a different kind of elf clan, filled with elves that had the mystical ability of talking out of both sides of their mouths, elves that used lots of words to say nothing at all, and elves that made all the rules.

The Pol elves had a name for all the other elves that were obligated to follow the rules — “Outsiders.”

The Pols made the rules — rules that all the Outsider elves had to follow, except for certain elves that found ways to not have to follow the rules. The important thing to understand about elfin rules was that all rules had exceptions. If an elf wanted things to be the way they were supposed to be (and stay that way) an elf had to know the exceptions to the rules — and follow the exceptions, rather than the rules.

Since the Pols decided they should shoulder the responsibility for making all the rules by which the Outsider elves must live, it seemed like a good idea to put a Pol elf in charge of making sure the rules were followed (unless there was an exception, of course). After all, what is the point of having rules if there is no one in charge of making sure the rules get followed?

This elf was known as the Presielf, the Chief Enforcer of the rules and regulations. Not only is the Presielf the Chief Enforcer, he (or she) gets to decide if he (or she) likes the rules the rest of the Pols have decreed. Sometimes, the Presielf wouldn’t like a rule, would kick it to the curb, and then make his (or her) own rule (it was called an Executive Order and it was lots of fun for the Presielf).

Being the Presielf was a pretty big deal in the Land of the Elves. Just about every Pol elf wanted the job, and every four years all the Outsider elves gathered together, took an exasperated look at all the Pols who wanted to be the Presielf, and begrudgingly decided which one should be the guy (or gal) to make them follow all the rules. Usually, the choice came down to, “Which one of these clowns is the least obnoxious?”

There were so many Outsider elves and so few Pol elves. It was difficult to find a Pol elf worthy of the job of bossing all the other elves around. The custom for deciding which Pol was the least obnoxious was to hold a Conversation with all the potential Presielfs (or is that Presielves?) and ask them stupid questions like, “What mean things can you say about another possible Presielf?” Or, “Are you really just a comic book character?”

Once the Conversation was complete, the Outsider elves were expected to make a selection based on looks, ability to say meaningless things, and which Pol would disrupt their lives the least.

During one conversation, one of the Pols explained that he (or she) should be Presielf because he (or she) spelled his (or her) name with an exclamation mark. Another thought she (or he) should get the job, “Because everyone knows I should be Presielf.” One argued that he (or she) should have the job because he (or she) was an “Outsider.” The problem with the “Outsider” claim was, the moment an Outsider elf decided he (or she) wanted to be the Chief Enforcer, that was the moment he (or she) quit being an Outsider and became a Pol.

One claimed he (or she) should get the gig because he (or she) spoke quietly and politely, while another explained that yelling and calling other elves names was a good reason for being selected Presielf. Some used to run big businesses. Some used to be doctors, lawyers, and carnival barkers. Most just wanted the money and power (but, didn’t actually say that out loud).

Eventually, one lone elf said (in as loud as an unassuming voice can be), “My name is Arnold. If I am selected Presielf, I promise to change absolutely nothing — nothing added, nothing subtracted — good, bad, or indifferent. Then, things can be as they should be — and stay that way.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.