The Saint Mia Farrow Shelter for Starving Artists and Underemployed Academics is an organization dedicated to the advancement of a socially shunned segment of society.

Sometimes referred to by the slur “talented and gifted,” they are a group of people that, through no fault of their own, regardless of their high levels of artistic skills or intelligence acumen, must face the social stigma of perceived worthlessness brought on by a negative cash flow.

Although the shelter can provide for up to 10 “guests,” currently only two folks are taking advantage of the opportunities — a performance artist who prefers to be known as The Artist Sylvester, and a participant in a witness protection program who is obligated to be known by his agency provided alias, Lumpy Rutherford.

As part of its services, the shelter provides two meals a day, served by volunteers from the Fraternal Order of the Grand Misconception (FOGM) — essentially a sham civic organization established as a means for henpecked husbands to escape their domineering spouses. Among the principal members of FOGM is Hannibal King, himself a former underemployed academic and a current sufferer of Chronic Henpecked Affliction Reaction (CHAR is a non-sexually transmitted disease). As an academic himself, Hannibal holds multiple degrees, such as a Ph.D in Monrovian history, a master’s in Welsh cuisine, and a bachelor’s in wetland dehydration techniques — all of which contributed to his former state of underemployment. If it wasn’t for well-intentioned do-gooders like the fine folks at the Shelter and a begrudgingly offered job from his father-in-law, Hannibal might very well be the Shelter’s third guest.

“I envision a tree, heavy laden with golden leaves,” The Artist Insisting on Being Known as Sylvester (or whatever he’s calling himself this week) had just begun explaining the concept of his upcoming performance piece.

“And what will this piece represent?” asked Hannibal, who also volunteered to shepherd the Shelter’s mandatory, group therapy, talk-fests. Sylvester enjoyed talking about himself and whatever project he hoped to give birth, various legal obligations were Lumpy’s only reason for attending, and Hannibal just didn’t want to go home.

“It is the juxtaposition of life against death,” gushed Sylvester, as the description of his piece dripped from his lips. “It is all that is good — gone bad.”

“When are you going to show off this bucket of zebra rolls?” asked Lumpy, who rarely participated in the sessions, even though the Shelter’s policies hinted that non-participation was reason to withhold the free meals — if over-cooked meat crumbles and runny mashed potatoes qualify as meals.

“I’m hoping for September,” bubbled Sylvester, thrilled with the opportunity to continue the conversation about himself. “Maybe October. It depends on my patrons.”

“Tree with yellow leaves?” asked Wally’s best friend, Lumpy.

“Golden leaves,” corrected Sly.

“In October?” continued Lumpy with his line of questioning.

“Or September,” corrected Sylvester, again (always the optimist, that guy).

“Ssssssoooooo…” pondered the usually reticent Mr. Rutherford. “Your big work of art is to have a tree, in October, full of yellow leaves?”

“Yes!” shouted the Con Artist Sylvester, barely able to contain his excitement.

“It’s been done, you ship jumper,” laughed the usually uninvolved Lumpy Rutherford.

At this point, Hannibal looked up from watching YouTube videos about combining alchemy and recycling, and attempted to reprimand Lumpy for calling Sylvester by a derogatory appellation. But, he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“What?!” gasped the Artist Whatsisname.

“A tree with yellow leaves in October? You’re so smart your shoes don’t fit. That’s autumn, you rock-dulled dart,” he laughed. “We see it every year. I’ve known downtown farmhands with more sense than you.”

After Lumpy’s verbal onslaught, Hannibal felt certain he needed to admonish someone for something. He just didn’t know if having small feet, due to intelligence, was a good or bad thing — and the whole city-farmer thing was even more perplexing. For the first time, in a long time, Hannibal wished he was at home with his wife.

 

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.