Hannibal King volunteered as the head hash slinger at the St. Mia Farrow Shelter for Starving Artists and Underpaid Academics. Most of the people serving alongside Hannibal, were there to fulfill community service sentencing requirements, usually brought about by misdemeanor criminal mischief. Because of this, Hannibal often enjoyed the privilege of standing shoulder to shoulder with some very interesting folks. His typical greeting to every new hash slinger was, “What are you in for?”

“I cut a man’s liver out with a mashed potato serving spoon. You know why I did it? Because he asked me stupid questions. I haven’t done it in a while, and I’m getting a little itchy. Got any more stupid question?” Gilmore H. Sturmhalla, a well-seasoned member of society (read: cantankerous old man), fell into the “Here’s a big rock — let me help you hide under it” category of offenders.

“Thank you for clearing that up,” Hannibal responded quietly, calmly, and from just beyond arm’s reach. From this vantage point, Hannibal could see that his new hash-slinging partner was struggling with his potato-plopping technique. “Would you like me to show you a more efficient way to serve those potatoes?”

“I’ve got no use for learning anything new, or better, or efficient, or just because it’s different. Take your potato spoon and point it north.”

Hannibal was quite unsure as to what “pointing it north” meant, and wisely chose not to ask.

“Let me tell you something kid,” Mr. Sturmhalla glowered at Hannibal as Hannibal tried to hide his amusement at being called a “kid.” “I came of age during the late ‘60s. You know anything about them days, you little dangling earlobe?”

Hannibal might have responded, but became distracted by the “dangling earlobe” slur.

“I became a man at a time when the world was filled with dorm room posters and bumper stickers that said things like, ‘If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,’ and ‘People are down on the things they’re not up on,’ and, ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,’ and all kinds of pabulum jibber-jabber — warm and fuzzy solutions to all the world’s problems in fifteen words, or less.”

Gilmore H. Sturmhalla took a breath, glopped a mass of steaming something-or-another on a patron’s plate, and went right back at it.

“I did it all. I experienced everything. No one could accuse me of being narrow-minded, closed to new experiences, or, worst of all, undiverse. I hitch hiked across this country three times, from ocean to ocean and from unguarded border to unguarded border.” At this point, Mr. Sturmhalla’s spoon was getting precariously close to Hannibal’s nose. “I planted trees on mountainsides, slept on beaches, and saw a herd of wild mustangs being ridden by Jeanne Kirkpatrick after snorting dried casaba melon rind. If I haven’t done it, it ain’t worth doing.”

Casaba melon hallucinations were just a little outside Hannibal’s many fields of study.

“I was told experiencing EVERYTHING would make my life full and rewarding. Well, Mr. I-Still-Have-All-My-Hair (it’s true — Hannibal’s hair was full and bouncy — with a salting of gray thrown in for gravitas), when do I get to quit experiencing stuff and start enjoying a few things?”

“Huh?’ Hannibal grunted, as a potato splatter landed on his right cheek.

“I’ve tried everything. So far, I haven’t liked most of it. Out of all the things I have done, there are probably only six things I really liked doing. When do I get to quit experiencing stuff and just do what I like? When do I get to enjoy my six things and ignore everything else?”

“What’d you say you were in here for?” Hannibal hastily retreated to the safety of his opening question.

“I failed to return an overdue Jane Fonda workout VCR tape from 1982.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com