Floyd Kelly

You won’t believe the day I just had, but here’s the story anyway. It started with a bit of hearsay—my sister’s neighbor’s mother’s friend’s gardener told me something outrageous while I was at the grocery store. He leaned over the display of pastries, his hands covered in dirt and whispered like we were spies. “Psst … psst … Jake … Hey, there’s a man,” he said, “a wild, freakish man with giant teased hair, stirring a giant cauldron in the park. He’s got a super gigantic stolen apple pie.”

His claim sounded absurd, but he then assured me this was all true and based on first-hand sources. I bought my groceries and went to the park to check it out.

And there he was. Sprawled on a bench, larger than life, with hair so teased it looked like a static electricity exhibit. He wasn’t stirring a cauldron, just a regular pasta pot. And next to him was a large apple pie that looked every bit as large as the gardener had claimed.

Curiosity got the best of me. I approached the dude and sat on the other end of the bench. He turned to me, and the vibes suddenly got weird. “You’ve heard the secret, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice strangely charming, almost seductive.

“Depends,” I said. “Is the secret about stealing pies?”

He looked offended. “Stealing pies? Good heavens, no! This is a gift! My neighbor’s aunt’s co-worker’s brother made it for me. It’s a celebratory vessel!” He then tossed a handful of Skittles into his pot and gave it a stir with the shimmering, unmistakable disc of an old AOL CD. The smell that rose from the pot had my eyebrows all scrunched up.

Just as I was about to leave, an RCMP officer approached. Finally, I thought, this should be interesting. The officer walked right up to the bench, giving the pie a passing glance and a huge, long, inhaling sniff before his eyes fixed on the man’s hair.

“Whoa! Excuse me, sir,” the officer began, looking strangely in awe.

The man clutched his Skittles defensively. “I … I used an auto pen … so technically, I didn’t write all those hot checks. And this? It’s a celebratory vessel! It’s not stolen! I promise!”

“Yeah, no, that’s… that’s fine,” the officer stammered, running a hand through his own perfectly neat, limp hair. “Listen, this is going to sound unprofessional, but I have to ask. Your hair. The volume, the hold, the power, the sheen… it’s incredible. How do you do it? What do you use?”

The man’s defensive posture melted away, replaced by pure pride. He dropped everything and extended his arms out wide as if greeting someone dear. “Ah! You appreciate true artistry!”

“I’ve tried everything,” the officer continued, his voice now pleading. “Gels, mousse, glue… even the industrial adhesive from the maintenance locker. Nothing gives me that kind of lift. That bounce. What’s your secret?”

The man leaned in, gesturing with his hands and arms as if knighting him. “The secret isn’t what you put on,” he said. “It’s what you stir in.” He winked, pointing a grimy finger at the horrendous-smelling pot. “A little bit of that brew, a lot of confidence, and absolutely no combing. Ever.”

The officer stared at the pot, then back at the magnificent hair, a look of profound understanding on his face. He actually nodded, as if this were the most sensible advice he’d ever received.

That was my cue. I stood up and walked away, leaving the two of them to discuss the finer points of avant-garde hair care. The pie wasn’t even stolen. The whole adventure was based on a lie. I don’t know what’s weirder: the man with the pie, or the officer who was more interested in hair styling techniques than anything else.