The Nightmare in Stall 13

Posted by Cynthia on September 2, 2009

THE NIGHTMARE IN STALL 13

or

The Night the Yaks Yakked Cherry Pits

from

The Lost Sherpa Scrolls

Author Unknown

 

      It was a sultry night, the kind of night where a young yak could find himself lost in the bottomless wells of a beautiful yakette’s eyes, or in the dregs of his Pina Colada. This night was no exception. Yul wandered down to the pub, the Yak‘Em Inn, and found a table in the corner. The usual crowd was there: Yosef the mailman, Yacob the Yiddish butcher, and George. No one knew where George came from. He was just there, night after night.

      There was a subtle difference about the place tonight, though. Yul couldn’t quite put his hoof on it. He finally yelled at Yani, the piano player.

      “What’s up?” Yul tended toward limited conversational skills.

      “Yasmin will be here tonight,” Yani said. He wasn’t much more of a conversationalist either. He preferred concentrating on his music, which was difficult when playing a keyboard with only seventeen keys wide enough for hooves.

      Everyone was excited now, after hearing Yani’s announcement. Yasmin Yak would be dancing tonight. She hadn’t been there in months. Her performing circuit had taken her to exotic locales, like the neighboring village and the feedlot. Yul sipped his Pina Colada and slowly ate several of the cherries skewered on little plastic swords. Yasmin was the one yakette Yul dreamed of.

      His attention quickly snapped back to the stage. The house lights were dimming. Yasmin was here. Yul could smell her.

      Slowly, smoothly, Yasmin writhed onto the stage. Yul could feel her eyes on him. Tantalizingly, Yasmin swayed, dropping a veil. It caught on Yul’s right horn. He quivered. It was a good sign. He dreamed of her returning to his stall, number thirteen, with him. Maybe she would be interested in reading “War and Peace” by the light of his new candelabra. Yul hadn’t actually read the book, but it made for a nice spot to put the candelabra. The possibilities were endless.

      The music changed and Yasmin undulated, flicking her tail enticingly. Yul sighed and asked for another bowl of cherries. He didn’t really ask, he just held the little plastic sword in the air and made significant eye contact with Yanos, the bartender. Yanos understood, as he was not a yak of many words either. In fact, George was the only yak capable of carrying on a conversation of more than a dozen words at a time, but he rarely got the chance as none of the other yaks were up to the same standard word capability. Yanos brought the bowl of cherries over and looked from Yul to Yasmin and back. Yanos nodded wisely, thinking that nodding was far more significant than speaking. It was also easier.

      Yasmin batted her long, beautiful lashes at Yul. He ate cherries. Maybe they could stop by the hay lot on a moonlit stroll for a bite to eat. Cherries and Pina Coladas could only take a yak so far.

      Yasmin stretched and rippled up, displaying the jewel in her navel, which was quite magnificent. The jewel, not the navel. Neither was the gem insubstantial, considering the size of the navel it had to fill. Yul was fascinated. His only thought was stop, stop, stop all the music. He needed time to breathe. He snorted, fluttering the veil still stuck on his right horn.

      Of all the yak joints in this world, she had to pick this one to dance in, he thought. At least he would have thought that if he had been capable of such cognitive word formation. It was a thought better suited to George, but no one was sure George was really a yak or a water buffalo just pretending. He had even been mistaken for Yeti, since the two of them were never seen at the same places or social events, but these reports had not been verified. They did dance alike, however, and there were photos in the society column of the New Yak Times showing them on separate occasions in similar ensembles. Yasmin’s dancing, on the other hoof, was something to behold, if one could behold dancing. Holding dancing of any kind was difficult, particularly with hooves, but belly dancing was exceptionally tough.

      Yasmin started shimmying, occasionally jingling little hoof cymbals. Yul loved the shimmy. He continued eating cherries, stems, pits and all. Yanos had brought him the Bing cherries, which made Yul want to croon, instead of the Maraschino cherries. Yul hadn’t noticed.

      Yasmin spun in a flurry of yak hair and swathes of filmy, multi colored veils. Yul forgot himself and winked at Yasmin. It was actually a blink of astonishment, Yul being a yak easily astonished, but since the veil still stuck on his right horn had shifted and covered his right eye, it looked more like a wink. Yasmin winked back. Yul not only forgot himself, but forgot what he was doing and ate the rest of the cherries, not stopping when he got to the bowl. It was the third bowl he had eaten in a week. Yanos wouldn’t be happy. Really hungry yaks could indulge in a bowl of little plastic swords and bamboo umbrellas, but getting more bowls was difficult. A sudden movement caught Yul’s attention and brought him back to the present just before he started on the table. There was nothing like a good table to follow a bowl or two.

      Yul couldn’t believe his eyes, but since his eyes were the only ones he had at the moment, he had to believe them. The sudden movement had been Yasmin’s final spin. All of her filmy veils floated to the floor. Yasmin Yak was topless. Nothing but a bare expanse of slightly matted yakette hair in voluptuous folds covered her breast. It was the principle of the matter, as she wasn’t really topless as yaks didn’t wear much over their hair except for George, who was currently attired in an Italian silk suit. In fact, Yeti had been seen in the same Italian silk suit at a Klondike Klaude and the Yukon Yodelers concert and clog fest earlier that week. But still, tt was the principle of the matter. Yul went ahead and ate the table anyway, confused by the principles.

      The music stopped, Yul breathed and Yasmin exited the stage. Yanos gave Yul a withering glance, but since Yul didn’t really know what withering meant, he was undaunted. Yul wasn’t sure what undaunted meant either, but thought he’d try it. When Yul realized, however, that his Pina Colada glass had crashed to the floor in the absence of the table, he nodded at Yanos, indicating Yanos should put it on Yul’s tab.

      “Is this seat taken?” a rich, sultry voice asked. Yul hadn’t seen anyone come up as they had approached from his veil-blinded right side. Yul looked around and stared into the eyes of the lovely Yasmin Yak. The seat she was indicating was obviously vacant as others had cleared out when Yul started in on the table. They were afraid he might go for the seating arrangements next.

      “No,” was all Yul managed to squeak out. Squeaking wasn’t any easier than speaking for yaks, but it would do in a tight situation.

      Yasmin sat down gracefully and Yul wondered how he could be so fortunate. Yasmin had actually spoken to him and was now sitting next to him. The cherries he had eaten were making him want to sing.

      “I’ve seen you around,” Yasmin said. “Come here often?”

      Yul nodded, feeling quivery. Perhaps it was really the table he had eaten making him feel that way, but he wasn’t willing to bet. Yasmin was beautiful.

“Sword?” he asked, handing her the last little plastic sword he had. This would have been a good time to offer a bowl instead, but Yanos was a conscientious bar tender and Yul had reached his limit for the evening. Maybe a bamboo umbrella would do. Yasmin took the plastic sword and nibbled delicately.

      After a lengthy silence, broken only by George’s attempted soliloquy from the play, “Yaklet,” but was thwarted as no one knew what a soliloquy was, or, for that matter, what being thwarted was, Yasmin batted her eyes at Yul. He batted his eyes back, after trying to toss, throw, and finally, pitch his eyes. Batting seemed appropriate.

      “Would you like to come back to my stall and see my candelabra?” Yul asked, the cherries giving him courage. George nearly soliloquized again as it was the longest sentence he had ever heard Yul utter. Yasmin flicked her ears enticingly and nodded. She would go back to Yul’s stall and see his candelabra. This moment needed no words, as the young yak and yakette were speaking the language of, well, yaks. George couldn’t be available for every interpretive need. Yes, the cherries were definitely speaking to Yul now.

      Yasmin walked on Yul’s left side, which made Yul happy, as the veil was still hanging from his right horn and covering his eye. It hadn’t occurred to him to remove it. The bowl and cherries had clouded his judgment. The table probably hadn’t helped either, and Yul was trying to cut back. It had been a light table, though, so things were getting better. He might not even need the furniture twelve-step program George recommended.

      At stall twelve they stopped. Yul then remembered he actually lived in stall thirteen, so they moved down one. Yul searched his pockets for the key until he again remembered he had no pockets. In fact, he didn’t actually have a lock on the door, so he just opened it and went in. Maybe he should give up the lethal combination of cherries and furniture. Perhaps he would start imbibing something more innocuous, like croquet mallets. He decided against it as he really didn’t know what imbibe or innocuous meant. He thought he would stick with what he knew.

      Inside the stall, Yasmin looked around. Yul had decorated in early barnyard, a favorite theme in the yak community.

      “Is this your candelabra?” Yasmin asked, looking at the candelabra. Yul nodded. “It is lovely,” Yasmin said. Yul nodded again.

      Yul was feeling quivery again. No one had ever told him his candelabra was lovely. Of course, he had just gotten it the day before, but still, no one had thought it lovely.

      “Would you like some hay?” Yul asked. “I have some mixed cherry pits.”

      Yul dumped a can of fancy mixed pits into a bowl. It was the nice wood bowl he was saving for a special occasion, a bowl to share with a special someone. It also happened to be the only bowl Yul owned, owing to the fact that he usually ate out of a trough. Yasmin nodded, having used up a considerable store of words for the evening, and took a few cherry pits. The Queen Anne’s were her favorite, when the queen would part with them. Yasmin didn’t actually know who or what a queen was and certainly hadn’t met anyone named Anne, but her cherry pits were the best. Yasmin hoped Queen Anne didn’t mind. Yul nibbled the Bing’s, feeling the need to croon again.

      When they were finished with the pits, Yasmin politely nibbled on the remains of the wooden bowl. They gazed into each others eyes. Yul had passed feeling quivery and had gone straight into queasy. He could tell by the look in Yasmin’s eyes she was feeling the same. The veil dangling from Yul’s right horn began to tremble. The candles in the candelabra sputtered. They went past sputtering and got down right angry. The situation was getting nightmarish.

      Without preamble, as they only knew how to amble, they both ambled to the door, the veil fluttering. Under the light of a silvery moon, the yaks yakked cherry pits.

      Many a love story has its romantic beginnings in just such circumstances. Yul and Yasmin were no different. When next you eat or yak cherry pits, think of Yul and Yasmin and their first date.