Kristin E. Andersen's Word Studio

How to Bottle an Ogre

Once upon a time and all that, there was a girl named Claude. Claude was an okay kid who lived with her mother in The Village and so on and so forth – you know the kind of thing.

Claude was pretty ordinary except she had a condition.

Now, don’t go getting all weepy and feeling sorry for her or anything because as conditions go it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t like a hangnail or a paper cut or something really serious like that.

You want to know what Claude’s condition was?

Okay, Claude, tell them.

“Nope.”

Excuse me a minute, I’ll talk to her.

Claude says she’ll tell you but she doesn’t want just anyone hearing this, so you’ll have to come closer. Closer. A little closer. Okay.

Brace yourself.

Are you sure you can take it?

You ready?

Really?

Okay, here goes.

Claude had an ogre.

That’s right, an OGRE.

Now, don’t worry. It’s all right. An ogre isn’t catching.

“You want an ogre, you get your own,” Claude says.

Uh-huh.

“Well, an ogre isn’t exactly something you want,” Claude says. “Believe me, I know.”

And Claude could tell you a thing or two about ogres – hers anyway.

Claude’s ogre’s name was Gerald.

As ogres go, Gerald wasn’t a bad sort. He wasn’t green or warty, if that’s what you’re thinking, and he didn’t breathe fire or have bad manners. He certainly did not live under the bed. What would an ogre do under the bed all day, I ask you, except get dusty?

No, Gerald was just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill ogre – your basic ogre next door. In any other fairy tale he would have been a dentist or a CPA or something. If Gerald were ice cream he’d be plain vanilla. Not Peach-Mango Twirl. Not Rocky Road (Gerald was allergic to nuts, anyway). Just plain old ordinary vanilla.

Claude didn’t mind Gerald that much. He was knowledgeable. He’d seen a bit of the world – well, Cleveland, anyway. When you were tired of looking out the window or reading books or singing to your teddy bear, you could talk to Gerald just to pass the day.

But the thing with Gerald was this: he was very, very, very large. He took up most of the room, so it was kind of hard to go places.

Gerald was also very, very, very lonely. If Claude left him alone for long, he would get very, very, very annoyed. Take it from Claude, you do not want a lonely ogre on your hands who is also annoyed, because that is a very, very, very bad ogre who hides your shoes and messes up your room and just generally gets you into loads and loads of trouble.

You know what Gerald did once? Gerald ate Claude’s homework. What’s that? You don’t believe her? Neither did Claude’s teacher, Miss Periwinkle. But Claude has proof. Do you see her homework anywhere in this room? Well, do you?

“I rest my case,” says Claude.

Now, I’m not going to get into the story of how Claude got an ogre. All you need to know is: Ogres happen.

“If you don’t want an ogre, you mind your ps and qs and eat your vegetables” is all Claude has to say on the subject.

But there is one subject Claude is willing to discuss. It’s probably already occurred to you.

What do you do about an ogre?

You probably think you know. I can hear you out there now and some of you are saying, “Just go to the store and buy that anti-ogre spray they’re always advertising on TV.”

Well, girls and boys, I don’t want to be the first person to tell you this and break your little hearts but there is no such thing as anti-ogre spray. Tell them, Claude.

“Nope.”

I know. I was as disappointed as you when I found out. And there’s no such thing as “Ogre-Eaters” or “Ogre-b-Gon” or even “Ogre Off.”

Listen, kids, I’m here to tell you, and Claude can back me up on this, flossing does wonders for unsightly tarter build-up but it’s no good on ogres.

So, what’s a person to do?

“Yeah,” says Claude. “What do I do?”

Claude put this question to her teddy bear, Mrs. Myrtle, one day but Mrs. Myrtle didn’t answer. This isn’t THAT kind of fairy tale.

But there was a ladybug on the windowsill.

“So, you got an ogre, huh?” says the ladybug.

“Everyone knows ladybugs can’t talk,” says Claude.

“Hey, who you calling a lady?” That’s when Claude noticed the ladybug had a mustache. The ladybug’s name was Frank.

“I’ve never met a man ladybug before,” says Claude.

“Well, now you have, toots,” says Frank. “Will wonders never cease.” Frank was a little on the sarcastic side, being from Brooklyn and all.

“What on earth could you possibly know about ogres?” says Claude. “You’re just a bug.”

“My credentials,” says Frank, handing her a business card. “Read `em and weep.”

Claude wasn’t impressed.

“Listen, sweetheart, you want help or not?”

“I guess.”

“Show me the ogre.”

“Uh, he’s kind of hard to miss.”

He was taking up most of the room as usual.

Frank gave Gerald the once over. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Just as I thought.”

“Well?” says Claude.

“I’m hungry,” says Frank.

“You’re going to eat him?” says Claude, understandably horrified. Remember, it wasn’t that she didn’t like her ogre. It was just that he was taking up more than his fair share, spacewise.

“Don’t worry, doll face. You go get us a snack while we chew the fat.”

“What?!”

Then Frank explained he and Gerald were just going to have a little talk, so it was all right.

She went to the kitchen and came back with a jar of olives and some Cheez-Whiz.

“It’s all I could find,” she says.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. Ogres love olives. You got any root beer? My buddy Gerald, here, wants to wet his whistle.”

She went to the kitchen again and returned with a frothy mug. While Gerald drank up, Frank called Claude aside.

“All right, doll face, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna to make a potion.”

“What kind of potion?”

“A very special potion. I call it O … M … P – OMP for short.”

“OMP?”

“OMP.” He took a list of ingredients out of his pocket.

What’s that, girls and boys? Yes, of course, ladybugs have pockets.

It was a very, very, very long list.

“You think you could go to the A&P for me, sweetheart?”

“I guess. But what about Gerald?”

“Forgeddabout him,” says Frank. “I’ll keep him company meantime.”

Frank gave her a sack of golden bus tokens for the trip and wished her well. “Give my regards to Broadway.”

Claude was gone a very, very, very long time – at least a week – but she got all the ingredients for OMP, whatever that was. She also ran a few errands – you know, the kinds of errands you run when you’ve been cooped up a long time. She went to school, got her hair cut, visited the zoo.

When she got back, Frank met her at the door.

“How’s Gerald?” she says.

“Happy as a clam, toots. You get the goods?”

She showed him a big grocery bag.

“Beautiful. Let’s make OMP.”

Pretty soon there was a big pot of OMP cooking on the stove, filling the kitchen with the most wonderful aroma, which smelled suspiciously like spaghetti sauce.

“That’s because it IS spaghetti sauce,” says Frank.

“First you tell me we’re making OMP and now you tell me it’s spaghetti sauce?!” says Claude. She was expecting something more, well, you know – potiony.

“This ain’t just any spaghetti sauce, sweetheart, it’s an old family recipe.”

“What about my potion?”

“What do you talk? This IS the potion. Is the pasta ready?”

It was, as a matter of fact, so Claude made up three plates of spaghetti: one very, very, very large plate for Gerald, one medium-sized plate for herself and one small plate for Frank because he was on a diet.

They sat in her room shooting the breeze and eating spaghetti, which Claude had to admit was probably the best she’d ever tasted.

“I’m thirsty,” says Gerald.

Claude filled up his glass again. He gulped it down. So, she filled it again and that’s when she noticed a very, very, very interesting thing.

Are you ready for this, girls and boys?

Gerald, her ogre, was getting smaller. Tell them, Claude.

“Smaller and smaller.”

The more OMP Gerald ate, the thirstier he got. He kept eating OMP until his plate was clean, and he kept drinking root beer until the bottle was almost empty.

But he was still thirsty.

There were only a few drops left in the very bottom of the bottle.

“No problem,” says Gerald, who always was a resourceful sort of ogre. “I’ll just climb in there and finish it up.”

As soon as he did, Frank says, “Now!”

And because that was her cue, Claude clapped the lid on that bottle faster than you could say, “OMP,” and twisted it tight.

“And that’s how you bottle an ogre, doll face,” says Frank, dabbing a little sauce off his mustache. He slapped a stamp on the bottle, and they put it out for curbside pickup.

“But what about Gerald?” says Claude. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” says Frank. “He’s got potential. He’ll go far.”

When Claude’s mother got home from work later, she was thrilled to hear Claude’s condition was cured. She didn’t even mind the mess in the kitchen. Claude fixed her a plate and told her the whole story.

After dinner, Claude invited Frank to stay as long as he wanted.

“We’ll go to the zoo and I’ve got show-and-tell next week. You’ll be a big hit.”

“Sorry, doll face, the world is my oyster. I gotta go. Remember me to Herald Square.”

“Harold who?”

And just like that he was off to the JerseyShore.

They all lived happily yada-yada and you know how it goes. The End.

What?

Oh, Claude says you might want to know what OMP is. All right. Tell them, Claude.

“Ogre Management Potion. What else?”

Well, how do you like that?

THE (REAL) END