Yesterday was one of those miserable days that gets sucked down into the wallows of uncooperative technology. It had started out alright – I had just unveiled my brand new wireless keyboard and trackpad (happy anniversary, Robbi!) the night before.

They were beautiful. Sleek. Small. Wireless. This would solve lots of problems on my desk. Believe me, the details are dull, but I was very excited. It turned out, though, that the trackpad doesn’t have full functionality unless your Mac is running Snow Leopard, which I had previously believed (and I still think, rightly so) to be a fairly extraneous update. But dammit! I sure wanted that sleek new trackpad to work. And so, I folded. I bought Snow Leopard. Thankfully (and perhaps because it’s a fairly extraneous update) it did not break the bank (though I’m not sure if the extra $29 just for trackpad capability was worth it, especially in light of the ensuing misery).

Alright then. So. I woke up yesterday ready to install Snow Leopard. I figured it would take me an hour at most, and then I could finally address this pressing burden of work that I’ve been putting off since getting back from Japan (two weeks later, I don’t think I can still blame jetlag, but whoo boy am I wonked out).

But.

But. But. But.

Something weird happened in the update and something else weird happened when I updated our server and for a while there it looked like I would never be able to retrieve my Time Machine data and that our server wasn’t going to get beyond the grey spinning startup screen and that total computer apocalypse had happened, all because I desired my stupid (yet beautiful) trackpad over my functional (but ugly) third-party mouse. There’s some greater lesson to be learned, here, I’m sure. Anyway, 8 hours later, the problem seemed to be mostly solved, and Matthew sent me off to take his yoga class because he could see that I was looking all pinched and manic.

And when I returned, he had a little something waiting for me. I had mentioned a couple days ago that I had in my head a little character named Mr. Melba, who was a piece of melba toast. I considered him some sort of children’s book character. And so, Matthew wrote me a story about Mr. Melba. I am posting it below. Let it be known, however, that Matthew literally wrote this in 12 minutes. No editing. Just straight out of the font of strangeness. And I love it. It made my day.

Read on:

Mr. Melba

For Robbi
November 10, 2010

Mr. Melba was a happy fellow. He had everything he needed—friends, conversation, and a nice, warm box to live in. He was content. He had no needs or aspirations.

One day, his friend (who was also named Mr. Melba [it was so confusing]) came back to the box with paté on his head. “Egad! What’s that!” said Mr. Melba, horrified.

“It’s paté,” said the other Mr. Melba, sounding not at all horrified, and actually rather pleased with himself.

“Oooh! Paté!” said various of the other Mr. Melbas in the box. Mr. Melba felt the shame of the ignorant and said, “Oooh, paté,” too, but with decidedly less enthusiasm.

The pate got smeared all over the inside of the box, which distressed Mr. Melba and made him want to complain. But the Mr. Melba with paté on his head was the new darling, and so Mr. Melba feared to cross him. The other Mr. Melbas insisted that the Mr. Melba with paté on his head sit still and enjoy life while they did all the chores and suffered all indignities on his behalf.

Mr. Melba fumed. This was not right. He decided to go on a journey of discovery. He set out across the kitchen counter, in search of truth.

He was nearly destroyed on several occasions.

Eventually he came to a place with a view of the table. People were gathered in celebration. He saw a number of his fellows on a plate in the midst of the festival. In the middle of the plate was a bowl of paté.

Mr. Melba scoffed at the paté, recognizing it as a hollow emblem. One after another, the happy people picked up his friends, smeared paté on their heads with a tiny silver knife, and then devoured them with enthusiasm. Mr. Melba knew he shouldn’t be envious. But he was. This was his destiny, he suddenly realized. This was the only livable culmination of his life’s heretofore underwhelming trajectory. He had to get to the table. He had to. But how? He was high on the counter. He could not get down without risking terrible injury. He was dry and brittle. The table was also high. Were he to make it down from the counter successfully, he had no idea how he’d climb up to the plate. His mind reeled as he embraced his limitations. He grew depressed. He would have wept.

Miserable, he wandered back to the box, knowing that, at the least, he could take pleasure in communion with his fellows. But to his shock, the box was empty. His friends were gone! He looked up to see them piled on a plate that was being carried away from the counter and toward the table. He had missed his ride! He had missed his chance at destiny!

He was feeling wretched and alone when he heard a voice, hollow and despondent. “Ack,” it said.

Mr. Melba turned to see the other Mr. Melba with paté on his head. He was looking wan and soggy. The paté had soaked through his flesh, causing him to sag. A crust had formed across the top of the paté, making it unappetizing.

“I’m old before my time,” said the wretched Mr. Melba. “They didn’t want to eat me.”

Mr. Melba looked at his friend and felt a searing pity that was almost patronizing. He tried to hide his contempt. He failed.

“Your contempt is withering,” said the other Mr. Melba.

Mr. Melba cackled. He was not to fulfill his destiny, but at least he could revel in the pain of another. It was almost as good.

Later that evening, he and the other Mr. Melba were fed to the dog. Their pulverized bodies were commingled as the dog chewed and then swallowed. Mr. Melba’s last feeling was nausea.

I suppose it doesn’t make for much of a children’s book. But it sure made me smile. At the end of the day, a little melba with some paté can sure right a lot of sloping sailboats.