Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,16

us. A group of seniors from Iowa, is that right?"

"You bet!" shouted Dick Teig. Hoots. Whistles. Scattered applause. "The only one of us not old enough to join AARP is Emily!"

"Would any of you be willing to act as the third judge on our panel? I realize you didn't sign on to the tour to participate in our program, but let's face it, Midwesterners like you, and Jane Pauley, and --" He stirred the air with his hand, struggling to produce another name. "-- and Jesse 'the body' Ventura are known for their forthrightness and homespun values, and I need the input of a person whose opinion I can trust to be fair and unbiased. I'm not being overly dramatic when I tell you that your participation could change someone on this bus's life forever. Do I have any volunteers?"

Hands shot into the air all over the place. The Teigs. The Stolees. Osmond Chelsvig. I scanned the bus. All my group was volunteering. Even Nana. Whoa! This was a switch. Normally, they were so preoccupied with being punctual that they devoted most of their vacation time to checking their watches and queuing up at the bus a half a day ahead of time. Philip Blackmore had read them like books. They might have homespun values, but that didn't mean they were immune to a little well-placed flattery.

"Well, this is wonderfully encouraging," Philip said, obviously delighted with the number of hands inviting him to pick me, pick me. "I didn't expect so many volunteers. But your willingness creates something of a dilemma for me."

"No dilemma about it," insisted Osmond Chelsvig, who slowly unfolded himself from his seat and stepped into the aisle to issue instructions. Osmond was still president of Windsor City's electoral board despite advancing age, arthritis, double hearing aids, and the fact that he was the only person outside of Massachusetts who'd voted for George McGovern back in '72. "We gotta be democratic and do this by secret ballot. Listen up now. Remove your name tags from their plastic casings." He extracted his and held it in the air. "Then maybe that fella back there who's dressed in the Jungle Jim getup will be good enough to collect them in that hat of his and bring them up to the front of the bus."

I assumed he was referring to Fred, unless there was another person on board who was operating under the mistaken impression that we were touring Africa instead of Italy.

A round of applause erupted as Fred reluctantly removed his hat and made his way down the aisle collecting Iowa name tags.

"And the winner is," announced Philip Blackmore a few minutes later as he removed a name tag from Fred's hat, "Margaret Andrew!"

Hoots and hollers. A gasp of surprise from Mom. "Oh, my goodness!" I heard her exclaim from the back. "I feel so honored. I've never won anything in my life!"

"Where are you, Margaret?" asked Blackmore, peering down the aisle.

"Right here!" She stood up and put her hand on automatic pilot, waving to the crowd like a chubbier version of the queen of England. Oh yeah, this was going to be an evenly judged contest -- the winner determined by a literary barracuda, an editorial golden boy, and a woman whose idea of truly gripping fiction was The Runaway Bunny.

"I'll meet with judges and contestants later at the hotel to explain how the contest will be conducted," Blackmore said, "but let me urge all of you who will be submitting stories to gather your thoughts and commit them to paper as soon as possible. I wish you all the best of luck."

"How long are you giving us to do this?" someone called out.

"Three days," Blackmore replied.

"Three days!" people whined in unison.

Blackmore stood his ground. "The winner will have to prove to me that he or she can work quickly and meet a deadline. A writer needs to be talented as well as organized and efficient to meet marketing demands. Three days, ladies and gentlemen, and at the end of that time, one of you will most assuredly be on his or her way to joining the ranks of the rich and famous."

I could feel the electricity in the air as Philip Blackmore returned to his seat. I could hear the anxious twitters and agonized sighs of would-be contestants as they congregated in the aisles. And as the miles passed, I saw the looks they exchanged with each other shift from adoration to suspicion, and their lips curve