How Many

Cornelius Shellington was a precocious and peculiar little boy. He fancied things a certain way and understood why without having to waste a single moment thinking about it.

His unremarkable father, Morris, had died of consumption shortly before he was born and subsequently was never spoken of. His mother, Gertrude, worked as a mortician’s assistant but also took various odd jobs just to make ends meet.

Gertrude and Cornelius were as close as a mother and son could be and both relished in the moments they spent together in the mornings before she left to tend to the recently deceased.

The Shellington’s lived in a conspicuously playful little cottage, inside which had cupboards filled with anomalously mismatched flatware. One Saturday morning, Cornelius reached into a cabinet and grabbed a weathered porcelain bowl, whose color had faded but was once a very vivid and luxurious magenta. Over the years, this bowl had accrued a number of scratches and chips in its once perfectly glazed surface. Every imperfection had a subtle impact on the direction Cornelius would face it on the table before the equally specific and nuanced task of filling it with whatever sugary confection imitating cereal was on the menu for that day.

He knew that his morning breakfast, out of this bowl specifically, would consist of exactly twenty-three bites.

Cornelius’s remaining thirteen sips of orange juice resided inside the bowels of a half full ball jar three and a quarter inches northeast of his nearly finished bowl of cereal. He took another bite and then meticulously placed his spoon precisely two inches to the right of his porcelain breakfast dish.

His pursed lips ploddingly turned into a mischievous smile as he picked up his spoon and placed it back down again and again with methodical precision.

“Everything has its place,” Cornelius shouted to his mother as he took another calculated bite of generic super market brand Frosted Flakes. “Yes, and yours is here with me,” she replied as she pointed repeatedly in the direction of her heart.

After he had finally finished, Cornelius gathered up his mess of dishes and carried them the four steps from the table to the kitchen sink. As he punctiliously organized each item into the sink, he felt his mother’s delicate touch on his right shoulder. Gertrude peered down lovingly at her son and dolefully cooed, “I’m sorry dear but I’m off to beautify the dead.” Cornelius looked up the thirty-two degrees necessary to meet his mother’s adoring gaze and replied, “Indubitably,” before burying himself into her bosom for an affectionate goodbye hug.

As their salutations concluded, Cornelius bellowed a high pitched, “Goodbye,” and then gingerly skipped the fifteen steps from the kitchen into the southeast corner of the modest cottage’s living room.

Cornelius was an avid reader and had an exceptional vocabulary, but was still susceptible to the proclivities of those who lacked his uncommon level of intelligence. Usually, he could be found with his nose buried in a literary classic, but today he decided, instead, to tune into the ridiculous misadventures of Scooby Doo.

Incisively, he plopped down onto the family’s worn out living room rug directly twenty-seven inches from their dusty old analog television. Any further and he wouldn’t be able to reach the dial without getting up. He turned on the TV and twisted the dial to channel 3, CBS. He sat back with his legs crossed and glared at the TV as commercials occupied its luminous screen.

A crudely animated advertisement came on featuring a small boy with the pressing question of how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop. Cornelius watched as the boy approached various animals all of which were befuddled by his great query. Eventually, the boy approached a sophisticated looking barn owl. The bird proceeded to take his Tootsie Pop, lick it three times, bite straight through to the candy center and then declare it takes only three licks.

Cornelius’s eyes widened, his hands curled into tiny fists, sweat appeared on his brow and he began to tremble as he looked at the barn owl with absolute disdain. Finally, he screamed, “It’s nine-hundred and ninety-seven licks, you stupid fucking bird!”