Broomstick

I can’t believe they’re asking me to ride my broom, but, of course, I'm going to my reunion. I’m dying to check up on all my old cronies.

I wonder what that foxy-looking wizard, Maxim Mustache, looks like twenty years after graduation. If it’s anything like he used to look. . . Ah! Deep sigh.

My broom! Witches' wrinkles! Where can it be?

I’d already opened the box marked “Spells,” the one marked “Charms,” and the huge one with all my Halloween equipment.

Spiders and rats! I suppose I’ll have to get out my stepladder and climb up into the garage rafters!

I shudder. There are spider webs up there, and I haven’t been talking to the black widows for years, not since they nested their nasty, frowsy webs all over my pumpkin-orange Toyota.

I have to admit that I’m not really looking forward to finding my broom, either. Brooms are extremely temperamental, and neglect makes them wild. Besides, I’m not the witch I used to be back in high school. I’ve broadened a bit -- in the buttocks and the thighs and the … Phew! As sure as I know brooms, mine’s going to buck my tush and jiggle the rest of me good and hard until I can tame it again.

“Get off me, Lard Butt,” cried the stepladder as I climbed up the first step. I gave the thing a warning kick and told it to shut up, but the garage was starting to wake. The ladder’s voice was like a rooster’s crow.

“Well, look at who’s finally back,” the biggest of the black widows said, leering down at me with glowing, green eyes.

I ignored her and took another step up. I was almost high enough to grab at a rafter board.

“Oh, my aching back,” the ladder cried out, melodramatically.

That woke up the cauldron. It yawned with breath so bad I coughed and swayed.

“Stand still, Broad Britches,” warned the stepladder. “I’m already sagging from the load. You want me to do an imitation of a rotten pumpkin?”

“Leave me alone, all of you. I’m just in here to find my broom,” I said, sighing.

“Your broom?” laughed the cauldron. “Wait until he gets a load of you! His tail feathers will fall out.”

“Yeah, maybe he’s already seen you. He’s probably hiding,” chortled the corner skeleton. “You sure make me glad I’ve kept my figure all these years. A person can’t dance with blubber, you know.”

“Ah, leave her alone,” said the mummy. “I like a bit of flesh on a woman.”

“Me, too,” sniffed the bat, as he fluttered his wings and turned right side up. “Bony people have watery blood, you know.”

Attempting to shut out the discussion going on behind my admittedly large rear end, I climbed up the last step and caught a glimpse of the broom. “Ah, there you are, “ I exclaimed.

I grabbed at the thing, ignoring its vibrating bristles. I knew it was just putting on a show for the others. I held it firmly and jumped down onto the concrete.

"Ohhhhhhh! Give me a T-shirt that says 'I survived Blubber Blimp,'" the ladder proclaimed.

I gave it another kick and ordered it back onto the wall hook.

Angrily, I glared at my garage full of nasties and then tramped away. I didn’t go far. In my living room, I slipped one leg over the still trembling broomstick and said, “Up.”

The stick began to cry. Tears leaked down the back of it and ran down my legs.

“Stop it,” I yelled. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s your job to take me up. Now do it before I use you to scrub my kitchen floor.”

The broom sobbed louder. My black cat opened one large green eye and spat at it.

“Hush, Mathilda,” I told her. “I can manage.”

But I wasn’t that sure that I could. The broom was wilting, its hind end sagging down to the floor.

Luckily, Mathilda, ignoring my wishes (as she usually did) sprang at its backend.

“Whoa!” I called out, as the thing revved up and lifted vertically, shooting me about the living room like a wild bronco in a rodeo. I clung to it, my hands white with the tightness of my grip.

“Settle down,” I called out.

The thing bopped and twirled and then zipped sideways and somersaulted. All the time, I hung on like I was a vampire bat on a storm-battered flagpole.

It was either Mathilda or Topper Toad who opened the front door. Next thing I knew I was racing for the moon. Or at least, I thought so. The broom suddenly had a different idea. It plummeted, dashed around a tree -- half brushing me off in the branches, and headed for the side of a wall.

I was a patient witch. I never did black magic or cursed at my neighbors, even the ones who stole my newspaper every Sunday morning. Yet I was getting mad. I turned a bit, raised up my hand, and delivered a blistering wallop to the rear of that broom.

You know how parents always say, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you?” Well, I knew exactly where they were coming from. My hand stung. However, because of the spanking, the broomstick at last settled down. In another moment, it came in for a smooth landing and left me standing on my feet, just like it was supposed to.

“Good broomstick,” I told it, petting the rounded end of its head. It purred like Mathilda used to when she was a kitten. Then it rubbed itself against my body.

That problem dealt with, I turned to the next. Taming the broomstick was not the worst of my troubles; I still had a hundred pounds to lose before I could go to the reunion and only five days to do it. I sighed deeply, nibbled on a chocolate éclair, and went looking for my spell book.