CRACKER LOVE

"If there be no roses, then lay 'em down in crackers."

There was a massive rose shortage, seventy-five years ago. No one really knew just why the roses had ceased--for the most part--to grow, but all men who, on Valentine's Day, feigned cliched romanticism felt that they were up the creek without a paddle.

The wealthy men could afford the rarity of roses, but the poor and middle-class lovermen were jammed somewhere between a rock and a hard place.

In New Jersey--New Brunswick to be exact--a man named Abe Rittlefrop figured he had found the answer. A deli man by day, Abe fancied himself a peerless Lothorio and so, on February 12th, a couple of days before the big day, Abe ran his wife of nine years, Gertie, through a dry run.

"Close your eyes, sweetie," he'd said, leading her down the tight hall to the bedroom. "I have a wonderful surprise for you."

Docile as a lamb, Gertie Rittlefrop followed. She had learned over time to acquiesce to Abe. He was nothing special in the Bed o' Love, but she'd found that, if she voiced her opinion (or wants or desires) like her women liberation friends, Abe would invariably become churlish and belligerent.

Tenderly Abe led her by the hand to the bedroom and opened the door to the soft warm smell of vanilla candles.

"Can I open my eyes now, Abe?" Gertie asked.

"Not yet, lover," he whispered at her ear. "Just a little further." He led her a few feet farther and then released her hand and slowly and softly ran his hands up her sides and cupped her breasts. She drew in a quick shuddering breath. "I have a lovely surprise for you," he whispered. "I am sure you're going to love it. You're going to think that it's the bees' knees, indeed."

She smiled, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut. "I'm sure I will, too, Abe, honey. You, um, never fail to impress." In her mind she pictured his three-inch erection, curved at the base, as thin as a pretzel rod. "You make me feel like a school-girl, fresh to the thought of love." In her mind, she pictured little boys and girls, standing at the blackboard, chalking out multiplication tables.

Abe smiled grandly. "Now," he said, and lay her gently onto the bed.

Along with the familiar creaking of the ancient box springs, Gertie first heard and then felt the foreign (to the bedroom, at least) cracking and crumbling of thousands of brittle crackers. She grimaced and pawed Saltines from the small of her back. Some multi-grain crackers had found their way into her panties and so she hooked them out and deposited them on her stomach. Her eyes slid open.

Abe stood at the foot of the bed, grinning fiercely. She could tell that he'd put a lot of thought and effort into this "surprise" and she knew how babyish he could become when someone didn't fall into line exactly as his mind had surmised, but...crackers? This would be a tough one to negotiate.

He raised and lowered his eyebrows in a lame Groucho Marx impersonation. "You like, honey?" he asked.

"Crackers, dear?" she said. "Why...crackers?" She shifted her weight up to the headboard; the bed of crackers crumbled in her wake. An itchy medley of Saltines and wheat thins and goldfish crackers found their way between her buttocks.

His face fell. "Why not crackers? I know how much you love crackers and there was a whole extra delivery of 'em at the deli. I figured two birds with one stone. If you don't like it, why then I'l--"

"Oh no, no!" she said, holding her hands out. "I love the idea. It's so...unique, dear. You're so thoughtful and caring. And...innovative, honey. You're like my own little Edison."

"'Little Edison?'" he grumbled.

She amended herself. "You're like my own huge, gargantuan Edison, baby. Come here. Come to Mommy." She opened her arms to him and he clambered aboard. They made sweet love in the bed of crackers. In the end they were covered in dust and spent.

And so, in the Year Without Roses, love was still professed, love was still made and love, sweet love, still reigned supreme.

But clean-up was a bitch.