Vertically-Endowed Tales are my version of Tall Tales. They are basically just goofing around, writing exercises, if one will. I don’t try to make them perfect. They are like jamming in a band, not really a song, just practicing. I started doing them as posts on Canis Hoopus, a Timberwolves fan site, during slow points of the season as a way to amuse myself and, hopefully, others.

Here is one I wrote for Valentine’s Day…

Ah, Valentine’s Day…a day when I, Dash Awesome, cannot help but think of hearts…

Valentine’s Day was on a Friday in 1997, and I decided to go home from college for the weekend. It was fairly warm, warm enough to make it rain. The roads were wet to that point where they sucked up the headlight beams. I should have been on my way before dark, but the trip was a last minute thing. I was depressed because I was alone on Valentine’s Day. It was the kind of depression only a liberal arts undergraduate can muster, and I wasn’t even a liberal arts major. I could delve more deeply into the specifics, but what’s the point? The notes and steps might be unique, but it’s still the same old song and dance. Suffice it to say, my only options were super-model billionaires, and I wanted a super-model billionaire brain-surgeon. Hence, I simply wanted to go home to get away from the scene.

As I topped off my gas tank, she came up behind me.

“Are you going to Sioux Falls by any chance?”

As an incredibly attractive man, it was not unusual for women to strike up conversation with me. Generally, I did not acknowledge any girl less than a 12, but, like I said, I was depressed. On a good day, with proper lighting, angles and make-up, she could have possibly achieved an 9.75. She was likely a freshman, around 5’7, in the gray area between slim and curvy and brunette. I don’t know what color her eyes were. Why would I make eye contact with someone so far beneath me?

“I’m going by Sioux Falls.”

“Could I maybe get a ride. You could drop me off at the Cliff Avenue exit.”

I had planned to blast 311 all the way home, but sometimes plans change.

“Sure,” I shrugged.

“Great!” She threw her backpack into the backseat of my Beretta Z-26 and off we went.

We made small talk, mostly about myself because my natural charisma tends to warp conversations toward that topic. She was telling me how wonderful I seemed, and how she couldn’t believe I did not have a date for Valentine’s Day, and that she felt very lucky to be in my presence. I couldn’t argue with any of that, but when she started talking about her accomplishments, I grew bored. So she was on a full ride scholarship for biochemistry? Big deal. She also hoped to compete in the next Olympics as a swimmer? Great. She went on mission trips during the summer to Nepal? Maybe if she went during winter that would be impressive.

“I think I’m going to listen to 311 now,” I said.

“Down?”

“Duh, what else?”

Soon we were ensconced in the amazing sounds of what was possibly the greatest band in the 1960-1990s era. At some point, she reached into the backseat for her backpack.

“Could you do me another favor?” she asked as she opened said backpack.

I wasn’t going to lie. “No, I think I’ve already done enough for you by allowing you access to my machismo.”

“It’s a simple thing,” she said. “It’s no trouble at all. I just want to add your heart to my collection!” By the light of the stereo blasting the brilliance of 311, I saw that her backpack was full of hearts that looked like they had been torn from a multitude of chests. In that moment, she also grew fangs, her nails distended into talons and her eyes glowed red (hard to miss their color at that moment). With a snarl, she punched a hand into my sternum and…felt around…frowned…and pulled her hand back. “There’s nothing in there,” she said.

“Duh,” I said. “Someone like me doesn’t have to worry about making what’s inside count when their outside is so good looking.” Then I pulled over to the side of the road, pushed her out and left her in the rain.

She screamed loud enough to be heard over 311 and the squealing of my Beretta’s tires as I peeled out.

“Guys like you are the real monsters!”

Now, 20 years later, I look back on that night, and it’s message is clear. If you are alone on Valentine’s Day, don’t fret. It’s better to be alone than with a monster who will tear your heart out. As for myself, I also learned something since that night. Maybe it’s okay to have a heart. Apparently, they spread oxygen through your body. Who knew?