Color, Fire and Creampuffs

Charlton Chan was a portly fellow, the kind who takes an extra Danish when no one’s

looking. Not that he was unhealthy – his vision and dexterity were excellent and he 

never touched the can (at his age they were somewhat too young for the bottle). So 

he wasn’t Leonidas: who amongst is? Where he came from, no one had to fight for the

bare necessities. Yet as Carlos the Groucho Marx must remind us, the satisfaction of 

one desire merely gives rise to another. A three-time Sudoku, flute and watercolor 

champion, Charlton was itching for something bigger. Something to please his father 

and set the ladies’ loins on fire. And anyway, violin was so passé. 

An important man, Charlton’s father had always been very demanding. His elder 

brother had been top of his year at the Foreign University for Especially Promising 

Young Men, whereas his sister was whisked away by the Ministry of Talented Youth 

to train for the Tricycle Brigades at the age of two. Since mother had long since run 

off with an itinerant preacher, poor Charlton was left to suffer his father’s 

exhortations alone. 

As noted, Charlton wasn’t without his share of unconventional success:

wherever he applied himself, triumph was close at hand. In first grade, he set 

the municipal record for frogs dissected in under two minutes; in third grade he 

designed the first 3-D menu for the school’s underwater cafeteria; by middle 

school he had the patent on several new checkmates, using the proceeds to 

name a wing at the local Planetarium after his favorite cream puff (“Fluff the 

Flatulent Dragon” if you really must know). By the time he reached high school, 

corporate intelligence firms from seven provinces were recruiting him, each 

seeking his advice on how to out-maneuver the competition in diapers, palm 

oil and Ping-Pong balls – the mainstays of his small country’s manufacturing. 

Keen on something bigger, Charlton kindly declined. 

Despite his best efforts, he’d yet to please his father. Though clever, he wasn’t much 

of an intellectual, and while mindful of his surroundings, he couldn’t catch a ball to 

save his life. (He’d long since given up on sports outside of Rummikub and 

hopscotch). Alas, in the dog-eat-dog world of his father’s mind, his achievements 

were little more than curiosities, the residue of good intentions gone astray. He’d 

have to do something radically conventional – or conventionally radical – to ever win

his old man’s approval. Hence he spent the entire summer before his final year of 

high school devising stratagem after stratagem, ruse after devious ruse. 

September 1st was the Heavenly Matriarch’s birthday, the small country’s reigning 

sovereign since as long as our protagonist could remember. An energetic 

modernizer, the Matriarch also enjoyed the odd cream puff, a fact the royal bosom 

was wont to betray. Every 1st of September she’d parade down the Boulevard of 

Exponential Growth to remind the awestruck masses of her natural charisma, the 

kind that gets free tap water at celebrated restaurants and jumps the line at 

domestic airports. She made her people proud.

At midnight on the eve of the Matriarch’s procession, Charlton snuck out of his 

bedroom and tiptoed toward the elevator. His father had been saluting the sovereign 

‘til well past his bedtime and fallen asleep on the chesterfield, so he had to watch his 

step. He grabbed his satchel and flashlight and opted for the stairwell instead. Once 

outside the lobby, he disappeared into the night like a union leader in Medellin. 

His crowning idea had come to him one night watching American television. Stunned

by a fireworks display to announce the opening a new furniture outlet, Charlton had 

become obsessed with giving the Matriarch an exhibition of her own. This being a 

conservative country, the State was averse to overly creative displays of public 

admiration; in recent years they’d reduced the crown prince from an E-Class to a 

Jetta. Modest, democratic times these were. 

Ingenious as ever, Charlton had spent the summer perfecting his own homemade 

firecracker. Triggered by remote control, it was compact but highly combustible – 

liable to go off at any moment, should our innovator lose track of time. The eve of the

Matriarch’s march, he spent the early hours lining the boulevard with his elaborate 

new contraption: the fireworks were to go off in conjunction with her 10-block 

procession, a harmless hurrah of light and laughter that would remind the people of 

the sovereign’s splendor. Though initially taken aback, the authorities would soon 

recognize his genius. An act of undeniable patriotism, his father, a top-ranking civil 

servant, would have to concede. Under bushes, inside manholes, beneath hot-dog 

stands: Charlton laid his kit in every possible crevice. 

The next morning the crowds were jubilant. Not so much for love of queen than for 

an excuse to putz about downtown, in defiance of the usually draconian traffic laws 

that governed the public thoroughfares. Charlton sat perched above the steps to the 

library, binoculars in hand. He’d brought along a box of cream puffs to celebrate the 

occasion. In only several moments, glory would be his: the Matriarch’s triumph, his 

father’s approval. Redemption so close at hand. His old man must be watching from 

the office. 

At 8am the band struck up a chord: onward came the procession in all its 

understated pomp, rows of velvet monkeys and bearded eunuchs in the marching 

forefront of her majesty’s arrival. Somewhat prematurely, he turned to grab a cream 

puff, accidentally pressing the magic button as he leaned to lick his fingers. 

Seconds later a burst of color erupted, and a soft magenta filled the air. While a 

spectacular sight to behold, Charlton’s tectonic display was poorly crafted. Rather 

than erupt in procession, periodic bursts rang out at every end of the avenue. A 

popcorn stand exploded here, a bush erupted in hot pink there. Manhole covers shot

into the sky at random intervals. Porter potties caught flame, emitting an 

unmistakably democratic odor. The Matriarch herself was doused in brown matter 

that fell from the sky. 

By the end of the morning a veritable revolution had occurred. Plastered across 

everyone’s television screen was the image of the Royal Matriarch confused and 

cloaked in human filth, a countess of calamity. Her troupe of velvet monkeys had 

broken their chains while the eunuchs made for the bus stop. Brought to its knees 

was the country’s ancient pedigree, a symbol of growth and stability ground into the 

earth. Before noon the Matriarch had abdicated, leaving the throne to her eldest son.

Unwilling to trade his Jetta for the Royal float, he decided to stay in graduate school. 

His younger sister incommunicado, they convened an interim government and 

called for elections for a month later. As the highest sitting Officer in the Department

of Parks, Pools and the Passive Coexistence, Charlton’s father was made the interim 

head of state. 

But what of Charlton? Wracked of guilt, he chucked his final cream puff and turned 

himself in. How was he ever to expiate his crime? The people had lost faith in the 

monarch; ancient ties were torn asunder. He gave a press conference that afternoon, 

taking full responsibility for the calamity that had shaken the State to its very 

foundations. He father refused to pay bail, though brought him cream puffs every 

day in prison.