This morning at the corner coffee shop I overheard the tail
end of a heated conversation in a booth adjacent to mine
between a triceratops and an astronomer. I had assumed
they were discussing their choices in beverages when I first
sat down, had even snickered to myself at the ironic thought
that this armored dinosaur could be drinking a turtle mocha. I
had also quickly stifled a laugh into the crossword section of
my newspaper at the association between “stargazer”
and “Starbucks” (as well as at the coincidence that the
former was the answer to four across). “It doesn’t matter how
cold it is,” the astronomer said, exasperated. “What’s
important is the size of the thing.” “I, for one, am opposed”
snorted the triceratops, “whole textbooks will have to be
overhauled, forthcoming ones recalled, all because of a
minor classification discrepancy.” “Minor?” repeated the
astronomer, “there’re tons of things that would’ve had to be
considered planetary in our galaxy alone, including some
asteroids, if Pluto had stayed a planet.” “Don’t mention
asteroids,” shivered the triceratops. Then, to regain his
composure, he said coolly: “I thought the term ‘dwarf’ was
dysphemistic in contemporary times?” I sipped my cold
coffee, scribbled “extinct” into fifteen across. “It’s completely
fine to call Pluto a dwarf planet,” said the astronomer, “it’s
not going to get offended and start protesting the IAU
committee’s decision—leave it to the misinformed mass to
do that.” His remark was as pointed as his companion’s
horn’s. “Do you imply that I am missing something?” the
triceratops asked as he rubbed the thinning bone of his frill,
unable to check the agitation in his voice. “Your tenure
doesn’t ensure your competence,” replied the astronomer.
Even I could sense there was something akin to an elephant
in the room. I tried to focus on my crossword, to ignore the
silence that followed. The clue for fifteen down: “Cretaceous
ceratopsid” seemed so familiar, yet, for the life of me I
couldn’t place it. When I looked up again the astronomer
was turning a melting ice cube from his emptied glass over
and over in his hand, and the triceratops was gone.
© Derrick A. Paulson 2011
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Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.
Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.
