Baker. Frank Baker. 1976. String cheese.
“Look, it’s Frank! The string cheese guy!”
“String cheese! Yeah!”
Thunderous voices found Mr. Baker, and all he could do was smile with a wave of his hand. He was old now, not yet dead but making great strides towards his headstone.
“Do you happen to have any on ya, Frank?”
“No,” the old man coughed out. “I’ve been working on something else, actually. I may have found a cure.”
“A cure? A cure to my endless hunger, perhaps?”
“No, no. A cure to Margine-Belle Syndrome–”
“A what? Why on earth are you trying to find a cure to some butter sounding thing?”
“Why?” a young woman said. “Well, perhaps he’s bored of cheese! Aren’t your children going into cheese as well?”
A person across the room shouted, and the old man turned his head about slowly, akin to an owl worn with time.
“Why don’t you just stick to cheese, Frank? You’re good at cheese. Stick with string cheese.”
“Well,” the old man began. “This disease is very rare, and it affects a minority of the African populat–”
“STRING CHEESE! STRING CHEESE! STRING CHEESE!”
The old man sighed before exiting the bar he had first tested his famed invention in all those years ago, hearing the chants of its name all the way down the block, into his home, up the stairs, and into his room.