“Can you open this one?” I passed yet another pickle jar to my grandfather.
“This one?” He smiled, his strong arms quickly snatching it and his fingers aligning on the glass to get a better grip. His face turned red as he strained. But it popped open, and he quickly unscrewed and showed me the lid.
I shrieked because it was so awesome, and retrieved a pickle from the depths of the vinegar. He had an impressive streak going now, 13 jars in a row! I bet no other Grandpa could do that.
“How about this?” I pushed a jar of tomato-garlic paste, and he laughed when he saw it.
“Ooh, tomato sauce.” He tapped the lid, testing to see how hard it would be. “Grandma’s going to be mad.”
“VERY mad,” I added. But what the heck, it'll be fine!
He gripped the lid and popped it open without even breaking a sweat. I laughed and banged my fists on the table, and he laughed too. It was great.
“What about…” I ran my hand down the row of jars still unopened. We weren't even halfway through. “This one!”
“Macaroni and cheese,” Grandpa said, taking the jar. “Hmm, this looks like a tough one. I might need some help.”
I giggled. I haven't ever opened jars at home, but I could definitely do it at Grandpa’s. Everything was magically possible at Grandpa’s, and that was awesome too.
“Could I choose a helper from the audience?”
I stuck my hand in the air. “Me! Pick me!” I was the only person there anyway so I knew I was gonna get picked, but one has to do his duty, right? Because what the heck.
“That one! Yes, the young little boy in a green shirt, sitting first row. Come on up!”
I jumped down from my seat and ran up to Grandpa, who hoisted me onto his knee, and placed my hands on the lid.
“Ready?” He placed his hand over mine. Grown-ups have really big hands. “Three… two... one...”
I twisted with all my might, but the lid didn't move! We tried again and my hands hurt after that because Grandpa squeezed them too hard, but the lid stayed on.
“Hmmm,” Grandpa said, and he put me back on the ground. He gripped the jar in both hands, and twisted until his knuckles turned white, and then green, and purple, and then white again, and the lid popped. He slowly unscrewed the top, looking at me with concern.
And then I started crying. Because what the heck? Nobody ever gave me jars to open, and I wouldn’t ever be strong enough, and nobody really loved me and I was going to run away, and then they’d be sorry for opening all the jars before I was even old enough, and I would become rich and famous without them and have all the jars I wanted.
Grandpa tried to console me, but it was no use. If you gotta cry, you gotta cry, y’know? And if you start crying, even in you actually aren’t sad or hurt, it’s kind of hard to stop. But eventually, I paused just enough for him to tell me to “wait there”.
Grandpa came back with a spoon. I almost went back to crying because what the heck do I need a spoon for anyway, but he put it in my hand and said it was a magical spoon. And so I stopped because I knew that when one was playing with magical things, one had to see what one was doing, and tears wouldn't help.
“This is my magical, multi-purpose, class-distributed, stainless steel spoon with no side effects. I got it when I went to the magic school, and you know what mine does?” he asked. I shook my head cause I didn’t know. “It opens jars!”
I told him that I didn’t believe him and that Harry Potter never used any magical spoons to open jars. He shook his head.
“That book wasn’t all real; I told the author to omit the part with the spoon because I didn’t want anyone finding out.”
I nodded, because it seemed logical to me. If I had a magical spoon I wouldn’t want anyone knowing either, because can you imagine how much trouble that would be? People lining up for miles around your house to get their jars opened, that’s how much.
“It’s actually really simple to use, want to try it?” he asked. I nodded, and he pushed me towards the row of unopened jars. “So, pick a jar.”
I grabbed a jar that looked really hard to open, and Grandpa positioned it directly in front of me without protest. And then he told me to tap it three times, on the lid, with the belly part of his magical, steel spoon with no side-effects. And so I did. And nothing happened.
“It takes a second. Actually, around four point five seconds, if I remember correctly,” he said, scratching his head with one finger and looking very lost-in-thought. “When was the last time I even used this thing? Anyway… watch carefully now.”
And just as he said so, a bright flash of light exploded in front of the jar, and I squeezed my eyes shut so they wouldn’t hurt, and when I opened them again there was something in the room that hadn’t been there before.
It was an enormous figure of a man, though clearly not human. Its skin was red, the muscles popping everywhere on its body, and it was wearing some sort of black armour with spikes around the shoulder pads, and a helmet with two horns on the side and two red lights peeking out from between the metal. Steam was curling off of his fingers and between his metal plates, and a giant sword hung from his belt. I jumped back behind Grandpa.
I watched as it bowed, low to the ground and in my direction. Then he turned around towards the jar, grabbing it with his giant paws and twisting it open like one would twist a loose screw, before disappearing in another bright flash of light.
Grandpa, who now seemed rather small and thin, laughed, and patted me on the head. “Your first jar!” he said, handing me something. I looked down, seeing the pickle jar and its lid, separated. There were still claw marks on the glass. “Your very first jar! Oh, I remember the day…”
“Grandpa?”
“Yes yes, you probably want to know what that was, right?” I nodded. “Well, my boy, that was the jar-opener. He lives in my magical, multi-purpose, class distributed, stainless steel spoon with no side effects, and opens jars whenever you tap on the lid!”
“That was awesome!” I pump my fist in the air.
“I know! You get another jar and I’ll bring up more from the basement.”