Sheila split open and the air was filled with gumballs. Yellow gumballs. This was awful for Stan, just awful. He had loved Sheila for a long time, fought for her heart, believed in their love until finally she had come around. They were about to kiss for the first time and then this: yellow gumballs. Stan went to a group to try to accept that Sheila was gone. It was a group for people whose unrequited love had ended in some kind of surrealist moment. There is a group for everything in California. After several months of hard work on himself with the group, Stan was ready to open a shop and sell the thousands of yellow gumballs. He did this because he believed in capitalism, he loved capitalism. He loved the dynamic surge and crash of Amazon's stock price, he loved the great concrete malls spreading across America like blood staining through a handkerchief, he loved how everything could be tracked and mirrored in numbers. When he closed the store each night he would count the gumballs sold, and he would determine his gross revenue, his operating expenses, his operating margin; he would adjust his balance sheet and learn his debt to equity ratio; and after this exercise each night, Stan felt he understood himself and was at peace, and he could go home to his apartment and drink tea and sleep, without shooting himself or thinking about Sheila. On the night before the IPO of gumballs.com, Sheila came to Stan in a dream. She was standing in a kiddie pool; Stan and his brothers and sisters were running around splashing and screaming; she had managed to insert herself into a Super-8 home movie of Stan's family, shot in the late 70's. She looked terribly sad. "Sheila, where are you?" Stan said. "Why did you leave me, why did you become gumballs?" "The Ant King has me," Sheila said. "You must rescue me." Why was Stan going to a support group? - not enough information - Because he was having bizarre dreams. - Because of his failing shop. - Because he missed Sheila terribly.
Because he missed Sheila terribly.

(Question)
My father lost something valuable to him that didn't resurface for years after his death. My dad was a World War II veteran and an officer. All officers were issued the classic Ray Ban sunglasses with the wraparound wire rims. He wore them almost all the time for the next thirty years after the War, then one day in the 1970's, he misplaced them. He was heartbroken, crestfallen, that he lost something he cherished from his military servicethe symbolic military issue Bausch & Lombs coveted by every officer who served. I wanted so badly to be my dad's Hero. I overturned every piece of furniture in the house, rifled every dresser drawer, every nook and crannie, underneath beds, the garage, the yard, you name it. I was on a Mission. I wanted to walk up to him and say, beaming, Here Dad! I found your sunglasses! But alas, after several weeks, no success. I was crushed by my own failure. He passed away, and his possessions were divided among our family. Fast forward to a few years ago. My Cocker Spaniel was sniffing around in the bathroom, and a box fell out of the bathroom closet with a crash. I went to investigate and chide the dogwhen the first thing I saw on the bathroom floor next to the overturned box was the yellowed leather case, and his wire rim sunglasses. I picked it up, held it in my hand, and I, a grown man, immediately burst into tears, sobbing. Suddenly, I was nineteen again. My wife asked what was the matter, and I told her the whole story. I figured after his passing, his sunglasseswhich evidently were in the house the whole timewere probably tossed into one of many anonymous cardboard boxes, and I happened to be the one who carried off the box containing them. So here Dad! I found your sunglasses! I love you! Am I still your hero? Who owned the sunglasses? - The author's dog - The author's father - not enough information - The author's wife
(Answer)
The author's father

My best story is about Santa Claus. A mall Santa had a heart attack at work and was rushed to the Emergency Room in full cardiac arrest. Let me explain that a person playing Santa is generally a certain age (white beard) and body type (round) that is predisposed to cardiac disease. We did everything we could but ultimately our efforts were futile. The mall Santa rode his sleigh into the great beyond. A mother, there to visit another patient, was insistent that her 78 year old son be allowed back to visit his grandmother. We had a strict 12 year old age limit visitation policy. I was called to speak with her. "Why do you have such a stupid Draconian policy?" She insisted. "The Emergency Room is no place for a child ma'am. Besides, the germs and infections he may be exposed to, there are things he may see or hear that a child would have a hard time processing," I explained. "Like what?" She argued. "Well, there are people in pain moaning," I answered. "And drunks cursing at the staff. It's a tough place." "He's fine," she insisted. "I think I know how to parent. I don't need you to worry about what my son is able to handle." I caved in and allowed her back. As we passed the room with the dead Santa, a tech exited and opened the curtain. Her child looked in and saw Santa's lifeless body, ET tube sticking out of his throat, boots still on but costume cut to shreds and strewn across the room. The child lost it! "Mom, Santa Claus is Dead!" He cried. "I'm not going to get anything for Christmas." "Why would someone open the curtain?" The mother demanded. "I warned you," I said. "That's why we have a 12 years and above visitation policy." She was not happy. Come to find out the child had his picture made with that very Santa a few days prior. Very ironic. Why was the boy upset? - because his grandmother was in the hospital - not enough information - he saw a deceased Santa Claus - he thought he would no longer get any presents
he saw a deceased Santa Claus