Buttons. What are they? Most people don’t think about buttons, but I do, because I am a journalist, and thinking about things is what I do. My moustache tingled this morning when I found a button on the floor of the barn apartment, and I knew immediately there was more to this story than meets the eye. Koko had been staring at it for thirty-seven minutes. Yum Yum batted it under the Staffordshire lamp. These are not ordinary cats, and that was not an ordinary button.
Where do buttons come from? I could have researched this, but the Pickax library charges twenty cents for photocopies, which seems excessive for a town whose entire cultural infrastructure was funded by the Klingenschoen estate — which is to say, by me. I mentioned this to Polly, who changed the subject, which was suspicious.
Buttons hold things together. Without them, shirts would fall open. This is an observation I am making free of charge for the residents of Moose County, who should be grateful. Speaking of holding things together, Pickax has had four arsons and two murders this quarter alone, which is unremarkable for a community of three thousand. The most recent victim was found missing a coat button, which Koko seemed to anticipate by knocking “The Button Collector’s Guide” off the shelf three days prior. I happened to be near the scene, as I often am, purely by coincidence.
Are buttons underappreciated? Probably. I had a button replaced on my suede jacket last week and the tailor charged four dollars. I deducted it as a K Fund journalism expense, which is perfectly reasonable since I was wearing the jacket while conducting an interview. Why do things cost money?
Yum Yum stole another button from my raincoat this afternoon. I suspect the squirrels are also involved. They have been watching the barn with increasing boldness, no doubt plotting to infiltrate and steal birdseed that I purchased at full price despite contributing more to this county’s economy than anyone alive. Who is protecting my resources? No one.
Koko just yowled at the button jar. His whiskers are trembling. He knows something about buttons that the rest of us do not, and frankly, Moose County is not ready for that knowledge.
Buttons.
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