The Gelves
Balter’s Essays of Mostly Acerbic Witticisms
Larry, Barry & Gary were Gelves.
Creatures of rarified air, like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny.
Larry, Barry and Gary mostly arrived at night, once Stella and Annie closed their eyes to sleep.
Rarely, but sometimes, they could surface in daylight, like, say, when one child was glued to an episode of Blues Clues. "Oh, you just missed Larry, Barry and Gary," I might offer, casually, as if also disappointed by crossed connections.
"They left you something, though," and there would be a tiny piece of an apple for Stella or maybe a soft cookie, staring at Annie, wide-eyed and forlorn.
Larry, Barry & Gary mostly arrived as a trio, but sometimes Barry would have been up too late the evening before, stomping mint and other shrubberies into bubbly Gelves soda, and thus required some extra pillow time (Gelves carried sensitive souls).
Larry, Barry and Gary were, as you might suspect, brothers of sorts, if Gelves had any sort of traditional family tree - which, honestly, one really couldn't be sure of. Gelves' names often rhymed, because, well, because it's memorable, of course.
Larry, Barry and Gary were tiny, at least by human standards: No more than three or four inches tall at best. They lived mostly in the clouds, traveling in smooth arcs and leaping gestures, bouncing as if on marshmallows and gummy candy. They were adept at using tiny crevices in walls to travel from room to room; they loved crawling through the undercut of a door, or through the venting of an air conditioning system.
Gelves in general were silent, mostly, navigating and directing each other with small hand gestures; sometimes they spoke in Gelven, a language mostly of squeaks and pitches and tiny snorts to the human ear. One might think you were hearing the whimpers of a dreaming dog, or the padding of cat paws across kitchen linoleum; in truth these were the whispers of Gelves coordinating random acts of kindness.
With years of practice and moderate adulthood, I was versed in Gelven, but only moderately so. Thus I could understand some of the sounds and repeat them to Stella and Annie, sending messages that only the Gelves sought to provide. The sound of one child brushing their teeth, strangely, sounded similar to the Gelven word for ‘chocolate peanut butter syrup sauce’ - I have no idea why.
Sometimes, on the coldest or the darkest of evenings, the Gelves would leave handwritten notes; the words like chicken scratches or the markings of aliens written on a crumpled post it note that clutched a marble or a tiny flower. Some words were illegible, which was just perfect for Stella or Annie to imagine the rest.
The Gelves left little sweet treats, sometimes.
The Gelves knew the english word for Love.
The Gelves were shy but kind.
The Gelves were always just out of sight or hadn't arrived yet or were busy repairing the torn edge of a cumulous cloud.
At some point the Gelves were moderately forgotten, as suspended disbelief turned to school subjects; to new friends, to fashion and hairstyles and music and social media. The presence of reality deepened and folkloric characters became things for children to consider.
Sometimes one wonders where Larry, Barry and Gary are now. One wonders if they harbor any disappointment, discarded like yesteryear's floppy towel-bunny doll, which never so much as said a word, let alone spoke in tongues or fixed clouds or wrote letters or left things in hopes of making a sad child happy or a happy child love their childhood.