Craig Kenworthy

Craig Kenworthy is a poet, playwright, comedy writer and sports columnist who is known for his single-minded focus.



After three hours, Irwin finally gave in and bought the mortgage disability insurance.

Fortunately, he had call-waiting and spent fifteen minutes of that time talking with Virginia. That girl had nerve, calling him for a favor after what she’d done to him in Des Moines. But any show that included two different troupes of blind acrobats reenacting a mining disaster and the exhumation of the body of the late Bob Keeshan, a.k.a. Captain Kangaroo, was a show he wanted to be a part of. He hit 666 on his speed dial and called his former partner, Squids Guggenheim.

Squids’ nickname had nothing to do with his penchant for seafood and everything to do with the fact that he bought only cheap ballpoint pens. The good news was that Squids loved the idea of a musical set in Montana. The bad news was that he loved it so much that just the week before he’d sunk all of his money into a new play called “Custer slept here… forever,“ by an up and coming Native American playwright.

“The guy is brilliant. He wrote that Shakespearian drama set in a tribe’s casino.”

“Macbet?”

“No. Taming of the less than Shrewd. Listen, Irwin, I can’t help you but I know a guy in Big Timber who might. His name is Still Bottled Water. Runs a small family foundation that supports the arts. Some of their standards for grants are a little strange. You don’t happen to have an anteater, do you?”

After a quick trip to Panda Buffet and three Diet Cokes with oat bran later, Irwin finished perusing the foundation guidelines. He figured Virginia could care less about the requirement that the male lead weigh no more than 150 pounds, have all of his toes and speak fluent Mandarin, but this part about using only compact fluorescent bulbs in the footlights? Still, he thought his proposal had merit, based on the digital photo of the anteater Irwin emailed to him, although he wasn’t really clear on why the man insisted that the animal be wearing only high heels and a pioneer bonnet.

Three Diet Dr. Peppers with spinach and a Vodka Collins later, Irwin finished proofreading the grant application and clicked “Send.” He went downstairs to look in on his cold-blooded guest. As he entered the reptile’s room, Irwin smelled moderately priced perfume and felt a damp breeze. Looking up at the shattered glass of the skylight, he spotted a woman’s leg disappearing through the opening. He leaped up to grab it, then remembered he was only five foot four and should never have put a vaulted ceiling in the laundry room. By the time he returned with the extension ladder, the foot was gone, but he found a note lying on the floor. His palms adrift in sweat, Irwin read it over and then read it again. The note contained only ten words, but they were words that no sane person ever wants to see.