With apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien ...
Normally, I prefer a bright line between fantasy and reality, but it blurred the other night as I dozed by the backyard firepit. A rag-tag band of tiny people with huge, hairy feet emerged from the forsythia and trudged toward me.
"Greetings, firekeeper!" the leader said. "I am Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire! My companions and I are on a great quest! May me warm ourselves by your fire?"
"Sure," I said. "Pull up a plastic Adirondack and tell me all about it."
As the hobbit got a better look at me in the firelight, he jumped up and jabbed a fat finger in my face.
"The silver hair! The crooked smirk! The white robe!" he shouted. "You are Gandalf the Grey, the greatest wizard in all of Middle Earth! You will lead us on the journey ahead!"
"Hold on, little buddy," I said with a chuckle. "I may be gray, but I'm no wizard. This is Northeast Pennsylvania, not Middle Earth, and the only journey I'm making any time soon is to the fridge and back to this chair. Where are you headed?"
"We march to Mordor," the hobbit whispered. "It is the most evil, perilous place one can imagine, a realm of shadows so black, few dare even to speak its name. It is ruled by a terrible dragon called Smaug, whose greed is insatiable. In Mordor, nothing is what it seems. Almost everyone you meet is a scoundrel, and just about every living thing is out to suck your blood and bones dry."
"Yeah, I know the place, but you guys are headed in the wrong direction," I said. "Mordor is about 125 miles southwest of here. Just follow the signs for Harrisburg."
"Thanks for the directions, but we need supplies," the hobbit said. "An odd creature we met on the trail told us there is a town near here where they welcome travelers, especially those with gold to spend."
"Let me guess: He was a skinny, twitchy little guy with bug eyes and an obsession with something called, 'The Precious.' "
"Yes. He said his hometown is called Scranton, and we would be greeted there with open arms."
"That's one way of saying it. Listen, that odd creature is the mayor of Scranton. He's undergone a bit of a transformation lately, driven by a desperate hunger for gold. The rulers of Scranton and their favored constituencies are addicted to the stuff. They can never get enough, and if you are carrying anything of value, they will smell you coming."
"You make Scranton sound worse than Mordor," the hobbit said.
"In many ways, it is, and not just because it actually exists," I said. "Scranton has been under a dark fog of distress for more than 20 years, with nothing but broken promises of recovery. Travelers are so welcome there because they have gold. The rulers and their friends feel entitled to take a share of it so they can hand out piles of it to friends. They can't afford to pay the light bill but are determined to cover their lawyers' greens fees."
"That's scandalous!" the hobbit said. "No self-respecting hobbit would ever rob his neighbor for any reason, and especially not to give the spoils to his friends while the common good curdles! That's so obviously wrong, I don't understand why the good people of Scranton don't cry foul!"
"Join the club," I said. "A lot of them seem to have lost all hope or any sense of responsibility. Or maybe they're scared. After all, Scranton has its own dragon that makes your Smaug look like an asthmatic hummingbird. She breathes hellfire at anyone who dares challenge her edicts, and she takes no prisoners. She is called many names, but she prefers 'Mrs. Evans.' "
"Strange name for a dragon," the hobbit said.
"You haven't met her, but you will if you dare set your big, hairy feet in Scranton. I suggest you get in and out as fast as you can. On Tuesday, the dragon and Mayor Gollum will ask three Lackawanna County judges for permission to steal what people of the Shire have earned to pay for the city's sins.
"Their argument boils down to this: The house is on fire and may burn to the ground if the arsonists in charge aren't given more gasoline. If the judges buy it, you'll be lucky to get out of town with the clothes on your backs."
"Thanks for the warning, firekeeper," the hobbit said. "We'll bypass Scranton. Why spend our money in a place so obviously hostile to travelers? We'll try our luck down the road."
"Wise choice," I said as the rag-tag band disappeared into the forsythia. Inspired, I ran inside, grabbed a notebook and began jotting down the outline of a screenplay that pits hobbits against Scranton city government in an epic struggle to hang on to their hard-earned cash.
The working title is "The Robbit." I'll concede that such a script would be a tough sell anywhere outside Scranton, but I'm pretty sure I could get Paul Sorvino to direct.
CHRIS KELLY, the Times-Tribune columnist, doesn't have any gold to spare. Contact the writer: kellysworld@timesshamrock.com, @cjkink on Twitter