Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

The Lordly Loofah

Written by Bud Webster

Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne

I wonder how many of us, as we lie luxuriating in our bathtubs, think about the romance and mystery of the loofah? I know I certainly never had until the mail brought me a brochure from the Loofah Institute of America (Box 3819, Piltdown, IL 97584). Along with it came a letter from Bob Cranepool, LIA vice president in charge of Promotions, inviting me to visit the huge loofah quarry in Piltdown.

Knowing very little about the production of these fascinating objects, I took advantage of his hospitality and flew into O'Hare. After hopping the Piltdown shuttle bus ("Visit Piltdown and See What Makes America Great!"), I checked into Doris and Milo Blavatsky's Bear-in-the-Woods Bed-and-Breakfast. A press pass and hard hat were waiting at the desk, and after dropping off my luggage, I rented a Yugo and headed for the outskirts of town.

After only a few minor difficulties (I'm delighted to see that towing charges are coming down), I finally arrived at the front gates of the Stanko Loofah Works and was met by Bob Cranepool and the president of the company, Greg Stanko. There, in a short but moving ceremony, I was presented with a key to the middle‑management washroom, a tee shirt with the legend "My Parents Visited Piltdown and All I Got Was a Lousy Chunk of Fibrous Matter,” and a replica of Mount Rushmore molded from loofite.

"You know, Bud," Bob said, as we trundled up to the loading docks in an electric golf cart, "there’s a lot of misinformation floating around about loofahs, and we're certainly glad to have an opportunity to set the record straight."

"Darn right, Bob," said Greg. "As someone who's spent his entire life in the loofah business, I just don't understand how some of these stories get started." He shook his head ruefully. "Why, I was reading in the New York Times just the other day some report about McDonald's using loofahs as filler in their hamburgers, and I'll tell you I was on the phone to their editor toot sweet."

"They'd probably be the better for it, Greg," Bob said, laughing. "But seriously, that's the sort of thing that we see twice a year at least. Sometimes three."

"They printed a retraction," Greg added with a shrug, "but it was in the cooking section below a recipe for Hunan eggplant, and nobody saw it."

Of course, I’d heard the "urban legends" about loofahs: spiders laying eggs in loofahs and bathers being bitten, the loofah exploding in the microwave, the loofah picked up by the side of the road late at night and later disappearing. The list is almost endless, and they're all, according to Bob and Greg, untrue.

"There's just no way," Bob told me, "that drying a loofah in a microwave can cause it to explode, and nobody with a firm understanding of how loofahs are processed would give such a story any credence."

"Which brings us to the first step in loofah production," Greg interrupted good‑naturedly, as we turned a corner. "‘Sounding’ for loofite."

In front of me was a huge platform surrounded by workers. As I watched, a cage was lowered onto the platform by a derrick. "That's the most important part of this industry, Bud," Greg said proudly. "That cage is full of little Mexican hairless dogs. We spray 'em down with used motor oil and then let 'em loose in an area we're testing for loofite. If they come back all pink and clean and happy, we know we've struck it."

"They sure are making a lot of noise, though," I remarked.

Bob clapped