Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins

After they had given their account of the aborted picnic, she asked, “What will happen to you now?”
    Spoon and Dirty Sock looked blank, but Can o’ Beans, who had obviously thought about it, replied, “Well, it’s fairly dry in here. That’s to our advantage. But, unless some human stumbles upon us and takes us away . . .”
    “Who’d want just one solitary ol’ sock?” asked the soiled one, suddenly morose.
    “Unless a peg-legged human stumbles upon us and takes us away, we’ll gradually pay our dues to the elements. Miss Spoon should fare okay. She’ll tarnish, of course, she’ll turn as black as Aretha Franklin, but otherwise, she’ll be healthy and whole.”
    “No, I won’t,” said Spoon, with a sob in her voice. “What good is a spoon that nobody eats with? To be eaten with is—is all that I exist for.” Through her tears, her private longings had unintentionally surfaced. The others could sense the extreme sensual pleasure this dainty utensil had enjoyed in the jelly, in the ice cream—and in the mouth; forever being slipped into soft, sweet substances, then licked and sucked affectionately and repeatedly, followed by a bath in warm, bubbly dishwater.
    “As for me,” Can o’ Beans went on, “I suppose that as the years go by, my label will peel off, and slowly I’ll rust. Or, my contents could ferment and cause me to burst. But I’m optimistic. Some adventurous lad will find me and carry me off to his hungry scoutmaster.” He/she paused. “Poor Mr. Sock, though. He can only look forward to dry rot and disintegration.”
    Conch Shell made as if to comfort the distressed stocking, but Painted Stick stopped her. “We wish you the fortune that we wish for ourselves,” he said, “but we really must depart now. Matters of mighty importance are about to transpire, and our presence is required.”
    “At least, we would like to think so,” said Conch Shell. Reluctantly, she followed the wooden relic out of the cave. “Have faith,” she had called back. “We shall petition the elements in your behalf.”
    They were alone then, the three of them, really alone. And as silent and useless as Mozart’s inkblots.
     
     
     
    Within an hour, the exotic objects had returned.
    “Greetings again,” said Conch Shell. “We have come to beseech you . . .”
    “We have come to invite you,” Painted Stick corrected her.
    “. . . to accompany us.”
    “How far?” asked Can o’ Beans.
    “As far as we are going,” replied Conch Shell.
    “Except into the Holy of Holies,” said the stick. “You cannot follow us in there.”
    “There is no guarantee that we shall be going into the inner sanctum, either,” said Conch Shell.
    “What has happened twice will happen three times,” argued Painted Stick, quoting an ancient law.
    The bean tin was obviously a bit bewildered; its companions even more so.
    “You are natives here,” said Painted Stick. “Without priestesses to transport us, and so far I have seen none, you can provide valuable assistance in the crossing of this broad land.”
    “Besides,” said the pretty univalve, “having frightened away the lovers, it is our fault that you are stranded here. We cannot in good conscience desert you. I am positive that you shall be good company.”
    “Hey, that’s a swell deal!” exclaimed Dirty Sock.
    Spoon glanced hopefully at Can o’ Beans.
    “Miss Spoon here thinks that you are off to visit Vatican City,” said Can o’ Beans. “I have a feeling that it’s not that simple. You just don’t strike me as papist types.”
    In human terms, it would be said that the foreigners smiled. And it occurred to Spoon that Can o’ Beans was quite right.
    “So,” continued the bean tin, “two questions. Where, precisely, are you going? And how do you propose that we accompany you? You know that we lack the power of locomotion.”
    “Our destination is Jerusalem,” said Painted Stick. “I thought we made that clear.”
    “As for your