The Jar

The county fair has a jar of jelly beans on a table by the pie tent. Closest guess wins a pie. I've entered eleven years in a row.

I'm an estimator. I have a method. I count the beans in the bottom row, count the rows, and multiply. Then I take some off for the ones in the middle, which I can't see, and add some back for the ones on top, which I also can't see. My guesses have been 612, 840, 1,100, 540, and last year 1,900. The winning number is always one I didn't think of.

The woman who runs the table is named Marlene. She writes down my guess without looking at the jar or at me and says, “Mm-hm.” She has said it eleven times.

Last year, after she wrote my number, she added something next to it in small letters. I couldn't read it upside down. I stood there with my head tilted, and she watched me do it and said, “Mm-hm.”

I'm hoping it says “again.”