The young couple seemed innocent enough when they stepped into the Bistro around 4:30. Certainly no reason not to seat them in the prime window table they requested. After all, it wasn’t reserved until 7:00.
But now they’ve been cooing and making goo-goo eyes for over two hours and I desperately need to free that table up for Mr. Big’s party that is soon to arrive.
“Looks like they’re moving in,” whispers Saroya as she glides into the kitchen. Her section is turning like a clock and I can see her mentally tallying the tips in her head as she chuckles about my misfortune.
I mention to Fluvio that I’ve really got a problem.
“No problem,” he says.
“What do you mean, no problem, Mr. Big will be here any time now.”
I saw a flash in Fluvio’s eye as he reiterated, “no problem.”
My hopes for help were dashed as Fluvio got on the phone and started having what appeared to be an animated conversation.
But, it wasn’t long until Mr. Goo-goo-eyes’ attention was drawn to something on the street through his coveted window seat.
“Crap!” he yelled as he leapt to his feet.
Outside, I could see the tow-truck pulling up to a yuppie BMW.
“Your check, sir,” I smiled as he ran past me out of the door. Fluvio had come through for me after all.
I loves me my yummy frothy frappacino from Starbucks. I could drink them all day except that it would make my thighs as thick as the Michelin Tire Man. But I’m in line at the Starbucks and I’m thinking about how lovely it would be, exciting really, if the Korean Mafia were here and they were reciting haiku to me. And the homeless lady at the back table chimed in and it was like one of those Coke commercials where they teach the world to sing in perfect harmony and everything and then, well, except it’s in haiku and not harmony and then they all take me out for shots. And they’re like putting salt on my cleavage and licking it off and doing tequila shots, even the homeless lady, which is really cool except that my boss who is like the head of the Korean Mafia and all is getting jealous and he fires everybody except me, even the homeless lady, and now I’m in charge of the company but there’s nobody to do the work and everything gets all out of control, you know, and I feel like maybe I don’t really know what I’m doing and then I wake up and it was really a dream and my dog is licking me. He slobbers a lot. But I vaguely smell frappacino and I’m thinking, “WTF?”
Me and Francis had been sitting on the porch, her in her swing, me on the other side of the porch in mine, both of us puffing on Virginia Slims cigarettes. I couldn’t see her face, but she let out a big old puff of smoke and said, “Sandy, what in the hell were you thinking when you set that pan of burning grease on my kitchen table? You done ruined it for good now!”
I knew she wouldn’t still be mad at me the next day, but it sure made me feel lower than a toadstool that night. And ever since that day I have known that when the grease catches on fire, you throw that pan out the window. You don’t set it down nowhere. And, if Ailey doesn’t learn another thing from me, I hope that she remembers that lesson for the rest of her life.
You all know that I am not one to embellish my stories. Everything you read here is the truth. I know that many of you are calling “bullshit” right now, and you’re welcome to go read a safer blog somewhere else. Maybe over at Instapundit or Disney dot com. For all I care you can just chuck your computer and give up on the whole web surfing thing all together. That’s not my problem.
I just know that when I pulled the sixteen inches of cold steel from his throat, the same sixteen inches of steel I had just plunged in to the hilt, the man transformed before my eyes into a crow and flew away.
I resolved that moment never to confront the invisible forces of evil in that manner again. Next time I would go for one of the sixteen pistols I have secreted about my body…