If you comment: it’s not exactly rocket science, you sound like you think you are a rocket scientist.
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The silver couple arrives. She forgets my name but gives me a new one each day. Curly Sue. Dimples.
Today, I am Goldilocks.
She asks the bartender my name when she thinks I cannot hear. She suggests I read the poem Casey at the Bat. Hum, huh.
The village beach preservation busy body society has two tables held for them. One for the men and one for the women. Twelve seats total. Only three women come. They talk the politics of healthcare and about the addicts in their lives.
Our speakers play almost decent, easy listening blues. If you can imagine such a thing. Almost-Stevie Ray Vaughan comes on.
Nearly-Suite: Judy Blue Eyes plays.
We are slow enough that I actually noticemusic is playing.
And, time moves slowly now.
The reservation for six at noon became 4 at fifteen ’til
.All named Pat.
“You are pulling my leg, right?”
“No! It’s Pat’s Day. Okay, now I am kidding you about that. We are all named Pat.”
He and the other Pat (only two have arrived) laugh uproariously.
Mike comes by to make a reservation.
He shows me his Book of Answers.
“My wife found this in 2000. Ask a question and flip to any page.”
He carries a green street sign in a plastic sleeve under his left arm, hugged against his ribs.
He adds:”You don’t have to tell me the question.”
I silently ask the question on my mind.
Tolle Lege.
The page I flip to, it reads:
it is not guaranteed.
That figures: I think.
The thing about which I framed my inquiry is not guaranteable.
He and Tony will return for lunch tomorrow.
A regular left me this.
WrittenCasey 