Pete’s Diner; Part 3

 This is a short story written nearly twenty-five year ago. It will be posted in three parts. This is part three.

"The first year was good. I had a few customers a day in the diner, pumped some gas, and spent a lot of time sittin' and drinkin' coffee. Then all of sudden Wesley Weimer comes in here one night."

Justin leaned forward and interrupted, "The guy who killed his twin brother and ate his remains to get rid of the evidence?"

"One and the same." Pete said and continued, "Hogs down about four hamburgers, and holds a gun on me, tellin' me to rid out my cash drawer. Well, I did just like he said and he took out of here like a bat outa hell. I didn't even have time ta call the law. Seems they were after him and they came in here just as he pulled away. I told 'em what happened and they took off after him. They found him five miles down the road heavin' his guts out. They put it all in the newspaper. The world is so full of curious and sadistic people. They all wanted ta have a hamburger from the place that made a cannibal barf."

Justin was at first enthralled with Pete's story but now a skeptical smirk lit his face like gasoline being dashed on a dull fire and suddenly brought to a furious blaze. "Does the story come along with the coffee or did you just throw it in for free."

"You work for the newspaper. Check it out for yerself ya little wise-ass, April fifteenth, nineteen seventy-three. If you's any type of reporter at all you'd have known that already," Pete said contemptuously and taking a gulp of coffee.

Justin nudged the cup towards Pete for a refill. When the cup was returned Justin tried some cream and sugar.

"Ya don't believe it does ya?" Pete said.

"Sure I believe ya. It's kinda funny." Justin said. "I mean it's really funny." He labored to restrain his laughter.

Pete turned on the fryer and the grill with the two inches of grease on it.

"Inside a few months, I had so much business I had ta stop pumpin' gas and it ain't been the same sense," Pete said. "Ever eatin' here yet?"

"No, heard about it, but never ate here," Justin said.

"Stick around for about ten minutes and see what I mean," Pete said.

While Justin experimented with different combinations of sugar and cream to make the coffee somehow more palatable, Pete was busy preparing for the lunchtime crowd. He removed a tray with raw hamburger rolled into balls about the size of plums. They were divided into several layers with wax paper separating them. Onions were sliced and diced with the knife he used to clean his fingernails. Ketchup, mustard, and pickles were taken from the refrigerator and placed on the back counter. He stacked packages of buns next to them and tore them open for quick access.

Pete turned to see two cars speed into the gravel parking lot with a rooster tail of dust behind them. He reacted quickly by dropping the hamburger balls into the lake of gurgling grease. They sunk to the bottom and bobbed to the surface like apples in water. He took a spatula and smashed them against the bottom of the grill to make them flat. From the freezer, he took frozen French fries and loaded them into the fryer. They sizzled,

steamed and crackled like some mysterious evil caldron.

The two men entered the diner. With his back to them, he called out, "How many?"

"Six everything, two fries," the one man said.

"Next," Pete said.

"Eight, two mustard pickle onion, two ketchup onion, four mustard and onion, and three fries," the other man said.

Pete quickly laid out fourteen buns and applied the ordered items. His hands moved delicately and nimbly like a harpist as he dressed the buns. With a serving spoon, he poured grease over the hamburgers. When the hamburgers were done he placed them in the prepared buns and tucked them in a sack without wrapping them individually. In a moment the two men were gone.

"In five minutes this place will be crammed with people," Pete said.

"Why do they come here?" Justin asked.

"It sure ain't for the food," Pete said. "I ain't never said "'Thanks for eating at Pete's."' A person won't get that crap here. Those other places with pimple-faced, gum chewin', straggly-haired, empty-headed freaks say they are glad ta take yer order but they got an attitude for everyone who walks in. I don't hide it. I got a bad attitude. They still come. How do ya figure that? I guess I'm charismatic." He waited to see Justin's expression and laughed.

The diner filled. It was loud and busy. Pete was rude and brusque.

Justin pulled a quarter from his pocket and called to Pete,

"Call it!"

Pete said, "Heads!"

Justin tossed the quarter, caught it, and trapped it on the countertop. He lifted just one side of his hand as if it were going to fly away. He peeked at it. It was a tail. "Heads, you win. I don't write the story."

Pete's mouth curled up - just the left side. It was almost a smile. "Thanks," he said. "How 'bout a couple of burgers on the house?"

Justin looked at the floating burgers on the grill saturated in grease. His upper lip flexed as when one sees a dead and mutilated animal. He raised his hands slightly from the counter and said, "No, no maybe some other time."

Justin left the diner.

When Pete watched his car leave the parking lot, turned to the picture of Harry Truman, winked, and said, "We sure gave 'em hell didn't we Harry."

 

Pete’s Diner; Part 2

 This is a short story written nearly twenty-five years ago. It will be posted in three parts. This is part two.

"This is an institution! Everybody eats here some time or other and I think it would make for some interesting reading," Justin said. "Things like this give people a sense of community and tradition."

"I don't like it. Not one bit." Pete said barely opening his lips trying to hold his indignation. "That tradition and community crap is just that - crap. Ya just want a story ta keep yer tail outuv a sling."

"Why are you so dead set against it?" Justin asked.

"I got all the business I want right now, in fact too much," Pete said.

Justin braved another sampling of coffee. Knowing what to expect, it didn't seem so objectionable this time, but not the quality he was accustomed. To write the story well, he must have Pete's cooperation. Pete's diner was too fascinating to abandon.

Pete examined Justin like a cat, cautiously pawing and probing at a creature they have no fear, but yet fearful of something it might do unexpectedly. "What is it you want anyway?" demanded Pete.

"Just want a story," Justin said. "What do you want?"

"I wanna be left alone," Pete said as if the words themselves would be enough to convince Justin to leave. "Go find someone else to pester."

"My editor said to do this place and I'm going to do it," Justin said. He looked around the room while Pete was searching for words or an action that might change the mind of the young reporter.

There was a sign against the wall opposite the counter, "Harry Truman Ate Here", with a picture of the former president below it. Below the picture was the added words, "and he thought the food sucked too."

"Did Truman really eat here?" Justin asked.

"I don't know. I suppose he did. The ole man who owned this place before me had that up there and I added what's on the bottom." Pete said.

"How'd you come to own this place?" Justin asked.

Pete puckered his lips. He perceived Justin was trying to get him to talk. "Ya print anything I say and ya don't have to worry about a suit. Ya gonna hafta worry about me, okay."

Justin flicked his hand slowly and said, "Talk."

Pete walked to the urn and drew more coffee for himself. He talked as the cup was filling. "I got outa the army twenty-two years ago this November twenty-first. I spent ten years in the army."

With the cup filled he returned to Justin and hoisted his foot on a garbage can and leaned forward. "They failed to recognize my genius," he said sarcastically. " so I quit."

"You were halfway to retirement," Justin said.

"Well as a soldier, I wasn't much good, didn't like takin' orders. When I left I just made E-5." Pete said.

"That's not good?" Justin asked.

"No, not good at all. When I first went in I had this hillbilly buddy and he was always a sayin' when he got out, all he wanted was a one-pump gas station, with a pop machine, a pot-bellied stove, on a deserted stretch of highway. I used ta laugh at that sucker for his lack of ambition."

Justin looked around the room and then stretched to look out the window at the two solitary gas pumps.

Pete lifted his foot from the garbage can and leaned against the back counter. He grabbed a boning knife and began to clean underneath his fingernails. Pensive facial gestures rose; raised eyebrows, furled forehead, and curled down lips. He resumed, "When I got out, I looked up that buddy of mine. He'd been out for eight years. He took over his Daddy's Chevy dealership and was livin' off aspirin, cigarettes, and antiacids. All he had time for was a cup of coffee and a job offer. I just shook my head and left. He caught up with me before I gotta my car. All of a sudden he got real settled like he used ta be. He shook my hand and wished me luck and then he said something’ ta me I'll never forget. He said, "'Take my advise and get yerself a one-pump gas station, with a pop machine, a pot-bellied stove on a deserted stretch of highway."'

"So how'd you come to find this place?" Justin said looking at Pete cleaning his fingernails knowing that in a short time it would be used without being washed to slice onions. Justin also entertained the notion, 'what if he should use it on me?'

Pete took the knife and stabbed it into the countertop. Justin jerked, straightened in his seat, and then relaxed, seeing the folly in such a notion.

"I started driving ta Colorado," Pete said, "Always thought I'd like ta live there, but I was a comin' down this highway, wanted somethin' ta eat and I was needin' gas. I saw this place and the sign above the building said ‘Pete's Diner‘. When I came in here I could see the old man was about to retire or die. His name was Pete Gaston. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe in coincidence and convenience. I stuck around a few days made him an offer with the money I saved from the army and bought the place, but disaster struck."

"How's that?" Justin asked occupied with trying to decide whether to finish the coffee. He could no longer deceive himself, it really was very bad coffee. He adjusted his glasses and continued to listen. 

Pete’s Diner; Part 1

 This is a short story written nearly twenty-five years ago. It will be posted in three parts. This is part one.

Pete's diner was a small building with chipped and peeling yellow paint. A tattered green awning shaded the front window, but the grime and grease kept out the sun. It was surrounded by a gravel parking lot with two abandoned gas pumps.

Pete was approaching his mid-fifties. He was thin with a sunken chest and only shaved on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. He wore grease-soaked basketball shoes, faded jeans, a white undershirt, a paper cooks cap with a jagged sweat stain, and an apron pulled tight around his waist. The apron was saturated with grease splatters, coffee stains, and dried blood. A tattoo of a dagger dripping blood was on his left forearm and a lightning bolt on the right. He had a cynical slant on life and his disposition was bitter and irreverent.

The door opened and the little bell above it jingled.

"You'll have ta wait for a while, we're kinda between breakfast and lunch right now," Pete said without looking up from a Louis Lamour paperback. Pete never served anybody between ten and eleven.

A young man, reeking of men's cologne, shut the door, straddled a stool, and sat down. The young man was dressed in jeans, a brown corduroy jacket, and a red plaid shirt. He had a clean shave and groomed brown hair parted in the middle and swept back on the sides. His cheeks were robust, red, and smooth like ripening plums. His black-rimmed glasses slid low on his nose and he habitually pushed them back even when they remained in place. He wrangled with his gum.

"I'm not here as a customer." he said, "I'm Justin Weeks of the 'Evening Ledger' and I came to do a story on you and the diner." He adjusted his glasses and sat proudly like a dog with a bone expecting some sort of adulation.

Pete sipped his coffee and said, "Take a flyin' leap."

Justin wobbled on his stool surprised at Pete's indifference. "Have you ever read my column?"

"No," Pet said.

"Those whom I featured have noticed a substantial increase in business," Justin said.

"Already got enough business. I don't want no more," Pete said.

"What!" Justin said. The concept was completely foreign to him. He thought Pete was being modest and some persuasion might dislodge his stubbornness. "Nothing big just a little about the place - the history, your specialties, and maybe a few words from some customers."

From a smirk dangled a cigarette and from the cigarette dangled the ashes. His arms were folded with a cup of black coffee in his right hand. "There ain't nothin' ta write about here," Pete said. "The place is a grease pit."

Inside it was narrow and cramped. A green Formica counter ran the length of the room and the top was cluttered with etchings and initials. The counter had eight oak swivel stools, worn smooth and shiny like the butt of a rifle. The gaps in the hardwood floor were impacted with soil and grease and worn smooth like marble. Pete had two grills: one for breakfast items and the other for his specialty -hamburgers. The grill for hamburgers had two inches of liquid grease. The burgers were virtually deep-fried. Next to them was a deep fryer for French fries and a toaster. When the "burger crowd" arrived a jar of pickles, a bowl of onions, a jar of mustard, and ketchup were next. A ten-gallon stainless steel coffee urn stood at the end of the back counter.

Justin looked around the diner. ‘Indeed,’ he thought, ‘it is a grease pit.’ Above him were two ceiling fans that were gummy with grease, sometimes a glob flung across the room and splattered against the wall. The room was shaded in amber like a sunset casting its final ray into a musty forsaken room.

"Look how about just a small piece on the place and that will be it," Justin said.

Pete tossed the cigarette angrily to the floor and crushed it with his foot. He turned to face Justin. His head swayed back and forth like a willow tree in a wind storm. "Ya write one word about me or this place and I'll sue you, yer paper, and the horse ya rode in on."

Justin reached into his pocket and slammed a quarter on the counter. "Coffee, black," he demanded.

"I said we're between breakfast and lunch," Pete said emphatically and punctuated with a fist to the counter.

"The sign on the door says 'open' and I want served," Justin said stiff-chinned.

Pete studied Justin's eyes, looking for the slightest movement or evidence of retraction.

Justin's eyes were dry and unrelenting.

Pete went to the urn and drew the coffee and sat it before Justin splattering some over the sides of the cup.

"Thanks," Justin said. He moved the cup to his lips blowing the steam from the surface. He squinted as he sipped. His face screwed up. "Geez, that's the worst damn coffee I've ever had. When was it fresh yesterday?"

"That's pretty good," Pete said. "Now kin ya tell me what time?"

Justin displayed a shrinking smile, turned serious, and said "I can do a story on this place with or without you," Justin said, " and there is no way you can stop me." Justin rejected the cup sliding it away with the back of his hand. He rejected the attempted intimidation from Pete.

"Why this place?" Pete said.

Mr. Cotton and Me Feeding Squirrels

 

There he was, sitting on a park bench feeding squirrels. That’s where they said he would be. He’s half the man I remember him to be, Mr. Cotton; old and a little crumpled. The mustache was still neatly trimmed. I remember the day it was first noticed. I teased him. He stood me in the corner.

“Mr. Cotton,” I said.

From a small paper bag, he tossed a peanut to a squirrel and looked up slowly. He grinned. “You must have been one of my students. And from the looks of things one of my early students from long ago.”

“Your first class,” I said.

“Really,” he said. “I thought none of you were around anymore. Do you remember Mike Burks?” He handed me and a handful of peanuts and motioned to toss them to the squirrels who had now gathered. “Have a seat too.”

I sat next to him. “Yeah,” I said. “I remember Mike.”

“He writes me now and then,” Mr. Cotton said.

“I feel ashamed for not keeping in touch,” I said.

“Oh that’s okay,” Mr. Cotton said. “Mike has a lot of time on his hands; he’s doing a life stretch. Always had a temper. Knew he’d end up devoting his life to something. Never knew exactly what. Not one of my more accomplished students, but writes a good letter. So what brings you by?”

“I’m back in town for just a few days,” I said.

“And you just happened to be in the park empty-handed?” Mr. Cotton said.

“Huh,” I said.

“The squirrels,” Mr. Cotton said. “You should have brought something for them.”

“Well,” I said. “I heard you were here nearly every day. I just wanted to tell you how much you meant to me.”

“It’s nice of you to stop by,” Mr. Cotton said. “I miss my students. I wonder how they are doing.”

“I was in your first class,” I said again as a reminder to an old and feeble man.

Mr. Cotton chuckled. “Yes, that's the second time you've said that. Those were the days. I had little idea what a teacher was.”

“You were more than a teacher,” I said. “At least to me.”

“That’s what I mean,” Mr. Cotton said. “I had no idea it would take so much. I was raised in a normal family; father, mother, sisters, brothers. Dad worked and was home every night, and Mom always was there. I had no idea some kids had none of that. As time went on kids needed more than a teacher.”

“I was one of those kids, Mr. Cotton,” I said.

He smiled kindly. “I remember you well, James.”

“I didn’t think you would,” I said.

“Some kids get in trouble because they do nothing,” Mr. Cotton said. “You got in trouble because you were doing something. That was good. I knew I had something to work with; somebody who likes to do something.”

“Is that why you made me shovel your car out of the snow?” I said.

“No,” Mr. Cotton said. “If you remember, you were the one who packed the snow around it. You thought it was funny. Look at the smile on your face now; you still think it’s funny.” Mr. Cotton chuckled. “I can smile about that one now.”

“I seemed to have forgotten that one,” I said.

“Well, what have you done for yourself?” Mr. Cotton said. “Where has life’s journey taken you?”

“I sort of feel like I’m coming back here empty-handed,” I said. “No great accomplishments. I had sort of a quiet life. When I planned on seeing you there was some thought of telling you I’ve had a very successful life in some sort of endeavor. I’ve got nothing to tell you except I’ve had a good life with no real accomplishments.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Cotton said, “me too.”

We sat for a while and mused about feeding the squirrels.

I stood and Mr. Cotton kindly shook my hand.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said.

“Don’t come back unless you have something the next time,” Mr. Cotton said.

“Like I said, Mr. Cotton, I live a quiet uneventful life,” I said. “No accomplishments.”

“No,” Mr. Cotton said. “I mean, bring some peanuts.”

“Sure,” I smiled. “I’ll bring peanuts.”

I turned and began to walk away.

“James,” Mr. Cotton said.

I turned. “Yes, Mr. Cotton.”

“You were one of my successes,” Mr. Cotton said. “… but bring peanuts next time.”

Fifi The Cat

 "The other night I had a dream," Milton said. "And as you know, most dreams are hard to believe. It seemed so very real. I need some help to understand it, Doc."

"Go aheadt Mr. Potter," the Doctor said, "I vould like ta hear of dis dream."

Milton moistened his lips and began. "I was in a courtroom standing before a judge, who looked like a cat. Everyone in the room were cats with human characteristics. The judge looked down at me and said, 'It has been a long time Mr. Potter, but we finally have you, the famous cat killer, "Milton the Terrible."'

"'You have me confused with someone else.' I said confidently."

"'No, you are the one. Take him to the line-up.' he commanded."

"So I went to a line-up and there with me was a Dachshund, a Spaniel, and a Boxer. From behind the lights a cluster of cats clamored with heavy Eastern European accents, 'He is da vun. Dats him. How coot I forget? Da years have not changed him. Dat face I shall never forget. Da human, yes da human. I spit on your mudders grave.'

They were old and crippled cats some with head scarfs wrapped tightly about their heads. As they accused me each and everyone pointed crooked and knarled kitty paws at me."

"I was quickly ushered to another room where I was given a battery of tests to classify my psychological profile. I was placed behind an automobile steering wheel and before me was a video simulation of a highway with a dog, a deer, and a cat in my path. I swerved and missed everything but the cat. It was as if the deer and the dog were more important than the cat. An innocent, but fatal blunder. Next, they placed me in a room where a recording of cow jokes, dumb blond jokes, and sick cat jokes was played. I laughed only at the sick cat jokes. I tried not to laugh, but it was just so hilarious.”

“With my profile complete, I was now confirmed as the infamous cat killer 'Milton the

Terrible.' They led me back into the courtroom. Again I stood before the cat judge."

"'What were you doing on the morning of March 19th, 1965?'" he said coyly playing with his whickers."

"'I don't know. That's so long ago.'"

"'Well let me refresh your memory. You were late for school and you were pushing that '56 Chevy for all she was worth down ole Route 25 about a mile from Slabtown Road. Does the name Fluffy ring a bell Mr. Potter or should I say "Milton the Terrible?'"

"'No!' I said."

"Accusingly he retorted, 'Of course you don't remember because you didn't bother to get the name of the cat you ran over! In fact, as you saw the cat squirming in the road from your rearview mirror, you decided to back over it a few times. Didn't you Mr. Potter?'"

"I began sweating profusely. I cleared my throat. "'I just wanted to put it out of its misery.'"

"The judge shoved a picture before me of the accident scene. I saw a chalk outline of a cat that was at least six feet long from head to tail.

“'Wait a minute!'“ I protested, 'The cat wasn't that big!'"

"'It was after you got done with it.' The judge sneered.

"The judge began again, with raised eyebrows. 'Where were you on September 3rd, 1966?'"

"The army, basic training, Ft. Dix, New Jersey."

"'Let me be more specific. You were on the firing range and a certain cat named Boots walked across on the range..’"

"I interrupted, 'But we all shot him.'"

"'Wrong! Everyone fired but you were the only one to hit poor little Boots.' He tossed an envelope before me and said, 'The ballistics report Mr. Potter.' He began once more, "'How about May 18th, 1979?'"

"'I don't recall.' I said with my head in my hands."

"'It seems you had a '67 Simca. You were backing out of the driveway. Do you recall what happened next?'"

"'Yes, yes, I felt a slight bump.'"

"'And what did you discover?'"

"'A dead cat.'"

"'Not a cat Mr. Potter, a kitten! It could have been saved.'"

"'No, no, it was too far gone.'"

"'Wrong, Mr. Potter, we have a cat doctor present in this courtroom prepared to testify that all you had to do was stuff its intestines back down its throat, take your thumb and pop its eyeball back in the socket, give it mouth to mouth, fluff it up and it would have walked away a healthy cat.'"

"'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' I sobbed."

"'If it were not for you who knows one of those cats could have aspired to greatness. You are a condemned man and I sentence you to be tortured by Fifi, the cat.' The judge pronounced."

"From the far end of the courtroom double doors swung open and a white fluffy cat appeared, but when its mouth opened it lost its innocent appearance. The teeth were ferocious and the claws were so sharp they sparkled. I began to plead, 'Fifi, Fifi, please, please, Fifi please.'"

"When my wife woke me I was moaning, 'Fifi, Fifi please, please, Fifi please.'"

"It’s the best I could come up with. She doesn't believe the cat dream story either, Doc. How 'bout you?"

New Byron Lehman Novel; The Big Boon

Recently I released my latest novel, The Big Boon. It is available on Amazon in the Kindle version or in hardback.

Thadeus Storm, a quiet man from Kentucky, looks for meaning in his life through service to his country. He does not find it. However, he finds another way to bring meaning and purpose to his life. First, though, he experiences a lifetime of adventure before settling on a way to help others.

As a writer, I try to develop stories about people who come upon something good and decide to share it to enrich others. That is a theme I’ve used in several of my novels. It comes from a Bible principle that what we have is ours to share. It’s a gift from God to share. It is sharing that makes us complete. (Acts 20:35)

I hope you enjoy the story and in some small way moved to share just a little of what you have with others.

New Byron Lehman Novel

The novel, A Good Year On Belle Ile en Mer is now available on Amazon. 

It is a part of a larger novel, The Pilgrim’s Return, a Rich Larsen adventure. The reason for publishing it as a separate work has to do with the story; it deviates somewhat from the adventure novel. It is a love story.

There are those who prefer love over action. The love story is so compelling it deserves to stand on its own.

The protagonist, Rich Larsen, sails to an island, Belle Ile en Mer, on Biscay Bay off the French coast. What started as only a stop-over of a few days turns into a year.

He helps friends with a project of remodeling a chateau into a hotel. He gains new friendships. However, and most importantly, he meets Bridgette. This simple farm girl becomes the love of his life.

You are invited to enjoy Rich Larsen’s good year on Belle Ile en Mer.

New Byron Lehman Novel Just Released

The novel, The Pilgrim’sReturn is now available on Amazon. 

It is the seventh novel in the Rich Larsen adventure series.

This novel finishes Rich Larsen’s seven-year journey that started as a fifteen-year-old farm boy in Ohio. At that time, he became perplexed by the events around him with no real guidance on how to interpret or deal with them. Thus, he runs away from home—and his adventures begin.

Rich Larsen’s adventures start on the coast of Maine. He lives there for three years. Circumstances necessitate that he abruptly left. He sets out on his desire to sail around the world.

He first sails to South America, through the Strait of Magellan. He next finds himself in the South Seas. Then off to adventures in Australia. Africa is the next stop.

Here are the previous Rich Larsen novels:

The Desperate Summer of ‘62

The Odyssey Of Id

Sailing Beyond Beyond

Odyssey in Paradise

Ere The Ghan And After

African Escape

The Pilgrim’s Return takes the reader from the intrigue left behind in the novel, African Escapade. Rich visits the Canary Islands, the island of Madeira, and a year on Belle Ile en Mer off the coast of France in the Bay of Biscay.

The novel includes encounters with a former middleweight boxing champ, an international assassin, and unscrupulous treasure hunters. It would be remiss not to mention Rich Larsen also finds love.

The year Rich lives on Belle Ile en Mer is in the novel, The Pilgrim’sReturn, but that year is also a novel on its own. It is titled, A Good Year On Belle Ile en Mer. It will soon be available on Amazon.

You are certain to enjoy The Pilgrim’s Return.

Good reading, my friends.

Bitterness and Beer

(This is an excerpt from a Rich Larsen adventure series novel currently being edited.)

Eighteen days from Plymouth in choppy seas, Newfoundland appeared starboard. He passed within hailing distance of a fishing boat with a four-man crew bundled in heavy clothing. They exchanged waves and shouts.

“I need some land beneath me,” Rich thought, “but I don’t want to be facing another five to seven days more after resting a while.”

He obtained a reading and decided to go on for another four days and find a port on the southwest tip of Nova Scotia. “From there Rockland is a day or two away.”

“I can almost feel it,” Rich said and danced a jig but for only a moment. “This is insanity.”

The weather warmed only a few degrees over the next four days. The temperatures ranged in the twenties to thirties. Rich bundled heavily while on deck; most in the confines of a closed pilothouse.

Rich scanned a map of Nova Scotia and decided on a small port named Clark’s Harbor. It sat on the southern tip of Nova Scotia and appeared easy to navigate.

Rich dropped the sails about a mile from land. Beyond the starboard bow, a small harbor basked in a warm early winter sun. He piloted The Odyssey along a row of lobster boats until finding several empty slips.

He tossed the lines and secured The Odyssey. He walked from the dock onto the shore. He lifted himself up and down from toe to heel a couple of times. “North America,” Rich smiled.

The Odyssey remained stocked and Rich saw little need to buy more food. He had two propane tanks filled at a small gas station not far from the docks.

A bar sat within sight of The Odyssey. It was only about fifty yards away. Rich walked there. He sat at a table and ordered a beer and lobster tail with a baked potato.

Seeing Rich was done eating the waitress walked past the table and stopped. “How was your meal?” she said.

“It was very good, thank you,” Rich said.

“Are you planning dessert?” she said.

“Can you wrap a piece of cherry pie to go,” Rich said, “and bring a coffee with the check.”

“Right back,” she said.

A couple of minutes later she returned with coffee, pie wrapped in cellophane on a paper plate, and the check. “Where’d you drive from?” She said.

“I sailed in,” Rich said. “My boat is in the harbor.”

“Where did you sail from?” she said.

“England,” Rich said.

“It must have been bone-chilling,” a man sitting at the bar said.

“Indeed,” Rich said. “My boat has an unusual feature; it has a small canvass pilothouse. It was still cold but I didn’t freeze to death.”

“You must have really wanted to get back to Canada,” the man said. “The North Atlantic this time of year is no easy thing.”

“Actually,” Rich said, “Maine is the end of my journey.”

“Where did you start?” the man said.

“Maine,” Rich said.

“So back and forth?” the man said.

“No,” Rich smiled. “I sailed around.”

“How long did it take you?” the man said.

“Just over four years,” Rich said.

“Well if you ask me,” the man said, “that’s a wasted four years.”

Rich stood and placed his money on the table. “And what did you do for the last four years?” He grabbed his pie. “Fine meal, ma’am,” he said to the waitress.”

“Sounds like you’re a bit of a smart ass,” the man said.

“No, sir,” Rich said, “I’m not that. What I’ve done, what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned, those I’ve met, and most importantly the one I love can not be taken from me. It was worth it all. It is better than bitterness and beer.”

Rich turned toward the door. The man said something however it was muffled and was certain it was not meant to be heard.

Rich returned to The Odyssey.

Sheep Dip and Armpits

“They’re playing some music I can dance to,” Rich said. He sat his glass of wine down. “I spoke with an attractive young lady a few minutes ago; Fifi, Dee Dee, or Wee Wee. I think I will regale her with my exploits at sea while I impress her with my mesmerizing dancing.”

Rich danced one song with Fifi, though attractive and pleasant, had a terrible underarm odor. He thanked her and grabbed an olive from the snack table.

Claude stood away from the crowd and watched the conversation and dancing.

Rich walked up next to him. “Hello, Claude, we haven’t had much of a chance to get acquainted.”

“That is right,” Claude said.

“I’m curious,” Rich said, “how many sheep do you have?”

“Why do you want to know?” Claude said.

Annoyed, Rich puckered his lips and wondered how to reply.

“Honestly,” Rich said, “I don’t care if you have sheep or jackasses, I’m just trying to be friendly and make conversation.”

“You have not succeeded,” Claude said.

“How so?” Rich said.

“I have not told you how many sheep I have,” Claude said.

“But I have succeeded in getting you to talk to me a little bit,” Rich said.

Claude walked away and asked Fifi to dance. He was a clumsy dancer, stiff with no rhythm.

“The odor of sheep dip and armpits," Rich thought, "how romantic to a French sheepherder.”