A Guest For Supper

 Lucille stepped from her apartment for the first time in over a year. Groceries and necessities were always delivered. What led to her self-imposed isolation had little to do with COVID. That came along as a convenience.

Indeed nervousness and anxiety made her quiver inside, however, she was determined to reacquaint herself with old friends. She wanted to see the old neighborhood. The friends she acquired over the years and the young folks who kept her thinking young and challenged her wit danced in her mind like a grand ball.

In fact, on this first day she planned to do something she had not done in quite some time; have a guest for supper.

Her first stop was no more than two doors away from her apartment building, Benson’s Grocery.

She grabbed a small cart and started down one of the aisles of the small store. She placed a number of items in the cart. The feeling of actually shopping excited her; seeing, examining, and choosing.

Closer to the far end of the store the white refrigerated meat counter stretchered the entire width of the store. She pushed towards it excited to see Mr. Benson. “I shall invite him and his wife,” she thought and smiled.

“Next please!” Benson said.

“Hello, Mr. Benson,” Lucille said. “If you had to pick something to eat tonight what would it be?”

“Look, lady,” Benson said, “I don’t have time for twenty questions. I got work to do. What is it you want? I got chicken on sale.”

Lucille forced a smile. “Yes, I can see you are busy; I’ll take a rump roast.”

He wrapped it, weighed it, marked it, and handed it to her over the counter.

“He’s a busy man,” she thought and smiled to herself making her way to the cashier.

“Margie, the cashier,” Lucille thought and smiled. “I’ll invite her.”

Lucille placed the items on the counter. Without looking up, Margie scanned and placed them in bags.

“Can you have these delivered, Margie?” Lucille said.

“Sure, Lucy,” Margie said. “where?”

“Lucille, Lucille Martin, two doors east, two ten.”

“Sure, will have them there in thirty minutes,” Margie said.

“That will be forty-five twenty, Lucy,” Margie said looking out the front window.”

Lucille removed the billfold from her purse and said to herself, “She’s not even sure of my first name. She wouldn’t make a good supper guest. She’d be embarrassed to know my name is Lucille.”

Lucille paid and left. She strolled and stopped to window shop. “Wanda! At the dry cleaners,” she thought. “She’s such a delight. I should have brought some dry cleaning. Never the mind, I’ll stop and invite her.”

Lucille walked into the dry cleaners. Behind the counter stood Wanda, the cheerful bundle of smiles and joy that brightened up the gloomiest of days.

“Hi, Wanda,” Lucille said.

“Hi, Lucille,” Wanda said not cracking a smile. “Where have you been, Petersen’s around the corner? He raised his prices; now ya comin’ back ta us. Ya know when he opened up they cut my hours.”

“I had no idea,” Lucille said. “I’ve been staying inside a lot lately.”

“You could have sent out, ya know,” Wanda said.

“I just saw no use in sending out when I wasn’t using anything that needed to be dry cleaned.”

“For two years?” Wanda said.

Lucille forced a smile. “It’s been just a little over a year.”

“Seems like two,” Wanda scowled.

“Well,” Lucille said, “I just came by to say hi and cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said and smiled with her mouth only. Her eyes could have melted steel. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, I’ll bring some dry cleaning soon,” Lucille said and left the store.”

“My,” Lucille said meandering along the sidewalk, “I don’t think Wanda is in the mood for supper, at least with me.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lucille thought. Her chest felt free and relaxed. “My sweet sweet Melinda. We’ve been friends since grade school. I was her bride’s maid. She named her daughter after me. She and Robert for a meal; oh my, just like old times. She can catch me up on the ole gang. Those wonderful bridge nights. And the book club. Oh yes, the book club; hours of talk. We never wanted to leave. And Melinda was such a gifted reader. I think she could have been an actress. Robert’s, Robert’s Florist Shop. I loved going there; curious little gifts. My apartment is full of their little knickknacks and gifts; even when there was no need. I always found a place for them or they made such wonderful gifts. I can’t wait to hug her. And Robert, his warm smile and a full mustache, so manly and warm. They are such great fun.”

Lucille opened the door the Robert’s Florist Shop. The tiny little bell above the door tinkled. Familiar odors greeted like a warm fire on a chilly damp evening.

Melinda sat behind the counter. She smiled and sprung to her feet. “Can I help you?”

“Melinda, it’s me, Lucille.”

Melinda reached for her glasses hanging from her neck. She squinted until they firmly rested on her nose.

“Can I help you?” Melinda said.

“It’s Lucille,” Lucille said. “I’ve come to visit.”

“Visit!” Melinda said. “You could have visited when Robert died.”

“Robert died!” Lucille said. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. But you see, I’ve been ill. It’s hard for me to explain but I’ve just been sick.”

“Sick, ha!” Melinda scoffed. “The least would have been a card or phone call. Some friend. Are you in for the friend-to-friend discount we always gave you?”

Lucille’s eyes fell to the counter. To the side, a small hoya plant sat with wilted leaves. In a strange sort of way it immediately reminded Lucille of herself.

“How much for the hoya?” Lucille said. “No friend to friend discount. I think it will make a wonderful house plant.”

“Just take it and leave,” Melinda said.

“Thank you, my dear Melinda,” Lucille said. Her smile was not forced but as sincere as she felt in a long time. She clutched the plant and left through the door with the little tinkling bell.

Walking back to her apartment building she cradled it in her arm next to her chest.

“You look only a little neglected. You will make a wonderful guest for supper this evening; just a little water and some conversation, that’s all you need, and you’ll spring back to life.”

Learning to Play Guitar

 My name is Jake Smithers. When I was eleven or twelve years old there was this guy next door who sat on the front porch with an electric guitar and small amplifier. He played hillbilly music every Wednesday night. Folks in the neighborhood showed up in his front yard every time he’d start playing.

His name was Dexter Turley. He was a skinny guy, not too tall, and hands with long thin fingers. He had a milk route and played in a hillbilly band on the weekends.

Folks gathered and listened for a spell. It wasn’t like there was a big crowd; maybe twenty-five at the most. Some folks brought lawn chairs, a wooden crate, or sit on the grass. When he’d play something familiar, folks might join in.

It was the poor side of town but for an hour or so on Wednesday nights, everybody had a pocket full of twenties.

Down the street lived this old lady (she was a lot younger than I am now). She wore a long housedress, three/quarter heels, and a bonnet. She was a widow and too religious to have a good time.

Every time Dexter started playing. she’d come marching down the street like she was about to barge into a salon and bust open every keg of beer and smash every bottle of whiskey. The closer she got to the music you could almost see the righteous indignation strip off her like boys shedding their clothes heading for the swimming hole on a hot summer. She’d get up on the wooden porch and do some barnyard clogging that angles tapped to.

She’d do two or three songs and smile like a man ‘on the wagon’ who just had a nip. She departed the same manner in which she arrived. Clothing herself with righteous indignation the further she got from the music.

The Wilson girls would get up on the porch and sing a couple of songs. They were hefty gals. They always said we don’t overeat, we overcook. The honest truth is neither girl was much to look at. Most generally you can say a person has pretty eyes when nothing else looks right. They didn’t even have good smiles or teeth. But when they sang together they were the most beautiful girls in town. It’s funny what music does to the person who sings it and those who listen. However, you can’t sing all day long, and ugly is a permanent fixture.

Lester Crowly lived in a little house in the alley. He worked at a local laundry. Usually, he’d mouth the songs, never singing out loud.

One night Dexter cleared his throat and started singing an old standard, In The Pines. He hardly got through the first verse before Lester stood up. He grabbed the wooden kitchen chair he brought with him and sat it on the porch. Dexter stopped playing. Everyone stirred around and uncomfortably cleared their throats.

“Ya got a good voice,” Lester said, “but it’s never lived the song your singin’.”

“Touched you deeply, didn’t it?” Dexter said to Lester.

“In places men can’t talk easily about,” Lester said, “so ya got to sing about it.”

“Lester,” Dexter said, “I’ll start playin’ and you start whenever ya feel it.”

Lester sung. At times his voice sounded like a wounded dog near death. Everyone listened without a twitch but there were a lot of hard swallows and a few sniffs.

When Lester was done he nodded politely to Dexter and returned to his seat.

“I don’t know if I can go on,” Dexter said.

Lester smiled. “Sure ya can. How ‘bout The Wabash Cannonball?”

“That’s a good one,” Dexter said and began to play and sing.

Seems as if I was always the first there and the last to leave.

One night when everybody left and Dexter played his last song, he unplugged his guitar and asked me to carry the amplifier inside. I sat it down next to a chair.

“Sit down, boy,” he said.

I sat in the chair.

“Would you like to learn how to play guitar?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

My heart was about to burst out of my chest I was so excited but I tried to hold back my exuberance.

“Reach around the chair, boy,” he said, “and bring me that guitar.”

So I did. 

I handed him the guitar. 

He tapped it on the floor and dust kicked up from it. He tuned it. "There, she's ready."

He held the guitar and said, “Watch where I put the fingers on my left hand.”

So I did.

“Finger here and the other finger there,” he said. “And then you strum.”

“That’s called E minor,” he said. “Sit down.” He handed me the guitar.

It was awkward.

“Hold it like dancing with the prettiest girl in school,” he said and smiled. “Well, you’ll know what I mean someday and when that day comes and you're dancing with the prettiest girl in the school, hold her like you’re holdin’ your favorite guitar.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but I knew I was going to get there someday.

He helped me place my fingers and I strummed. It sounded as dead as beating the bottom of a washtub. He had me strum real slow until each string sounded clean.

“Now I’m gonna show you one more chord,” he said and this time he placed three of my fingers on the strings. “That’s called C.”

I strummed a couple of dozen times. Eventually, it sounded like it might be music.

“Let’s go back to E minor,” he said.

And it was like I forgot all he taught me. He patiently helped me.

“You’re doin’ good,” he smiled. “Now take this guitar home with ya and practice those two chords for a week. Each time you strum make sure it’s better than the last. And next week I’ll show ya another.”

After a year of lessons, Dexter invited me up to sing a couple of songs with him. I was nervous. My voice cracked a couple of times. “Keep a gone,” Dexter said. 

So I did.

That night I helped him put away his amplifier and we sat down for a lesson.

“Have you ever written any songs yourself?” I asked.

“Nah, not really,” Dexter said, “I’ve written a couple—that’s it. It doesn’t come to me but it has a couple of times. I’m a player. I play other people’s songs. Just can’t come up with anything on my own.”

He showed me a couple of cord changes. I heard his voice but didn’t understand the words. It was like riding on a bus; houses blur by without recognizing any of them but you know they are there.

“What’s wrong, boy,” Dexter said.

“Just thinking,” I said.

“How to write a song?” Dexter said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Someday you’ll be strumming some cords. Suddenly you’ll try something different,” Dexter said. “It will touch you in a way you never thought. From those thoughts will come the words. On another day you’ll hear some words or think of some words. They’ll be words full of emotion. And you’ll find some cords to go with it.”

I nodded and smiled uncertainly.

“You got some cords, don’t ya, boy,” Dexter said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I got some.”

“Let’s hear ‘em. Start playin’, son,” Dexter said.

And so I

That’s how it all started.

Innocent Bystanders? Thursday Morning at the Jittery Goat Café

 “Coffee,” Wilbur said.

Newt poured a coffee. “What’s new?”

“Same ole same ole,” Wilbur said. “What about you?”

“Just saw in the news six people were shot up in some bar in LA or New York or Detroit or it might have been Chicago,” Newt said.

“Any survivors?” Wilbur said.

“Nah,” Newt said. “They said the shooters were aiming to shoot only two guys; terrible, four innocent bystanders.”

“When did it happen?” Wilbur said.

“Midnight,” Newt said.

“Innocent bystanders?” Wilbur said.

“Yeah,” Newt said, “just customers, the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“They were in the wrong bar at the wrong time? Nobody’s innocent being in a bar at midnight,” Wilbur said. “Ya can’t be thirsty at that time ‘cause ya already have had a couple of hours of drinkin’ behind ya. The only thing left is lookin’ for loose women or trouble. By midnight you’re so buzzed you’re susceptible to any sort of human degradation that walks into the place or enters your pickled brain. Never seen a guy come into a place at midnight and say I’m lookin’ to do some good. Anybody know some clean jokes? Hey, what’s your favorite Bible verse. What usually happens is some guy thinks, I think I’m gonna flirt with the babe sitting next to the biker dude. What is this a gay bar? Everybody looks queer. Or sometimes a guy just might say to the guy next to him that he looks like the guy he chased out of a bar last week—a real jerk. Are you that jerk? You sure remind me of him. He may say he’s lookin’ for a good time but he’s not lookin’ for good. Good walked by the place hours ago and didn’t even look in.”

“You tellin’ me everybody who’s out at midnight ‘s guilty of something?” Newt said.

“Sooner or later,” Wilbur said. “Anybody going out that time of night is likely gonna find trouble. They always say nothing good happens after bedtime. Nobody’s innocent that time of night.”

“What’s bedtime?” Newt said.

“At least two hours before those guys got shot,” Wilbur said.

When Trees Were Tall

They were days of the tall trees

they swayed in the summer breeze

sunny days

running barefoot on stones

swimming in mud bottom creeks

days of frosty mornings

bright-colored leaves, burning leaves

cold nights around a bonfire

toasting marshmallows,

stars shoot across the sky

days of knee-high snow

frosty windows

chilly mornings

runny noses, mittens

warming hands over a gas kitchen stove

days of soggy ground

croaking frogs

muddy shoes

tadpoles

pussy willows

hoot owls

and jumping puddles.

They were days of the tall trees

 I’m pleased to announce the current serialized story, The Ship of His Dreams, is now available at Amazon in a digital format as well as paperback. 

Of course, one can continue to read it three episodes per week on this site. That will take you to the middle of March. However, if you wish to complete it now it is available for $5.00 or $10.00; Kindle or paperback.

A Word About The Title

There was some hesitancy in using the word “dream” throughout the writing and title. “Dream” sometimes suggests doing nothing. It seemed appropriate to settle on “dream.” The main character, Lincoln Abbot persisted. He made his dream a reality rather than just a dream.

If you decide to purchase a copy; enjoy and thanks much. If you should decide to continue to visit this site and finish reading The Ship of His Dreams; enjoy and thanks much. 

Also, an invitation is extended to all to visit my author's page at Amazon. There you will find a complete list of my novels. 

Finding Andy Defresne

White-capped waves gently broke on the white sands of western Mexico. The sun to my back lit the blue Pacific like polished, shimmering tanzanite.

There he was sitting on a log washed up from the sea.

“You’re Andy Dufresne, aren’t you?”

He stared at the sea as if nothing was there. “Are you a U. S. Marshall?” Andy said.

“No.”

“Then who are you?” Andy said and turned to examine me closely.

“I heard your story and wanted to meet you.”

“I’m Andy,” he said. “Who did you hear my story from?”

“Family. My father was in Shawshank when I was born.”

“Shawshank. Do I know him?” Andy said.

“No, he said you were hard to get close to.”

“What is it you want?” Andy said, turning back to the sea and letting the wind part his hair.

“I just want to know how you’re doing?”

“You care?” Andy said.

“Sure, why do you think I came all this way?”

“Then let’s walk for a while and talk,” Andy said.

Andy stood, and we walked along the shore.

“Dad said you weren’t much of a talker. He said you were a man of deep things, things that no one could touch.”

“That’s right,” Andy said.

“I don’t want to touch them. I just want to know what they are.”

“Your father is dead,” Andy said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“What you really want to know is your father’s deep things, right?” Andy said.

“Yes, that’s what I really want to know.”

“Then we shall walk, and I will tell you,” Andy said. “There is hope, and there is love. Love keeps hope alive.”

A minute or so passed as they walked along the beach.

“Is that it?”

“Now tell me about your father,” Andy said. “Maybe I do remember him, but I’m certain we are brothers.”

I stopped, and Andy walked on for another two or three steps.

“You’re going to string me along aren’t you?”

Andy grinned an old man’s grin with deep, carved wrinkles. “If your father were my brother, that would make you my nephew. You have been the only one to visit me. That makes you my favorite nephew. Come on, walk next to me, let me tell my story in my own way.”

Smitten By Smith

 John Smith’s home is just down the beach from his favorite haunt and watering hole, Smithery‘s. He’s like a king who holds court during the day at the bar and by night his home.

His gatherings at his home are legendary and to be invited is an honor. He invites no more than a dozen. It’s a mix of his regulars, strangers, princes, and paupers. Anyone in the presence of John is on equal footing. Anyone with ill manners or putting on airs is quickly asked to change their behavior or leave.

He tells stories leaving listeners spellbound. No one ever says prove it—because he will. He listens to stories without doubting. “Even if the story is not true,” he once said, “as long as it’s told honestly—it is true.”

Several years ago while John related his adventures in the Himalayas and his scaling Mt. Everest, a hardy rich lad challenged the veracity of his claim.

John immediately chartered a flight to Tibet and took the unbeliever with him. John climbed to the summit; the young rich companion stopped 5,000 feet from the peak. On the way down John performed an emergency amputation of the lad’s left arm; it had been overtaken by frostbite and gangrene.

In an act of charity, he hired the lad as the manager of the Smithery.

No one doubts John Smith. If they do the manager gladly steps in with his experience and brandishes his left stub.

Somewhere during the evenings, there is always a game of poker. It lasts long enough for John to win all the money brought with a guest. The casinos of Monte Carlo don’t allow John to participate.

The famous French gambler Pierre Bennett left John’s home` declaring he had won. He came with 60,000 Francs and left with 4,000 Francs. For Pierre that was a victory.

Once you have played cards with John Smith it is said you have been Smitten.

John Smith's Ocean

 A small bar sat near the beach on John Smith Island. The bar is named in honor of John Smith. It’s called Smithery’s and dubbed “Where you go to get hammered.” This is where John Smith likes to be.

He gazed at the ocean and no one knew for sure how many oceans John had seen or what adventure was just over the horizon.

No one knew where his imagination took him, but if it took him anywhere his reality had already been there. There was nothing he could not relate to or speak about for he was a man who experienced only what many men dare imagine.

A tourist sat next to John at the bar.

“What do you see, the ocean or the waves?” the tourist asked.

“Why do you ask?” John said sipping a margarita.

“I want to see what you see,” the tourists said.

“You are at least five margaritas behind me,” John said. “When you catch up with me you will see wonderful things. Not true, but wonderful.”

John turned to the bartender. “A pitcher of margaritas for my friend.”

After two hours John left the man at the bar in a stupor.

“A man who can’t hold his liquor has no place in my ocean,” John said as he paid the bartender and walked to the shore.

The Dishwasher

 Fisherman’s Cove is a remote town tucked away in one of many inlets that pepper the Maine coast. It’s easy to travel there by boat, but by car is another story. The Cove was at the tip of a small peninsula. It was shielded from the mainland by a huge rock formation that thrust out of the coastline and stretches to both sides of the peninsula. It was too expensive to carve an easy access road or tunnel. Instead, a small road twisted through the rock formation until it wound its way into the small village that barely hangs on to dry land, Fisherman’s Cove.

Edwin Furman visited the town 10 earlier and never broke away. Why he stayed was a mystery to everyone. At first, everyone tried a sort of shunning; they would not speak to him unless he spoke first and used the minimum of words. After the two-year probationary period he became a mainstay, but always referred to as the “new guy.” And he waited for someone the move in to take the title from him. But to many, the locals seemed too hostile to remain more than 6 months. Edwin seemed bright, friendly, enthusiastic, and articulate, but Fisherman’s Cove offered nothing for anyone other than what already existed.

The town was bound and shackled by the rock to the north and the sea to the south. What land was available was taken and no one who lived there was about to allow it to slip into the hands of anyone from the outside.

Edwin worked as a dishwasher at the Fisherman’s Hut. A good place with a steady clientele of regulars and the occasional outsider.

It was owned by Silas Carpenter, stock from one of the founding families of the Cove. The restaurant had been run by his family for 75 years. Edwin was the only person not a Carpenter who ever worked there. Edwin’s chance of advancing from dishwasher was zero and he knew it.

The Hut, as it was called by the locals, closed Saturday at 3:00 PM. It was 3:30 and Edwin had just finished his final duties of the day. He removed a plaid coat from the coat rack in the dining room and slung it on.

“See ya Monday morning bright and early, Silas,” Edwin said.

“Edwin,” Silas said with a friendly lilt in his voice, “you have a minute?”

“I don’t know, Silas,” Edwin said feigning seriousness, “I got big plans, bingo at the fire department. They may have Miss Doty calling the numbers. You know she was a runner-up to the Cod Festival two years ago.”

“I want to talk to you for a moment,” Silas said. “Have a seat in the booth by the window.”

Edwin took his coat off and tossed it in the booth and slid in himself. Silas came over to the table with two coffees.

“The bottom of the pot,” Silas smiled, “don’t like to throw anything away.”

“What’s up Silas,” Edwin said blowing the steam from his coffee.

“I’ve wanted to have this talk with you for a month or more,” Silas said. “It’s about your future.”

“It’s nice of you to be concerned,” Edwin said.

“You should move on,” Silas said. “You aren’t going to be nothing more than a dishwasher in my place. My son Wilton will take over The Hut when I retire. You will always have a job with him. You’re the best darn employee I’ve ever had and ever hoped to have. Ya know the business as good if not better than me. You should go someplace else and open up a diner of your own. It’s time you think about yourself and your future.”

“Silas, I’m never going to have a better job than I have now,” Edwin said. “I sleep good at night. I have no worries.”

“It’s minimum wage,” Silas said, “you can’t do nothin’ on that.”

“I do okay,” Edwin said. “I rent the apartment above the library for next to nothing and I got access the all the books. I got the whole world below me.”

“Don’t you have goals or ambition?’ Silas said pushing his coffee aside.

“Honestly, Silas, does anyone in this town have goals or ambition,” Edwin said. “The minute someone does it’s snuffed out with the next breeze that comes off the bay. There are two reasons people leave this town; there’s no jobs and ambition is frowned upon. If anyone in this town wanted my job you‘d find a way to fire me just to keep a local here.”

“If that’s true,” Silas said, “what on earth would keep you here under such circumstances?”

“Grab your cup and bring it to the back sink,” Edwin said.

They stepped into the kitchen.

“Stop,” Edwin said and gestured toward the double stainless steel sinks, “behold, my work station.”

“And your point is?” Silas said.

“Step up to it, Silas, and tell me what you see?” Edwin said.

Silas walked to the sink and looked into it.

“No,” Edwin said. “Look ahead.”

“It’s the cove,” Silas said.

“What else?” Edwin said.

“Boats, docks, a boatyard, the ferry dock,” Silas said, “what is it I’m looking for?”

“See the boat with the yellow cabin?” Edwin said.

“Yes,” Silas said, “I see it.”

“Peter Landau’s boat,” Edwin said. “I’ll tell you something, Silas, there’s no better fisherman in The Cove than Peter Landau.”

“What about Nathan Argot?” Silas said. “He’s always talking about his large catches.”

“It’s bluster,” Edwin said. “I see what they bring in. Landau plays it close to the vest. If you see gray clouds over to the southwest you can bet Peter Landau will be climbing aboard his dory and heading to his boat. By the time he gets to his grounds the weather has passed and the fishing is good.”

“You know that from looking out the window?” Silas said.

“Everything that happens out there on the cove two days ago will be news in town today,” Edwin said, “but look again, tell me what you see?”

“It’s a cove!” Silas said. “What else is it supposed to be?”

Silas strained and slowly his shoulders slumped, his face softened, and his hands relaxed to his side. “It is incredible!”

Silas turned to Edwin. “That’s what you look at every day.”

“Can you think of a better view and your hands are kept busy too,” Edwin said.

“I sometimes come in here on my day off, stand here for a while, and just look,” Edwin said.

Edwin slipped his coat on and slowly backed away until he was at the door to the dining room.

“Edwin,” Silas said. “Monday morning you run the front end and I’ll do dishes.”

The Story Teller

Guess who walked into The Jittery Goat Cafe the other day and ordered a coffee? That’s right, Kenton Lewis.

Kenton sat at the counter and Pix sat the coffee in front of him

“Kenton, haven’t seen you in a while,” Pix said. “What’s up?”

“Been busy,” Kenton said and sipped.

“Anything in particular?” Pix said.

“Just stuff I’ve put off,” Kenton said.

“It can really pile up pretty fast on ya,” Pix said.

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Kenton said. “I took the long way here today. Must have walked a mile or more.”

“You should get in your car and check the mileage,” Pix said. “That way you’ll know for sure. It’s good to be accurate when you’re about to tell a story.”

“How do you know I’m about to tell a story?” Kenton said.

“You always tell stories,” Pix said.

“No I don’t,” Kenton said.

“Sure ya do,” Pix said. “I ask you about the weather and you just never say, it’s sunny. You go into some long story about a summer ten years ago or what the summer reminds you of.”

“Then don’t ask,” Kenton paused for a sip.

“Okay,” Pix conceded, “what did you see on the way here?”

“On my walk here I counted nine or ten masks. A year ago they were rare. People were looking high and low for them. Now they just toss them away.”

“Was it nine masks or ten?” Pix said.

“To tell you the truth I lost count,” Kenton said. “But it was nine or ten. The point is, it was a lot in my mind.”

“Why didn’t you just say it was a lot?” Pix said.

“You might not think nine or ten is a lot,” Kenton said. “Your definition of a lot might be fifteen or sixteen or six or seven. I’m not even sure where to draw the line when it’s a few; is that two or three or is it four or five?”

“They were just masks?” Pix said. “Nothing special about them?”

“No,” Kenton said. “Most were those blue type. I saw a plain white and another black one. Then I saw one that was black and covered with sequins. Looked to me like it could have been a veil from some girl part of a harem.”

“You got quite an imagination,” Pix said.

“No,” Kenton said, “just wanted to be a little creative and give you perspective. Likely, it was discarded by some lady of the evening.” Kenton smiled in disbelief.

“Why do they call them 'lady of the evening?'” Pix said. “Ain’t that pretty much a twenty-four/seven job?”

“What time does this place close?” Kenton said.

“Six,” Pix said.

“And how long is it before you get out of here?” Kenton said.

“An hour,” Pix said.

“So seven. That’s evening, right?” Kenton said.

“Hey,” Pix said, “what are you implying?”

“Can I just tell you about my walk without interrupting me,” Kenton said. “If I knew you were going to interrupt me because of a minor detail I’d have left it out.”

“No,” Pix said, “leave it in. I got the imagery on the sequined mask now. It does add something to the story.”

“Let’s just stop right there,” Kenton said. “This is not a story. I don’t tell stories. There’s no plot or lesson or point to what I’m telling you. I’m just telling you I saw an unusual amount of discarded masks on my walk here.”

“Just because it’s not a story doesn’t me it couldn’t be one,” Pix said.

“Okay,” Kenton said, “here’s the story. A guy takes a peaceful walk. He stops for coffee. He tells a man, not unlike himself, an experience on the walk. The man, not unlike yourself, interrupts. He asks questions having nothing to do with the story. He doubts the particulars. Here’s the point; some things just aren’t worth telling. They’re not interesting; even if you add sequins to it.” Kenton stood and sipped. He sat the nearly full cup back on the counter. “End of story.” He left.

Pix strained his neck watching Kenton walk away. “He didn’t pay for the coffee. He only took a couple of sips. I’ll just pour it back in the pot.”