Post by goldenmyst on Apr 16, 2020 12:52:16 GMT -6
We’ll Always Have Spanish Harlem
“What would you like today, Mr. John?”
“Give me a shot of mezcal with the worm, dead or alive.”
She hovers. “For your information, there are no live worms in our mezcal. Don’t believe what you see in the movies. And we haven’t gotten our liquor license yet. Mr. John, what do you do for fun other than impersonating a bad hombre?”
“I write.”
My unexpected answer is translated upon traveling from her ear to her brain as “I read.”
“We all read,” she replies laconically.
She crosses toward the kitchen but stops in mid-walk upon my words, “I write. I studied creative writing in college.”
Her boomerang maneuver takes her back to my table. She asks, “Did you graduate from college?”
I reply, “Three times.”
She asks, “What were your majors?”
I say, “My master’s was in library science.”
“What system did you study, the Dewey Decimal or the dewy-eyed damsel?”
“My best line is ‘Hey you look as lonely as I feel. Can I buy you a coca-cola on the rocks?’”
“So you are a near-beer kind of guy.”
“When the heavenly bartender mixed my drink, he made it a Roy Roger’s with coke and that cloyingly sweet grenadine syrup which weren’t the ingredients for romance.”
One day she exclaims, “I believe you are a secretly married runner of Ponzi schemes.”
My reply, “I’ve was married for twelve years.”
When Christmas approaches her inquisitiveness grows focused and more intense. She stands behind the counter and jabs her finger at me like a police interrogator. “You were married for twelve years. What happened?!”
“She was much older than me. We were going in different directions.” On that note, I make an about-face and sail out the door.
The next day she is all sunshine smiles and her lilt returns like a lost kitten. She says, “Oh divorce happens all the time. I told everyone about you.”
Alas, it is closing day for the restaurant due to the coronavirus. But my book arrives just in time to present it to her before the lonely weeks ahead. She can’t wait and reads. Her tears come like orphans seeking a home. She says, “We may never meet on this earthly plane again. But here is how I want you to remember me.” She takes the barrettes out of her beehive hairdo. Her hair falls down like a magnificent hoop skirt. She hands her hairpins to me. “To remember me by,” she says.
She says, “We’ve been talking about you.”
With her downward cast eyes what begins as a casual encounter becomes intimate with my, “I miss you.”
She turns ecstatic with her rainbow smile. “Oh, I miss you too. I can’t wait until all this is over with so we can talk more again.” She sings some lines from, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.”
“Who are you singing that to?”
“You, it seemed to fit the moment.”
“Do I seem like a foreign country to you?”
“I meant it affectionately. What is wrong with being a foreigner anyhow? I am one and one of my favorite rock bands is called ‘Foreigner.’”
“That group started before you were born.”
“You were in college before I was born. But in my book, antiques are more valuable.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a fresh out of the factory corvette than a 1960s mustang however well maintained?”
“They don’t make them like they used to.”
She thrusts her immigrant hand into a Hobbit hole in the middle earth of my jeans. “Your pocket is warm and cozy. I’d like to take my siesta there.”
She stuffs my pants pockets with Mexican soft drinks from an ice chest of carbonated refreshments meant for the waitresses to cool off from the heat. She puts two drinks in my shirt pockets for good measure. Her root beer, lemon/lime, strawberry, cream, and cherry colas are canned joy straight from her heart to mine.
“With all that habanero spiced food you need soda to quench your thirst.”
“The cherry cream of your smile and voice is the only drink soft enough to refresh me.”
“Do you have a video chat on your computer?”
“Sure do. Let’s meet in cyberspace for tea.”
“If I was a British Lass then teatime would be great. A stout of root beer is the choicest brew to make my smile shine like a well-polished shoe.”
“But I am conversationally challenged.”
She says, “A man who has written books by the dozen is at a loss for words? I find that difficult to believe. I have something entirely different in mind. Staying on a healthy diet works better with a cooking partner. It requires the preparation of a variety of nutritious but tasty dishes. Otherwise culinary tedium sets in. But there is only one stumbling block. Though I don’t eat meat or chicken I do consume fish which I cook. So I am a pescetarian. I presume you are a vegan since you only order guacamole and beans when dining here. So I would never want to lead you into what you consider sin by tempting you with my seafood cuisine.”
I reply, “While we’re using religious lingo let’s bring the Catholic sacrament of confession into this discussion. I dine on tuna and salmon for my private meals.”
“For joy! Then all my worries were for naught.”
“However, though I’m not Jewish I tend to follow a kosher diet which means no oysters.”
“I only have them at the oyster bar along with a margarita.”
“I’m not so obtuse as to object to others
enjoying them or to having my lime soda in the presence of you sipping your slushy.”
“Please, won’t you take a trip down Margarita lane with me?”
“As a teenager I did a paper route on a street called Margarita Lane.”
“Lol. Email me and we’ll hook up. That came out wrong. But what do you call it when two people meet online for culinary adventures?”
One Month Later
“John, the email you gave me sent back a reply saying, ‘Custom eulogies for your dearly departed to dress up those closet skeletons as endearing peccadillos for a person of otherwise sterling character to bring comic relief to the bereaved.’ Can you imagine how that shook me up?”
“My handwriting is atrocious. Next time I won’t write in cursive.”
“My first question upon showing up for work this past month was, ‘have you seen Mr. John?’ They answered, ‘not a sign of him.’”
“Oh, darling, I was worried about you too. Truthfully I was quarantining. I should have attempted to get the word to you. I didn’t know if you wanted me to bring our closeness to the attention of the other waitresses.”
“Are you kidding me? They are laying odds on when you’ll ask me out. Fifty dollars is riding on the outcome. We are already an item in the kitchen.
Inquiring minds, among whom I am one, want to know.”
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”
“I had a dream that the morgue called me to identify your body because I was the only close relation you had locally. So I went there. They pulled open the drawer and there before me was your sweet face ashen in its pallor. They asked me if I wanted any of your belongings so I took your glasses with me as a last keepsake to remember you by. Don’t ever frighten me like that again.”
“Nothing short of an apocalypse will keep me away from you again.”
She takes my order to the kitchen saying, “Mr. John is back. He is well, thank God.”
“What would you like today, Mr. John?”
“Give me a shot of mezcal with the worm, dead or alive.”
She hovers. “For your information, there are no live worms in our mezcal. Don’t believe what you see in the movies. And we haven’t gotten our liquor license yet. Mr. John, what do you do for fun other than impersonating a bad hombre?”
“I write.”
My unexpected answer is translated upon traveling from her ear to her brain as “I read.”
“We all read,” she replies laconically.
She crosses toward the kitchen but stops in mid-walk upon my words, “I write. I studied creative writing in college.”
Her boomerang maneuver takes her back to my table. She asks, “Did you graduate from college?”
I reply, “Three times.”
She asks, “What were your majors?”
I say, “My master’s was in library science.”
“What system did you study, the Dewey Decimal or the dewy-eyed damsel?”
“My best line is ‘Hey you look as lonely as I feel. Can I buy you a coca-cola on the rocks?’”
“So you are a near-beer kind of guy.”
“When the heavenly bartender mixed my drink, he made it a Roy Roger’s with coke and that cloyingly sweet grenadine syrup which weren’t the ingredients for romance.”
One day she exclaims, “I believe you are a secretly married runner of Ponzi schemes.”
My reply, “I’ve was married for twelve years.”
When Christmas approaches her inquisitiveness grows focused and more intense. She stands behind the counter and jabs her finger at me like a police interrogator. “You were married for twelve years. What happened?!”
“She was much older than me. We were going in different directions.” On that note, I make an about-face and sail out the door.
The next day she is all sunshine smiles and her lilt returns like a lost kitten. She says, “Oh divorce happens all the time. I told everyone about you.”
Alas, it is closing day for the restaurant due to the coronavirus. But my book arrives just in time to present it to her before the lonely weeks ahead. She can’t wait and reads. Her tears come like orphans seeking a home. She says, “We may never meet on this earthly plane again. But here is how I want you to remember me.” She takes the barrettes out of her beehive hairdo. Her hair falls down like a magnificent hoop skirt. She hands her hairpins to me. “To remember me by,” she says.
She says, “We’ve been talking about you.”
With her downward cast eyes what begins as a casual encounter becomes intimate with my, “I miss you.”
She turns ecstatic with her rainbow smile. “Oh, I miss you too. I can’t wait until all this is over with so we can talk more again.” She sings some lines from, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.”
“Who are you singing that to?”
“You, it seemed to fit the moment.”
“Do I seem like a foreign country to you?”
“I meant it affectionately. What is wrong with being a foreigner anyhow? I am one and one of my favorite rock bands is called ‘Foreigner.’”
“That group started before you were born.”
“You were in college before I was born. But in my book, antiques are more valuable.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a fresh out of the factory corvette than a 1960s mustang however well maintained?”
“They don’t make them like they used to.”
She thrusts her immigrant hand into a Hobbit hole in the middle earth of my jeans. “Your pocket is warm and cozy. I’d like to take my siesta there.”
She stuffs my pants pockets with Mexican soft drinks from an ice chest of carbonated refreshments meant for the waitresses to cool off from the heat. She puts two drinks in my shirt pockets for good measure. Her root beer, lemon/lime, strawberry, cream, and cherry colas are canned joy straight from her heart to mine.
“With all that habanero spiced food you need soda to quench your thirst.”
“The cherry cream of your smile and voice is the only drink soft enough to refresh me.”
“Do you have a video chat on your computer?”
“Sure do. Let’s meet in cyberspace for tea.”
“If I was a British Lass then teatime would be great. A stout of root beer is the choicest brew to make my smile shine like a well-polished shoe.”
“But I am conversationally challenged.”
She says, “A man who has written books by the dozen is at a loss for words? I find that difficult to believe. I have something entirely different in mind. Staying on a healthy diet works better with a cooking partner. It requires the preparation of a variety of nutritious but tasty dishes. Otherwise culinary tedium sets in. But there is only one stumbling block. Though I don’t eat meat or chicken I do consume fish which I cook. So I am a pescetarian. I presume you are a vegan since you only order guacamole and beans when dining here. So I would never want to lead you into what you consider sin by tempting you with my seafood cuisine.”
I reply, “While we’re using religious lingo let’s bring the Catholic sacrament of confession into this discussion. I dine on tuna and salmon for my private meals.”
“For joy! Then all my worries were for naught.”
“However, though I’m not Jewish I tend to follow a kosher diet which means no oysters.”
“I only have them at the oyster bar along with a margarita.”
“I’m not so obtuse as to object to others
enjoying them or to having my lime soda in the presence of you sipping your slushy.”
“Please, won’t you take a trip down Margarita lane with me?”
“As a teenager I did a paper route on a street called Margarita Lane.”
“Lol. Email me and we’ll hook up. That came out wrong. But what do you call it when two people meet online for culinary adventures?”
One Month Later
“John, the email you gave me sent back a reply saying, ‘Custom eulogies for your dearly departed to dress up those closet skeletons as endearing peccadillos for a person of otherwise sterling character to bring comic relief to the bereaved.’ Can you imagine how that shook me up?”
“My handwriting is atrocious. Next time I won’t write in cursive.”
“My first question upon showing up for work this past month was, ‘have you seen Mr. John?’ They answered, ‘not a sign of him.’”
“Oh, darling, I was worried about you too. Truthfully I was quarantining. I should have attempted to get the word to you. I didn’t know if you wanted me to bring our closeness to the attention of the other waitresses.”
“Are you kidding me? They are laying odds on when you’ll ask me out. Fifty dollars is riding on the outcome. We are already an item in the kitchen.
Inquiring minds, among whom I am one, want to know.”
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”
“I had a dream that the morgue called me to identify your body because I was the only close relation you had locally. So I went there. They pulled open the drawer and there before me was your sweet face ashen in its pallor. They asked me if I wanted any of your belongings so I took your glasses with me as a last keepsake to remember you by. Don’t ever frighten me like that again.”
“Nothing short of an apocalypse will keep me away from you again.”
She takes my order to the kitchen saying, “Mr. John is back. He is well, thank God.”
