And with one long last look after him as he left the diner, Mary Johnson put the leftover change in the till and then shook her head, bewildered, once again, at the ever-baffling behaviors of the human race.
Aha Moment
story-telling
Coin Incidence
“I really sympathize with you,” she said to no one in particular, the sarcasm dripping almost as low as the unlit Virginia Slims that teeter-tottered off her crimson-painted lips, as she scooped up the three cents’ change meant as her tip from the couple who’d sat at one of her best window tables for the better part of the evening, drinking top shelf gin martinis, holding out until the owner had to flicker the lights to get them to rouse themselves.
She’d expected that they’d leave a decent tip for tying up her table, but alas, the man had mumbled something lame about having thought he’d had more cash on him before lamely leaving $40 for the $39.97 bill.
With a shake of her head, she threw the pennies into the penny cup by the register and went out back to light her cigarette and further contemplate mankind.
Pumped
“Allow me to offer my most profuse apologies…not!” Frank shouted after the big, black Buick as it pulled away from the station.
He began to chuckle at his own cleverness, eventually cracking himself up, riding its euphoric wave before degenerating into a coughing jag which felt like karmic payback.
And just like that, he clammed up again to his usual monosyllabic existence at the pump.
Fill in the Blank
“If I’d had any inkling this was gonna happen, I’d never have ________”
worn these high-heeled shoes.
tried the fish instead of the beef.
had that fourth martini.
said what I was really thinking.
bent down to pick up that dollar bill.
agreed to a second date in the first place.
Passing Attendance
“I got my trill, on Blueberry Hill,” she spoke-sang under her breath before going into a fit of giggles that took her an unexpectedly long time to recover from, almost three vehicles going through the toll.
All this in response to voice of the driver of an old, long, black Cadillac whose purply-blue hued hair was rivaled only by the vibrating lilt of her sung “Have a nice day!” after she slowed to hand her $1.75 in coins to Jeannetta’s gloved outstretched hand.
It was moments like this that kept her job interesting, and she shook her head in awed appreciation before returning her attention to her half-eaten baloney sandwich.
Herbal Reverie
“Allow me to speak candidly,” she said with earnestness to no one in particular before finding herself poised halfway between the kitchen and the veranda staring out the window.
And just like that, the realization that had prompted the remark in the first place drifted out of her consciousness and on to wherever such realizations go when unattended.
And so it was that she sat down once again to a cup of camomile tea and a romance novel to while away a long day’s afternoon.
Loop D Loop
“I’m still looking for that loophole,” she said to no one in particular, as she lit up another Marlboro to replace the one she’d just smoked down to a nubbin before tamping it out in the Hellman’s jar top she used as an ashtray.
As the cat rubbed her ankles, she paused a moment to reflect on the fact that she’d probably never find one, but she said it again anyway, with a tiny, grim little laugh, “Yep, I’m still looking for the loophole.”
And with that, she went back to cutting coupons out of the Post, shaking her head at the price of milk these days.
Snubbed
“As if,” she said to no one in particular, never entertaining for one second that she would try even one of Bitsy Devoe’s shortbread sweets as they were passed by on delicately-doilied silver trays by somber, tight-lipped staff in impossibly-starched black uniforms.
Bitsy had conveniently forgotten that the recipe that she was now widely known for had actually been hers once upon a time, given innocently and generously on loan, for goodness sakes, for an event for which Bitsy’s originally-planned recipe had miserably failed, and for which Bitsy had since become quite famous for making.
As if to punctuate her resentment, she put her cigarette out in vase of delphiniums that sat on the foyer table, and with a wry smile of self-approval, proceeded back to the bar area to partake of a third Gin Gimlet.
Night Manager
Drains the last of the bottle
Looking out into the blue-black bruise of night
No trains coming through ’til morning
In a blackout he meets his own dark soul
But he won’t remember it in the morning
He listens with Jack Daniels’ ears
For something, for anything
He watches the static of the old tv
Waiting for God to speak to him again
And just before he passes out
He has an epiphany, which is then lost
Post-Truth Confessions
“Brilliant, just brilliant,” she said to no one in particular as she heard the sickening metallic sound of the car’s right front shank as it scraped along the cement wall that she had tried to avoid having to drive by in the first place.
Had it not been for the annoying oversized truck that had stopped just before the exit, blocking it, she’d never have taken the sharply curved driveway leading out of the parking garage at such a fast pace.
She didn’t stop to survey the damage – what was done was done – but as she drove off, she quickly began thinking of scenarios (other than her own road rage) that might help her husband take the news more easily.
Life On The Skinny Branches 