Retrospective

"Here he comes," declared Jane, "I swear it looks like he's on a conveyor belt."

Jane was watching the good Dr Johnson approach her little coffee shop.  She wore, as always, her golden uniform, unlit cigarette hanging from her bright red lips.  Pen stashed somewhere up there in that big heap of hair.  Lightly used order pad tucked behind her back held up by her apron strings.  Jane had seen it all and didn’t mind telling everyone all about it.  Folks didn't mind too much though.  Her heart was in the right place.  Or at least that's what everyone thought.  See Jane had a dark secr ...

Just then, the tinkling of the bell announced the entrance of Dr Johnson.  "Johnny, my boy!" Jane greeted the ever lovable doctor with feigned admiration and affection.  For you see, it was Jane who ...

"Just coffee this morning Jane.  I've got to get to work," said Johnson, holding up a hand to refuse the plate of hash Jane had already served up.  Good thing too.  Because unbeknownst to anyone, Jane had laced the meal with ...

"Are you sure, hon?  I made this plate special for you.  Don't break my heart again," pleaded Jane all sweet and everything.

"I know, Madge," his joke name for Jane that she pretended to love, but inevitably started a migraine, "And if I could I would.  Tell you what.  I'd love to get it to go.  There's nothing like your grill for me.  You know that."

"Yes, I know," Jane said grimacing, temples clamped tightly between her right thumb and middle finger as she willed the pain down into the recesses of her dark soul ...

"Are you ok, love," The Dr. asked with genuine concern.

"Right as rain, boss.  I just had a little ice cream headache.  All gone now," ensured Jane, dabbing the trickle of blood from her eyes, as she ever so sweetly forced a smile, cracking a few molars in the process.  "Let me get you a doggy bag ..."

“Hey Jane.  I’ve got the weekend free.  What do you say you and me ( I ) go down to fun park Saturday?”

Jane was stunned.  She had at one time loved the doctor with a sick kind of love.  She had fantasized that one day she would be “Mrs. Dr. Johnson (no relation).”  But she knew he was way out of her league.  How could such a wonderful man go for such a lost cause.

“Well, but I think I have to …,” Jane stammered in hot disbelief.

“Just think about it, Madge …,”  lovingly suggested Johnson.  But it came across really douchy.

“Ow, my head,” said Jane, blood escaping from her ears this time.

“Well, let me know,” said the doc, as he left the café unintentionally leaving the doggy bag of poison food.

Ding-a-ling!  Just then a really adorable family of 4 walked in and began to extol one of the presidential candidates. 

“We couldn’t agree more,” said everyone on the café, “Here, have a doggy bag of free food,”  they chimed.

The next Chapter.

A white, smoke filled, 1977 Buick LeSabre sat idling in front of the back entrance of the slick, grease-stained parking lot of Louis’ Bar and Grill.  It was Early Friday evening and already the underaged and low budget crowd were packing the joint. 

“So I says to the guy, ‘Costello is the only true king,’” Boomer squints from inside his father’s sedan, choking down his third LSMFT (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco). 

“I should punch you myself,” chuckled Cube, “That shit ain’t right,”  searching through the haze for the remains of his soft pack of Camels.  “You know, they have Guinness  in here?”

Now normally, the boys smoked Salem’s (Boomer) and Winston’s(Cube), but while they were at the gas station, Cube told a story about his friend, the big Irish guy who went around talking like a Hollywood style Indian from the 50’s,  who said, “Tobacco never kill white man until after him use filter.”

  “That’s close to the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Boomer said as he approached the counter, “Three packs of Lucky Strike’s, please.  What’ll you have, Cube?”

“Just one pack of Camel no filters for me,”

“You ready to go in Dan?” Cube pleaded.   It had seemed funny at the time.  But looking back, the idea of smoking a pack of cigarettes, in an idling car, windows up, no air conditioning, and 95 degree heat.   Not so funny now.

Chapter so and so.

Jack Hughes spotted the old Buick right away.   He was going in to pick up some gum and cat food (for furball) at Louis market before he reported to his station working security at the Westroads movie theatre.   “Just be cool Jack,”  he told himself.  “Not your problem anymore.”

 

Jack knew if he went over there and tapped on that window, he’d make those stupid kids shit their pants.  

But he wasn’t a cop anymore.  He was just a rent-a-pig.  “Just come in to my movie theatre, boys.  Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“There’s gonna be some bad weeks.  You can’t blame yourself,”  Fred chided

“It’s just that they’ll feel cheated.  And I feel guilty.”  Fred reasoned.

“Of course you’re right.  But is it your fault your sisters came over with a bunch of beer?” Fred countered.

“No, It’s Shim’s fault,”  Fred realized.