I don’t like being tardy for anything. I don’t even like the word, “tardy”. A word like that makes me feel ashamed and I suppose that’s the point. I’d prefer “late”. Michael was not tardy to his appointment today. He, like a rebel who answers to no one, was late, signifying that nobody is the boss of him.
Well last week, I wrote no article. And while I’m allowed to do that, because as I succinctly stated above, nobody is the boss of me, I still consider that to be making me late.
I held off my muse as long as I could with the excuse that I was busy and also by covering my ears with my hands and shaking my head whenever he or she poked at my mind. “Write me a story, write me a story, write me a story, write me a story.” And as a side note, it’s funny; I just realized I don’t know whether my muse is a male or a female. It’s got a lower voice, but kind of acts like a sissy sometimes.
After I’d had enough shaming by my muse, I finally cracked and sat down to breakfast at a local house where people huddle around waffles and was approached by the wait staff. Not to be insensitive, by the way, but I couldn’t tell if this was a male or a female. They had a higher voice, but carried themselves like they could strangle you with the hair on their back.
“Know whatchoo want?”
“Yes, I do. Because I have to watch my diet due to a diabetic issue, I will refrain, like the carnivore, from anything with sugar or carbs and instead, again like the carnivore, enjoy a bit of crispy bacon.”
“That all?” She asked. I’d decided she was a female based on acute observation and her name tag that read, “Vickie”.
“I’m glad you asked,” I smiled. “I would also like to partake, like the sly fox, in eggs of the chicken, scrambled well, and much as the Wisconsian would have it, with cheese.”
“Coffee?” Vickie added.
“As surely as the hipster,” I agreed.
I pulled out my laptop and logged into a new screen to bang out an article, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to write. I’d promised my muse – I’d decided that since it was a part of me, it needed to be a dude and I named him Hugh Jackman – that I would create something.
It’s a good thing Vickie came back quickly with my coffee and delivered, not only a delicious mug of steaming bean squeenzins, but also a topic.
“Here’s yer coffee.” She slopped down the mug and threw 80 tiny cups of half and half next to it, along with a straw.
Amused, I handed her back the straw. “Oh, like the masculine wildebeest, I drink my coffee without a straw.”
“That’s fer stirrin. We’re outta spoons.” And, like the mysterious snow leopard, Vickie disappeared.
It didn’t hit me right away. I turned to my computer wondering what I could write about, begging Hugh to either inspire, or, like the mighty wolverine, just end it with a slash of claw.
Then I remembered that popular pizza chain years ago and, like the tenacious fire ant after stepping on its hill, inspiration flooded over me.
What had Vickie said? We’re outta spoons? How does a House of Huddling run out of spoons? I recognize that on a Sunday afternoon when church has just let out and everybody with blue hair has gathered, each one dropping at least two spoons and having to ask for extras, you might run low. But OUTTA SPOONS?
I began to wonder if I might have to deal with any other basic failures:
“Sorry. You’ll have to eat off a dirty plate. We’re outta dish soap.”
“We’re outta salt. Here’s some gravel.”
“We ran outta steak, but here’s an old T-bone. You may, like the hyena, gnaw on it.”
It wasn’t a big deal, all in all, but it brought to mind the pizza chain years ago. You’d know it if I called it by name, but for legality reasons, I’ll just call it a Hut where one might find Pizza.
My wife and I had not been married all that long and since we went there on our first date, when we, like the pot smoker, hankered for pizza, we visited our “spot” and sat in our “booth”.
The wait staff came and took our drink orders. I remember distinctly that we both asked for sweet tea because we live in the south and it’s bred into us to drink our tea on ice and with each glass containing an entire bag of the Crystals of Dixie. She walked away and came back shortly with our beverages and a pad to write on.
“Know whatchoo want?”
“Yes. We’ll have a medium, thin, cheese pizza with, like the diet of the cardio patient, extra cheese.”
“We’re outta pizza.”
“I’m sorry,” said I. “Like the deaf man, I don’t think I heard you right.”
“I said we’re outta pizza.”
“But this is a HUT of PIZZA. Pizza is in your name.”
“We ran out of dough. You want anything else?”
We ordered the drinks to go and, like the raccoon, foraged for food elsewhere.
I thought I’d probably never experience that kind of poor management from an establishment again, but alas, like the liberal, I was wrong.
I finished this article a bit later, but as I was leaving, I passed a guy coming through the door who called out to my waitress.
“Victor! How’s the wife?”