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Client No. 9 vs. Mambo No. 5

It's a week that I'm taking off from work.   As a result, I'm here at the Palmetto at a very unsual time for a weekday: 6:30 AM.   And, who should be here with me?   None other than Alan Adler, on his way to the office, which, at this time of year, has become his home.   The rest of the clientele couldn't possibly be more different than that of Wilson Pickett's Midnight Hour.   All morning commuters.   All on the way from their McMansions in Chesterfield, their row homes in Bordentown, and their 'Father Knows Best' houses in Hamilton to their jobs, wherever that might be.   Numerous open newspapers and functioning BlackBerries and cellphones in use.   A typical weekday morning in a typical New Jersey diner.

This morning finds the Governor of New York, one Eliot Spitzer, in quite a pickle: NBC News reports that he's linked to a Washington prostitution ring; that he was involved with a girl named 'Kristen' (which immediately insults me; that this strumpet chose the name of my teenaged niece!) on a visit to DC on the 13th of February.   He was named as "Client Number 9". Right now, he's doing mea culpas in his sleep.   Pity.

Eliot Spitzer, at one time, was the Darth Vader of Wall Street.   He was the thousand pound gorilla, the scourge of the mighty, indicting the omnipotently powerful at every turn for every conceivable indiscretion.   He was elected Governor, and carried on overt political vendettas against his rivals, grinding the political machinery in Albany to something close to a halt.   His battles with Senate GOP leader Joe Bruno have become legend.   I'm imagining right now, Joe Bruno's having a breakfast party in his Albany office, filled with coffee and bagels and Dunkin' Donuts and streamers and confetti and colorful, pointed hats.

Me?   I'll just settle for an oatmeal bran muffin, and coffee, thank you.

"How 'bout you, Alan?" Frisco asks.
"The usual, as usual."
Frisco jots this down, and heads off. Frisco's about five six, and resembles Thelma from the 'Scooby Doo' cartoons.   Thick, auburn hair, very wide glasses.   Zaftig as all get-out.
"What's the usual?"   I ask.
"Grilled cheese on rye."
"Oh, that sounds good."
"I love grilled cheese sandwiches.   If I could get away with eating them all day, I would."
"I love them too.   I love them on rye, but even better on the square edged white, real New York style."
"Oh, yeah."
Frisco brings me my muffin and my coffee.   "So, how've you been?" She asks of me.
"Oh, fine.   Week off from work.   I really needed it too."
"Doing anything special?"
"Today, I'm gonna see about going back to school."
"Really?   That's great!"
Alan clears his throat.   "Funny, but you look a little old to be pining after cheerleaders."
"Oh, you're never too old, Alan."   I look at him, and say, "but in your case..."
"Touche."
"I'm trying to swing both this and school," Frisco says. "More school.   I think I'm gonna be spending my whole life in school."
The satellite feed's feeding me all the crappy, mindless club music that was popular when I was dating my last girlfriend, from twelve years ago.   The dance mix version of Everything But The Girl's 'Like the Deserts Miss The Rain'.   I think that's the title.   I really can't remember.   Not that I'd want to.   "We'll see what happens today.   No promises."
"Good luck!" Frisco goes to take the order of a well-dressed woman who has just taken a stool next to mine.
"By the way, what happened here the other night?"
"I don't know," I say to Alan.   "What happened?"
"Rochelle?"
"Oh yeah!"   I put Sweet 'n Low in my coffee.   "Apparently, she had a baby when she was like fifteen, and she gave it up for adoption.   Well, this girl, who's eighteen now, hunted Rochelle down, and came in here the other night, and it was incredible.   Lotta happy tears falling."
"Wow."
"Yeah.   Dawn's pissed because she wanted me to call when it happened to describe this.   Girl came in here the other night looking for her.   Dawn was intrigued like we all were."
"What, you didn't call her?"
"I did!   Five minutes later!"   I put margarine on my muffin.   "God, it's like, grow up."
The satellite feed has now begun Lou Bega's 'Mambo Number 5'.   It's loud, and raucous, and while wonderful, has no place in a diner at 6:40 AM on a Tuesday morning.   But then, if you wanted to REALLY wake up your customers at this time, you could play Metallica.   If nothing else, that would be an even better pulse raiser than coffee.   "I'm glad to hear it.   Rochelle must be ecstatic."
"Yeah.   Happiest day of her life."   I'm smiling right now.   It certainly is a sublime occurance.
"Know what?"
"What?"
"April 16th is usually the happiest day of my life."   Alan pulls both halves of his grilled cheese sandwich apart, after Frisco has laid it in front of him.   "Every year."