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"Gee whiz, look who's heuh," Alan Adler says, in an exaggerated Bronxese. "He's too good ta hang around US anymaw."
I sit in the stool, smiling. Tonight's a full house. It's Alan, Myles Glickman, Harland Woods, who hasn't been here in eons, as well as Rochelle Peyton behind the counter, ably assisted by Cousin Dearest.
"He's going to school, Groucho!" Cousin Dearest has decided to just go ahead and call him by the name of the person she feels he most resembles physically. And, with the big, wiry hair, the bushy eyebrows and moustache, and the glasses, well..."he's too busy to come in here now."
"Actually, I shouldn't be here even now," I say. "I should be home studying, but how much can you do that before you go bonkers?"
"Right," Myles says. "Don't let him fool you. I remember you spent a grand total of fifteen minutes studying the whole time we were in 194 together. And that was only because you forgot to bring your gym outfit and had nothing else to do while everyone else was playing dodge ball."
I laugh. "Oh, behave."
"I heard," a familiar voice down the counter offers, "that you're doing pretty well in that left-wing, subversive course you're taking."
I look over, and see Phyllis Pye, her familiar batwing eyeglasses askew, perusing a dog-eared copy of The American Spectator. The Amy Winehouse pompadour has departed; now, she's back to more basic things. The Annie Lennox look. "What's left-wing about massage therapy," Alan asks of her.
"Oh, it's the whole idea. You go into a dark room with candles and sissy music, and some guy who looks like Liberace shows you to the table. Any man who does something like this has gotta be gay."
"Phyllis," I rejoinder, "any man who was given you as a choice in life couldn't be blamed for turning gay!"
As Phyllis harrumphs, and turns back to the reading material before her, snickers and stifled giggles break out around me.
"Whatcha havin', baby?" Rochelle asks.
"Oh, let's see." I pause, and look at the menu.
"Today, George," Myles says. "Today!"
"Okay, we're going out on a limb here. Bacon, cheese, and fried onion omelette, home fries very crisp, toasted bagel."
"Some limb," Alan says, as Rochelle speeds away. "You've ordered that so many times before, she's got her own abbreviation she saves for it."
"What?" Cousin Dearest asks. "You don't order the same thing every day, Groucho?"
Alan sighs. "No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You're the only person here who ever has an orange marmalade danish," Vickie remarks. "Guaranteed."
"Brenda been in yet?" I ask.
"Nope." Cousin Dearest peers at her nails. She's as vain about them as any woman I've ever met, and that includes Our Gladys of the Celebrity Obsession who graced these premises until recently. Tonight, Vickie's nails are a glorious pearl white. She's just as obsessed about how her toes look, I've been told, and has them done even in the dead of winter, when no one even sees them. Isn't Vanity one of the Seven Deadly Sins? "She wasn't in last night either."
"She still driving the taxi?" asks Harland Woods, who's always been quiet, and shy. Of course, this year, if you were a Seattle Mariners fan, you'd be quiet and shy, too.
"Yep," I reply. "Though she's found someone now, and they moved in together. Just a few doors down from the guy sitting next to you."
"Yeah," Myles grouses, playing with his coffee spoon. "It's a small world after all."
The door opens, and wouldn't you know it?
"Speak of the devil!" Myles shouts. "We were wondering when you'd come in."
"No you weren't," Brenda replies. "You were probably complaining about me, and how Aspen's even too much dog for you."
"Oh, God," Phyllis comments. 'You've been here two seconds and you sucked the air out of the place."
Brenda eyes Phyllis like she would one of Aspen's stools that she hadn't cleaned up from the ground yet. "Oh, God," she parries. "What happened? Was Sting cleaning his old haircuts out of his closet?"
"Just look at you!' Phyllis' voice rises. "Thank God for the Liberals, if it weren't for them, you'd be locked in a closet!"
"Keep talking about closets! In a minute, you're gonna be in a casket."
Rochelle comes down the counter. "That's enough!"
"Well," Phyllis says, her hands gripping her magazine, shaking. "She started it."
"No," Brenda replies. "I'm gonna FINISH it, though!"
"You two are worse than my kids. Shut up the both of you!"
Rochelle lays my meal down before me. It looks positively delicious. Vickie has moved on to wait on tables filled with new customers. Alan and Harland are involved in a conversation about prime rates. Myles pours cream in his coffee. The satellite feed showcases Elton John. 'Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting'.
A full house. Just the way I like it. No John Stamos or Candace Cameron, or twins who shall remain nameless looking at an adulthood featuring anorexic symptoms, of course. Just a full house at my favorite diner on a Saturday night.
Life Is Good.
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Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-07-20 08:24:14 | Rating: | Views: 44
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Phillis! leave Brenda alone. She's my friend...and so is George so don't bark up the wrong tree....
Good story George!
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-07-20 19:46:36
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I miss you. I'd like to hear from you soon...
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Posted by Knoxxie03
on 2008-07-25 20:16:12
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you will. Things have been crazy around here lately. New carpet, new paint, some new furniture, lots of packing and moving things around... it's crazy I tell you! Hope all is well with you!
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-07-27 21:29:59
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Was great hearing from you today! As always... :)
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Posted by Knoxxie03
on 2008-08-03 16:43:08
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Was great talking to you as well. As always....;)
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-08-03 21:13:46
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