Today, December 21st, was the shortest day of the year. One of the drearier ones, too, weatherwise.
At least here, in the Palmetto Diner, you can say the joint is jumpin'. The place is packed, and it's as loud as a sports bar. Above the din, you can still hear Nat King Cole, with his original 1945 recording of The Christmas Song by the King Cole Trio, on the satellite feed.
Brenda was supposed to join me tonight, but she wound up taking a couple of silly, high-rolling floozies down to the Borgata. Oh well, it's nice money. Instead, seated next to me, is Rebecca Stills, a woman I have known for many years. We worked in retail together. We used to get together for drinks, back in the day. In fact, we had quite a few one Saturday night, the night which turned out to be the very last on earth for a beautiful, young icon trying to evade papparazzi in a tunnel under the streets of Paris.
Most amazingly, for me, is the news that Rebecca Stills has given up smoking. Truly, a remarkable thing: she used to work for a company that provided research data and information to the tobacco lobby in Washington. Analogous to this would be the announcement that Hugh Hefner has given up and turned against Sex.
"I figured it was making me feel terrible, and I wondered how I felt if I gave it up. I instantly felt better after the nicotine cravings were gone." Rebecca had ordered an open faced hot turkey and mash, which had yet to arrive. Leathea, Gladys, and Frisco were all working hard tonight. I have a Caesar's salad.
"Good enough reason to quit. Hey, I did it. I've been cigarette free for seventeen years now."
"I've had a problem with the weight gain."
"So, you'll lose it next year. Trust me, no regrets."
Frisco brings Rebecca's dinner with her, and places it in front of her. She's one of the day servers, making extra money tonight. "How you set, George?"
"Fine." She resembles Thelma from the Scooby Doo cartoons. Full figured. Shag haircut. Big, dark rimmed, thick eyeglasses. She's very perky. "You know, you can at least get tired."
"I can't afford to get tired," she winks.
"What's her name?" Rebecca asks surreptitiously, after she heads back to the kitchen.
"Frisco."
"That's her name?"
"Actually, the name on her birth certificate's San Francisco."
Rebecca sighs. "Her parents named her San Francisco?"
"Yes. She was conceived in the city in which they met, and according to her, in a park near Haight-Ashbury surrounded by many people, who were in various stages of lucid."
"Wow."
"Yep, she turns 40 in March. She's a Summer Of Love child."
Rebecca sighs again. She softly sings the old Scott MacKenzie record, "if you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear flowers in your hair..."
"So, how long have you been clean?"
"Five months. I haven't had any problems. By the way, listen, who's that big, tall dumbshit over there, all the way down the counter? The guy with the head shaped like a garbage can?"
I look way down, and see Don Don, attempting to make conversation with some young girls.
"Green shirt?"
"Yes."
"That's Don Don."
"Why Don Don?"
"Well, when he went in to apply for his current job, he put 'Don' in the box under the first and last name."
"You're joking, aren't you?"
"Nope. His real name's Donald Robinson. Why you askin' about Don Don?"
"Because he sat next to me a few nights ago, and wouldn't leave me alone. He talked about his job, and asked me about this and that and this and that and this and that, and he wouldn't let me get in a word edgewise."
"Don Don does that to everyone. I think it's because he's lonely."
"What does he do for a living?"
"He works in the back over at Circuit City. However, he's got a night job now, too. He's not in here much in the late hours anymore. He delivers pizza."
"That's nice."
"He'll deliver to the VA hospital, and he'll talk those guys up all night, and when he delivers his next pie, it's cold."
"Dependability you can count on."
"He likes to talk to the vets about whatever war they fought in, whether they wanna discuss it or not."
Rebecca laughs out loud. She has a rich, throaty laugh.
"And meanwhile, they're like, yeah, Don, whatever."
Rebecca sips her iced tea. "Maybe they oughta buy him a digital blow up doll, with the technology they have today, it can keep a running convo with him for hours.
"That would be good..."
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