On the Menu

A recent comment by Laura Eno reminded me of this one. I’ve told this story before as part of a longer post, but it’s one of my favorites.

My first trip outside the U.S. was to Costa Rica [a beautiful and friendly country and I highly recommend you go there]. I know only a little Spanish. [The basics, you know: Cerveza, Baño, ¿Tiene una hermana?] We relied on a phrase book and the English skills and good graces of our hosts to muddle our way through. One day we were sitting in a small restaurant and I was reading the menu posted on the wall. I saw the word “Perro” and thought, “I know that word! ‘Perro’ is ‘dog’. I have dos perro at home. Holy crap, do they really serve dog here?” Then I noticed that it was followed by another word that I recognized, “Caliente” — hot. Whew! Hot dogs on the menu I can handle….

Spice of Life

Madeline shivered in the booth of the little diner. “Maybe eating somewhere new will break me out of this rut,” she mused to herself. “And this place looks so warm and cozy.” Besides, it was close to her office and had not been open long. It’s always good to support a local establishment.

The proprietor, Alphonse, a slight middle-aged man with a beatific smile, greeted her warmly. “How about some nice, hot soup to warm you up?”

“That sounds great,” Madeline smiled back.

“I’ll bring you something special,” Alphonse gave a little bow. “This is the only place in the world you can get it. My own creation.” He returned to the kitchen.

Madeline closed her eyes and massaged her temples. This case. This case had her mind in turmoil. No one she had talked to in any law enforcement agency anywhere had heard anything like it. And now it had happened for the third time. Three times in as many months.

Three times make it a serial, but serial what? Some madman is abducting young mothers with their infant children. He tortures the women — there’s no other word for it — by making them watch their child being murdered. He makes them watch. The bastard. But then, moments later returns the child unharmed.

No one knows how he’s making such a convincing display of the horror. Drugs? Hypnosis? CGI? The women all swear they saw their child die. It seems completely real. And then, perhaps most inexplicable of all, when the children are returned he collects the mother’s tears. And then he lets them go.

“Here’s your soup, ma’am,” Alphonse placed the steaming bowl on the table. “Careful, it’s piping hot.”

“Thank you,” Madeline stirred the hot liquid. “This is your own creation you said?”

“Oh yes. And very special. One of the ingredients is very hard to come by. This is only the third time I’ve been able to make it.”

Third time. She turned her gaze from Alphonse’s inscrutable smile to the wall behind him where the diner specials were neatly printed in colored chalk. In cheery, yellow script she read:

Soup du jour: larmes de joie

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Note: Long-time readers may recognize this as a piece I published before I joined the Friday Flash Fiction group. I have made some changes improvements to the previous version.

A Night at the Animal E.R.

Of course, now she’s trotting alongside the nurse to run some tests. An hour ago she couldn’t stand on her own. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to bring along a book to read. I’ll have gone through five chapters before I leave tonight. Don’t ask me what any of it is about. My eyes scan the words, but my head is elsewhere.

Through the closed door I hear the voice of the receptionist on the phone. “Are you in the car now? Is there someone there with you? Is he still breathing? It’s okay, honey. I need you to calm down. We have to get you here safely and then we can help. Is there someone there with you? Do you know where the exit is? Take a left. It’s okay, honey.”

I wonder, how can this be just another night at work for her? But it must be. Add it to the list of jobs I would hate worse than the one I have. The nurse brings my girl back to me. I remove the muzzle while we wait for test results. I look into brown eyes turned a little cloudy with age. Trusting eyes. Loving eyes. Eyes that have been glad to see me every. single. day. for nearly 14 years. Astounding.

“I’m not ready to let you go,” I tell her. She thumps her tail a couple times and then lies on the tile floor. I go back to staring at the pages of my book. And we wait.

The doctor shows me the EKG printout. Her heart is beating irregularly. “The chambers are like dancers listening to different songs,” he says. The familiar lub-DUB lub-DUB lub-DUB is reduced to lub-lub-lub-DUB lub-lub…DUB. Meanwhile my heart is beating wildly. We don’t know what causes it. Drugs are rarely effective in treating it. There are pacemakers. [Dog pacemakers. Really?]

I promise to make an appointment with her regular doctor. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. Come on, baby. Let’s go home.

Hunger Strike

It started when the decapitated head of lettuce in my salad screamed. The carrots were skinned alive. The artichoke hearts beat softly while the flesh of the tomatoes bled onto the carnage. The celery began stalking me. Then I was served a severed ear of corn. Soon, the eyes of the potatoes were watching me. I may never eat again….

The Elephant in the Room

There’s a series being published over on Vox Poetica called “Aspects of the Elephant.” It’s a poetic look at various viewpoints on love. You really should be reading it. And not just because one of my poems, Words on a Wire, is scheduled to be up there today. [But, if you want to use that as an excuse to check it out, who am I to complain?] It will be on the Today’s Words page today and then moves to the Poemblog page.

Happy New Year, Tiger

It’s a new year on the Chinese calendar — the year of the tiger. Woo-hoo!

Silent Consent

Robert expected stony silence. “Sir, I should have come to you sooner. I’m in love with your daughter. I’ve come to ask you for her hand in marriage.” Katie stepped closer and he put his arm around her.

“I promise to take good care of her, sir. I’ll do anything to make her happy.”

“He does make me happy, Daddy,” Katie added. “And when he told me he wanted to come talk to you today… well, I knew this was right.”

“I know we only met the one time,” Robert continued, “and I regret we didn’t get to know each other better. Katie and I have known each other a long time though. We didn’t make this decision quickly or lightly.

“I have a good job and I own my house — well, me and the bank do — and it’s close by. I’m not wanting to take her away from you and the rest of the family. I love her more than anything and we want to spend the rest of our lives together. We both really want your consent, sir.”

He faced Katie and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you so much for doing this.” And with that they turned from her father’s grave and walked hand-in-hand to start their life together.

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Bedridden

Margaret Mayfield squinted in the early morning sunshine streaming through her window. “You there!” she called to a young man in the hallway, “Come here and pull the curtains for me.”

David Roderick, new to the nursing staff at Merok House assisted living facility, entered the room. With fewer than two dozen residents he had learned their names, if not their medical histories, before starting his first shift. “Good morning, Mrs. Mayfield. That sun is awfully bright today, isn’t it?”

The old woman appraised his physique as he pulled the curtains to and then blinked several times as her eyes slowly adjusted to the diminished light. “Yes, and it really shows my age I hear. Call me Maggie. You another doctor?”

“No ma’am, I’m a nurse. My name is David.”

“A nurse? Are you gay?”

David was temporarily flummoxed. Before he could reply, Maggie burst into a loud peel of laughter. “I’m just teasing you, David. Now, don’t ever call me ma’am again, okay? I just told you, it’s Maggie.”

“Okay Maggie, you have quite the saucy tongue, don’t you?”

“Are you making a pass at me now?”

“Oh, no ma’ -aggie,” he corrected himself.

Again her laughter surrounded him. “Hee hee, I’m going to have fun with you, dear. Not as much fun as if I were fifty years younger, but still….” And she laughed some more.

“So that’s how it’s going to be? I guess I need to stay on my toes around you, Maggie.”

“You could stay on my toes, but I’d probably just kick you in the head.”

This time David laughed. “Okay, Maggie, I don’t know what that means.”

“As long as you laugh at all of my jokes, it doesn’t matter. But I was just thinking of a young man I knew a long time ago. You remind me of him. Do you play football? Or pool?”

“Yeah, both actually. That’s some kind of coincidence! He was someone special to you?”

“Special? Yes. We met at a music festival — I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Beaulieu? — and I was his first….” Maggie stopped and stared into the distance as if she could see back in time. Suddenly she looked at David again and continued. “I was the proverbial older woman, but I made enough of an impression that he wrote a song about me.”

“Is that right? Anything I would have heard?”

“Probably well before your time, I’m afraid. We’ll save the rest of that story for another day.”

“Okay, Maggie. Do you need anything else right now?”

“No, thank you David. I look forward to talking to you later.”

“Me too, Maggie.” And with that he left, wondering if the poor old dear was demented while Maggie hummed a tune he recognized but couldn’t quite place….

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3SP: Oh, That’s Darling

I read somewhere that when Conway Twitty uttered the words “Hello, Darlin’” in concert a roar would rise from the audience so he got in the habit of waiting a couple extra beats before continuing the song. At one performance though he heard the proverbial crickets chirping. It was a private concert for a corporate client or convention [I'm a little fuzzy on the details at the moment] and the audience was nearly all men. And they just aren’t into the screaming for this song like the women are….

A college friend who is an excellent amateur musician loved to sing “Darlin’.” I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it played on the radio but my YouTube research turned up versions by several artists. I think this is the original.

Two of my favorite singer/songwriters, Steve Goodman and John Prine, wrote “You Never Even Call Me by My Name.” The stories they tell vary in some of the details, but generally it goes like this: They called it [with tongue firmly in cheek] The Perfect Country-Western Song. Then David Allen Coe pointed out several details [like Mom, getting drunk, trucks, prison, and dogs] they had left out. That lead to another verse and a hit song for Coe.