"Frank. Hey, Fraaannnnk! Where are ya? Are ya back in the stock room, buddy? 'Cause I've got my latest tail of whoa for ya...
I walked down to the back of the bar, past the tacky stools and the walls of old pine paneling; looked down the hall toward the restrooms and the rooms with the spare kegs and stuff, and tried again.
"Hey. Frankster. Got the latest 'Whoa..Tail' for ya."
About that time was when I heard the noise behind me, behind the bar; but Frank hadn't been behind the bar when I walked in, right?
So I turn around and look to see what's what, and down on the floor behind the bar, on a poofy velevty blue blow-up cushion, sits some guy, get this, also in blue, reading some book without a cover, pages kinda stapled together, and he was using one of those little lamp things ya see on commercials; those things ya clamp on pages like fixed flashlights.
He looked up.
"Whoa Tale?"
I could tell by the way he said it, inflection free and sounding bored, he'd missed the weekly point, so to speak. But hey, he wasn't Frank, so...
"So where's Frank?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. He’ll be back soon.”
Blue Boy stood up. It took him a minute. When he finally finished, he talked again. "I gather you come in weekly to tell Frank..."
"About my Whoa...Tail adventures."
He looked as bored as he'd sounded before. I pulled over a cocktail napkin, reached up and slid the pencil off one of Blue Boy's ears, and wrote..."WHOA...TAIL" ADVENTURES.
Blue Boy reached up and raked his muttonchops with fingers; my fingers, and he dropped the pages he’d been reading.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know how to write a story?”
“No,” I said. “But I can talk up a blue streak. And I can act out scenes really well, too.”
“Sold,” he said.
“Sold?” I said back.
“This picaresque tale of yours sounds best-selling to me.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And it’s guaranteed.”
--Robin
"Hey. Frankster. Got the latest 'Whoa..Tail' for ya."
About that time was when I heard the noise behind me, behind the bar; but Frank hadn't been behind the bar when I walked in, right?
So I turn around and look to see what's what, and down on the floor behind the bar, on a poofy velevty blue blow-up cushion, sits some guy, get this, also in blue, reading some book without a cover, pages kinda stapled together, and he was using one of those little lamp things ya see on commercials; those things ya clamp on pages like fixed flashlights.
He looked up.
"Whoa Tale?"
I could tell by the way he said it, inflection free and sounding bored, he'd missed the weekly point, so to speak. But hey, he wasn't Frank, so...
"So where's Frank?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. He’ll be back soon.”
Blue Boy stood up. It took him a minute. When he finally finished, he talked again. "I gather you come in weekly to tell Frank..."
"About my Whoa...Tail adventures."
He looked as bored as he'd sounded before. I pulled over a cocktail napkin, reached up and slid the pencil off one of Blue Boy's ears, and wrote..."WHOA...TAIL" ADVENTURES.
Blue Boy reached up and raked his muttonchops with fingers; my fingers, and he dropped the pages he’d been reading.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know how to write a story?”
“No,” I said. “But I can talk up a blue streak. And I can act out scenes really well, too.”
“Sold,” he said.
“Sold?” I said back.
“This picaresque tale of yours sounds best-selling to me.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And it’s guaranteed.”
--Robin
2 comments:
Wow, is that conversation dumb. They make the Three Stooges sound like philosophers... It hurts my brain just to conceive of the conversation. Good stuff. Good stuff.
As ever, you roll EE over beautifully, and wiggle your finger in his navel till he purrs...
Post a Comment