Short Stories To Tickle Your Funnybone (4 page)

After my harrowing experience with Li’l D
and the hound from hell, I was exhausted.
Three days undercover and a drug bust
hadn’t left much time for my sweetie. We had
talked on the phone, but we needed an evening
together. We decided we would go out for a nice
dinner and see what developed from there.
I picked Maggie up at her apartment, and
as we
pulled away, I asked if she
had any
preference
in
eating
establishments,
secretly
hoping for Mel’s. No such luck.
Maggie had heard of a new restaurant that
had just
opened in the old garment district
downtown. That area had once been all factories,
but as more and more labor was outsourced to our
friends in China, the factories had closed and sat
empty
for
years. Then came the rebirth of
downtown. Old factory buildings were converted
to luxury
apartments
and condos that were
gobbled up by the yuppie elite. Apparently this
new restaurant, Chez
Francois, was opened to
cater to the tastes of the new downtown gentry.
When we drove up, I knew we were in
trouble right away. A large sign on the curb said
‘Valet Parking Only’. I hate valet parking. I hate
turning my keys over to a pimply-faced kid with a
stud in his lip. I hate waiting in line while they try
to find where they hid my car. I hate tipping some
jerk for something I’m perfectly capable of doing
myself, but I had no choice.
We were escorted inside, and as I looked
around, my suspicions were confirmed. I was in
trouble. The building had once been one of the
big, fancy hotels of the era, but with the decline of
the district, it closed. During the remodel, the
interior had been restored to its former grandeur
with high ceilings and ornate woodwork. Tables
were
set with fine
linen cloths and sparkling
crystal, and from somewhere the strings of a Bach
fugue
or some such thing wafted through the
dining area.
We were seated in a quiet little alcove and
were soon approached by a waiter dressed in a
starched white shirt and black tie. He had on
trousers with a pleat so sharp it would cut your
finger. His demeanor was somber, and he walked
like he had a broomstick up his butt.
He bowed and said, “Good evening, my
name is Rolph, and I’ll be serving you this
evening.”
“Evening, Ralph,” I replied.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “It’s Rolph, not
Ralph.”
This couldn’t be good.
“Uh, yes, Rolph,” I replied and muttered
under my breath. “Whatever.”
He laid a book the size of the Kansas City
phone directory in front of me.“Our wine list, sir.
Would you like a moment?”
I looked at the first page and when I saw
that I couldn’t even pronounce their first offering,
I figured that it might take more than a moment.
Rolph waited expectantly while I looked at
page after page of wines, but I couldn’t find the
Arbor Mist. “You do have Arbor Mist, don’t
you?”
Rolph looked aghast. “I don’t believe we
have that in our wine cellar, sir.” He stuck his nose
in the air.
How can you have eight pages of wine and
not have Arbor Mist? Go figure.
Maggie came to the rescue. “We’d like a
bottle of your house chardonnay,” she said.
“Very good, ma’am,” Rolph replied. He
bowed and walked away.
I might as well share some of my other
idiosyncrasies. I am neither poor nor uneducated. I
didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’m a simple
guy. I
come
from a
middle class, blue-collar
background, but I have made a comfortable life for
myself.
One of my pet peeves is the affectations of
the wealthy. They irritate me and, in my humble
opinion, are a real pain in the butt.
Maggie knows me well, and I thought I
saw a smile cross her face as Rolph and I did our
verbal thrust and parry. She would have to be on
her toes this evening.
Just then, a busboy arrived with a woven
basket of bread.
Hot dog.
Now we were getting somewhere.
He
laid the basket on the table
then
produced two small platters and a jug that was
filled with some viscous liquid that resembled
thirty-weight motor oil. He sprinkled some green
stuff on the platters and proceeded to pour the
Quaker State on top. “For your bread, sir,” he said
and bowed.
That was not how I was accustomed to
lubricating my bread.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pat or two
of butter back there, would you?” I asked.
“Very good, sir,” he replied, bowed again,
and headed off to the kitchen.
I opened the cloth cover of the breadbasket
anticipating warm, soft yeast rolls. Yikes! It might
as well have been a basket of hockey pucks. In my
mind, I could see Mel’s Texas toast. Thick slices
of soft bread lightly buttered and grilled to a
golden brown and served piping hot to your table.
Dream on.
Have you ever tried opening one of those
things? A hammer and chisel should come with
them as standard equipment, and if you do manage
to
penetrate
the
outer
shell,
crumbs
are
everywhere. I tried, and sure enough, crumbs were
everywhere. No sooner had my roll exploded in
my lap than Rolph approached with a tiny silver
dustpan and a tiny whiskbroom.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said and proceeded to
whisk away my crumbs.
Just think of all the labor they would save
by serving soft bread. I wondered if they had a
suggestion box.
Soon Rolph returned with our bottle of
wine, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. He set one
glass in front of me, and with the skill of a surgeon
he whipped out his corkscrew and popped out the
cork. Gotta hand it to old Rolph. It came out in
one piece, and he didn’t even need the Black &
Decker.
He poured about one swallow in my glass
and stepped back. I thought, “
I paid forty-five
dollars for that bottle. I ought to get more than
that!”
Then I noticed that he hadn’t poured even a
drop in Maggie’s glass.
I looked at Maggie. She grinned at me,
nodded her head toward the glass, and said, “How
about you give it a taste and make sure it’s right
for us?”
“Oh, right!” Maggie saved my butt again. I
tasted, and Rolph waited formy response. “It’s
okay,” I replied. “But it’s sure no Arbor Mist.”
Rolph turned and walked away.
He returned with menus.
“What’s good tonight, Rolph?” I asked.
Just friendly banter with the waiter.
He
stiffened. “Sir, everything from our
kitchen is good.”
Well, okay
then. It was really
just
a
rhetorical question.
We studied the menu. When I say studied,
I’m serious. You’d have to be fluent in three
languages to read the thing. “Do you know what
any of this stuff is?” I asked Maggie.
She shrugged her shoulders, and frankly I
was relieved when she said, “Not really.” I hated
being the only dummy.
Rolph returned with order pad in hand and
looked expectantly in our direction.
Maggie spoke first. “I’d like a shrimp
cocktail and your house salad with creamy Italian
dressing, please.” Maggie had been watching the
calories, so I didn’t know if her order was weight
watching or a cop-out on the menu selections.
Now understand, I’ve got nothing against
salad. I even eat it sometimes. But man didn’t get
to the top of the food chain by grazing. We’re
carnivores, after all. I needed meat.
I pointed to the menu and said to Rolph,
“Maybe you can help me out here. Where’s the
beef?”
I thought I detected a slight flinch, but
Rolph replied without hesitation, “May I
recommend our beef tenderloin medallions, garlic
whipped potatoes, and vegetable medley.”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied. “
Meat,
potatoes, and vegetables; can’t be too bad.”
Our dinners arrived. A huge bowl of salad
and a glass with shrimp butts sticking out the top
was placed in front of Maggie.
I looked at my plate. Good grief! There
were two tiny pieces of meat, each about the size
of a fifty-cent piece, and each was covered with a
teaspoon-sized dollop of mashed potatoes. On the
left side of the plate were two carrot spears and on
the right two asparagus spears. Yellow gunky stuff
was dribbled around the edge of the plate, and a
sprig of something that resembled the weeds I
spray in my yard was sticking out of the mashed
potatoes.
“Lovely presentation, isn’t it, sir?” Rolph
gushed.
“Presentation! Really?”
I thought. “
I‘m
gonna starve!”
But to Rolph I replied, “Lovely, just
lovely. You wouldn’t happen to have some gravy
back there, would you?”
Wounded, he replied, “We don’t serve
gravy
here, sir.” He walked away.
It didn’t take long to finish dinner.
Rolph
returned
with
another
menu.
“Would you care to order dessert, sir?”
I was still hungry, and I was thinking of
Mel’s pies. Lemon, chocolate, and coconut cream.
Six inches high with creamy filling and fluffy
white meringue. “Sure,” I said and took the menu.
Okay, they had flambé, brûlée, and a torte,
but no pie.
Rolph returned. “Your order, sir?”
“Two tortes,” I replied, “and two cups of
coffee.” And off he went.
He returned with a dainty little cup about
the size of a big thimble. My heart sank as I
thought of the giant mugs of steaming coffee at
Mel’s. You could sit and drink all day for $1.95.
Here, I was paying $6 a gulp.
I turned to Rolph. “Do you give refills?”
Without even a nod he turned and walked away. I
think I was getting on his nerves.
He returned with our tortes. Do you know
what a torte is? Well, I didn’t either, but I soon
discovered it was a little square piece of pastry not
much larger than a postage stamp. It doesn’t even
have icing, but all kinds of colored syrup were
dribbled around
the
plate
in a
fancy
design.
Humph, must have been a Picasso torte. But what
good was it? The only way it could be eaten was
to lick it off the plate, and after what I’d seen so
far, I didn’t think that was an option.
Oh yeah. Presentation.
By the time I had paid my bill and tipped
Rolph and the valet, I had dropped a couple of cnotes. I could have eaten at Mel’s for two weeks
for that kind of money.
Probably won’t be back.
******************************************
An excerpt from
Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P
.
http://booksbybob.com/lady-justice-takes-acrap_308.html

Finally, after days of agonizing over airline
schedules, hotel reservations, and car rentals, it
was time to go.

Vince had the only vehicle big enough to
haul all
four
of us and our luggage, and he
volunteered to take us to the airport. Maggie had
spent the night so that she, Willie, and I could be
picked up at my apartment. We heard the
toot
from his horn,
grabbed our bags, and headed
downstairs.

Knowing my friends as I do, I should have
expected what was awaiting us on the front porch,
but it took us totally by surprise.

Dad, Bernice, Jerry, and the professor had
set up a
card table
with a
small cake
and
champagne.

Dad spoke first. “We may not be able to be
at the big shindig, but we sure as hell aren’t going
to let you get away without a proper sendoff.”

He raised his glass. “A toast to my son and
his lovely bride. First, let me say how proud I am
to have a son like you. I wasn’t a good dad, and I
know it. You probably turned out better than if I
was around. I weren’t a good husband, neither, so
I hope you learned from my mistakes and take
good care of this special lady.”

After his brief lapse into morality, Dad
reverted to his usual self. “At least I didn’t name
you Sue,” he said. He proceeded to tie tin cans to
Vince’s back bumper and placed a “Getting
Hitched” sign in the back window.

Then came the airport jokes.
The
professor
blessed
us
with
the
Confucius classic, “Man who fly upside down
have big crack up.”
Jerry, not to be outdone, droned, “A
vulture was boarding an airplane with two dead
raccoons. He was stopped at the gangway by a
flight attendant. ‘I’m sorry, sir; only one carrion
per passenger.’”
Once the toasting, joking, hugging, and
crying were dispensed with, we stowed the bags
and headed to the Three Trails to pick up Mary.
As expected, she was waiting for us on the
porch with—yikes!—four huge suitcases.
“Mary! What’s all of this?”
“It’s my stuff. We’re gonna be gone for
three weeks, and I gotta have my stuff.”
She
had more
than the rest of us put
together.
“One bag, Mary. That’s it.”
“Hell, I can’t get my underwear in just one
bag.”
I looked at Maggie. “This is your
department. I don’t know about women’s things,
but we’ve gotta have a shakedown.”
Maggie and Mary took the bags inside, and
after a prolonged struggle peppered with language
that would have made a sailor blush, they emerged
with one suitcase that probably weighed eighty
pounds. I
decided at that point
to utilize
the
curbside checkin. The skycaps aren’t as fussy
about weight if the tip is big enough.
Willie
had been unusually quiet, and I
noticed on the forty-five-minute drive
to the
airport that he sat rigid, fists clenched, staring
straight ahead. Instead of enjoying the trip to a
tropical paradise, he
was experiencing
what I
would imagine a convict would feel on his way to
the gas chamber.
We arrived at the airport, and after a bit of
wrangling with the skycap and a huge tip, we
made our way to the gate.
Naturally, the line
extended down
the
hallway.
I
took this opportunity
to educate
our
novice flyers on the security procedures instituted
after 9/11.
“You means I got to undress befo’ de let
me on de plane?” Willie said.
“Well, not everything, just your belt and
shoes and anything metal in your pockets.”
Maggie and I went first to show Willie and
Mary how it was done.
No problems.
Willie was next, and I heard him mutter,
“Dis is worse dan when I went to visit Louie de
Lip in county lockup.”
Three down, and one to go.
Mary placed her enormous purse on the
conveyor and stepped through the metal detector.
Brring!
The detector lit up like a Christmas
tree.
“Ma’am, would you step over here
please?”
Mary followed the slender TSA matron to
a small cubicle.
“Please stand on those footprints and raise
your arms.”
So far so good. Mary hadn’t threatened
anyone yet.
The TSA gal grabbed a wand and started
running it over Mary’s body. No problem until she
put the thing between Mary’s legs.
“Hey, girlfriend. You making a porno
movie or something? Hey! Get that thing out of
my—”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Walt, this skanky bitch is poking my
doodah with that dildo!”
“It’s okay, Mary. She’s just doing her job.”
The TSA gal ran the wand up Mary’s
torso. The wand came to life as it passed over
Mary’s chesticles.
“Ma’am, do you have anything metal on
your body?” She laid the wand down and started
feelingaround Mary’s protruding breasts.
“Walt! Now she’s feeling me up.” Then
she addressed the TSA matron. “Of course I got
on something metal. You don’t think these babies
perk out like that on their own, do you? You’re
feeling the wires in my pushup bra.”
Finally satisfied that Mary wasn’t a threat
to national security, she
directed her to the
conveyor belt.
A TSA guy pointed to a leather object that
could have doubled as a duffel bag. “Is this your
purse, ma’am?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“We’re going to have to take a
look
inside.”
Mary looked at me, and I just shrugged my
shoulders.
The
poor
inspector
started
unloading
Mary’s purse.
I doubt that Fibber McGee’s closet held as
much crap.
He held up a big bottle of Jergen’s lotion.
“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t take this on the plane.”
“But I have dry skin. Do you want me to
itch all the way to Hawaii?”
Then he held up a metal flask. “What’s in
here, ma’am?”
“That’s my medicine.”
“What is it for?”
“It keeps me calm.”
He unscrewed the lid and took a sniff.
“Smells a lot like vodka.”
“Yeah, but it sure keeps me calm.”
He just looked at Mary and shook his head.
By the time he was finished, Mary’s purse didn’t
weigh as much.
It was still about forty-five minutes before
boarding, so we found seats and busied ourselves
reading, all except Willie who stared transfixed at
the planes landing and taking off. I wondered if it
was any comfort that none of them had crashed so
far.
My
attention
was
diverted
from
my
reading by the emergence of another security guy
being led by a huge German shepherd on a leash.
The dog went from bag to bag sniffing
each one
for
explosives or drugs or other
contraband. He was totally focused on the carryon bags and seemed oblivious
to the people
around him until he came to me. After sniffing my
bag, he poked his big nose between my legs and
snorted.
What is it with big dogs and my crotch?
Finally, it was time to board.
The
desk girl started
barking boarding
orders, and we
dutifully
queued up in our
designated lines. Just
as we
were
about to
surrender our boarding passes, another TSA guy
approached me.
“Sir, has anyone put anything in your
luggage without your knowledge?”
I just stood there for a minute thinking
about his question.
“If it was without my knowledge, how
would I know?”
He was still thinking that one over as I
backed slowly away and boarded my flight.
I had booked the seats with Maggie and I
sitting across the aisle from Willie and Mary.
I whispered to Maggie, “Maybe I should
sit with Willie this first time. He’s kind of freaked
out.”
She agreed, and we swapped seats.
The huge jet engines roared to life, and the
flight attendants warned us of all
the terrible
things that could happen. The plane backed away
from the jet way and began to taxi down the
runway. There was a brief pause, and the plane
shuddered as the pilot goosed the engines for
takeoff.
I had briefed Willie about the barf bag, and
he clutched it tightly in his hand.
The big jet sprang forward and picked up
speed as it raced down the runway.
I looked at Willie. If there is such a thing
as a black man being white as a ghost, he was it.
His eyes were as big as saucers, and just as the
plane lifted off the ground, he grabbed my arm
and squeezed. It was all I could do not to scream. I
was sure it would leave a mark.
Finally, the plane leveled off, and Willie
released the death grip on my arm.
Presently, the
captain spoke
over the
intercom. “We have reached our cruising altitude
of thirty-two thousand feet. It should be a smooth
ride
to Dallas. The
temperature
in Dallas is
seventy-nine degrees with partly
sunny
skies.
Enjoy your flight.”
Willie whispered in my ear, “How much is
thirtytwo thousand feet?”
“That’s about six miles.”
“Up in de air?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Willie just closed his eyes, and I think he
was muttering a prayer.
The
flight
attendant
beverages were
to be
served.
reached Mary’s aisle, she ordered a diet coke. The
attendant was about to move on when Mary asked,
“What about nuts? Don’t I get a bag of nuts?”
announced
that
When the
cart
“No, ma’am, we don’t serve nuts
anymore.”
“Okay then, how about some pretzels?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Kansas City to Dallas
is a short flight, and we only serve beverages.”
“Well damn!”
Yes, Mary, flying ain’t what it used to be.
About a half hour into our flight, Mary
leaned over the aisle. “Walt, which way to the
can?”
I pointed the way, and Mary shuffled down
the aisle.
About ten minutes passed, and I heard a
loud buzzer at the rear of the plane. A man jumped
from his seat and headed toward the lavatory. I
looked back just in time to see Mary backed up
against the wall with the man in her face.
This couldn’t be good.
I unbuckled and made my way back just in
time to hear Mary declare, “I was not smoking.”
I tapped the man on the shoulder and Air
Marshal Grant turned to face me.
“You again!” He looked at Mary. “I
suppose this is one of yours.”
“Yes, Mary is with me. What in the world
did she do?”
“She set off the smoke detectors in the
lavatory. I thought the flight attendant made it
clear that this is a nonsmoking flight.”
“I already told you I don’t smoke.”
“Then what set off the smoke detectors?”
Mary looked sheepishly around. Of course
every eye on the plane was on her.
“It’s kind of personal.”
“Please elaborate,” Grant said.
“Well, if you must know, I took a dump.
When I was done, it was awful ripe in there, so I
just lit a match, you know, to get rid of the smell. I
knew there was people waiting to come in after
me. It was the polite thing to do.”
Grant just rolled his eyes.
“Here,” he said. “She’s all yours. Now you
owe me two.”
I thanked him, and as I herded Mary down
the aisle, I heard her mutter, “He probably thinks
his shit don’t stink.”