BREAKFAST
By
Ron Stover
Forward
All names have been changed to protect my friends. In a distant village live our
characters. A group of folks do meet
each Monday morning for breakfast.
Perhaps they are not artisans or plebeians. Reference to the church and the abbey are
fiction. If it were not for two
brothers, one living in the village and the other a father living at an abbey,
this story would have characters unknown to me.
Hopefully my references to Tony as duping locals into providing gifts
for him and his hound are not offensive.
As you read, remember Tony gives back in many ways.
The ladies of the group may not reflect the actual members
of the Monday breakfast club. My
introduction to the real gals and Tony’s retelling of their tales added to this
story. Again, I have no intention of
offering a picture of actual people, but a fictional story portraying residents
of a small town not very far from a major metropolitan center.
March 2013
Monday mornings are difficult for most
people, except for Tony. Tamara, his
dog, starts the morning covering Tony’s face with dog kisses and heavy paws to
Tony’s mid-section. The hound needs to
pee, so does Tony. It is time to get up
and start his Monday morning. Other than
being attacked by his dog; Monday mornings are special. For breakfast each Monday morning he meets a posse
of ladies down at the Biscuits in Town coffee shop. Since Tamara is always up early Tony has time
for coffee and his newspaper prior to meeting the gals. The paper is a few days old and so is the
news. Several other discarded newspapers
set stacked on his table. Each one
waits for him to solve their crossword puzzles.
This morning’s challenge is especially difficult. A eight letter word for ship’s mate has him
stumped. He referred to his nautical
guidebook, coming up with nothing.
The puzzle can wait, the posse can’t.
Tony enjoys the company of most individuals and the cliques
they may be a part of. Yet he doesn’t
understand how he becomes attached. Or,
why they affix themselves to him. There
are times when he wishes to be alone and other moments that he delights in
having company. The quandary is, to his
mind, how does he latch onto folks?
Tony’s attempts to foil relations with town folks usually fail. His joviality and gregariousness allows
local-yokels to establish a union. An
example is the union with the breakfast band.
He is familiar with them through encounters at village festivals and other
engagements. The truth is they are all
pet lovers and democratic (although there is one moderate). Baffling to Tony is that he owns a dog and
the others have cats. Tamara as a pup
had her nose gashed by a feral cat. Tony
and his dog avoid cats if possible.
Despite this conflict the members of the posse are all friends.
The origin of this alliance began at a farmers’ market. Outside town an abbey celebrates the
Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary by staging an outdoor farmers’ market and
art sale. It is during this August
festival he met the Breakfast Club ladies. Amongst the many booths on the midway these
gals hawk cat gear (is one able to use hawk and cat in same sentence without
describing a clash of sorts?). One of
the women sells t-shirts adorned with images of cats soaring through the cosmos,
hand crafted leather leashes are sold by another, and one other member peddles
handmade quilts stitched with cat images.
The fourth lady supports any vendor whose wares benefit a pet’s
existence. She is also a major donor to
the church.
When Tony moved into town he became an employee of the
Benedictine Abbey located at the foot of the mountains. The Benedictines as we all know must provide
for themselves: food, shelter, clothing, and vows. To provide for these rudiments, this band of
monks from a ceramics shop manufactures porcelain plaques of sacred
personages. The plaques with their
detailed relief figures are prized possessions and distributed worldwide. Tony entered the workshop as a secular
employee and remained there for many years.
Recently he has retired, but continues a relationship with the Abbey. Annually the Abbey sponsors a farmers’ market
with all proceeds going to the diocese.
Booths and stands are set up on the Abby’s lawn. Vendors sell produce, books, crafts and
art. The largest and most successful
stall is the one unloading the pious ceramics (unduly marked up to fatten the
church’s coffers).
Tony is not a vendor or customer; he wanders the midway as a
church official. The diocese has
ordained Tony as a Provisional Personal Prelate. As a prelate he is bound to facilitate the
market’s success, not spiritually, but financially. Not consecrated, Tony does not wear robe or
mitre, nor ecclesiastical heraldry. He
wears his usual overalls covering a spiffy t-shirt. As a courtier he roams the midway greeting
attendees and assisting merchants. His mission
is to promote contributions, establish merriment, and quip about church
officials. His banter and chuckles are
welcomed by the patrons. The clergy
embraces Tony for the bequests he has reaped.
From his mission he encountered these crusaders hawking tabby gear
(whoops, hawk and cat in the same sentence).
With his chores completed Tony climbs into his vehicle. This car is special, it was purchased to
accommodate Tony’s angular body and provide enough cargo space for Tamara, the Great
Dane. Tony’s vehicle resembles a
collection of boxes. Four boxes
accommodate the wheels. There is a box
for the engine, another for passengers and operator, an additional one for
cargo and Tamara. The vehicle is unique;
a cross between an SUV and a station wagon (motor trend critics refer to it as
a crossover). A perfect fit for Tony’s ample body. The
community is familiar with Tony’s vehicle; it is the only one for miles. The dog
is sequestered, and gate is closed. Tony inside his stack of boxes drives to the
Best Biscuits in Town café.
Prior
to reporting on the Monday morning breakfast a few notes about a typical country café. Country cafes are located next to minor
highways or part of main street USA. To
attract new customers some have upgraded into contemporary restaurants. These quasi rural restaurants fail. Natural wood, chrome and glass are not
country decor. Bucolic diners do not
serve crepes, organic vegetables, range eggs and lattes. These avant-garde cafes have waiters in black
sport shorts and white shirts who genuflect at the table assuming they are your
best friend. They are annoying! Missing from these pseudo country cafes is
the smell of fried grease, belly-fat bacon, and Folgers coffee. Country café’s signage does not advertise,
“Espresso Bar Inside!” Masculine, ceremonial
servers cannot replace a hurried waitress with her hair bun secured by a #2
pencil
Monday mornings at the local café
are slow. Sundays are busy at the “Best
Biscuits in Town” coffee shop. Tourists
and urbanites love to visit country cafes on Sunday mornings; it allows them to
distance themselves from their metropolitan lives. They are intrigued by the antiques adorning
country cafés. The odor of bacon grease
and hash browns appeals to metropolitans.
All of this fun is cheap. Next
Sunday the same pilgrims will visit a “greasy spoon” down the highway.
The eatery Tony is about to enter deserves a description. It is a joint that symbolizes a country café.
Only place in town that bakes biscuits
is the “Best Biscuits in Town” restaurant.
It is also the only establishment for a miles serving breakfast. Setting next to a secondary highway the Best
Biscuits is typical of a rustic joint serving biscuits and gravy. As one enters town a couple of roadside signs
invite motorists to a countrified café serving the best breakfast in town
(remember it is the only place in town serving breakfast). Another sign guarantees a “pastoral
experience.” A metropolitan family
hungry for a square meal decides to stop. Their sedan enters a gravel parking lot and
begins their pastoral experience. The
Best Biscuits displays shabby signage, weathered paint, and a parking lot
riddled with potholes. Regrettably, as
one enters its rustic charm dims. To
convince customers they have entered a true country café it adorns its walls
with marvels of local linage: wash board, gun stock, a hatchet. This “sentimental salvage” is lined up on greasy
shelves. On display are the ubiquitous
potato smasher, a garden trowel, and a broken colander. Shadow boxes contain ordinary stuff:
thimbles, a clump of dried weeds, a Boy Scout medal, a cork, and a skeleton
key. Hung on the walls are sepia-tone
photos labeled with the names of Grange officials. Interior decorating is accomplished with
scrap, castoffs, and potato smashers.
Walls are covered with faded wood panels and grunge. Ceiling vents are surrounded by soot.
Utensils and tableware never match. They evolved from indigenous kitchens and swap
meets. Typical table settings include a
plastic tumbler, a pseudo Currier and Ives plate, a fork with bent tines, and a
curio spoon from Mount Rushmore. Each
item doesn’t resemble any others on the table.
Dinnerware replacement occurs when the dishwasher breaks. Each employee ordered to scramble home or to
a second hand store scavenging for replacements. It is a wonder the county sanitary inspector
doesn’t take note.
Roadhouse cooks are pudgy, moist, and angry. White is not their best color. Usually under the white toque chef hat is a
bald head, the sweat ban is saturated (a tall Le Toque Blanche would be out of
the question for a country cook). A snap-tap
collared shirt acts as a chef’s jacket.
His smock soiled with muck. The
pseudo chef and his culinary frenzy are seen through a four foot by two foot
gap in the wall separating kitchen from dining room. This framed spectacle promises a meal straight
from a grill.
The framed cook guarantees the
orders are home-cooked. Country kitchens
are different from Diners. Diners are
those eight stool counters with the cook’s back to you frying up all
orders. He also acts as the waitress and
cashier. The cook is named Vic or
Danny. These are diners serving beef
hamburgers with shiny buns. Diners have
trained short-order cooks capable of whipping out in a single order pancakes,
burgers, and chili. Cooks in country
kitchens graduated from the Kitchen Aid griddle to the highway cookhouse. The oaf beyond the casement is proud to be on
display—do not request crepe Suzettes and chili on the same order.
Ever come to the
conclusion that the staffs in these cookeries are all related? The cook is the husband, wife is waitress,
and the busboy is a second cousin.
Somewhere washing and cleaning is an in-law. None of these family members like each
other. Locals imply if the staff settled
on a truce the quality of food would deteriorate (if that’s possible).
Del, the cook, is married to the waitress, Kate. Burt, a distant cousin, is the busboy and
dishwasher. They argue constantly. Kate yells at Del, not food orders, but
references to his demeanor. Del bellows
at Kate, “Hey pickup, before this crap gets cold.” Neither cook nor waitress
likes Burt; he is always missing when needed.
Hubel Guthrie has eaten here for years. Kate still doesn’t know his name. She refers to everyone as, “Darl’n.” Unknown travelers are greeted with, “Hey
Darl’n, sit wherever. Be with ya in a moment.” Kate never bothers to ask a patron their
name; she is busy holler’n at Del and Burt.
The standard pledge from country waitresses is, “…be with ya in a moment.” This pledge is always false; the “moment” is several
minutes, even if there is only one customer.
For instance, bustling about without delivering is part of Kate’s
routine. She is too busy haranguing the
staff. Ignoring any customers she plucks
the #2 pencil from her hair bun repeatedly scribbling messages, not food orders
(remember there is only one customer).
The restaurant supplier furnishes these #2 pencils. Suppliers understand that if it wasn’t for
these #2 pencils a waitress’ bee hive would fall into a customer’s eggs. While Kate is zipping around one realizes her
legs are not covered in support hose.
Her veracious veins are not appealing.
Customers avoid ordering pancakes dribbling blueberry syrup.
The Best Biscuits is Tony’s favorite café in
town. The other eatery, Camacho’s, serves
takeout Mexican food. One other
establishment sets on the edge of town, the local tavern. The Juniper Berry has a snack, lunch, and
dinner menu. Food is limited to
hamburgers, sandwiches, burritos, and several deep fried wonders. Menu items only taste delightful when
drinking beer or wine. Mathew and Curtis
operate the Juniper Berry. Mathew and
Curtis do not like each other. Their
wars are even more heated than those of Del and Kate’s. Tony likes Camacho’s and is not a steady at
the Juniper Berry. If a local is
yearning for better cuisine one must travel out onto the plains. The city there has four restaurants. One is a country café on Main Street. Another country café is on A Street. A Mexican cantina sits on the outskirts. A few clicks north of town is Brakke’s Steak
House.
Tony feels comfortable at Del and Kate’s. He doesn’t mind that the tables are not
level. All attempts of supporting the
legs with a stack of napkins have failed.
The chairs require cleaning. The
back rests are grimy. Tony’s overalls
prevent grime from smudging his spiffy t-shirts. The floor is sticky. If the goo becomes severe customers walk
outside for a layer of absorbent dust on their boots.
On Mondays, without the adventurers, the parking lot has
plenty of room. Tony is able to tell
which breakfast club members are inside.
One drives an old Buick festooned with meow stickers in the rear window
and bumper stickers endorsing pet safety.
The pickup with the mismatched doors and fenders belongs to another
feline champion. A peculiar import faces
the driveway. Its grill is adorned with
shields from sovereign countries—none recognizable. The bumper is equipped with a license plate resembling a baseball score board. Intrigued, Tony asked its owner (a cat lover,
of course) if all those emblems and identifications signify the attaché from
Fredonia is within. The owner did not
appreciate the jest. The last vehicle is
a new model import of large dimensions, brilliantly polished and should not be
parked at the “Best Biscuits in Town.”
All of the members are accounted for. Tony unfolds from his boxes to enjoy his
friends and a “country” meal.
Besides the Best Biscuits short comings, Tony enjoys his
rendezvous with the girls and a bite to eat.
He orders Cream of Wheat and raisins; the order is cheap and doesn’t
confuse the staff. The girls order from a
limited menu. There are two types of
omelets, two pancake dishes, two meat sides, Cream of Wheat, and two versions
of toast—pale or burnt. The gals mix up
the menu each visit making the experience more tolerable. Tony and ladies are here to enjoy the company
and not the food. Conversations center
on pet topics, followed by gossip. If
the dialogue veers from the typical they tell stories of their by-gone
days.
Most have a common story line: members of radical factions,
braided hair, explored delusionary potions, intoned hari chrishna, and lived as
plebeians. The survivors migrated to
quaint settlements. These fugitives embarked
on new lives as artisans. They prefer
native crafts, bizarre art, or write poetry on parchment: all the while
listening to their cherished Juthro Tull and Janice Joplin records. Some have formed a mercantile to sell or
trade their crafts. If one is willing to
wander through a haze of patchouli incense and other olfactory sensations these
New Age bazaars offer an assortment of hodgepodge and gewgaws—as the word
implies, all useless.
Three breakfast club members belong to this band of
Aquarians, except Tony. Tony loves art,
music, books, domesticated animals, and cross word puzzles (5 letter word for
cook’s hat?). He doesn’t paint or weave. As previously mentioned, he managed the
ceramics shop at the Abbey. About as
close as he came to being an artisan. The
Abby that operates the shop decided to cut costs through a staff reduction—Tony. He was retired; details blow. With his new life he mingles with locals,
artisans, poets, and pet lovers.
Tony enjoys meeting with these ladies from the Age of
Aquarius. He in a previous life
circulated with a flock of reactionaries. He wandered the streets of Haight
Ashbury. This pilgrimage ended when he visited
a private club. Lounging naked on a
divan were mammoth ladies huddled together stroking each other. Tony decided whatever he was smoking or
ingesting led to undesirable hallucinations (the fat ladies were not
mirages). He packed his smalls into a
ditty bag and moved south several hundred miles. He located his brother in an Abbey and the
fathers cleansed Tony of his debaucheries.
He returned the Abbey’s favor by producing pious artifacts. After many
years of production the cost of clay became a factor. Tony hatched a cost saving scheme by omitting
halos from commemorative tablets of saints and angels, thus reducing the amount
of clay. It went unnoticed until the
Archbishop discovered the halo missing from his royal head. Tony was offered retirement.
Janice is a member of the Monday Morning Breakfast
Club. She lives a few houses down the
street from Tony. Together they monitor
the activities of the neighborhood, especially Janice. If any event is out of the ordinary, Janice
will contact Tony and inform him of the abnormality; followed by a discussion
about the event. Fire engines, police
activity, wandering pedestrians, and naturally stray pets all will launch a
call to Tony. Since these are worth
noting, Tony, will listen and reaffirm to Janice that all is well. Tony’s home sits a few yards from the road
and is situated on a small knoll providing him with a crow’s nest for
surveillance. He enjoys sitting at his
dining room table and the large window offers him a panoramic view. He is able to observe all goings and
comings. Because of his crow’s nest,
Janice is certain Tony witnesses all proceedings along the street.
Janice is the organizer of the club. She confirms who will attend and if the club
will cancel. Each Monday morning she calls
Kate down at the Best Biscuits and reserve a long table for six. The sixth seat is reserved for any guesses.
Years ago Janice had a calling to sacrifice
her soul to the church. She entered a seminary and began theological
studies. From these lessons she reckoned
that the scriptures, Christ and his disciples snubbed animals in order to save
the souls of mortals. Her only biblical
hero was Noah. Janice hung up her habit
and wimple, bid adieu to the Holy Mother and hired on with a pet store. To encourage all people to love God’s
creatures she became of member of “Nat Cat” (National Cat Protection
Society). To seal her membership she
placed her cats in the Nat Cat’s Lifetime Care Program which ensures medical
care and a pleasurable retirement for felines (cremation is an additional rider
in the policy).
In Janice’s spare time her and another Nat Cat member
organized a company producing t-shirts that combine celestial and feline
designs. The motifs radiate visions of
sanctified cats floating amongst the cosmos.
Gibson, the artist, divulges that these images as an aura of bestial and
scriptural balance. The art work is very
unique (Gibson, lives insulated from his neighbors cloistered in a hut
surrounded by brush and boulders) and printed on a t-shirt they are one of a
kind items sold exclusively at the diocese’s market. Through the sales of these garments Janice
met the other members of the Breakfast Club.
A conversation with
Janice usually begins with any scuttlebutt floating around the community.
“Two Sheriff’s
patrol cars stopped at Jeannie and Donald’s place the other day. They always seem to be causing trouble. Probably a drug bust.”
“I don’t think so, Janice.” Tony explains. “They reported a theft. Part of their stove wood was stolen. Besides, they are not dope dealers. Donald works for the county road department.”
“Well then it must be their kid cause’n trouble. I just know it.” Most of Janice’s stories are
formulated from conjecture.
One day Tony realized each lady’s name is astrological,
belonging to Aquarius. Their birthdays
do not match the dates of an Aquarius, but their names are listed under the
sign of Aquarius. Tony supposes that all
of the ladies could be Water Carriers, friendly, humanitarian, honest and
loyal. Each one is independent, but not
necessarily intellectual.
One of the members lurks on the dark side of Aquarians. She is gracious, can be perverse and
unpredictable, unemotional and detached.
Simone is a curious creature compared to the others. Most of the members are outspoken, but
congenial. Whereas Simone is quiet and
appears to be indifferent. Yet she is
very pleasant and kind. Tony doesn’t
think Simone is her legal name, she resembles a lynx living alone shying away
from the locals who may identify her and discover her past. She reminds Tony of a slithery creature he
met in Haight-Ashbury during the New Age.
Tall and slender with long grey hair.
At her forehead are two fringes which peak into points, resembling lynx
ears. From her ears hang Zuni symbols
and from her shoulders drapes a poncho.
Although she could be a local siren, she remains at her compound with
her cat and sits cross legged on the floor.
Inside one of her shelters Simone braids leather animal leashes. Each lead is distinct from the others. The designs resemble Indian bolos with silver
and turquois ties and clasps. These
beautiful handmade leashes are also sold at the church market. As she braids a bundle of leads, Simone will
travel the pet trade show circuit dealing out merchandise. Where ever Simone sets up shop her leashes
are very popular. Pet owners and
artisans hover around her stall. It is
not unusual for the admirers to clog the flow of customers on the midway. Tony believes many of Simone’s fans are
casting their eyes on her and not the leads.
One of the advantages of being a Prelate, he wanders about the stalls
passing by Simone’s many times and joining the crowd. He stands aside gazing askance at Simone, “I
know I’ve seen her strolling through the streets many years ago. What a magical creature.”
Over the years aging Baby Boomers plunge back to the hey-days
of love, peace and war. Ponytails,
sandals, beards and beads have returned to replace suits, khakis and
wingtips. They have separated from
suburbia and migrated to the hinterlands.
They have landed in small burgs that cater to trust babies, democrats
and artisans. Arlyn is one of these
transplants. If you pour her enough
coffee she will tell the group about her life “down below” (the metropolis
several miles south of the Best Biscuits).
Arlyn graduated from a respectable school, entered corporate America,
was a successful marketing agent and lived on the “bluffs.” Frustrated with charlatans, she tossed away her
brief case for a canvas tote; her Black Berry’s life ended in a blender. She disposed of a Cadillac for a ripened import
resembling an envoy’s vehicle and plopped down in the country. The Aquarian name of Arlyn denotes a person
with white hair and is fair skinned.
This is Arlyn, fair and wispy.
Even though she appears meek and subtle, she is not. Her blouses fit loosely and are blazoned with
scenes of mythology, Eros, nymphs and centaurs.
Gossamer feathers float down from her lobes and exposed skin reveals
mythical tattoos dancing across her fair skin.
Arlyn is liberal and likes to cuss. She dislikes politicians and civil
servants. When she first arrived in the
country she raised goats. Soon she realized
how disturbing the smell of rams were during mating season, the buck’s beards
dripping with doe urine…yuk. Her goat
farming primer ignored the process of buck verses doe during mating season. The large coffee table book, “Goats in Your
Backyard” did not approach the subject.
Arlyn read the book and looked at
the photos deciding that once she ended her professional career, raising goats
would satisfy her desire to be agrarian
As she says, “I got rid of the fucking goats.” And now volunteers her time at a feline
sanctuary. Arlyn joined a bevy of
maidens who patch together kitty themed quilts.
They gather a few bolts and sell them at the diocese flee market. The quilting crew makes their best money
when they sell the kitty quilts at a “Farmers’ Market” in the city (down
below). City dwellers are pushovers at
these markets; they will buy anything “rural.”
Curios they purchase are displayed as an agrarian original. Next they
brag about how they haggled for a lower price and conned the bumpkin. Yet, Arlyn sells the quilts at the Farmer’s
Market for five times the flea market price.
Arlyn’s membership stems from her associations with pets.
“Arlyn how was the
Farmers’ Market?”
“Wonderful, sold some fancy bitch in a Range Rover two
quilts for five hundred bucks. She told a
few other old biddies and we sold the whole lot. Each old bag telling me how beautiful the
quilts will look on their granddaughter’s bed.
Granddaughters indeed! They will
all grow up to be whores and shot-out bitches.
What a bunch of crap. I could sell
goat piss in a Mason jar to those dolts.”
Flogging hipsters stimulates her.
The final member of the club arrives. Which is fortunate, one of those fancy dolts
is stepping through the door. She did
not hear Arlyn’s story.
“Good morning everyone, sorry I am late. Sparkles and Pico ran out the French doors
and onto the fourth fairway. Juan, our
gardener, ran after them. When he caught
up with them poor Pico had a broken golf tee in his little paw. Just now I was in my car speaking to Dr.
Lefton, Sparkles and Pico’s vet. The paw
will be fine. ”
“Told you a million times you need one of Simone’s leashes
to harness those two pussies.” Tony
doesn’t refrain from what he is thinking.
“Oh what the hell.”
Arlyn horns in, “Let the little darlings stretch their legs once in a while,
for Christ sakes.”
“I can’t have them scurrying about the golf course. They could be run over by one of the greens
keeper’s gang mowers.” A deep sigh,
“Good God, I can’t imagine.”
Arlyn, “Lynn, you were told that Pico was going to be a bit
feral when you brought him home from Feline Rescue Center.”
Another deep sigh from Lynn. “I know, but he is so
charming.” More sighs.
“Oh bullshit! That
cat should be allowed to wander the creek bed, let the coyotes have him for
lunch.” Arlyn is truthful.
“But, Arlyn, that isn’t very fair of you?” Janice says, “The animal control agents may
become involved. Right Tony?”
“What the hell does that mean, control agents hunting down
Pico?” Tony says to himself, he avoids
the conversation. “Kate more coffee!”
Time for Simone to offer some consolation, “Arlyn, give Lynn
a break. Whether Pico is a pain or not,
he is a little creature who requires shelter and tenderness.”
Arlyn smirks. Janice
is on her smart phone, she Googles Dr. Lefton.
“Oh Christ on a crutch!
These women…Jesus!” Tony mumbles
into his Cream o’ Wheat. Time for a
change, “Hey, let’s lay off Pico. Did you know that Father Padilla Rivera has
been transferred to Louisiana?”
Janice again has her nose in her smart phone, “Yes the good
Father is relocating to St. Joseph Abbey.
He is assisting them through their ongoing lawsuit.” [i]
Tony, “I believe that is the Benedictine order that supports
itself by building handmade caskets.”*
Arlyn’s laments, “Sweet Mother of Christ, and I hope they
put themselves in the boxes they build.”
Tony and Simone give her the finger, Lynn snivels. Janice is in her phone again searching how
monks are buried.
Down the highway from the Best Biscuits lays a community inhabited by retired executives and prominent locals. Winding through arroyos, oak trees, and a mountain stream, the Golden Oaks provides serenity for its residents. Laying at the foot of the mountains the Oak’s golf course weaves amongst homes and navigates around barrancas. The Golden Oaks is an emerald set in the wilds. Or if you are a member of the breakfast club, they tout it as a diamond in a goat’s butt.
Down the highway from the Best Biscuits lays a community inhabited by retired executives and prominent locals. Winding through arroyos, oak trees, and a mountain stream, the Golden Oaks provides serenity for its residents. Laying at the foot of the mountains the Oak’s golf course weaves amongst homes and navigates around barrancas. The Golden Oaks is an emerald set in the wilds. Or if you are a member of the breakfast club, they tout it as a diamond in a goat’s butt.
Here is where Lynn and her husband live. He golfs, plays poker in the Centurion
Lounge, and attends regional preservation conferences. Lynn’s days are spent at the club eating
lunch, or participating in bridge tournaments.
Other afternoons she attends tea socials at Mrs. Van der Hoffs
chateau. Several years ago Lynn, to
confirm her benevolence, joined the diocese’s Pastoral Service Corp. The Corp helps to organize the annual
farmers’ market and other charitable events.
Through her association with the Corp she has known Tony for years. Lynn, also, has purchased a huge collection
of hand crafted leads and kitty quilts.
At Janice’s pet store she purchases gourmet pet food for her cats,
Sparkles and Pico. Through her
generosity, plus Lynn’s goodwill to all animals great and small, she was
invited to join the Breakfast Club.
Lynn probably never considered Astrological hooey, however
the egalitarians of the Club knows the name Lynn means waterfall. And, Lynn cascades with decadence and
bounty. The democrats of the breakfast
club know Lynn is compassionate towards animals, allowing her entry. Besides she endorses all the vendors at the Abby’s
market spending lavishly on curios and bangles.
In addition each day of the market Lynn purchases a novelty designed to
pamper her cats. The church worships
her monetary contributions.
That new model import of large dimensions, brilliantly
polished belongs to Lynn. She dresses
conservatively and crisply, fine jewelry adorns her neck and ears, hair always
freshly coiffed. The other girls provide
Tony with cross word puzzles from local rags and pet journals, whereas Lynn
passes along fresh Wall Street Journals and Barons—donated from the country
club’s Centurion Lounge.
Lynn, as one would suspect, rarely participates in the
banter during breakfast. She inquires
about pet care and which local artist would paint Pico’s portrait. Unfamiliar
subjects are usually clarified by Lynn.
If the conversation becomes stalled, she stimulates the dialog with
dignified tittle-tattle.
Del and Kate have been bribed to whip up a delicate omelet
for her. During her first visit she
asked Kate if they served scones or crapes.
Kate wasn’t amused, not because she thought Lynn was highfalutin; Kate
believed scones and crapes were purchased at the feed store. At times Lynn will offer to pay for
everyone’s breakfast. This bonus is a
proposition attempting to recruit volunteers into the Corp. Or to solicit an escort to Gibson’s hut. Lynn fancies the artist to merge Pico’s
likeness into one of his celestial paintings.
Once Arlyn, entrusted with this bidding of Lynn’s, informed Janice if
Gibson does decorate a t-shirt with this portrayal of Pico floating in the
heavens, that Lynn could sell a few hundred to the denizens of the Golden Oaks.
Tony values Lynn’s friendship and dedication to all of God’s
creatures. His one apprehension with
Lynn is her esteemed status throughout the region. He knows that during one of these breakfasts
a hack from the local tabloid will barge in taking photos and demanding
interviews. During this fiasco Lynn,
attempting to be incognito, will be disguising herself as a lost tourist. Then
an article about these hags will be published in Sunday’s restaurant section. Once, Tony mentioned his fear to Del. Del thought it would be good for business,
the Best Biscuits featured in Sunday’s “Places to Dine.”
“Christ Del!” Tony
should not have mentioned this to Del, “You don’t even serve dinner.”
It is difficult to disguise ones heritage or financial
linage living in a village. Inhabitants
mingle frequently and talk even more. Within
the village there are a few locations designated for scuttlebutt: church, The
Best Biscuits, The Juniper Berry Tavern, Gil and Tilly’s front yard, and finally
the Sage and Butte Country Store. As a
convenience to villagers the market, post office, and gasoline station are
confined to one establishment, the Sage and Butte. Geezers and loafers (referred to as cracker
barrel bums) congregate on the market’s porch spying on everyone. From this network all residents know about
lives and ancestors, those who work and those who don’t, plus villagers who are
feeble or frauds. After shopping Tony
and Tamara will join the alliance.
While the assemblage is nattering, Tony adds his hearsay while waiting
for a snoop to offer a cigarette and a jerky butt for Tamara. Though insolvent themselves these agents feel
compelled to share. Tony counters with
chuckles and affection. Tamara provides
comfort and spit. Tony enjoys the cracker
barrel bums. His dread is eventually he
may become one of them, not through lack of friends, but if his pension is
annulled, he will exist by handouts. As
he says, “A loafing geezer is a horrible disease.”
The pension Tony is provided allows for a stable life. His home is his salvation, Tamara his comrade,
his bric-a-brac collect his solace. The
void in his pocket book doesn’t allow him amusements which are taken for granted
by most; such as a daily newspaper or membership in the Book of the Month
Club. A padre discussed with him how to
pretend the role of a mendicant. This is
a charade the vicar adopts to persuade parishioners into boosting their
tithing. Tony took away a small portion
of this advice, but his idea of being poor is to give back when something is
received. Tony’s reciprocates with
reverent counsel, tidbits for the hungry, and transportation for those with
none. Granted Tony is not destitute; his
meager pension allows for a good life, but no extras. To acquire a few extras he will play the
mendicant soul. His masquerade provides
him with his cross word puzzles—whose only victims are the Centurion Lounge members.
Two other deceptions of Tony’s are his hunger pains and his
devotion to the church. His hunger builds
each Tuesday; a day he receives a free dinner.
These evenings the Abby provides diner for the padres and other
ecclesiastics. The feast is prepared by
members of the Pastoral Corp and other parishioners. He feels he must embrace this calling to
ensure his annuity (plus appease his anger).
If the church cancels his pension, then he will be a permanent member of
the Cracker Barrel Mob. As a Provisional
Personal Prelate he is always welcome to the dinners. Tony’s ruse as a devotee of the church
delivers him a square meal; fidelity towards the Priesthood is subordinate. The food is filling and the banter provides
amusement. There is one snag
though. Once a month the staff from the
Best Biscuits works in the kitchen. On this evening Tony remains home and eats
a bowl of Cream o’ Wheat.
Back to the breakfast club:
“Did you see on Pet Exchange Television (PET) that Connie’s
Cat Plus giblets have been recalled for unspecified ingredients? I can’t believe this, what next.” Lynn is not accustomed to change.
“No way, I just bought a twenty pound bag!” Simone exclaims.
Tony should care less if gourmet cat food has been recalled,
“This is one reason I stick to Purina.”
“You have no idea what is in that shit?” Arlyn harps, “Are you aware what this crap is
doing to your dog’s insides? Christ
Tony, I thought you loved Tamara!”
“Oh bugger off, she probably eats worse crap out in the
yard. Besides the stuff is cheap and she
eats it. Anyways, what about Connie’s Cat Plus, it’s been
recalled?”
Time for Janice to join in, “I only feed Casper a special
blend from Germaine’s Earth Only.”
Lynn, “Oh yes, only pure processed whole food products for
Sparkles and Pico. Especially little
Pico, he is very finicky.”
“Come on! Pico will
eat anything.” Arlyn finds little Pico
disgusting. “Haven’t you seen him dig up
breaded dung rolls out of the sand traps?”
“You’re mean Arlyn.”
Lynn is very protective of Pico.
“Well sure thing Janice and Lynn.” Simone reacts, “Most of us can’t afford
Germaine’s. What do you pay, five dollar
a portion? What a shame, I’ve trusted
Connie’s Cat Plus for years. It’s the
only food Dumpy will eat. Well, I guess
I’ll have to drive into the city and visit Janice’s store. Blazes, twenty pounds!”
Tony inquires, “I am not sure how you guys justify all this
nonsense about cat food. Money, money,
money! Yet those damn cats of yours
crawl around with hand crafted leather leashes and sleep on hand stitched
quilts. What’s next? Probably bring home some of those crates with
grass tuffs growing out of them.” Tony
is on a roll, “Guess what? According to
the Pet Exchange Television that grass is seeded in a third world country, fertilized
with crap we’ve never even heard of!”
Actually the PET cable station did not report this; Tony is playing one
of his ploys.
“Shit! Probably uses
night soil?” Arlyn interjects, “I bought
some of that cat grass.” She gestures to
Tony, “I’ll give you the grass for Tamara.
She can dump a turd on the stuff. May be it’ll grow an extra foot.”
Simone believes a Great Dane’s digestive system will survive
tainted cat food. “Tony, let Tamara eat
the twenty pounds of giblets. Dumpy has
a few spare meals until I stop by Janice’s store.”
Triumph! A couple of
freebies! Tony’s gambit was
successful. More so, because it was
harmless—those beastly cats won’t starve.
Everyone laughs and then the gals flip off Tony—except Lynn. The meeting is now adjourned. They bid Dale and Kate farewell, and are
ushered outside by Tony before Kate begins to grumbles over pancake mix
prices. Tony agrees to follow Simone and
Arlyn to pick up the grass and food.
Lynn sprints out of the parking lot ahead of the others. She is dodging
the dust churned up by the mish-mash vehicles.
Later in the afternoon Tony arrives home. Tamara barks and scampers about greeting Tony
and his Rubik’s Cube car. Tony parks, unloads
twenty pounds of pet food and a few grass divots. Tamara is very happy. So is
Tony. He summons visions of Simone
slinking through the streets of San Francisco.
“What a magical creature.”
* * * * * *
[i] History lesson: 1600 years
ago Benedict of Nursia founded an order of monks. He taught them to put bread on their table
through the labor of their own hands. As
an example the Benedictines of Nursia build handcrafted simple wooden caskets
and sells them to the public (the Louisiana State Board of Funeral Directors is
suing the monks since they do not have a license to construct caskets. To qualify they would have to turn their
monastery into a funeral home. At least
one monk would be required to spend years training to become a licensed funeral
director). At the abbey Tony worked they
support themselves through the sale of porcelain plaques.
The
Wall Street Journal. “A Casket Cartel and the Louisiana Way of Death.” March 23, 2013.
8 letter word for shipmate: coxswain
