Our Different Words

I was walking down the street on a Thursday night, definitely knackered from a crazy night at work. The streets were quiet and deserted. Most of the buildings loomed as dark, silent witnesses, bending their necks to try to catch a glimpse of the warmth; like the soft, buttery glow of that bled into the street from Suzy’s Kitchen

The diner was sparsely populated with some wonkey looking characters. I took a seat at the counter next to a couple of hippies.

“whadda’ya have?” asks the waitress.

“Something with caffeine,” I reply.

“You can stand a spoon up in the coffee,” she says. “You want it?”

“Definitely.”

Turning to me, the hippie man says, “You look like you could use some happy, summer colors in your life.”

“I don’t go out for all that bubbly crap,” I say.

“I’m talking the kind of bubbles you get between your toes at the beach, friend,” he smiles back. “You look like you need a day off.”

“Maybe,” I allow. “But nobody else is gonna pay my bills for me. You wanna get by, you gotta do it yourself. You can’t count on nobody but you.”

“Fungo.” my furry friend replies. “A nasty concept if ever I heard one. Why take it all on your shoulders? Why not cut yourself some slack?”

“I got kids,” I say. “Gotta support ‘em somehow. No, I think I better keep ole nose to the grindstone.”

“Hey, we got little goobers at home, too. Aint that right. Sugar?”

“That’s right, Monkey-darlin’,” she says, dreamily. “And crazy little terrors they are, too.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” I say, with strained patience. “But I hope that you won’t find me rude in saying that I have nothing but disdain for your crazy, hippie subversion. I’m an American, damnit. No, there’s no way I could support my family on whatever it is that you two pull in.”

Sugar looks up again. “You are laboring under the assumption that our lifestyle is indicative of poverty, man,” she says. “It doesn’t work that way. We live in a community. What comes around goes around. Everything is cyclical. We make it with alittle help from our friends.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, But I think I’d rather tongue-kiss a badger,” I say evenly. “I think it’s about time I hit the old, dusty trail. Waitress, how much do I owe ya for the coffee?”

The grizzled-old waitress saunters over. “Here ya go, Hun,” she says with a smile. She hands me the ticket. Scrawled all across the front is a phone number and a little message: Call me sometime, Sweetness. XOXO, Margaret.

“Nooo,” I state, flatly.

Rising to leave, I slap some cash down on the counter and get the Hell out of there.