nightmares, we can’t look into our own eyes except by indirection, perhaps because we fear discovering that therein lie the worst monsters plaguing us.
Viola’s face, sweet as milk chocolate, was now distorted by a beseeching expression. “Tell me the truth, Odd. Do you see death in me?”
I didn’t say to her that death lies dormant in each of us and will bloom in time.
Although not one small detail of Viola’s future, whether grim or bright, had been revealed to me, the delicious aroma of my untouched cheeseburger induced me to lie in order to get on with lunch: “You’ll live a long happy life and pass away in your sleep, of old age.”
“Really?”
Smiling and nodding, I was unashamed of this deception. For one thing, it might be true. I see no real harm in giving people hope. Besides, I had not sought to be her oracle.
In a better mood than she’d arrived, Viola departed, returning to the paying customers.
Picking up my cheeseburger, I said to Terri, “October 23, 1958.”
“Elvis was in the army then,” she said, hesitating only to chew a bite of her grilled-cheese sandwich. “He was stationed in Germany.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“The evening of the twenty-third, he went into Frankfurt to attend a Bill Haley concert.”
“You could be making this up.”
“You know I’m not.” Her crisp dill pickle crunched audibly when she bit it. “Backstage, he met Haley and a Swedish rock-’n’-roll star named Little Gerhard.”
“Little Gerhard? That can’t be true.”
“Inspired, I guess, by Little Richard. I don’t know for sure. I never heard Little Gerhard sing. Is Viola going to be shot in the head?”
“I don’t know.” Juicy and cooked medium-well, the meat in the cheeseburger had been enhanced with a perfect pinch of seasoned salt. Poke was a contender. “Like you said, dreams are just dreams.”
“She’s had things hard. She doesn’t need this.”
“Shot in the head? Who
does
need it?”
“Will you look after her?” Terri asked.
“How would I do that?”
“Put out your psychic feelers. Maybe you can stop the thing before it happens.”
“I don’t have psychic feelers.”
“Then ask one of your dead friends. They sometimes know things that are going to happen, don’t they?”
“They’re generally not friends. Just passing acquaintances. Anyway, they’re helpful only when they want to be helpful.”
“If I was dead, I’d help you,” Terri assured me.
“You’re sweet. I almost wish you were dead.” I put down the cheeseburger and licked my fingers. “If somebody in Pico Mundo is going to start shooting people, it’ll be Fungus Man.”
“Who’s he?”
“Sat at the counter a while ago. Ordered enough food for three people. Ate like a ravenous swine.”
“That’s my kind of customer. But I didn’t see him.”
“You were in the kitchen. He was pale, soft, with all rounded edges, like something that would grow in Hannibal Lecter’s cellar.”
“He put off bad vibes?”
“By the time he left, Fungus Man had an entourage of bodachs.”
Terri stiffened and looked warily around the restaurant. “Any of them here now?”
“Nope. The worst thing on the premises at the moment is Bob Sphincter.”
The real name of the pinchpenny in question was Spinker, but he earned the secret name we gave him. Regardless of the total of his bill, he always tipped a quarter.
Bob Sphincter fancied himself to be two and a half times more generous than John D. Rockefeller, the oil billionaire. According to legend, even in the elegant restaurants of Manhattan, Rockefeller had routinely tipped a dime.
Of course in John D’s day, which included the Great Depression, a dime would purchase a newspaper and lunch at an Automat. Currently, a quarter will get you just a newspaper, and you won’t want to read anything in it unless you’re a sadist, a masochist, or a suicidally lonely wretch desperate to find true love in the personal ads.
Terri said,
Viola’s face, sweet as milk chocolate, was now distorted by a beseeching expression. “Tell me the truth, Odd. Do you see death in me?”
I didn’t say to her that death lies dormant in each of us and will bloom in time.
Although not one small detail of Viola’s future, whether grim or bright, had been revealed to me, the delicious aroma of my untouched cheeseburger induced me to lie in order to get on with lunch: “You’ll live a long happy life and pass away in your sleep, of old age.”
“Really?”
Smiling and nodding, I was unashamed of this deception. For one thing, it might be true. I see no real harm in giving people hope. Besides, I had not sought to be her oracle.
In a better mood than she’d arrived, Viola departed, returning to the paying customers.
Picking up my cheeseburger, I said to Terri, “October 23, 1958.”
“Elvis was in the army then,” she said, hesitating only to chew a bite of her grilled-cheese sandwich. “He was stationed in Germany.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“The evening of the twenty-third, he went into Frankfurt to attend a Bill Haley concert.”
“You could be making this up.”
“You know I’m not.” Her crisp dill pickle crunched audibly when she bit it. “Backstage, he met Haley and a Swedish rock-’n’-roll star named Little Gerhard.”
“Little Gerhard? That can’t be true.”
“Inspired, I guess, by Little Richard. I don’t know for sure. I never heard Little Gerhard sing. Is Viola going to be shot in the head?”
“I don’t know.” Juicy and cooked medium-well, the meat in the cheeseburger had been enhanced with a perfect pinch of seasoned salt. Poke was a contender. “Like you said, dreams are just dreams.”
“She’s had things hard. She doesn’t need this.”
“Shot in the head? Who
does
need it?”
“Will you look after her?” Terri asked.
“How would I do that?”
“Put out your psychic feelers. Maybe you can stop the thing before it happens.”
“I don’t have psychic feelers.”
“Then ask one of your dead friends. They sometimes know things that are going to happen, don’t they?”
“They’re generally not friends. Just passing acquaintances. Anyway, they’re helpful only when they want to be helpful.”
“If I was dead, I’d help you,” Terri assured me.
“You’re sweet. I almost wish you were dead.” I put down the cheeseburger and licked my fingers. “If somebody in Pico Mundo is going to start shooting people, it’ll be Fungus Man.”
“Who’s he?”
“Sat at the counter a while ago. Ordered enough food for three people. Ate like a ravenous swine.”
“That’s my kind of customer. But I didn’t see him.”
“You were in the kitchen. He was pale, soft, with all rounded edges, like something that would grow in Hannibal Lecter’s cellar.”
“He put off bad vibes?”
“By the time he left, Fungus Man had an entourage of bodachs.”
Terri stiffened and looked warily around the restaurant. “Any of them here now?”
“Nope. The worst thing on the premises at the moment is Bob Sphincter.”
The real name of the pinchpenny in question was Spinker, but he earned the secret name we gave him. Regardless of the total of his bill, he always tipped a quarter.
Bob Sphincter fancied himself to be two and a half times more generous than John D. Rockefeller, the oil billionaire. According to legend, even in the elegant restaurants of Manhattan, Rockefeller had routinely tipped a dime.
Of course in John D’s day, which included the Great Depression, a dime would purchase a newspaper and lunch at an Automat. Currently, a quarter will get you just a newspaper, and you won’t want to read anything in it unless you’re a sadist, a masochist, or a suicidally lonely wretch desperate to find true love in the personal ads.
Terri said,
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