Slow Tuesday. I blame it on the Giraffe Party picnic.
I made the mistake of saying something along those lines to Keela Towne, who isn’t one. A Giraffe, I mean. Keela’s not a Donkey or an Elephant either. She's just about as independent as water.
“Blame, schmame! Anything goes the least bit awry and you gotta blame it on somebody or something. It’s a goddamn blame-a-thon these days.” I’m guessing that if the sun wasn’t already long gone, the Today Café sundial would be reading about nine-thirty pee em. Keela had just plunked her lanky frame down in the corner with the window that let’s you see a smidgen of Lone Raven Park. She’s a Licketyville native, among other things. One of those other things is that she’s a teacher at Licketyville High School. Yet another is that she’s a dyed-in-the-angora spinster.
“How about some fresh Cantilever Pie, Ms. Towne?” Maybe I could distract her and avoid a lecture on blame. Maybe I’ll win the lottery without ever buying a ticket.
“Since it’s such a blame-ishly slow Tuesday night, Mr. Table-Wiper, how about you stop wiping the table and split a piece with me? That way I only have to pay for what my diet will allow me to eat.” I was about to make a tepid protest about the bookkeeping difficulties of half-portions, when Keela winked at me, metered a dollop of honey into her voice and semi-whispered, “…AND, you’ll avoid my standard Blame vs Attribution diatribe.”
I believe I grinned out of sheer relief. “How about a whole Cantilever Pie? On the house? Hell, how about a dozen? Free delivery.”
Just so you know, in addition to her day classes in Applied Thinking, Keela Towne teaches a popular “History in the Making” continuing ed class, which is what she was doing a little earlier. About halfway through her half-slice, Keela said “I hear your sorry excuse for taking a weekend off was some silly writers conference in Yosemite.”
“Um-hmm,” I mumbled. The home-made caramel that glues the layers of Cantilever Pie together had momentarily glued my tongue to my front teeth.
“I also heard you came back full of piss and vinegar about writing more of that out-and-out nonsense you call fiction. And you took a nice literary agent named Kathleen to dinner. And that some cute-as-a-button writer-blogger who calls herself Edgy Mama put you up to starting a Today Cafe blog. Any truth to any of that? Do I need to get worried about having my sterling reputation as the oldest female curmudgeon in Licketyville tarnished, misapprehended or otherwise besmirched in your new blog? And how was Yosemite? I heard you rode your old motorcycle through Yosemite National Park and up over Tioga Pass on the way back to Licketyville.”
“Did you also hear I had to pay ten bucks just to ride through the park?”
“Nope, I didn’t hear that. But if that’s all you had to pay to see so much magnificent granite, don’t complain. As I remember it, Yosemite is humble-pie for the human soul. Much needed as a curative for the hubris that plagues humankind. And don’t go blaming the high price of Yosemite wayfaring on anything or anybody.” Did I catch a crinkly wink from one of those steel-gray eyes?
“No Giraffes in Yosemite, no blaming in Yosemite. That’ll be my motto for the rest of the evening, thanks to my favorite female curmudgeon. And the writers conference wasn’t any sillier than anything or anybody else I’m not blaming tonight.”
That stopped her.
QUOTE OF THE DAY: "Everybody lies, but it doesn't matter because nobody listens."
- - Nick Diamos
Enjoy Wednesdays. Always.
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