Why Hell Still Hath No Soap

Hope your Thursday is calmer than our Wednesday was.

Henry Cavett’s corner is over by the front window. Right now his face is hidden behind this week’s Licketyville Atom. In a few minutes he’ll fold the paper neatly, wipe his brow, shake his Einstein-like salt-and-pepper mop twice and make to get up. Then he’ll sit back down and look over at me with that raised-eyebrow look that means he wants something.

If Henry points a finger at his mouth, that’s a signal that I’m supposed to tempt him with something from the bakery counter. Henry’s not too good with decisions. I’ve seen him take ten minutes to decide whether a ginger-bacon scone or a peach and cream cheese Danish would be more to his liking. So we have this unspoken agreement now that I just bring him whatever I feel like bringing him. Nine times out of ten, that’s the way it goes.

But not yesterday. Yesterday Henry knocked on the wall behind him. That means he wants me to bring him the Wall Street Journal. Wall, get it?

Henry’s on disability and he’s got time on his hands. Pretty much every morning in that easy-going time between about nine and eleven he’s in his corner. Likes to leave before the lunch crowd comes in. If it’s a Wall Street Journal day like yesterday, it might be 11:15 before he heads out.

I had the impression that he was a little nervous about something, so in addition to the Journal, I brought him a mug filled with something we call Old Sourbean around here. Ugh. Imagine the overcooked stuff from the bottom of the coffee pot doctored with a jigger of an off-the-menu locally-made liquid which shall go nameless. Double-ugh.

Not two minutes later, the door banged open and Hell walked in. That’s Hell, as in Helena, the so-called Demon Stylist of Licketyville. Unlike most of us urban escapees, Helena was born in Licketyville. And forty-something years later, she’s still here. Hell is hard to miss: flaming red curls and a temper every bit as short as her person.

Hell didn’t even look at me. She walked straight to Henry’s corner and whacked the Wall Street Journal all the way to the window. Hell has a wicked backhand…and a wicked pair of barber shears, which she jabbed in the direction of Henry’s grizzled face. She let out a hiss worthy of the Great Snake: “I KNEW you were going to stand me up! It is SO like you. You are SUCH a coward. Think about it realistically. The chances I'll snip your ear again are very, VERY small. If you were THAT afraid, why make an appointment?”

The Today Cafe’s Rules of Deportment specifically disallow yelling, but hissing is still permitted. Remind me to change the Rules one of these days.

Henry, of course, said nothing. Henry hasn’t said anything since they removed his voicebox on account of cancer, on account of too many cigars. That was five years ago. Long time to not say anything.

The door banged open again. Unfortunately, it was NOT a vacationing family of twelve stopping by on their way to Lake Bigollie for some of our famous Birdcage Chicken Take-Out.

Looming in the doorway was a well-known, well-fed physique. At the end of a meaty arm was a fist that sort of reminded me of a withered cantaloupe. In the fist was an oversized spoon carved out of soap. Yes, soap. There stood Licketyville’s answer to Martha Stewart: Aunt Marge, owner of Aunt Marge’s Soapcraft Gallery. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she makes out of soap.

I noticed that something was out of place and it was Aunt Marge’s hair. Her head was about a quarter inch of stubble away from being a bug-eyed pink bowling ball. Yikes!

“Helena Frome, you have a great crime to answer for!” Aunt Marge was yelling at the top of her overample lungs, but I was not about to enforce the Rules. Maybe if Officer Weeks emerged from his daily hibernation in the men’s room, but certainly not unassisted.

Hell hissed back. “You’re the one who said she wanted it ‘short and carefree for the rest of the summer’. If you didn’t want it that short, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the chair. You know how much I hate snoring. Actually, I think the Sinead O’Connor look suits you. But if you really don’t like it, sell some of your soap trinkets and buy a wig.” Hell has quite a tongue on her…and more guts than a troop of sumo wrestlers. But as for common sense, I dunno...

First time I ever saw Aunt Marge unable to speak, but she sure wasn’t unable to move. Couldn’t have been five seconds before she was roosting on Hell’s midsection with her big soap-spoon trying to worm its way into Hell’s mouth.

I’m relieved to report that Officer Weeks emerged from hibernation in the nick of time. When the lunch crowd hit, all was back to normal. Whew.

Speechless Henry had the last word on yestersday's incident. This is what Henry scrawled on a napkin and left on the table: “Hell hath no fury like a woman shorn.”

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "I take the view, and always have, that if you cannot say what you are going to say in twenty minutes you ought to go away and write a book about it."
- - Lord Brabazon

No Giraffes in Yosemite

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.

Dunce Cuppers for Peak Oil

The Peak Oilmen were in fine form yesterday. They all sloshed into the Today Cafe around three pee em wearing these glossy black dunce caps to symbolize something or other. I had to ask.

"American consumers just don't get the point of all the fuss, so we decided it was up to us Peak Oilmen to make a statement. How, exactly? Well every Monday we're going to wear these stupid dunce caps around Licketyville to symbolize how dumb it is to have become addicted to oil. The caps are painted with water-based ultragloss enamel, you know. Not a drop of oil went into 'em." That was the voluble Fred Hutchins-Licket, this week's ad hoc moderator and third hubby of our Fearless Leader.

"Very petro-savvy of you Fred," I drawled. "Mind if I ask why you each have three copies of that book with the yellow cover in front of you?"

"Old Swampgas here (he was referring to the infamous Marcus Nohrkopp, a person you definitely don't want to be trapped in an elevator with) told me you'd be the perfect straight man. Since you have performed so predictably, I'll tell you right now so you don't wipe a hole in the table with that rag of yours." He punctuated his jibe with a friendly chuck to my table-wiping arm.

All six Peak Oilmen in the big booth chuckled. I hate being that predictable. "You mean I don't have to roll over and wag my tail six times? You're just going to tell me now?"

Old Swampgas took over. "You know about a book called 'The Long Emergency'? By James Howard Kunstler? About the world running out of cheap oil and all the other bad shit that's got humanity in its sights?"

Old Swampgas has a knack for mixed metaphors. "Can't say as I have, Marcus."

A well-manicured hand held out a copy of the book. "At Madge's suggestion, we dug into the treasury and bought a hundred copies to give away around town. Here. Read it. And then pass it on to somebody else. We want to create a viral awareness campaign that'll jolt people out of their oil-induced suburban consumer hypnosis." That was Handsome Dade Folorio, not Old Swampgas. Dade's a hip adman who reads books about Purple Cows, but has at least a veneer of social consciousness.

"Viruses make me nervous," I said just as straight-faced as I could manage. "I'll read it just as soon as I get through reading this week's 'Licketyville Atom'. Should be sometime in 2008 at the rate I'm going."

SLAM went the front door. The only way that door can make that sound is if sombody slams it on purpose.

"Oh---my---God," whispered Handsome Dade Folorio. Fred Hutchins-Licket's jaw dropped. Old Swampgas gulped so hard that his chins did this little jiggle-dance...sort of like a stack of rubber pancakes in an earthquake. The other three Peak Oilmen merely blanched. Did I dare turn around?

The clack-clack-clack of ominous heels loomed up behind me and stopped. A pair of hard, pointed objects pressed very lightly into my unprotected back. Was it another two-gun holdup? Slow and steady, I turned around, just like in the movies.

In front of me stood Daisy Mae Rockstad-Folorio, Licketyville's self-styled femme fatale. And Dade Folorio's very recently ex-wife. "Like my Peak Oilgal outfit...gentlemen?"

I don't know if you ever saw Madonna perform during her conical metal bra era, but if you did, you've got a start at grokking what was standing before us. Daisy Mae's innocent smile topped off one of those 1950s pin-up girl poses, the kind you used to see on calendars in grimy auto repair shops back when they called them garages. The difference between Madonna and our Daisy Mae is that our Daisy Mae is built more like Pamela Anderson or Dolly Parton. Take your choice. At this moment, all Daisy Mae was wearing was a pair of black patent leather spike-heeled pumps, a glossy black vinyl bikini bottom and a pair of what looked suspiciously like the Peak Oilers' glossy black dunce caps. You can guess where the dunce caps were.

Like most restaurants these days, the Today Cafe has a dress code. Ours says the usual: "No Shoes, No Shirts, No Service."

"Uh, Daisy Mae. Uh, thanks for coming in. We just don't see you here often enough." This was absolutely true. All day, every day wouldn't be often enough. "But in the interest of..."

"Are you going to call the the police and have me forcibly removed for violating the Today Cafe dress code?" Daisy Mae was way ahead of me.

"Oh. So you WANT me to do that." I was starting to get the picture. "And you probably WANT me to wake up Lothar over at the Licketyville Atom, too? Do I get 15 percent for being your press agent?"

She painted on her famous pout. "I'm not doing this for money. Do you think I LIKE parading around a whole lot more than half naked in public places?"

Daisy Mae paused just long enough for everybody within earshot to say a mental 'yes', then went on. "I'm ONLY doing this to draw attention to the peak oil problem. It's certainly a lot more than President Dubbya is doing."

She had a point there. No way I would ever want to see George W. Bush walk into Licketyville's Today Cafe wearing THAT outfit.

"And I traded in the Hummer for a pair of cute little Toyota hybrids, too."

I took my eyes off Daisy Mae to glance over at a certain Peak Oilman. Sure enough, Dade's face went cherry on him. The Hummer had been his yuppie pride and joy before the divorce.

"Okay, Daisy Mae, tell you what. I'll call the Atom. I'm pretty sure Lothar will find you, uh, amply, uh, newsworthy. But I'm not reporting your dress code violation. Don't think it would be right to eject such an energy-savvy citizen, particularly not during an official meeting of the Peak Oilmen. So just for today I'm going to interpret dunce cups...I mean dunce caps, as being a sort of avant garde shirt."

Sigh. Sometimes you just have to bend the rules.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: Those who flee temptation generally leave a forwarding address.
- - Lane Olinghouse

Have a bountiful Tuesday, Dear Reader.

The Shotgun Banana Wedgie

I'm ashamed to say it, but gossip is good for business here at the Today Cafe.

For the gossip I have to thank the Sunday afternoon meeting of Licketyville's Scandalite Society. For the business I have to thank the buzz-hungry citizens of Licketyville who don't belong to the Scandalite Society. Mavis Wrencher, for one.

Yesterday, I gave Mavis a free wedgie of our Mapricot Macadamia Cheesecake. For those of you who don't know about Mapricot, it's a hybrid grown only in Licketyville: a sweet apricot crossed with a maple. Not only does it taste great, but the fruit have really fabulous fall colors!

If you can keep a secret, I'll let on that the mapricot was Genetically Engineered right here at Licketyville High School. If you can't keep a secret, it's the result of three hundred years of 100% natural cross-breeding by the descendents of Gregor Mendel. Or at least that's what the LHS kids told me to say to nosy outsiders.

Damn, I hate it when keystrokes go so far awry. Carlotta B., our Today Cafe bookkeeper, who has no compunction whatever about looking over my shoulder when I'm trying to pound out these posts, just pointed out a dreadful typo: with the addition of one little "i" a few paragraphs up, Mavis' innocent wedge of cheesecake became a cheesecake wedgie, whatever rude thing that might be. Whatever you do, don't ruin your day trying to picture a cheesecake wedgie!!! But thank you Carlotta for pointing that out. You're fired! (just kidding -- I was only trying to imitate Professor Combover, aka The Donald)

Now where was I? Oh. I was about to explain that the reason I gave Mavis that wedge was for her creativity in eavesdropping. She wore her trademark fruit-plate hat of course, but got her hubby to hide one of those long-distance shotgun microphones in its plastic banana. Then he somehow wired it into her hearing aid. Mavis sat three tables away from the Scandalites and pretended to be hard at work studying her King James, but her head-bobbing gave her away, I think. Not to be rude, but what Henry Smurnikov said was right: she really did look like a palsied sheep who'd just head-butted a fruit stand.

Still, Mavis did capture one juicy piece of Scandalite gossip. Unfortunately, since it involved the proprietor of Licketyville's Today Cafe, I'm not about to tell you what it was. You'll just have to ask Mavis.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "The two most common elements in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity."
- - Harlan Ellison

Have a really smart Monday.