An Encounter With Death

“I published my first ebook!” I said to the world. And the world listened.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death.

After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A sexy and magical tale of the power of love to heal.

Intended for mature audiences.

Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Please enjoy this excerpt.

This writer will soon be writing in this blog.

This writer thanks you for reading her blog and ebook! 🙂

Random Customer Feedback

One of my customers recently filled out a comment card for The Pie Shoppe:

Food: “Fair”

Service: “Excellent”

Suggestions? “The environment is relaxing and I like the way the light comes in the big picture windows. The food wasn’t bad, just a little bland. Someone in the kitchen needs to be a little less generous with the grease. The music isn’t too bad either, just turn up the volume a little. Dawn was very pleasant and outgoing. Very knowledgeable about food. She made a lame date bearable. I need to be done with online dating. There may be Plenty of Fish out there but so many of them swim in brackish waters. This one needed to be spiced up more than the food. I may come back, hopefully with better company.”

My So-Called Double Life

“What else do you do, Dawn? Do you have another job?” asked My Favorite Busboy.

“I write,” I said, a bit reluctantly. I try to stay private at work.

“Oh, really?” he said, eyes bright. “What do you write?”

“I work on short stories and novels. I also have a blog.”

“I love to read. How can I find your stuff?”

“You need access to an ebook reader or computer.”

“Oh. I have a phone.”

“A smartphone?”

“No.”

“I’m afraid you can’t read my stuff then. It’s all online,” I said. Then, noticing his disappointed expression, I added, “Maybe I’ll print out a sample and bring it in.”

I said this knowing I didn’t want to bring in any of my writing. I think I opened up to My Favorite Busboy because I knew he didn’t have a computer or a smartphone and, therefore, would have difficulty finding me online. I like him and it was a low risk sharing of me.

I don’t like feeling the need to be cagey, but I keep a low profile about my writing at my day-job. It’s not just cuz many of my blog stories are inspired by my day-job and someone may take offense at my observations. I recently published my first ebook, An Encounter With Death, a short story which explores themes of sex and suicide. Those don’t exactly qualify for “office” shop-talk. Discussing the finer points of deep despair or how sex can be a loving, healing exchange between two people are not exactly fodder for snippets spoken while cutting slices of pie.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Hot off the online presses: An Encounter With Death. After a series of emotional setbacks, Vanessa, is filled with despair. She decides to take control of her destiny, but like her life, nothing turns out as planned. Wanting to meet her maker, she instead has an encounter with Death. A magical tale of the power of love to heal. Available for $.99 at Smashwords and Amazon.

Plus, the day-job is generally not a safe place to talk about my writing or even my personal life. You just never know what random situation or misunderstanding will come to haunt you.

A perfect example of why I feel a need to be so careful at work happened recently. It was a busy Saturday night. I had a full station of 8 tables, two of which had just been sat and were wondering where their waitress was. I had two bill books in my hand with credit cards to run for tables who were anxious to leave. I was standing at Table 54 with four customers taking their order. One woman ordered a gorgonzola salad. “I have a nut allergy, so could you take out the pecans and add extra cheese.”

“Of course,” I said.  I took the rest of the orders, greeted my two waiting tables, got their drink orders, and rushed to the computer. When I wrote up the order for the woman at Table 54, I clearly stated, “NO PECANS SUB EXTRA CHEESE.” After I finished the rest of the orders and ran the credit cards, I looked for one of the managers to tell them about the special order, which I knew was important. We were so slammed, I couldn’t find anyone. I looked into the kitchen window to talk to the cooks. “Hey, guys, I got a special order for Table–”

“Put it on the ticket!” one of the cooks said, waving me away. I had to get back to the floor, and hoped I would catch a manager in time.

Later, I saw the manager delivering the gorgonzola salad to Table 54. When she finished her delivery, I flagged her down. “Did you make sure the salad had no pecans?” I asked.

“The Kitchen Manager said there weren’t any. I didn’t see any.”

Satisfied, I went on with my service. Moments later, I noticed the woman was gone from her table. I dropped everything I needed to do to ask if everything was okay. A dining partner said, “There were nuts in the salad. She had a reaction.”

“I’m so sorry. The kitchen said there weren’t any nuts. Lemme get a manager over to talk to you.” I picked up the bowl, stirred it with a fork, and buried under the field greens were a few pecans blending into the colorfully tossed salad. Embarrassed, I said I’m sorry again and went to find the manager. She handled the rest of the service by writing a report and comping the entire meal.

On my next shift, the Bald Man called me into his office. “I have to write you up,” he said.

“What? Why?” I was honestly surprised.

“If a customer has an allergy, you have to write ‘allergy’ on the ticket.”

“What? Okay. That’s no problem. I didn’t know that. I did clearly state ‘no nuts’ on the ticket. Why are you writing me up? The kitchen screwed up the order.”

“They’re saying they didn’t and it’s probably cross-contamination cause some bits of pecan fell into the cheese container. They–”

“Cross-contamination is a kitchen error. They should never cross-contaminate.”

“No, but they didn’t know there was an allergy. If they did, they woulda gotten fresh gorgonzola from the back.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Why didn’t you tell a manager?”

“I tried! The floor manager and the kitchen manager were nowhere to be seen. They were busy running around doing other stuff. I had to get back on the floor to my tables, cuz it was very busy and I was behind on the floor as it was. I tried to interrupt the cooks and tell them directly, but they wouldn’t stop what they were doing to listen. It was a busy night. You know that. You have the sales figures.” I paused. “And, I didn’t know to write it on the ticket!”

“You had to have known to write “allergy” on the ticket. It’s in the manual.”

“Where in the manual? I never saw it.”

“Well, I couldn’t find it this morning. But still… it’s a part of our training.”

“I was never told, or trained, to put “allergy” on the ticket or I would’ve done it. I’m sorry this happened. I take these things very seriously. I care about people. But, at the time, I thought I did everything I could.”

“Look, this went all the way to The Owner. I have to explain to him that you’re in deep shit and back it up.”

“So lemme get this straight. I’m being written up for failing to do something I didn’t and couldn’t know I had to do. And even though both managers and the cooks had their hands in this problem, I’m being thrown under the bus.”

“Just write “allergy” on the ticket.” He motioned to a piece of paper on table. “And sign here. You can write in the margin that you didn’t know.” He said that last bit as if it was supposed to mollify me.

A lot of lip service is paid to team work and team spirit, but when a mistake happens, the team disappears. Shared, and even personal responsibility, also disappears. It’s one person’s problem. Somebody has to take the fall. I work in the politics of cover-your-ass. These people aren’t my friends.

I have a job to do because I need the money. The money-making opportunity needs to be protected. It’s scary to share my private life with The Pie Shoppe. This sounds paranoid, but any knowledge they have may somehow work against me.

And so, I have a working world and a personal artistic life between which exists a wall surrounded by a moat teeming with alligators. I almost regret my lapse in silence with My Favorite Busboy, even though he is also my favorite co-worker. I would love to share my writing and especially my new ebook, An Encounter with Death, with everyone–put a sign up at work or casually mention it to all, including customers who come in. The more people who know, the better chance I have at selling books and letting go of the day-job. But, I’ll take my chances that this small population surrounding The Pie Shoppe can stay ignorant of my dreams and they will still come true.

Vegas or Kitties?

“What’s on your mind, Dawn?” asked Nosy Server, who whenever there was a silence during lulls in the server aisle would start asking personal questions of whoever was standing around. “You look upset today.” I groaned inwardly at how my face wears what’s on my mind like outlandishly trendy clothes that should never be worn at all. The Bald Man stood nearby listening. It was a slow hour at The Pie Shoppe.

“My cat died and I’ll be picking up her ashes today,” I said with my customary directness for which I sometimes wish had a filter. I’m not very good at waffling around whatever I ought not talk about.

“Oh,” said Nosy Server, looking bored.

“Do you have a pet?” I asked.

“I dated a guy with a dog once. Never had one of my own. They’re too much trouble.”

I turned to the Bald Man. “What about you? Do you have a pet?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not a pet guy. Don’t like ’em, don’t need ’em.” Perhaps he realized that he sounded harsh, or perhaps my transparent face betrayed my dismay, because he laughed like he was supposed to be charming and continued. “Think about it.” He poked his finger in the air. “I couldn’t spontaneously spend a weekend in Vegas if I was burdened with a pet.”

Nosy Server gave a polite laugh.

I didn’t particularly like the Bald Man, but right then he had my sympathy. Both of them did. Puppies and kitties give far more than they receive. Their presence is nourishing to the spirit.

On the day I lost Sonoma, I woke up to her laying on her side, stiff and cold, her mouth drooping open and her little pink tongue hanging over her lip. Open eyes, which had stared unseeing from sudden blindness during her last month, now lacked the luster of life. She looked like she may have suffered in her last moments, breathing her last breath while hanging onto life with ferocity I hadn’t known she possessed. I felt guilty for not calling the man with the merciful syringes to come to my home the day before. My mournful vigil over her final days was fraught with uncertainty over what was best. She wound down slowly, like a watched clock. Yet, the home pet doctor and a life and death decision carry their own guilt. The euthanasia of Napa, her sister, taught me this. Death weighs heavy on consciousness, no matter the circumstance.

The beginning of an 18 year journey.

Outside, a morning mist grayed the trees and sky. I turned off the heater, which had been set up to keep her warm in the autumn chill hovering about the house. As prepared as I was to find her laying there, the sharp ache of her passing hollowed out my being, like a gutted and carved pumpkin. She and her sister purred on my lap for over 18 years. They came into my life before I bought my first cell phone or sent my first email. They witnessed two career changes. They moved with me from Minneapolis to Los Angeles. They watched my heart break, and love again, then break again, love, break, love, break, and love once more. They were my intimates, constant companions in a life filled with change. The loss of Napa earlier in the year was soothed by Sonoma, now laying on a cream-colored blanket. I could barely accept they were both gone.

It took almost a week for me to throw away their litter box. I hadn’t been rushing to get rid of all-things-kitty, and their toys and favorite blankets sat around where they were left. The kitty food container, and what was left of their food, rested on top of the fridge. But the eyesore sitting next to my toilet, all dusty and poo-stained, seemed clearly doomed for the trash. What surprised me was how the unpleasant nightly ritual of sifting through litter, carried out approximately 6,753 times over the lives of my kitties, had embedded itself in the normalcy and beauty of my life. They were consummately clean, never once doing their business outside of the box. The task was unlovely, but it was performed lovingly and was a privilege of their presence. I miss the litter box terribly.

Precious memories.

Every so often I see Sonoma out of the corner of my eye, a ghostly glimpse of her sitting patiently at my feet while I tap away at the computer. In the past, if I took too long to notice her, a little paw would rub my leg to let me know she was there. And if that wasn’t good enough, she’d meow incessantly until I picked her up and put her on my lap. If I briefly left the computer without picking her up, I’d come back to find her laying across my keyboard, something she knew I didn’t like. Negative attention was better than no attention. Of course in her final months, all I needed was the paw-rub. She eased the loss of Napa, which in turn made me realize her time was short. Every bit of attention I could give her was given.

When I wake up in the morning, I sometimes imagine Napa is still sleeping between my legs, her favorite place. She had a way of settling into my lap where her eyes, a passionate blue, almost violet, would soften and deepen as expansively as an endless twilight sky. They were loving and dreamy, and made me feel like I was her whole universe. She knew how to relax into bonelessness, her purr rumbling like an outboard motor and her breathing billowing her whole torso. It was quite unlike the shallow chest breathing I see afflicting many of us with worries tightening our stomachs. My kitties embodied how to live in the moment and just breathe.

Napa and Sonoma put love above food in their hierarchy of needs and would stop eating to luxuriate in my pets. When I held them, they would cling; when I needed to set them down, they masterminded passive resistance, becoming dead weight, far heavier than their dozen pounds. Both expanded my heart into an understanding of love which made our often cruel world feel like a soft place to land. They were as separated from me as a fish from a tree, yet they taught me how to feel connected. In a universe where two little creatures could fill my heart to overflowing, how could it be rooted in bad? How could there be a heaven better than the moments I spent cuddling in the furry warmth of their affection?

My Baby Girls’ gifts were everlasting.

Yin Yang Kitties: they taught me about life and death.

I looked at the Bald Man squarely and said, “If you had a pet, you might think they offer more than a weekend in Vegas.” He frowned and I walked away. It was probably better to have kept my mouth shut, but I often can’t help myself.

Too Old to Live?

At first, they annoyed me. Her husband shuffled behind his walker as she led him into my section without waiting for a hostess. It was like they owned The Pie Shoppe or something. He was pallid and potbellied, and his face looked baffled. Rumpled clothes hung loosely and thinning hair stuck out confusedly. She was alert but equally disheveled in a faded, floral tent dress. Her hair looked to be tied in a bun a couple days before and hadn’t seen a comb since.

She guided him carefully into the booth, folded his walker, and neatly set it out of the way. I told them I’d be back with menus. When I heard her tell her husband with a musical voice that “her friend” was getting them menus, I became charmed. I’d never seen them before.

I brought them menus and exchanged politenesses with her as he sat silently. “We’re ready to order,” she stated with firm intent.

He started the order. “I want a French dip and fries,” he said in a loud, expressionless voice. As he spoke to me, he watched her and she nodded her approval. He went on, his words garbled as if his tongue was too thick. I had to pay close attention to understand. “What’s the soup?”

“Our soup of the day is beef barley,” I said.

“I want some soup.”

She shook her head. “You can’t have any soup. It’s too much salt.”

He repeated, “I want some soup.”

I looked to her uncertain of how to proceed. Her head did not stop shaking. “So, no soup?” I asked.

“No soup,” she confirmed. He continued to stare at her. She ordered a cheeseburger, medium-well, with fries.

They had no conversation as they waited for their food. When it came, she was in the bathroom. He didn’t acknowledge me, but gaped at his plate of food, grinning. A loud guttural noise escaped his throat. As I walked away, he sang a toneless, wordless song to himself in an outside voice while sprinkling salt on his food. This humming continued sporadically after his wife joined him to eat.

“I want a peanut butter cookie,” he said as I cleared their plates.

“You can’t have a peanut butter cookie.” She sounded like a mom admonishing her 8-year-old for the umpteenth time. “You’ve had enough sugar today.”

He stared at her.

As I ran their credit card, she sought my company at the computer. “It’s his first night out after his stroke,” she announced without provocation.

“Oh.” I was at a loss. “He seems strong.”

“His body is strong, but he’s got vascular dementia. He’s lost most of himself. It’ll progress until his mind is utterly gone. Still, the doctors know how to keep him alive. They know how to keep his body ticking.”

“Yeah. Modern technology can do a lot.”

“It’s the Tree of Knowledge. We think we’re doing good, but we don’t know what we’re doing. We keep our bodies living long after our essence has died. We keep the heart beating and the blood pumping. For what? The empty shells we become? That’s not a life. People weren’t meant to live so long. My father died at 68. His mind was still sharp and that was long enough. Now I’m 74.” Her slate eyes shined like water running over river rocks. “He’ll be 81 next month.”

“You’re very spry.”

“My mind is healthy. I’m lucky. Not everyone is like me.” Shiny eyes stared at her husband. “I already lost him.”

“Yeah, I understand.” I said. My chest knotted.

She signed her credit card receipt, then grabbed my hand and squeezed, her eyes still watery. “Thank you. Please enjoy the rest of your day.” She walked back to her table to gather her husband. They shuffled out the way they came.

Sometimes we say farewell before we are gone.

 

Branding Myself

The box office was about to open. Asian Actor and I were volunteering as usher and cashier, respectively, at The Players’ Theatre. Many of the small theatres in Hollywood were co-ops run by actors. To increase elusive performance opportunities, many actors, including those with experience and talent, did all the backstage work: producing, writing, stage building and lighting, stage management and box office.

Theatres always reminded me of attics, filled with farragoes of character effects and clothes, all the embellishments of history. Stories oozed from their crevices, sharing space with the dust bunnies. The box office was tiny and cluttered. On the walls were tacked programs from old shows and pictures of costumed actors performing in a variety of settings, both colorfully detailed or colorlessly austere.

Tonight, in exchange for cash, I would give out programs which doubled as tickets. Asian Actor would allow those with tickets in the door. A gray lock box with $20 in small bills served as my cash register. I sat on a bar stool in front of a converted bench seat which served as a counter for the box office window.

Asian Actor and I chatted through the open window. He shared with me his ethnic heritage, half-Chinese and half-Swedish, and talked of his membership with The Asian Theatre. His dark almond eyes smiled easily in a lean, expressive face. Black, stick-straight hair sat merrily on his head. He was slimly built. I could barely recognize his Caucasian half. I’d heard about how well-respected The Asian Theatre was, and expressed interest in joining the group as well.

“They generally work with Asian actors,” he said, by way of discouraging me as I might not be the right type.

“That’s great, cuz I’m half-Asian too.”

He did little to hide his surprise. “Really!” he exclaimed, as if I’d somehow won the lottery. “Girl, you pass!”

I stifled a snort. I pass? I knew he meant I passed for someone entirely Caucasian. On the one hand, I didn’t feel like this was a lottery win. On the other hand, I knew this wasn’t true.

My exact ethnicity is half-Japanese and half-German. In the business of casting, however, this information was irrelevant. What mattered was my physical appearance and how that could be applied to various categories of characters. The demands of a role were segregated by nationality and type. Such labels were my brand. My Agent marketed me as “ambiguous ethnic” since I could pass for Caucasian, Italian, Eastern European, Mixed Ethnic, and others. I could also play a variety of types, such as “mom,” “career woman,” “comic sidekick,” “teacher,” and so on. In Los Angeles, where the Hispanic population is almost 50%, I’m generally mistaken for Hispanic, including by casting. Since Caucasian roles outnumber all other ethnicities combined by a goodly percentage, it’s a desirable brand.

Headshots are the actor’s calling card. When I first arrived in Hollywood at the turn of the century, black and white headshots were still the norm. I passed for Caucasian and auditioned almost everyday.

On a different day, I received a morning call from My Agent. I saw his name on my cell phone, so I answered, pen and paper already in hand. After my hello, he said, without pausing, “You have an audition for an American Bank commercial this afternoon at 3:45 with Casting-R-Us at MidCity Casting. You play a Hispanic mom. Casual dress. Be prepared to improv.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

“Good luck.” He hung up. Though I liked My Agent, conversations with him were always succinct, measurable by number of words. He had a long list of actors to call with similar information, and didn’t need to spend time on pleasantries.

Auditioning experience taught me it’s best to try and suggest ‘Hispanic’ as much as possible in my appearance, but I wasn’t sure how to do that without plastic surgery. I settled on jeans and a t-shirt, and a little extra makeup around the eyes. The top half of my hair was pulled into a clip at the back of my head. A half up, half down hairstyle enabled casting to see my entire face and the length and quality of my hair, all of which factored into casting decisions.

After a few years, color headshots became the norm. With that, invitations for auditions for Caucasian women disappeared for me. It seemed I only passed for Hispanic, and just barely. Auditioning became a once a week affair, at best.

MidCity Casting rented rooms in a large warehouse-type building to casting directors for their casting sessions. Upon entering, there was an open, central waiting area the size of a playing field with doors around the perimeter leading into casting rooms. The decor was spartan with utility carpeting, benches near each door, and a raw ceiling revealing air conditioning ducting and piping. Their walls were painted in a variety of autumn colors with poster art throughout. At the entry was a large blackboard listing all the casting agents and the shows or commercials they were working for. I located Casting-R-Us, put my name on the sign-in sheet, took my headshot with a résumé stapled to the back out of my portfolio, and sat down to wait.

The room appeared chaotic, a hive of activity. A nervous din penetrated, reverberating around the ducting. Casting assistants wandered near their doors, calling out names and collecting headshots. Some actors paced. Some stood alone or with others rehearsing a bit of script or chitchatting animatedly. Everyone was waiting: In one corner grouped some gorgeous Caucasian women, “model-types,” early 20s, dressed as brides for a national jewelry chain commercial; another group of overweight, 20-something Caucasian men dressed in jeans and plaid shirts gathered for a popular beer commercial; some Caucasian toddlers waddled around benches under the watchful eyes of their mothers for a car commercial; some retired Caucasian women, late 60s, all with dyed hair and conservative dress for a pharmaceutical ad; a few babies sat in strollers next to their Caucasian mothers waiting for a baby clothing commercial; a set of African-American teenagers, girls and boys, for a public service announcement. I sat with a group of Hispanics and African-American women, all late 30s, mostly dressed in jeans and a casual top.

There were a lot of us, so I feared I’d be waiting a long time. Fortunately, casting moved quickly through the line-up. They were calling us in four at a time, typical of commercial auditions. They’d look at a hundred actors to fill two spots. I was called before an hour passed. I walked in with two Hispanics and an African-American.

The room was as spartan as the waiting area. In the back, a woman and three men sat in chairs surrounding a collapsible banquet table. Next to them, a young man stood behind a small digital video camera. We all filed in and stood behind a line of masking tape on the floor. The woman, who was obviously Casting Director, rose. I surmised the other three were the director and ad agency representatives. “Thank you for lining up so perfectly,” she said.

We all gave a little laugh. One of the Hispanic women said, “You’re welcome.”

Casting Director continued. “We have a lot of people to see today, so we’ll move through this quickly. We’ll start with you.” She pointed at me as my position was at the beginning of the line. “You’ll slate your name and then I’ll ask you a question. Please answer briefly, we don’t need your whole life story. And that’ll be it. Any questions?”

No one had a question. This was a basic “personality audition,” typical for commercials where there was little or no dialogue and they just wanted to see your personality and how you looked on camera. With the camera pointed at me, Casting Director said, “Slate your name.”

I looked into the lens and said, “Hi, my name is Dawn Akemi.” I smiled a greeting into the camera.

“Okay, Dawn, did you do anything fun this summer?”

I gave a brief story about my recent trip to San Diego to visit some friends. I chose the slight Spanish accent I hear all over L.A. from the Hispanic Angelenos who grew up here. Casting Director watched me with a frown, said “thank you” in a clipped tone, and moved on. I figured I wasn’t Hispanic enough for this ad, which was more often the case than not.

Next were the two Hispanic women. They were asked “What’s your favorite food?” and “What’s your favorite sport?” Casting Director seemed more engaged with them and asked a follow-up question of each. They were true-blue Hispanic, not the pretender I was, with solid Spanish accents, and both talked of growing up in L.A.

The African-American woman was last and she was asked, “What’s your favorite color?” We all listened to a cute story about the color orange. Casting Director smiled and then frowned. “This commercial is looking for specific ethnic types. The roles are of people who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. I’m gonna ask you another question and when you answer this time, could you Black it up a little?”

The woman looked shocked, as did we all, then quickly recovered. “Black it up?” she asked. She spoke with no accent.

“Yeah, you know. Do a bit of that Ebonics. And do that neck thing. You know, bob your head like a chicken.”

“Um. Yeah. Okay.” The air in the room felt suddenly humid. Awkwardness permeated.

Casting Director asked, “Do you have a special childhood memory?”

She answered with a character accent, talking about the time she went to Disneyland. Her head moved back and forth on her neck. Casting Director was still frowning when she finished. Her frown turned into a small smile and she said, “Thank you.” She sat back down.

We all filed back out and walked toward the exit. Once outside, I heard one of the Hispanic women say under her breath, “I think I’ll need a shower now.”

I stifled a snort. It felt good to be outside in the fresh air.

Reading, Wine, and a Dog

“Would you like another Chardonnay?” I asked. My regular’s glass was a quarter full. He doesn’t like to wait long between glasses. It was late afternoon and not very busy at The Pie Shoppe.

“By the time you pour that glass, I’ll be ready,” he said with a smirk. He comes in almost every day. Roly-poly, balding, and bespectacled, he always sets up a hardback book from the New York Times best-selling fiction list on a reading stand to peruse while he sips four glasses of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay. Today he had two books, one two-thirds open on the stand and one waiting near his pudgy elbow.

“That’s a lot of reading for one Pie Shoppe visit,” I said.

“Oh, I read very quickly. I’ll finish this one and be a quarter way into the other one before I leave.” Later, it turned out he wasn’t bragging in vain.

“Guess the Chardonnay helps.” I laughed.

With his third glass, he expects a slice of cornbread. “Center cut. Please make sure it’s very fresh.” If he’s really hungry, he’ll order the turkey dinner or pot roast to be enjoyed with the fourth glass. It was a hungry day, so he ordered the turkey, extra gravy on the side, melted cheese on his veggies. “And I’d like to order a top sirloin to go.”

“That’ll be a nice lunch tomorrow.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my friend’s dog. I’m dog sitting for a few months.”

“Oh. Must be nice to be a guest in your house.”

He laughed. “She is man’s best friend. I don’t know what to feed her.”

“I’m sure a pet store would have something.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“How do you think she’d like her steak cooked?”

“I think she’d like it medium rare. How do you think?”

“Well, I like my steak rare. You know, still mooing. But I’m not a dog.”

His face scrunched at the idea. “Maybe medium’s better. Yes. Medium.”

“Okay. It comes with loaded mashed potatoes. Do you think she’d like that, or maybe just a plain baked potato?” Loaded mashed potatoes come with bacon, chopped green onions, sour cream, and cheddar cheese melted together on top.

“Hm. I’ll take the loaded mashed potatoes. What are the veggies?”

“They’re the same veggies you get. A medley of yellow and green squash, carrots, broccoli and onion. You want that for her.”

“I think maybe she wouldn’t like the broccoli.”

“I can order it without broccoli.”

“That’d be good.”

“Great. Thank you.” I rushed off to place his order.

My dog Jack says, “Let them eat steak!”

As I gave him his fourth glass of Chardonnay, I said, “It’d be cheaper next time if you buy the whole bottle.” A bottle of wine is just under 5 glasses.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “But that would be so indulgent!”