22 June 2014
743
R. Linda:
Last weekend me wife and kiddos went for a weekend in Jersey to visit the Grand Dragon who unfortunately has the distinction of being me mother-in-law. So off they went leaving yours truly on his own. I had to work Saturday anyway, so I had Sunday to meself. Now me neighbour to the northwest, one Arnold by name was also on his own and unlike meself, he had no clue what to do with his free time. I had run into him at the pizza shop Saturday night and he expressed surprise at seeing me kiddo-free I asked after him and he told me about being lost with what to do without his wife who was on a business trip to Chicago. As we exchanged commiserations it was somehow decided I should join Arnie for breakfast the next day. We'd go out to this beanery place he knew of as he heard they had the best coffee and as you know, yours truly is addicted to the stuff so it was a date!
The next morn, bright and early Arnie pulls up what he thinks might be the driveway, and out I come, hop in and off we go to this hyped coffee place. When we got there I was rather surprised it looked like a hippy hangout, you know the type, the women in long skirts and blowzy blouses and the guys all sporting scruffy beards and dirty long hair with beads around their necks. Certainly not what I was used to, which are the suave hipsters plugged in and either texting with their smartphone or using an iPad, very techie types dressed in the latest designer duds. Yes indeed. No Boston here.
So we looked at each other and Arn says to me, "Well . . . my daughter has a friend who displays her artwork here. I promised if I was down this way I'd go and look at it. This artist left college to spend all her time on painting." And then he sighed.
"Why the sigh Arnie? You think she should have stayed at university?"
"No, just that she's . . . well I met her twice, she's a pretty thing, but she's . . . uh." And he shrugged.
I didn't want to pry as I got the impression the "pretty thing" was odd, so I asked no more and got out and followed Arnie inside. It was so laid back in that shop you could lay on the floor and no one would care. I mean people just lounging around hanging on the counter, sitting in the window, or just lazing and humming to themselves or sipping joe as you stare at the wall or off into space. The service was the same. We had to wait for the girl to give someone their coffee order, and then she proceeded to wash the dishes! Yes, fully knowing we were next in line, I tell ya. When she was done she asked what we would like. Well, I saw on the board they had quiche so I asked for that. She pointed to a clear plastic display where there were three quiche pies. I looked for a plate there were none, just napkins and excuse me but I wanted my quiche heated, please. Well, she handed me a paper plate like I had killed a tree and waited for me to open the case and take a quiche. I did and placed it on the corner fully expecting she'd pop it in the micro but instead, she asked me if there was anything else. Well, yes, yes there was I'd have the . . . the . . . good heavens there was no regular coffee it was all almond mocha this or honey cream that or roasted cinnamon to where confused I blurted out I'd have a honey nut almond cream latte! And by George, you would think I asked for something more involved the way she looked. She got out the honey nut liquid, then the almond cream, then the whole milk, then she poured the coffee which I suspected was regular coffee, then she placed it under some kind of super blender and Viola! I was handed a tall cup of whatever with a foamy leaf design on top. Well OK!
Meanwhile, the quiche sat on the counter.
Arnie steps up and orders something with the insane name pinnacle toast with butter and an almond mocha latte. I paid for both orders thinking that might hurry along me quiche being microwaved, but nah, the dude who used the "heating implements" was busy making Arn's pinnacle toast which as we watched he did in slow motion the buttering of the strangely named bread. But we couldn't see the butter only the slow slow motion of the knife as he worked the stuff over the top of the four slices. And it took forever! When it was finally slammed on the counter the toast was covered in homemade peanut butter and oh my Arnie is allergic to peanuts!
Meanwhile, the quiche sat on the counter.
I said to the hippy lad that me friend ordered the butter, not peanut butter.
He looked at me and said, "So enjoy he got more for his money," and he shuffled away into the inner recesses of the back room where I am sure he went back to his bong.
"You don't understand," I shouted to him but all I could see was a haze of smoke and little else. I turned to the girl behind the counter who had been filling coffee orders the entire time but Arnie said not to bother, he'd scrape it off and a little of the stuff wouldn't hurt him . . . too much. Maybe a bad case of hives. I told him I thought the artwork was in the side room to take his stuff and I'd join him as soon as I got me quiche heated.
Another hippy child appeared from the smokey back and right away I picked up me quiche and asked politely if she'd heat it. She said nothing but you could tell she did not want to do it. As it was heating she started to give me a lecture on microwaves and how I would be consuming them, etc., and how dreadfully horrible they were. I wanted to walk out I was so incensed, but Arnie was waiting so as soon as the quiche came out I'd free meself from the lecture. But she told me to go join me friend she'd call when the quiche was ready.
I turned to go and thought, hey wait a minute it doesn't take but a few seconds to heat a quiche. Was she going to nuke it? Make it hard as a rock? As I turned around there it was me quiche sitting on the counter, herself fading into the back smoke-filled bong room. I wanted to tear me hair out.
Well, I grabbed the quiche, went to the side room and found Arnie looking kind of green with red blotches on his face as he sat munching and looking at the wall beside him. There was a good-sized painting he was staring at. So I sat down and looked at the picture too. The entire canvas was covered, there wasn't a fraction that didn't have something on it. Talk about minutiae the painting was many subjects jammed upon each other and most of the things represented were skeletons, people holding hearts as their bones protruded from different parts of their bodies. Everything was in black and white except the blood red and dripping hearts!
I absentmindedly cut into me quiche and took a mouthful only to stop in mid-chew and look down. The quiche had CORN IN IT! Who knew corn was used in quiche? Certainly not this guy. It was the oddest-tasting quiche I'd ever eaten. Before I could say anything Arnie was getting up and signalling me to move to another table, the picture was a bit much for breakfast decor. So we slid over to the table across from us and started to peruse the painting on that side of the room.
The painting was in brown tones with flares of colour here and there, but it was of skeletons with guitars with butterflies acting as one-winged musical insect notes that turned into big horrible-looking angry bugs.
"This your daughter's friend's work?" I asked.
"Oh yeah that's her, lots of problems . . . deep psychological problems." He shook his head as he stared at the artwork.
I am thinking oh yeah there is. Lots and lots of problems. How am I supposed to enjoy the corn quiche looking at the very busy morbid artwork? I suggested another table, but on second look around we stayed where we were. All the work was bizarre and busy, very very busy.
"It must take her years to complete one of these," I said.
"I guess," Arnie said not able to look away from one incredibly ugly and threatening-looking bug.
I bit the bullet because I had to know, "May I be so bold as to ask what her problem is?"
"Aliens."
"Aliens like in spacemen?" I put me fork down I had lost me appetite as concern took me over.
"She says she is abducted almost every night by aliens and when she comes back she draws what she saw," Arnie explained.
I got up and looked at a few more of her works and they got worse and darker and busier and I am thinking a psychiatric institution was needed. So I sat back down and told Arnie that now I was depressed.
"Then let us do what our wives would do, let's go shopping!" He perked up.
I was looking at his swollen red face. No way, he looked like he had the plague. I made up some lame excuse I had a Tonya assignment, I had to mow the lawn and as I am saying this I realise he lives just above me, so now I have to mow the lawn, stupid me!
As we are walking out, this pretty petite brown-haired girl is getting out a Volks Beetle (well what else would her hippy self-drive?) and she takes a double take and sees Arnie. She screams his name and comes running over to throw her arms around his neck and jump up and down in like a dog whose owner has returned. It was rather embarrassing but Arne took it in stride, disconnecting her bony fingers from around his neck.
"O M G!" She throws at his appearance. "Did THEY come for you too last night?"
"Hives, I am allergic to peanut butter and even though I had a small bit . . . how bad is it?" He asked realising what she said and walking over to the car side mirror. Well, when he got a gander at what he looked like, I am sure he felt foolish for suggesting shopping in public.
"They came, didn't they?" She said looking at him all hard and serious.
"This isn't happening," I said to meself and started walking towards Arnie's motor.
I don't know what was said, but she was animated like a cartoon and he was backing up towards the car. I leaned over and opened his door wide so he could just fall in and not struggle to get away. And he did get in quickly, slam the door and turn the ignition. She was still out there her mouth running a mile a minute, the prettiness gone, a strange expression that looked very alien taking over her face. I thought she'd turn bright neon green next. I looked back as we drove off, she still standing there running her mouth, the long skinny arms gesticulating and the bony fingers pointed at the heavens.
"Well," I said brightly, "at least you got to see the artist."
Gabe
Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved
Last weekend me wife and kiddos went for a weekend in Jersey to visit the Grand Dragon who unfortunately has the distinction of being me mother-in-law. So off they went leaving yours truly on his own. I had to work Saturday anyway, so I had Sunday to meself. Now me neighbour to the northwest, one Arnold by name was also on his own and unlike meself, he had no clue what to do with his free time. I had run into him at the pizza shop Saturday night and he expressed surprise at seeing me kiddo-free I asked after him and he told me about being lost with what to do without his wife who was on a business trip to Chicago. As we exchanged commiserations it was somehow decided I should join Arnie for breakfast the next day. We'd go out to this beanery place he knew of as he heard they had the best coffee and as you know, yours truly is addicted to the stuff so it was a date!
The next morn, bright and early Arnie pulls up what he thinks might be the driveway, and out I come, hop in and off we go to this hyped coffee place. When we got there I was rather surprised it looked like a hippy hangout, you know the type, the women in long skirts and blowzy blouses and the guys all sporting scruffy beards and dirty long hair with beads around their necks. Certainly not what I was used to, which are the suave hipsters plugged in and either texting with their smartphone or using an iPad, very techie types dressed in the latest designer duds. Yes indeed. No Boston here.
So we looked at each other and Arn says to me, "Well . . . my daughter has a friend who displays her artwork here. I promised if I was down this way I'd go and look at it. This artist left college to spend all her time on painting." And then he sighed.
"Why the sigh Arnie? You think she should have stayed at university?"
"No, just that she's . . . well I met her twice, she's a pretty thing, but she's . . . uh." And he shrugged.
I didn't want to pry as I got the impression the "pretty thing" was odd, so I asked no more and got out and followed Arnie inside. It was so laid back in that shop you could lay on the floor and no one would care. I mean people just lounging around hanging on the counter, sitting in the window, or just lazing and humming to themselves or sipping joe as you stare at the wall or off into space. The service was the same. We had to wait for the girl to give someone their coffee order, and then she proceeded to wash the dishes! Yes, fully knowing we were next in line, I tell ya. When she was done she asked what we would like. Well, I saw on the board they had quiche so I asked for that. She pointed to a clear plastic display where there were three quiche pies. I looked for a plate there were none, just napkins and excuse me but I wanted my quiche heated, please. Well, she handed me a paper plate like I had killed a tree and waited for me to open the case and take a quiche. I did and placed it on the corner fully expecting she'd pop it in the micro but instead, she asked me if there was anything else. Well, yes, yes there was I'd have the . . . the . . . good heavens there was no regular coffee it was all almond mocha this or honey cream that or roasted cinnamon to where confused I blurted out I'd have a honey nut almond cream latte! And by George, you would think I asked for something more involved the way she looked. She got out the honey nut liquid, then the almond cream, then the whole milk, then she poured the coffee which I suspected was regular coffee, then she placed it under some kind of super blender and Viola! I was handed a tall cup of whatever with a foamy leaf design on top. Well OK!
Meanwhile, the quiche sat on the counter.
Arnie steps up and orders something with the insane name pinnacle toast with butter and an almond mocha latte. I paid for both orders thinking that might hurry along me quiche being microwaved, but nah, the dude who used the "heating implements" was busy making Arn's pinnacle toast which as we watched he did in slow motion the buttering of the strangely named bread. But we couldn't see the butter only the slow slow motion of the knife as he worked the stuff over the top of the four slices. And it took forever! When it was finally slammed on the counter the toast was covered in homemade peanut butter and oh my Arnie is allergic to peanuts!
Meanwhile, the quiche sat on the counter.
I said to the hippy lad that me friend ordered the butter, not peanut butter.
He looked at me and said, "So enjoy he got more for his money," and he shuffled away into the inner recesses of the back room where I am sure he went back to his bong.
"You don't understand," I shouted to him but all I could see was a haze of smoke and little else. I turned to the girl behind the counter who had been filling coffee orders the entire time but Arnie said not to bother, he'd scrape it off and a little of the stuff wouldn't hurt him . . . too much. Maybe a bad case of hives. I told him I thought the artwork was in the side room to take his stuff and I'd join him as soon as I got me quiche heated.
Another hippy child appeared from the smokey back and right away I picked up me quiche and asked politely if she'd heat it. She said nothing but you could tell she did not want to do it. As it was heating she started to give me a lecture on microwaves and how I would be consuming them, etc., and how dreadfully horrible they were. I wanted to walk out I was so incensed, but Arnie was waiting so as soon as the quiche came out I'd free meself from the lecture. But she told me to go join me friend she'd call when the quiche was ready.
I turned to go and thought, hey wait a minute it doesn't take but a few seconds to heat a quiche. Was she going to nuke it? Make it hard as a rock? As I turned around there it was me quiche sitting on the counter, herself fading into the back smoke-filled bong room. I wanted to tear me hair out.
Well, I grabbed the quiche, went to the side room and found Arnie looking kind of green with red blotches on his face as he sat munching and looking at the wall beside him. There was a good-sized painting he was staring at. So I sat down and looked at the picture too. The entire canvas was covered, there wasn't a fraction that didn't have something on it. Talk about minutiae the painting was many subjects jammed upon each other and most of the things represented were skeletons, people holding hearts as their bones protruded from different parts of their bodies. Everything was in black and white except the blood red and dripping hearts!
I absentmindedly cut into me quiche and took a mouthful only to stop in mid-chew and look down. The quiche had CORN IN IT! Who knew corn was used in quiche? Certainly not this guy. It was the oddest-tasting quiche I'd ever eaten. Before I could say anything Arnie was getting up and signalling me to move to another table, the picture was a bit much for breakfast decor. So we slid over to the table across from us and started to peruse the painting on that side of the room.
The painting was in brown tones with flares of colour here and there, but it was of skeletons with guitars with butterflies acting as one-winged musical insect notes that turned into big horrible-looking angry bugs.
"This your daughter's friend's work?" I asked.
"Oh yeah that's her, lots of problems . . . deep psychological problems." He shook his head as he stared at the artwork.
I am thinking oh yeah there is. Lots and lots of problems. How am I supposed to enjoy the corn quiche looking at the very busy morbid artwork? I suggested another table, but on second look around we stayed where we were. All the work was bizarre and busy, very very busy.
"It must take her years to complete one of these," I said.
"I guess," Arnie said not able to look away from one incredibly ugly and threatening-looking bug.
I bit the bullet because I had to know, "May I be so bold as to ask what her problem is?"
"Aliens."
"Aliens like in spacemen?" I put me fork down I had lost me appetite as concern took me over.
"She says she is abducted almost every night by aliens and when she comes back she draws what she saw," Arnie explained.
I got up and looked at a few more of her works and they got worse and darker and busier and I am thinking a psychiatric institution was needed. So I sat back down and told Arnie that now I was depressed.
"Then let us do what our wives would do, let's go shopping!" He perked up.
I was looking at his swollen red face. No way, he looked like he had the plague. I made up some lame excuse I had a Tonya assignment, I had to mow the lawn and as I am saying this I realise he lives just above me, so now I have to mow the lawn, stupid me!
As we are walking out, this pretty petite brown-haired girl is getting out a Volks Beetle (well what else would her hippy self-drive?) and she takes a double take and sees Arnie. She screams his name and comes running over to throw her arms around his neck and jump up and down in like a dog whose owner has returned. It was rather embarrassing but Arne took it in stride, disconnecting her bony fingers from around his neck.
"O M G!" She throws at his appearance. "Did THEY come for you too last night?"
"Hives, I am allergic to peanut butter and even though I had a small bit . . . how bad is it?" He asked realising what she said and walking over to the car side mirror. Well, when he got a gander at what he looked like, I am sure he felt foolish for suggesting shopping in public.
"They came, didn't they?" She said looking at him all hard and serious.
"This isn't happening," I said to meself and started walking towards Arnie's motor.
I don't know what was said, but she was animated like a cartoon and he was backing up towards the car. I leaned over and opened his door wide so he could just fall in and not struggle to get away. And he did get in quickly, slam the door and turn the ignition. She was still out there her mouth running a mile a minute, the prettiness gone, a strange expression that looked very alien taking over her face. I thought she'd turn bright neon green next. I looked back as we drove off, she still standing there running her mouth, the long skinny arms gesticulating and the bony fingers pointed at the heavens.
"Well," I said brightly, "at least you got to see the artist."
Gabe
Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved
6 comments:
oh boy! lmao
Ummm my favourite corn quiche! LOL
I hope at least the coffee was drinkable!LOL
I guess Arnie doesn't carry epi pen?
and never heard of corn in a quiche! sounds kinda yucky.LOL sounds more like you visited the twilight zone than a coffee shop.
Actually the Joe was excellent, or maybe it seemed so because I was stressed. Who knew hippy Joe was tasty? Not this guy. And corn quiche, I never heard of such a thing, and was it good, no it was bloody dreadful. It was like eating canned corn mixed with some kind of awful egg mixture and it was STALE! Will I go back? Even for the excellent Joe? Not this guy!
Some problematic people can be very talented in the art department, Gabe. Even if her work was busy, small and the subject horrific, was there at least talent in the works?
I have to admit the artwork was well done. I wouldn't say exceptional and personally I think if she worked for a fantasy magazine as an illustrator she'd do very very well. Hanging art in coffee houses - nah. And when you see it you have to wonder what the hippies who run the place are thinking because the art isn't something to give you an appetite, but then again, they may not be thinking -- all that coffee on the brain but you know they weren't really wired either. I could write another story on this right here, LOL I will refrain!
Post a Comment