On my way back from The Hamsters I stopped at a roadside place called 'The Good Luck Cafe' for a piece of pie and a glass of milk.
But once I got inside I was enveloped in a Sysco fog that made me realize just how hungry I really was. Bunny and Phillip don't really feed you much at The Hamsters, although their bath towels have the highest thread count in the continental United States. So I glanced eagerly at the menu. Sometimes these little out-of-the-way places feature unique and tantalizing dishes, specialties that only the locals are ken to.
The waitress brought me a glass of water and laid a paper straw next to it. One point in their favor. The sun set over the Borgo Pass as I asked her to recommend something good.
"The ham and chicken lungs are real good" she said.
"That a house specialty?" I asked.
"Well, the cook made up a big batch before he started drinking again -- it shouldn't be too bad" she replied, reaching into her apron pocket to quiet an obstreperous ring tone.
"What is weasel pie?" I asked her.
"Oh damn" said the waitress as she looked at her phone. "It's my boyfriend. I'll be right back, sweets."
I took a swig of water, surreptitiously sliding the paper straw into my coat pocket. I had a feeling that paper straws were going to become a collector's item one of these days.
Another waitress bustled up to my table. She only had one arm.
"Sorry about that, sir" she said to me. "Doris had to take a little break, so I'll take care of you. My name is Tracey."
Her name tag said 'Hilda,' but I hadn't the heart to contradict a one-armed girl.
"What is weasel pie?" I asked again.
"It's a chicken pot pie with sweet potatoes instead of red potatoes" she replied briskly.
That sounded safe, so I ordered it -- along with a side salad and a glass of iced tea.
"We're all out of iced tea" said the one-armed waitress cheerfully, "would you like a glass of hibiscus juice instead?"
"No thanks, water will be okay" I told her quietly.
In about five minutes I had my weasel pie and salad, served by yet another waitress -- this one looked like Barbara Bush, and hummed softly to herself.
"Thank you, ma'am" I said to her. She smiled and patted me on the shoulder.
Halfway through my weasel pie I found a Kennedy half dollar. I called Barbara Bush over to complain, but she pointed out that it was actually a Sacagawea dollar. So I wiped it off with a paper napkin and put it in my coat pocket with the paper straw. This was turning out to be a profitable little excursion.
At the counter the cashier turned out to be Doris with the boyfriend trouble. She looked grim, so I didn't bother to tell her the weasel pie was pretty good. Next to the cash register was a glossy black bowling ball on a small pedestal.
"Rub it for good luck" said Doris brusquely. "It belonged to Billy Barty, the dwarf bowler. He was my granddad's brother."
The ball gleamed with some kind of polish, so I gave it a rub.
"Where's the genie?" I asked Doris with the boyfriend trouble, but she just looked at me with a face like a pan of cottage cheese.
The glass counter next to the register, which is usually filled with stale gum and candy bars in places like this, was filled with cans of Barbasol shaving cream instead. Must be a lot of truckers come here to eat, I thought to myself as I gave Doris a twenty dollar bill. I looked around. Nope. There was an elderly couple sharing a bowl of chili, several middle-aged women in a booth sharing a copy of the Minneapolis Star Tribune, and two cops eating hamburgers. But no truckers. I shrugged and took my change. Going back to my table, I left the Sacagawea dollar for my tip.
Outside in the dark I noticed that the gravel under my feet was actually crushed coral. It released seaweed and rotted fish odors as I stepped on it. And next to my car was a blue plastic barrel full of cash. A hand-lettered sign on it said "TAKE ALL YOU WANT." But I took out my wallet and put a twenty in the barrel. Then I set the whole shebang on fire.
That's the kind of hairpin I am.
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