Left the Juvenile Unit today at 11:50 a.m...Sharp. My partner and I were ready for a break after a morning of dealing with the restless teenage miscreants incarcerated under our supervision. My partner's name is Joe. My name is Shuckins.
Joe declined my offer to treat him to lunch at the Beermott Greasy Spoon diner. He said he appreciated the gesture, but he was trying to cut down on the fat and carbs since his heart attack. All he was craving was a Slim Fast.
Sometimes I wonder about Joe.
Arrived at the Greasy Spoon, address 176 Freeman Street at 11:55 a.m. It's a grubby pile of building bordering the tracks in one of the less desirable neighborhoods in a seedy little back-water of a delta town.
Was met at the door by the proprietor; one James Scucci, a short burly, wrinkled and weather beaten ex-Marine who operates the diner to supplement his disability check.
The dive was crowded with men and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Asked about an empty table, Scucci grunted and directed me to a secluded corner with his thumb, and then left me to question the existence of Southern Hospitality.
The waitress was Scucci's daughter, a buxom young lass who resembled, if she turned her head just so, and the light touched her just right, and if you looked at her with one eye, a bit like Marilyn Monroe. Lecherous grins followed her every wiggle, as she crossed the room to my table.
"What'll ya'll have, Sweety?" she crooned.
Abruptly she screeched, spun on her heel and laid a haymaker to the jaw of a gap-toothed male who was pressing a substantial portion of her derriere between thumb and forefinger.
His lights went out. Attracted by the commotion, Scucci appeared and dragged the unconscious sod out the back door and deposited him in the dumpster.
12:05 p.m....ordered a chili dog. With slaw, onions, and a diet coke.
12:10 p.m....waitress delivered the chili dog...sans slaw and onion...and with a glass of sweet tea. Decided it was best not to complain.
Settled in to consume my lunch. Clinton Presidential Library ceremonies were on the tv behind the bar. Couple of ex-presidents spoke briefly...Carter and GHWB...extolling Ole Slick's accomplishment's. My gorge began to rise. For a conservative type like me, all that was a bit much to take. But I put it down to ex-pols burying the hatchet in honor of the occasion.
Then Dubya spoke. He too was gracious to Ole Slick, praising his service to the nation and even offering a couple of amusing anecdotes about his political career.
The chili dog glanced suggestively up at me from the plate.
12:25 p.m....paid the bill and departed the diner...while some hippy wanna-be caterwauled about "When the Rain Comes"; ending the ceremonies.
12:30 p.m....returned to the Juvenile Unit and finished up the day in more pleasant surroundings and more congenial company.
4:00 p.m...Joe and I departed the Unit.
4:25 p.m...Transmission on my Buick burned out as I returned home.
Whaddya think it all means?
