Purest Fiction: No Pickle No Chips

Purest Fiction: No Pickle No Chips

Farther down the road were the unmistakable lions that guarded library steps. She could go in, perhaps log on. No! When she logged on, her eye for details demanded that she comment, giving her hunters a place to begin again.
Instead, she entered the Laundromat and found an unused washer. The author raked heaps of laundry from the cavernous suitcase and fished a handful of quarters from her waist pack. There was enough detergent in her bottle for one load, but she needed more than that. The easiest thing was to start the first washer load, then go buy lunch.

Her editing eyes rebelled at the misplaced apostrophes on the restaurant menu board.

“Todays’” Soup was vegetable beef. A waiter scrubbed at the dessert listing, and called back to the kitchen: “How do you spell tapioca?”
“T-a-p-i-o-c-a,” the author muttered as she watched him stencil in the word with lurid pink chalk. Of course, the true test of these holes-in-the-wall was the quality of the food they served, and when the waiter turned and cheerily invited her in, the hungry writer stepped forward.
“I’d like a bowl of today’s soup, and a corned beef and Swiss cheese on rye. No pickle, no chips. May I have that with coleslaw instead?”
“Yes, Ma’am, it’ll be right out.” The waiter was brisk, but paused at the next booth in his rush to the kitchen. He scribbled an order from a gray-haired man who wore jeans and a flannel shirt.
Though she sat at the window, the author began to relax. When the waiter returned, he was deft and placed the brimming bowl of soup on the table without a spill. Corned beef rose half an inch thick under rye bread well flecked with caraway seeds.
She asked, “Where is the nearest grocery store?”
“It’s two blocks east, but I shop at the Wal-Mart in Greensberg.”
An orange “Help Wanted” sign hung at the cash register. The footsore fugitive asked the man behind the counter, “What position is open?” She would try her hand at accounting if need be.
He looked her up and down, and sighed. “Ah, I sacked the busboy this morning. Now I’m out an employee and a renter. Even though all the kid had to do was come downstairs, he was constantly late for work.”

Purest Fiction is a serialized story in twelve parts. Stay tuned for Purest Fiction: Mob Ties.
Read more of my published short stories here.