Poking Around in the Attic #T

I have taken some time away from writing to search through my attic, hoping to find another story or two.  I strolled at twilight along a deserted urban street in the northwest corner of my mind.  As I approached the middle of the block, a skinny little man, unkempt and ragged, stepped from the alley and accosted me.  “Pssst,” he hissed, “you like some  dirty pictures, some filthy stories?” 

“Not interested,” I said. “Here,” I handed him a dollar bill, “go buy yourself some soap. And get your mind out of the gutter while you are at it.  Scram.”

The café on the next corner was still open.  I stepped inside, took a stool at the counter.  A buxom woman well past life’s midpoint ambled along behind the counter, slopped a glass of water and a setup in front of me.  “Whadda ya want?”  she asked.  I noted her mustard-colored, not to mention mustard-stained dress, her name tag on her left breast, “Maizie.”

Looking into her clear, pale blue eyes, I replied, “I want stories; or even one story.  But you look a little weary.  Guess I’d settle for a cuppa joe and that last slice of apple pie there.”

“Mister, you don’t know from stories.  Look at me.  No, really.  Look at me.  I am fifty-nine years old last week, and here I am after eight o’clock on Tuesday night  sloppin’ coffee ‘n slingin’ hash.  You think I don’t know from stories?  Well, sir, you ain’t lived long, then.”

“Do tell.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “I ain’t into no funny business, Mister.  I work hard, I go home.  That’s it. You want stories, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

I was disappointed because I really thought she might have a tale to tell.  I took the last bite of pie, swallowed the last swig of java.  I swung off the stool, laid a ten spot on the counter and said, “The change is yours, Maizie.  Have a nice night.”  

As I tripped the panic bar to open the door, Maizie spoke to me again. “Wait.”  I stopped, let the door drift closed.  “I get off work in ten minutes.  We can sit right here in a booth and talk a bit if a story is really all you want.”

“All right, then.  A story is exactly what I am looking for, and the only thing I am looking for.  Why else would a man be rummaging around in the recesses of his mind at this time of life?”  I slipped into the vacant booth nearest the kitchen.  Maizie put another cup of coffee in front of me.  

I waited while she finished her shift.

©2015 David W. Lacy