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Authors: T. Lynn Ocean
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asking that they were part of the same group.
“Well, some dude named after a potato is our new president, and he said we could have our next meeting at his place,” Thumb Ring told me.
“He told a women’s group they could meet here, at the Block?”
“We just voted to start accepting men. That’s why we elected the potato man our new president,” Tie-Dye explained.
Before I had a chance to dial my number upstairs, Spud came clopping down the stairs, his cane running interference with each step. Wearing a blinding neon yellow hat and an untucked Tommy Bahama shirt, he blended right in with the ladies standing in front of me, hands on their hips. More people ambled in during the time it took my father to reach us, and the buzz of voices fired up as they greeted one another.
“Dammit, Spud, what have you done now?”
“Frannie told me I need to join some social clubs, so I did.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the Lions Club? Or the Elks? Maybe the American Legion?”
He limped behind the bar and helped himself to an O’Doul’s beer. “I ran into these delightful ladies at the flea market and they recruited me. Me and Bobby and Hal and Trip. All four of us.”
His poker buddies. “And you volunteered to be their next
president?”
Spud threw back his head to chug, gripping the edge of the bar for balance. “I’m on painkillers for my pulled leg muscle, for crying out loud. I ain’t thinking real clear.”
“Spud, you’re as adorable as ever!” Thumb Ring said. “Where should we all sit?”
My father looked at me. His mustache twitched.
“What exactly does your group do, Spud?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I told you, I’m on painkillers,” he said. “I might have taken two at the same time yesterday.”
“We’re a social club, sweet pea.” It was Tie-Dye. “Retirees who want to find meaning in their lives.”
“We do aura adjustments, tarot cards, astrological sign readings, Reiki therapy, dating nights,” Thumb Ring added. “We’re goingon a cruise in two months. That’s what we’re doing today. Planning our cruise activities.”
I glared at Spud, but like Cracker when he knew he was in trouble, my father wouldn’t look at me. I saw Bobby, Hal, and Trip amble into the Block. They wouldn’t make eye contact, either.
I clapped my hands. “Okay, all you NABs out there, listen up! Feel free to make yourselves at home over there”—I pointed to a far corner area of tables that were separated from the main dining area by a row of quarter-slot pool tables—“and welcome to the Block. Somebody will be by in a minute to get your drink and food orders.”
Tie-Dye patted the top of my hand. “Oh, we always bring our own refreshments to our meetings. But Spud did say that all our drinks would be on the house.”
Spud limped back around the bar to join the New Age Babes, still not meeting my look. Not only had he sprung a group on me, but the Block wasn’t selling any food. And giving away free drinks.
“You want a veggie wrap, dear? We have plenty for everyone.”
EIGHT
Immersing himself into other people’s lives—albeit in hourlong chunks—busied Morgan’s mind just enough to keep his thoughts off of Maria and her amazing abilities of deception. He’d been a blockhead, he knew. Used like a reliable but boring loaner car while Maria waited for the real thing—the sporty luxury model—to be fixed.
To keep from thinking about what a total loser he was, Morgan gobbled the Green Table’s savory slices of life as though they were his favorite dessert: cheesecake. Plain cheesecake, caramel-drizzled cheesecake, chocolate-crust cheesecake, or vanilla-bean-coffee cheesecake. The varieties were endless. He knew that the Johnson couple was trying to spice up their marriage, for example, and that Nina Johnson regularly had intercourse with another man while Jamie Johnson watched. Morgan learned that Realtors from the Max-Sell Agency loathed their
“Well, some dude named after a potato is our new president, and he said we could have our next meeting at his place,” Thumb Ring told me.
“He told a women’s group they could meet here, at the Block?”
“We just voted to start accepting men. That’s why we elected the potato man our new president,” Tie-Dye explained.
Before I had a chance to dial my number upstairs, Spud came clopping down the stairs, his cane running interference with each step. Wearing a blinding neon yellow hat and an untucked Tommy Bahama shirt, he blended right in with the ladies standing in front of me, hands on their hips. More people ambled in during the time it took my father to reach us, and the buzz of voices fired up as they greeted one another.
“Dammit, Spud, what have you done now?”
“Frannie told me I need to join some social clubs, so I did.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the Lions Club? Or the Elks? Maybe the American Legion?”
He limped behind the bar and helped himself to an O’Doul’s beer. “I ran into these delightful ladies at the flea market and they recruited me. Me and Bobby and Hal and Trip. All four of us.”
His poker buddies. “And you volunteered to be their next
president?”
Spud threw back his head to chug, gripping the edge of the bar for balance. “I’m on painkillers for my pulled leg muscle, for crying out loud. I ain’t thinking real clear.”
“Spud, you’re as adorable as ever!” Thumb Ring said. “Where should we all sit?”
My father looked at me. His mustache twitched.
“What exactly does your group do, Spud?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I told you, I’m on painkillers,” he said. “I might have taken two at the same time yesterday.”
“We’re a social club, sweet pea.” It was Tie-Dye. “Retirees who want to find meaning in their lives.”
“We do aura adjustments, tarot cards, astrological sign readings, Reiki therapy, dating nights,” Thumb Ring added. “We’re goingon a cruise in two months. That’s what we’re doing today. Planning our cruise activities.”
I glared at Spud, but like Cracker when he knew he was in trouble, my father wouldn’t look at me. I saw Bobby, Hal, and Trip amble into the Block. They wouldn’t make eye contact, either.
I clapped my hands. “Okay, all you NABs out there, listen up! Feel free to make yourselves at home over there”—I pointed to a far corner area of tables that were separated from the main dining area by a row of quarter-slot pool tables—“and welcome to the Block. Somebody will be by in a minute to get your drink and food orders.”
Tie-Dye patted the top of my hand. “Oh, we always bring our own refreshments to our meetings. But Spud did say that all our drinks would be on the house.”
Spud limped back around the bar to join the New Age Babes, still not meeting my look. Not only had he sprung a group on me, but the Block wasn’t selling any food. And giving away free drinks.
“You want a veggie wrap, dear? We have plenty for everyone.”
EIGHT
Immersing himself into other people’s lives—albeit in hourlong chunks—busied Morgan’s mind just enough to keep his thoughts off of Maria and her amazing abilities of deception. He’d been a blockhead, he knew. Used like a reliable but boring loaner car while Maria waited for the real thing—the sporty luxury model—to be fixed.
To keep from thinking about what a total loser he was, Morgan gobbled the Green Table’s savory slices of life as though they were his favorite dessert: cheesecake. Plain cheesecake, caramel-drizzled cheesecake, chocolate-crust cheesecake, or vanilla-bean-coffee cheesecake. The varieties were endless. He knew that the Johnson couple was trying to spice up their marriage, for example, and that Nina Johnson regularly had intercourse with another man while Jamie Johnson watched. Morgan learned that Realtors from the Max-Sell Agency loathed their
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