Canoe Tripping in a Greasy Spoon

Emerging from the fog, I inexplicably found myself drifting up to the lunch counter.

It had been a long, difficult paddle. Hours earlier, before the fog began to lift, I ran aground on the salad bar. I knew I was in trouble when I heard the crunch of croutons beneath my hull. Couldn’t rock the canoe free, so I stepped out and my boot got stuck in the thousand islands. Thank God, it wasn’t bleu cheese!

Prior to that, I got the canoe hung up on a table, but was able to rock free. Restaurant tables are designed for that purpose. That’s why one leg is always shorter than the rest.

I should have known better than to paddle in there. The place was a real dive. But, looking back fondly, that’s where I found Pearl. Never known the likes of her before. She was cultured — really well-rounded. I’ll never forget Pearl; she was the camphor cake in the urinal of my life.

But alas, she slipped through my fingers. Disappeared into the depths of a booth cushion, condemned to sleep forever among the cellophane cracker wrappers, lost coins and frilled toothpicks.




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