I'm almost positive we're not supposed to know about this.

This doesn't sound right at all, does it?

Seriously, stop everyone on bikes? In the Fifth District, which as far as I can tell, includes the Marigny, the Bywater, St. Claude and St. Roch, and that’s going to be a helluva lot of bikes. Good gravy.

Take what you can, live with the rest.

So. Two days away, two days with a serious distraction, and we're back to see if there is still anything to pick at. Perhaps I am being over dramatic about this, about my giving up on trying this writing thing after starting so soon, but no one knows better than I how easily I'll rabbit when given first chance.

 In any event, here we are and I say what the hell. The weekend was pretty turbulent, maybe the most turbulent in the whole relationship, and a lot of the turbulence came from the vast disparity in our moods. Me, I'm in a good mood, the best mood I've been in since the beginning of the year. The girlfriend's, none of your business, but when I thought about it, I know just why I'm in a good mood and it's not merely because the chemicals in my brain took a shift or because those One-A-Day vitamins I've been taking for the past week or so have kicked in.

 I'm actually excited about this. I don't know why, but I am. I have no expectations and I see nothing coming out of it in the future, but for the time being it's fun and feels right. Maybe it's just because of something Hatchet said the other night during his visit, "So, you're just writing and getting stoned, huh? Good." Something about that appealed to me. Maybe because it came from Hatchet's particular brand of bottomless enthusiasm, but that stroke galvanized me. I decided, "Well, dammit, I'll write again just for the hell of it", which I hadn't done in almost two decades.

 Perhaps it'd be useful to sketch out just why I'm doing this and what I think I'll get out of it when all is said and done. First and foremost, I do not see this being a financial bonanza, neither this blog in particular or the whole writing thing in general. I've had my whack at that and I do not believe I posses the moxie to pull off a writing career. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to actually be a Professional Writer. I used to tell people, when asked, my goal was to write some airport-ready door stopper, sell the rights to Hollywood, and live a life of eccentric obscurity on the residuals. I could live very well on very little, and as a Professional Writer, I'd certainly be up for hammering the occasional column or article for a little extra egg money. Sounds like a pleasant life indeed to me, but unfortunately, to be a Professional Writer one has to have actual material selling, and I don't think I have that in me. Maybe, but it has not even peeped so far.

 I've had ideas for books, sure, and I've sketched the odd outline here or there, but I've never had the balls to actually give it a shot. Most of it's a fear of failure, I'll own that, but I would want anything I'd expect people to buy to be at least enjoyable. I can't seem to find that way. Maybe it's not in me, I don't know.

 I really don't want to do journalism or criticism anymore, but I think I'm stuck with the latter as a part of my nature. Journalism is too much goddamn work and requires one to deal with too much goddamn bullshit. I still have nightmares about doing Little League box scores for The Times. Again, that'd be a great game to play, but I do not, absolutely not, have the internal fire to do that gig anything close to properly and take the licks I'd take. I'm a coward, but I know it. Besides, I'd have to talk to people and I hate talking to people.

 I haven't written for pay in over 10 years because by the time the end came, I hated, absolutely loathed writing, the physical process. Unless I was drunk and rowdy, I was constantly miserable because I knew I'd have to pound out some gibberish on some stupid band. Pretty much like now and cooking, I just absolutely hate having to do anything for pay, and I don't know quite why that is. About six months is how long I can enjoy any job, and by the time I quite writing, I hated it as much I used to hate working in my parents' garden.

 So here we are, and admittedly, it's all been very umbilically oriented so far, but I'm not doing this for anyone's benefit but mine. Sort of like Philip K. Dick's Exegesis, this is an attempt to figure out just what in the hell is wrong with me and what I should do about it. Of course, mine isn't a semi-mystical experience full of time travel, a broken world, and a malevolent god, just fairly tedious neurosis and self-doubt. But we've all got our own crosses to bear, as ridiculous as they might be.

 So, here I am, trying to be a writer. If asked, I would not call myself a writer" no more than I'd call myself a "philosopher". As of right now, I'm currently stuck on "stoner prep cook," which has its points. I'm still excited about it and still want to do it. However, as today shows, I won't always have anything interesting to write about but a desire to nevertheless gibber on. Sorry but it is what it is.

Don't let me hold you up, now.

 Random gibberish at the end of the week. Well, the end of my week, that is, as most folks have the other way around. See, I work in the service industry, and the whole idea of "weekends and holidays off" is strange and foreign to me. These days, my work week ends on Monday and starts back up Thursday evening. That's just the way it is. As a general rule, my bosses know I like to have "pseudo-weekends", or two days in a row off rather than splitting them. I just cannot enjoy myself otherwise, and most folks are generally agreeable to the idea as am I should it be necessary to adjust when needs must.

 Really, I haven't had weekends off since I started working as a teenager, and weekends always meant more work. When I did newspapers, I was generally working through the weekend, even if no one else on staff was. Funny how it always worked out like that. I didn't mind then, though, and I don't mind now, though it screws up my blog reading since everyone else in the world has normal weekends, it seems.

 The French Quarter is full of Shriners. This is to be expected, as there is a convention going on this weekend. Naturally, this has been going through my head all day, as well as the spinning wheels that make up my fascination with Freemasons and people who wear funny hats on purpose. In any event, I saw a fairly large number of portly, middle-aged gentlemen in white suits. Some had on presumably ceremonial garb,such as very sharp capes and slightly ostentatious shoulder necklaces. As I understand, these folks are big on hierarchy and honoring each other with titles and bric-à-brac and much whuffie is earned. Many were wearing fezzes, while a significant number were carrying what looked like tiny, cone-shaped road cases for their hats. At least, best I can tell from observation. I figured someone grinning ear-to-ear on top of looking like I do even on my best day, it was probably not conducive for me to bother these good folk with such trivialities. I don't know why I find a city full of Shriners as amusing as I do, but there it is.

 Boy, that Todd Akin sure stuck his foot in it, didn't he. I must say, I'm a bit surprised that the general run of the GOP came down like a hammer on the dumb son of a bitch, though I've no doubt he'll soon become a martyr to political correctness for the general run of wingnut. I don't understand how he thought something that goddamn stupid would fly, but perhaps he figured Ron Paul set the center on this particular debate.

 I swear, I haven't laughed so hard in months. I saw on Twitter this morning that some member of the House got busted for skinny-dipping and getting soused in Israel and apparently this actually happened in this universe. That's funny enough, sure. Funnier, it was a Republican, but deep down, no one was surprised. Even funnier, it was the Sea of Galilee, and really? You're in Israel and you're a conservative Republican and you thinking skinny-dipping in Jesus's sea is not going to be all over the Internet in a couple of hours?

 Turns out, this guy - Kevin Yoder, freshman Representative of the great state of Kansas - is a year younger than me. That just makes me sad. Now, I'm not claiming at having total wisdom and full coverage, but I do think that after 36 years of stomping the Terra I had enough sense to, when asked if I wanted to get liquored up, strip nekkid and try to walk on the same water Jesus was supposed to have walked on, I would have studied on it, considered my future in the Republican party and the ubiquity of camera phones. and replied with an respectful "No". But what do I know.

 And so much for all that. I'll be at the girlfriend's place for the next two days. Perhaps that will be the end of that. I'd really rather bring my laptop, but I know if I tell her I'm trying this, it'll go all pear shaped for reasons too tedious to get into here. So, we'll see.

Whitburn Codex #1 - Little David Wilkins, "Whoever Turned You On (Forgot To Turn You Off)"

 During a Facebook back-and-forth concerned a totally different country singer on Whitburn, my brother mentioned this cat's name as someone he'd been digging on lately. I hadn't heard him, otherwise I'd have been all over a dude named "Little David". Perhaps I thought he was from the pre-honky tonk batch. In any event, I decided to give it a listen and this was the first tune I clicked on once iTunes got itself properly warmed up.

 The title was too tempting, as a song called "Whoever Turned You On (Forgot To Turn You Off)" is either going to be a fairly awesome slice of sleazy honky tonk or it's going to be an embarrassing mess. Either way, I've got a good insight to what lies ahead in Little David's oeuvre via my own particular scanner dark. There's remarkably little fat on the Codex, most of it coming from the folks I'm most familiar with (like Willie Nelson or George Jones) or didn't care for in the first place (Eddy Arnold). These more obscure hopefuls are pretty easy to suss out after a listen or two. I don't know if that's due to my finely tuned honky-tonk bullshit detector or an immutable fact of the universe. I might also be talking nonsense, so take that into consideration.

 Regardless, Little David did not disappoint. This is a pretty nifty little honky-tonk two-stepper, with an awesome hook and an extremely dirty mind. Thematically, it's from the same school George Strait's early hit "The Fireman"; to wit, a good ol' boy finds himself dealing with a woman that another man left in an excited state of sexual agitation. However, where Strait makes a practice of dealing with this problem as it springs up all over his geographical area, while Little David is concerned with only one woman.

Whitburn Codex Intro

 Sometime last early last year, someone gave my brother a truly massive amount of mp3s, something like 50 gigabytes, called "The Whitburn Collection". My brother being my brother was less interested in the roots of the collection, which was indeed organized if haphazardly so - nor was he concerned if it had anything to do with the famous musicologist, author and record collector Joel Whitburn. My brother received parts One and Three of a four-part set, and the person he got it from couldn't adequately explain why he couldn't deliver the full set, but since he's a really good guy we don't fret much. We'd still like it, though, if anyone has any clue what I'm gibbering about here.

 Anyhow. After whittling out the relatively small number of tunes that duplicated stuff we already had and passing over other versions (single mixes, live stuff, etc.), we were left with 20 solid gigs of heretofore unknown country music. It's exciting and incredibly interesting. Not only is there so much country music I'd never heard - and I'm a man that loves him some country music - but it's a fascinating sociological snapshot of the music's time. Like all art, music - especially pop music and doubly so for country music - often acts as a mirror for the time of its creation. Some songs are timeless; some are inexorably tied to the events and opinions of the era and make little or no sense out of context.

 For me this has a deeper meaning. Though I was basically a child of the '80s, it wasn't really one John Hughes would recognize. I grew up in rural Northeast Mississippi, not far from where Elvis was born, in a dry country that bans MTV to this day. Worse, my family and neighbors in the little wooded river community I call home had little truck with popular culture and could've cared less about pop music. My brother and I both had our rock and pop likings, but our personal radios were always, always tuned to a country station. My parents were less stuck in the '70s and more unconcerned with the passage of time. Apart from the advances in baseball-watching technology, they could care less.

 So what I'm saying is this: country music, particularly from the '70s, plays a heavy role in my psychological make-up, as does dealing with and exploring the society and culture where that music grew and played. As I said, some songs are timeless, and they're just as relevant to us as when they were written. You know, everyone can relate to "Your Cheatin' Heart" and always will so long as hearts can break, that sort of thing. Some songs, however, deal with the world around them and, as often as not, fail miserably. The whole feminist thing hit country music right in the small of the back and even in today's conservative climate, the tunes dealing with "uppity gals who just need some good lovin'" is quite jarring. Lighter, as much affection as I personally have for them, songs about truckers and CB's really don't hold up.

 Which makes dealing with the Codex even more a chore. Plus, there is a whole lot of really, really bad songs on this thing. I mean, just embarrassingly bad. Some are songwriter cuts or deejay vanity projects, and hey, not everyone's Ray Price. Some are extremely poorly crafted tunes, some shooting for whatever the honky zeitgeist was and just whiffing it big-time. Some are merely examples of how the Industry has always foisted no-talent hacks upon a record-buying public that'll dutifully by the most horrific shit. *Shakes fist at uncaring sky*

We'll always have Chuck Berry

 Sometimes, I swear, it seems like I shouldn't be allowed out of the house. Some days, it seems all you can do is get through the best you can without burning the goddamn house down. Okay, so it wasn't all that bad.

 My cousin's in town. He's about five years younger than me, and like all my cousins, we were pretty tight growing up. And, like all my cousins, he wonders just what in the hell went wrong with me. My twenties were spent with a good bit of chilly distance between my family and myself, and the vast majority of it was all my fault.

 Granted, they didn't expect me to stay weird and that sort of weirds them out. I'm 37 and, thus, should have at least a couple kids by now and at the bare minimum one marriage under my belt. I don't and that ain't right to them. Most of them have shrugged their shoulders and we're back to having a warm relationship that's based on actually being grown-ups, and all their kids are old enough so that we don't mutually freak each other out anymore.

 I got another cousin, also male, with whom that chilly distance is still there, but I'm not quite as bothered by that chasm quite as much. He and I have always had a distant relationship, never as close as the others or even his older sister. We're not much different now than when we were back in the day. This cousin in town, though, we played as kids and ran the roads as teenagers. He was the third stooge with my brother and I, and for a short while, it was just him and me.

 Thing is, of my cousin's, he's the one walking the weirdest path. It's not as "radical" as mine or my brother's, but it's definitely discussed around the various familial dinner tables, and rather sniffily at that. And his wife is cause for even more comment. Sure, he and I don't see eye-to-eye politically, 'cause FOX News makes even the smartest people believe the dumbest shit, but it's not like the rest of my family are wild-eyed anarchist lefties. 'Course, none of my people are exactly Birchers, either, so that's not it.

 I don't know what it is. Even if I did, I don't have any clue how to make it "better" or even what "better" means. He's still my cousin, he's still family, he's still blood, and I'd still do damn near anything to help him or his wife when they need it, and I know they'd do the same for me. That'll never change, and there's comfort in that.

Maybe the whole situations falls forevermore under that sagest of New Orleans nuggets of wisdom:, "it is what it is". Maybe. I do miss us being buddies, though, and I don't know if I'd say that about a lot of folks.

The bear in the cave

I'm not at my sharpest when I first wake up. More specifically, when I'm allowed to wake up on my own instead of those instances wherein I force myself awake. Truth be told, I'm probably not at my sharpest then, either, but we're not dealing with that particular scenario right now. Maybe tomorrow morning.

However, on the positive, I am totally able to get my shit together in an orderly, efficient fashion while at the same time smoking up, reading nonsense and eating. I am very good at maximizing my free time, especially when it comes to having as much free time as I can squeeze out of the universe.

 Honestly, the only thing I can think of is how much I do not want to go to work, and since I don't want to get into that right now, that's that.

But it's so cliche...

One of these days, I really do feel, I'll start writing again. For some reason, I don't know, but I see it happening. It's there, waiting patiently for the need to arise. I don't know, maybe it'll just be the writing involved if I do indeed go back to school. I'm not at all convinced I'll actually do that, though.

 I don't really see the point, beyond just needing something to do with myself, so it seems silly or childish, somehow. I can't explain it, which probably means I'm lying to myself in some form or fashion, that or I don't feel grok the problem I face. That's usually how it washes out.

 It's too bad this is such a (relatively) dull universe. I do think I'd make a good parapsychologist in a world where that didn't automatically mean "kook". But what do I know.

 I never really liked writing, honestly, at least I don't think I did. I did get off on crafting a piece, making an argument, be it about a political issue or a musicological bit of nonsense, and to a certain extent I still do. I don't know if I was ever that in love with the idea of being a writer. I never really bought into that whole romantic ideal. My writer persona was awfully confused. But he was young, and he owned he didn't know shit.

  I'm not entirely sold on the vaporizer. Perhaps I'm using it incorrectly. I wouldn't be surprised.

 Maybe that's an idea. While I sit on this couch, night after night, and smoke my mind on weed and Internet brain candy, I could keep a window open to scribble nonsense too dense and heavy and lengthy for Twitter. Maybe a running, stream-of-consciousness type thing while I read about conspiracy cranks, misunderstand philosophy/science, and listen to MST3K on an endless loop. Review music I listen to, movies I watch, maybe comment on socio-political nuggets I pretend to pay attention to. I'd automatically have two free days, at least, so that right there means I won't have to hold myself to doing it every day.

 I wonder just where the uncomfortable feeling I have about not writing, even just gibberish like this on a daily basis. It's not exactly guilt, but it's similar. Like the feeling I have when I contemplate someone learning something about another person that'd let them, the first person, down. Not so much betrayal or knocked off a pedestal, but more like "Awww, I thought you had more to you than that." I feel it when one of the lads says something massively homophobic, and I don't know what to tell 'em. I don't know who I should feel guilty to, though, who I'm letting down in some form or fashion. I know there are people who say they're disappointed in me not writing, but that ain't none of their damn business. One could give a metaphysical answer, a question of destiny or ode to a muse, but that's just silly.

 Thing is, this is sort of fun. Random, rapid lashing nonsense and wisdom into a digital stylus, nothing but light and smoke and math, but more concrete and permanent that the heaviest block of granite but still a whisper in the wind. Whiff, wham, okay Internet, here are my thoughts and they might be here forever or someone might spill a Diet Coke and wipe out the whole deal. I sort of like that, too. Caveat: while one lauds the Internet/Blogger/Tumblr thing giving us all a voice, one recognize most of us really should shut the hell up.

 I'm going to do this on both Tumblr and Blogger. Keep it connected to Twitter, too, but not Facebook. I'm going to keep this as existential ad possible and keep out of other folks' business, but there'll be plenty of shit I don't want certain folks reading. It may evolve in one direction or it may evolve in another. Regardless, I've grown to loathe Facebook and it's use as anything but a time-killer. Besides, I might very well not write one more single word the rest of my life. For now, it's late and I should go ahead and call it a day.

Tales from the kitchen

People never cease to amaze me, especially people who come to New Orleans. Right now, we're getting the tail-end of the family tourists and the first batch of before-school-starts tourists, so there's a pretty heady collection of classless waterheads wandering around unsupervised in the Quarter. They don't mean harm, I truly believe, but it seems like they've never been any place fancier than a Shoney's and the concept of "fine dining" blows their mind somewhat. That and they can be just plain rude, moreso than the most drunken Mardi Gras jackass or JazzFest ding-a-ling.

 Take tonight, for example. Keep in mind, now, my restaurant serves your typical New Orleans/Creole-American board of fare and does the whole "casual fine dining", which means you can get a pretty good meal but aren't require to wear long pants. There's a New Orleans-style double doors that leads out to the courtyard, but it's rarely used by anyone but staff. However,  About an hour-and-a-half before the end of the shift, right at the end of a fairly significant pop, some yayhoo walks right in through those doors and right into the kitchen and the following conversation occurs:

Guy: “Do you have foie gras?”

Me: “Do what?”

Guy: “Fois gras. Do you sell fois gras?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Guy: “Well, it’s French.”

Me: “Okay.” [Beat as the guy just stares at me] “We don’t have it.”

Guy: “Do you know any restaurant that would have it?”

Me: “Hell, I don’t know, you might try Court of Two Sisters or Palace Cafe.”

Guy: “They don’t. Who else?”

Me: “I really don’t know. Sorry.”

The guy then turns and walks out the door, leaving said door open, without another word. Now, anyone who knows anything about me knows that, first and foremost, I'm an easy-going guy and more than willing to help out anyone in any way I can. However, there are three things anyone considering similar action as this dingbat should consider before just blowing through the door.

Number one, I’m a cook, not a restaurant guide. The apron should be a giveaway.

Number two, this is New Orleans, not Paris and “Creole” is not synonymous with “French”, cuisine-wise. It's not even close and serious epicureans would laugh, laugh if it were suggested to be so in their presence.

Number three, dude, don’t just walk into my kitchen, especially if you're going to bark orders and cop an attitude. That’s a good way of getting something that’s either sharp or recently exposed to flame thrown at you.

 Damn tourists.

My Maria

 The jukebox blared loudly, some song from some band from the seventies. "Should I stay or should I go", went the chorus, and that's all she could ever pick out because of the singer's English accent. Or was he Australian? She didn't know and it didn't matter. Not really. It just came up in the jukebox's rotation, she didn't know how it worked, if she didn't play something specific. Some nights, she felt like it. Tonight she didn't.

 Three-forty-seven a.m. One hour and 13 minutes until shift change. One hour and 13 minutes until she could go home, go to bed and simply not be at the Waffle House on Interstate 75 outside of Valdosta for another 14 hours. She hated... well, no that's not quite right. She didn't "hate" her job, but she sure didn't love it. It paid well enough and her co-workers were decent enough, especially since that creepy Eric got fired, but she sure didn't love it. She had to work and she had to work night shift, so she could be a mom at some time of the day, so she could go to school, so there she was.

 Five a.m., she could go home, drink coffee for an hour and then get Chrystal ready for school. Then sleep until Chrystal got off the bus, be a mom for a while, until her night classes started at six. Night shift, the nights she worked, started at midnight, and it all started over again. A slow parade of truckers, travelers, college students and random lost souls who had nothing better to do while waiting out the inky black South Georgia night than to come to Waffle House and make time with her or crack jokes with whatever cook happened to be on that night.

 Three fifty. She was alone. Jennie, the other waitress, called in and the cook, Stevie, left early to take his son to the hospital for some sort of something. He didn't know and she didn't know. Maybe it was nothing, but that was okay. Middle of the week was pretty slow and it's the middle of July, hot as hell, and no one was coming in. The last customer was a trucker around one, and nothing but her and the jukebox since then. It was hot, so hot, outside, and with the air conditioner roaring full blast, the windows were fogged completely opaque. She was in her own little world, just her, the jukebox and her sociology text book, opened to the chapter she was supposed to read but left unread in her boredom.

 Three-fifty-two, the jukebox kicked in a song by Brooks & Dunn, that "My Maria" song she liked so much. Jerry the stoner morning cook told her more than once, in his clumsy attempts to make time, that it was a cover of a song from the seventies, but she didn't care. The jukebox was a mix of new country and classic rock, and she liked most of it, but she loved "My Maria", the high, keening wail during the chorus, she didn't know what it was. Jerry was a nice enough guy, but she had no room. Twenty-five, going to school, raising a seven year old with just a sister's begrudging help, she didn't have time for nice enough potheads going nowhere but the marijuana dealer and the video store and the pizza place.

Four o'clock. One hour. She'd long finished her closing sidework long ago. The bell chimes, dammit, someone's here. Turning, she sees him slouching towards a counter seat. Not tall and not short, not fat and not thin, not handsome and not ugly, with dirty blond-almost-but-not-quite brown hair hanging over his eyes. Dressed in a simple gray t-shirt and blue jeans and carrying a book, he eased onto the stool. He shot her a shy, apologetic half smile, as if he knew she was breaking her peace and solitude and screwing up her sidework.

 "You want some coffee?"

 "Got any sweet tea?" Again the apologetic half smile. "No," she said, "but I can make some."

 "No, don't, that's cool. Coke's fine."

 "You sure? It's no bother."

 "Yeah, no, coke's fine."

 Okay. She turned to the fountain machine and got his drink, plenty of ice. "Know what you want?"

 He screwed up his face in thought as he scanned the menu. After a few seconds, he said, "Pancakes. Plain, no butter or syrup. Side of sausage. That okay?"

 "Sure, hun, be a minute." She turned to the grill and with a sigh got to work. The jukebox kicked into that "Ramblin' Man" song. The guy at the counter took a sip of his coke, disregarding the straw and cracked open his book. Out of curiosity, she looked at the cover as he read. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson.

 "That any good?"

 Silence for a pause until, apparently, he realized she was talking to him. "Hmm? Sorry?"

 "Your book. Is that any good?"

 "I don't know," he said. "I just started it." Again, the apologetic half smile, like he was embarrassed he couldn't give her a full account of the book's merits. "It's supposed to be pretty good. So far, it's okay."

 "Oh. Didn't they make a movie of that?"

 "Yup."

 "Is that any good?"

 "I don't know," he said. "Never saw it."

 Back to the pancakes and sausage. She cooked, he read and the jukebox played that Gretchen Wilson song, "Redneck Girl". After a few minutes, his food was done and she served it up. "Here you go," smiling a genuine smile for some reason. "Let me know if there's anything you need."

 Again, the half smile "'Kay. Thanks." He ate in silence for a while as she studied the back cover of the book.

 "You go to school here?" She couldn't tell his age. His boyish face was slightly marred by a small scar on his chin, making him look anywhere from a mature 18 year old to someone in his early thirties.

 "Nope."

 "Just passing through, then?"

 "Yep. Heading to Florida. Gainesville."

 "Oh. You live there?" Please don't be a Gator, she told herself.

 "No. Visiting people. My brother, actually."

 "Oh. Where did you come down from?"

 "New York City."

 "Really? You live there?" Now, that was something. New York City.

 "No. Just visiting."

 "Oh. So where do you live?"

 "New Orleans."

 "That's cool. I went to JazzFest once. It was a lot of fun."

 "Yeah, it's a nice town and there's a lot to do there." He went after his pancakes in the resulting silence.

 Oh, my god, she thought. "I'm sorry. You're trying to eat and here I am blabbing away."

 The half smile. "No, it's okay. You're the first person I've talked to for more than 14 hours. Excuse me."

 He got up and went to the jukebox. Slipping in a dollar, he studied the selection for a while before punching the buttons. Returning to his seat, he gave another half smile and continued to slowly work away at his pancakes.

 "What'd you play?"

 "This and that, just some stuff." As he said it, a Willie Nelson song, one she couldn't place, came over the loudspeaker. "What are you reading?"

 The question took her by surprise. "What? Oh. My sociology textbook. Trying to anyway. I have a test Friday and I need to study and generally late nights are good for that." Babbling again.

 "You in school, then?"

 "Yeah."

 "What are you studying?"

 "Social work. I want to be a social worker."

 "Nice." The half smile. "Any particular field?"

 "Oh, umm, no, not really. Haven't gotten that far yet. I just want to do something to help people out, I don't know yet."

 "Oh. Well, good luck. That's admirable."

 "Thanks."

 He lapsed back into silence and pancakes. Four twenty-five. He finished up his meal. "What do I owe you."

 The sudden question startled her. "Ah. Um. Eleven-fifty."

 "Okay. Thanks." Standing, he reached for his wallet and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and then headed for the bathroom. She laid his change on the counter for him when he returned and walked over to the griddle to study if it needed re-scraping. Behind her, she heard the doorbell "bing" and saw it close. He'd left the change on the counter, a nearly ten-dollar tip. No goodbye.

 The sun was coming out and the inky blackness lightened into a bland gray through the fogged windows as another day began and hers drew to a close. She saw the red lights of his car blink on, maneuver into position and head back towards the highway. Over the loudspeaker, the guitar chords to "My Maria" kicked in as the last selection played.