Wilyem Clark
12-04-2015, 02:40 PM
Two couples—two husbands and their wives—had just been served their brunchy
cocktails and were discussing the issues of the week.
“You would not believe,” said the fresh-faced brunette, “what this one did last Thursday.”
“I’d believe it,” said the skinny (nearly emaciated) man in jogging attire. He and the
object of the forthcoming tease had been friends since freshman year in college.
“Don’t give him any more fodder,” said the chunky male opposite. His wife had dressed
him in a slightly oversized sweater in a vain attempt to hide his built-in padding.
“More coffee?” the attentive waitress asked.
“Please.” The pudgy gentleman indulged in a refill since he was forgoing alcohol and was
training himself to drink his cuppas straight-up black.
“You’re so brave,” said the lighter-haired woman who was paired with the athletic type.
“I wish I could force myself to lose a few pounds, but when you have a glutton for a mate . . .”
“I can’t help it if I have a high metabolism,” her hubby protested pleasantly. “Plus I run
every day. It’s a devotion, a religion.”
“You saw him,” his wife inserted. “Ran all the way over here today.”
“Exercise never seems to do me any good,” replied the other man, who stirred his joe in a
ridiculous bid to conjure up cream and sugar. “Yes, he was always a glutton, eating all the
pizza and drinking all the beer at parties and never gaining an ounce. As for me, if I hardly
peek at a calorie, then bam! But mark my words—”
“Here it comes!”
“Some day it will catch up with you. You’ll be a blimp yet.”
His old school chum leaned over and patted the prognosticator on the arm. “You’ve been
predicting that ever since graduation. How long ago was that? Hmmm. Ten years!”
“Now, boys.” The brunette was reasserting herself. “I was starting to tell a story when I
got interrupted.”
Just then the plates arrived, ready to appease hunger with eggs Benedict, a mushroom
omelet, a cheesy quiche, and a healthful salad. Guess who got stuck with the salad.
They were all arranged around an inside table next to the bistro’s plate glass windows.
Outside was a streetscape, a narrow urban lane that channeled cars in one direction only. Every
twenty seconds or so a random pedestrian would bobble by.
The one with the rabbit fare paused in his attack on the lettuce to listen intently. “What is
that noise?” he inquired in general.
“Oh! That’s it. That’s what I wanted to tell you all.” The good tattletale wife set down her
fork and folded her hands in front of her to emphasize earnestness. “Last Thursday night, we
were all settled in. Jane was asleep in her room. The dog was scrabbling his limbs as he chased
a dream-squirrel. I was reading and this one was tuned into some sports show. Suddenly he
jumps up and says to me, ‘We’re having an earthquake!’”
“What!” the runner exclaimed. “Here on the eastern seaboard?”
“It’s not so far-fetched,” his spouse interjected, shooting a sympathetic glance at the
miserable man to her right. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Oh, but it gets better,” the storyteller continued. “‘We have to evacuate!’ he yells. ‘Right
now!’”
“Did you evacuate?”
“No!”
“It’s all the extra caffeine you’ve been drinking, old man,” the narrow guy commented.
“It’s made you edgier than normal.”
“And what, pray tell, is normal?” The battling couple exchanged familiar poisonous
glares.
“There was a tremor, I assure you,” muttered the fellow under the arc lamp defensively.
“And what is that noise?”
“I’ll tell you what it was,” said his wife, slicing into her quiche-crust prongs first. “A
truck rumbling by outside. That is all.” She was about to lade the forkful onto her tongue, but
the morsel quivered and fell off the tines, landing on the tablecloth. The woman swore. “See,
this is what he does to me. Drives me to distraction!”
“Paulina . . .”
“No, she’s right,” the paunchy mister said. “I do tend to make her crazy, but can I help it
if I’m super-sensitive?”
“A quality this one lacks,” the second wife sniped.
“And I can’t help it if I am utterly levelheaded,” her marital burden chirped. “I think each
one of us has faults, and we all have to accept them. Wonderful hollandaise sauce here, by the
way.” He winked at his abstemious buddy.
“You can go [!] yourself.” The waitress had entered a hovering pattern, but upon hearing
this sour note, decided not to ask how things were going and flew on to the next table.
All at once the virtuous dieter stopped eating and slapped his hands on his upper thighs
with considerable might. “I’m sorry. I’m going to do it to you again, my dear.”
“Do what?”
“Enrage you.”
She looked askance at him. “Just what is wrong now?”
“There’s a noise . . . emanating from the kitchen . . .”
They all trained their ears toward the rear of the bistro. The kitchen, although not directly
visible from where they sat, opened onto the far ell of the dining space, so that its workings
were exposed to any diners who occupied that region.
“I hear chopping,” said the blondish woman.
“So do I.”
Mr. Sensitive shook his head. “It’s not that. The chopping is regular, but this is like a
single stroke that comes and goes. There!”
“I can’t detect it,” said the eggs Benedict.
“Nor can I,” said the omelet.
“I’m not surprised,” added the quiche. “This is precisely what I’m talking about.”
“Am I going mad?” the salad fretted.
“Look,” his amigo said, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I’ll go solve this mystery.” He
stood up. “I’ll duck back there and ascertain firsthand.”
“Oh, don’t indulge him, Steve . . .”
“It’s okay—”
“Steve will sort it out, won’t you honey?”
Steve trekked into the remote section of the restaurant. The others watched intently
—except for the irritated wife, who kept her eyes on her meal, which she was about to
demolish into mere crumbs. “This is so stupid,” she was heard to grumble.
At first Steve seemed a little confused; he strained and craned his neck to get a better
view of the cooks’ operations. Then a sunshiny smile broke out, and he addressed his fellow
brunchers from a distance with what amounted to astonishment mingled with elation.
“You’ll never guess!”
“Don’t shout, honey. Come back and give us your report.”
He began weaving between the intervening pieces of furniture. He was barely three paces
away from his own seat when he froze in place. Stark stupefaction contorted his face. He
grabbed the back of a neighboring chair, and then crumpled to the floor. His wife screamed.
The manager of the bistro dialed nine-one-one immediately.
An eternity passed before the ambulance made its banshee descent down the one-way
street. Long before that, one of the employees had performed CPR on the thirty-three-year-old
man in perfect apparent health as his friends and his companion looked on in dismay. He could
not be revived.
As the paramedics loaded Steve into the emergency vehicle (it might as well have been a
hearse), the surviving man in the foursome leaned toward his missus, hugged her tightly, and
with remorse in his voice said: “Such a shame. Now we’ll never know!”
cocktails and were discussing the issues of the week.
“You would not believe,” said the fresh-faced brunette, “what this one did last Thursday.”
“I’d believe it,” said the skinny (nearly emaciated) man in jogging attire. He and the
object of the forthcoming tease had been friends since freshman year in college.
“Don’t give him any more fodder,” said the chunky male opposite. His wife had dressed
him in a slightly oversized sweater in a vain attempt to hide his built-in padding.
“More coffee?” the attentive waitress asked.
“Please.” The pudgy gentleman indulged in a refill since he was forgoing alcohol and was
training himself to drink his cuppas straight-up black.
“You’re so brave,” said the lighter-haired woman who was paired with the athletic type.
“I wish I could force myself to lose a few pounds, but when you have a glutton for a mate . . .”
“I can’t help it if I have a high metabolism,” her hubby protested pleasantly. “Plus I run
every day. It’s a devotion, a religion.”
“You saw him,” his wife inserted. “Ran all the way over here today.”
“Exercise never seems to do me any good,” replied the other man, who stirred his joe in a
ridiculous bid to conjure up cream and sugar. “Yes, he was always a glutton, eating all the
pizza and drinking all the beer at parties and never gaining an ounce. As for me, if I hardly
peek at a calorie, then bam! But mark my words—”
“Here it comes!”
“Some day it will catch up with you. You’ll be a blimp yet.”
His old school chum leaned over and patted the prognosticator on the arm. “You’ve been
predicting that ever since graduation. How long ago was that? Hmmm. Ten years!”
“Now, boys.” The brunette was reasserting herself. “I was starting to tell a story when I
got interrupted.”
Just then the plates arrived, ready to appease hunger with eggs Benedict, a mushroom
omelet, a cheesy quiche, and a healthful salad. Guess who got stuck with the salad.
They were all arranged around an inside table next to the bistro’s plate glass windows.
Outside was a streetscape, a narrow urban lane that channeled cars in one direction only. Every
twenty seconds or so a random pedestrian would bobble by.
The one with the rabbit fare paused in his attack on the lettuce to listen intently. “What is
that noise?” he inquired in general.
“Oh! That’s it. That’s what I wanted to tell you all.” The good tattletale wife set down her
fork and folded her hands in front of her to emphasize earnestness. “Last Thursday night, we
were all settled in. Jane was asleep in her room. The dog was scrabbling his limbs as he chased
a dream-squirrel. I was reading and this one was tuned into some sports show. Suddenly he
jumps up and says to me, ‘We’re having an earthquake!’”
“What!” the runner exclaimed. “Here on the eastern seaboard?”
“It’s not so far-fetched,” his spouse interjected, shooting a sympathetic glance at the
miserable man to her right. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Oh, but it gets better,” the storyteller continued. “‘We have to evacuate!’ he yells. ‘Right
now!’”
“Did you evacuate?”
“No!”
“It’s all the extra caffeine you’ve been drinking, old man,” the narrow guy commented.
“It’s made you edgier than normal.”
“And what, pray tell, is normal?” The battling couple exchanged familiar poisonous
glares.
“There was a tremor, I assure you,” muttered the fellow under the arc lamp defensively.
“And what is that noise?”
“I’ll tell you what it was,” said his wife, slicing into her quiche-crust prongs first. “A
truck rumbling by outside. That is all.” She was about to lade the forkful onto her tongue, but
the morsel quivered and fell off the tines, landing on the tablecloth. The woman swore. “See,
this is what he does to me. Drives me to distraction!”
“Paulina . . .”
“No, she’s right,” the paunchy mister said. “I do tend to make her crazy, but can I help it
if I’m super-sensitive?”
“A quality this one lacks,” the second wife sniped.
“And I can’t help it if I am utterly levelheaded,” her marital burden chirped. “I think each
one of us has faults, and we all have to accept them. Wonderful hollandaise sauce here, by the
way.” He winked at his abstemious buddy.
“You can go [!] yourself.” The waitress had entered a hovering pattern, but upon hearing
this sour note, decided not to ask how things were going and flew on to the next table.
All at once the virtuous dieter stopped eating and slapped his hands on his upper thighs
with considerable might. “I’m sorry. I’m going to do it to you again, my dear.”
“Do what?”
“Enrage you.”
She looked askance at him. “Just what is wrong now?”
“There’s a noise . . . emanating from the kitchen . . .”
They all trained their ears toward the rear of the bistro. The kitchen, although not directly
visible from where they sat, opened onto the far ell of the dining space, so that its workings
were exposed to any diners who occupied that region.
“I hear chopping,” said the blondish woman.
“So do I.”
Mr. Sensitive shook his head. “It’s not that. The chopping is regular, but this is like a
single stroke that comes and goes. There!”
“I can’t detect it,” said the eggs Benedict.
“Nor can I,” said the omelet.
“I’m not surprised,” added the quiche. “This is precisely what I’m talking about.”
“Am I going mad?” the salad fretted.
“Look,” his amigo said, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I’ll go solve this mystery.” He
stood up. “I’ll duck back there and ascertain firsthand.”
“Oh, don’t indulge him, Steve . . .”
“It’s okay—”
“Steve will sort it out, won’t you honey?”
Steve trekked into the remote section of the restaurant. The others watched intently
—except for the irritated wife, who kept her eyes on her meal, which she was about to
demolish into mere crumbs. “This is so stupid,” she was heard to grumble.
At first Steve seemed a little confused; he strained and craned his neck to get a better
view of the cooks’ operations. Then a sunshiny smile broke out, and he addressed his fellow
brunchers from a distance with what amounted to astonishment mingled with elation.
“You’ll never guess!”
“Don’t shout, honey. Come back and give us your report.”
He began weaving between the intervening pieces of furniture. He was barely three paces
away from his own seat when he froze in place. Stark stupefaction contorted his face. He
grabbed the back of a neighboring chair, and then crumpled to the floor. His wife screamed.
The manager of the bistro dialed nine-one-one immediately.
An eternity passed before the ambulance made its banshee descent down the one-way
street. Long before that, one of the employees had performed CPR on the thirty-three-year-old
man in perfect apparent health as his friends and his companion looked on in dismay. He could
not be revived.
As the paramedics loaded Steve into the emergency vehicle (it might as well have been a
hearse), the surviving man in the foursome leaned toward his missus, hugged her tightly, and
with remorse in his voice said: “Such a shame. Now we’ll never know!”