Just when I wanted to take a day off, fresh material walked in the door.
I am at Ralph’s-on-the-Park. The air conditioning units are on the fritz so all the curtains are drawn in the dining room, where the hostess stand is, and the main entrance is locked, to keep the hot air out and the cool air in.
The only way to get into Ralph’s-on-the-Park today is through the bar door, the door that is diagonally across from the catbird seat that I like to sit at on Sundays. Everyone with a reservation has to come through the bar door and be told where the hostess stand is—by the main entrance, which is locked, and it is on the other side of the wall where nobody can see it.
Today is going to be a long day.
You will never guess who just walked in. It feels like Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. My life is like a movie. People think I make things up. If anything is possible, everything could be true. Ask Katherine.
Katherine does not believe a thing I say. All names are changed to protect the innocent.
Pee Wee had his Francis. I have Ed. Ed is my neighbor. He lives in the manor next door to my quirky headquarters. Ed waters his lawn. I do not.
The bar door at Ralph’s-on-the-Park is constantly opening and closing so I constantly keep looking up out of the corner of my eye. I am not wearing my eyeglasses since I spend most of my time at Ralph’s-at-the-Park reading the Wall Street Journal. Sunday is my favorite day, and not just because I go to Mass. I like to rest every seventh day. I am a man who enjoys leisure. I am a New Orleanian.
I like to read the Wall Street Journal on Sundays because I read the part of the weekend edition that is reserved for essays and reviews and thoughtful commentary. The Wall Street Journal is not published on Sundays. On Sundays, I read middle sections of the weekend edition that comes out on Saturday. The weekend edition is a double-wide.
So, I glanced up and, even though I only see things far away with blurry vision, I knew in an instant that Mrs. Ed had entered the room. I mostly know Mrs. Ed as a faraway blurry blond silhouette. I normally see her from afar without my glasses. I rarely see her at all.
Mrs. Ed showed me an apartment once. That was a very nice apartment. It was clean and in a nice neighborhood. The apartment was on Magazine Street.
My King-sense started tingling. This is Sunday brunch at Ralph’s-on-the-Park. Mrs. Ed is here. She cannot be here for business. Ed must be nearby. Sure enough, Ed came lumbering in like a bear in search of a picnic basket. Hey, Boo-boo.
Neither seemed to recognize me. They were thrown off by coming in the bar entrance. They must have had reservations. The Eds are the kind of people who dine by reservation. The hostess stand is in the other room.
I told the bartender, who is a friend of mine, to run interference for me. I said, “Can you stand here and chop some fruit for a while? I want you to stand between me and my neighbor. If he sees me here he is going to talk my ear off.”
“Sure, Mr. King,” Willow said.
So, I dodged a bullet. My problem, however, does not end here.
Here is the problem. I am sitting here writing this and I am waiting for Ed to go to the men’s room. He will have to walk past me. This is not an ideal situation. Mrs. Ed will have to walk by, too, if she feels a need to powder her nose, but, that does not bother me at all. I like talking to Mrs. Ed. Mrs. Ed is succinct and to the point.
Opposites attract.
Look at me and Mrs. King. Mrs. King is my Mrs. Peel when we zip around New Orleans, scooteriffically.
There is no sign of Ed. I am going back to reading the Wall Street Journal.
I keep looking up, expecting to have a Large Marge moment. Ed must be regaling someone with a story.
I am going to stare off into space.
We will find out what happens next after the paywall.