Dancing-with-Baptists-Createspace-Final--A4

DANCING WITH BAPTISTS
rolled into Lordsburg, Greg’s thighs were aching from skiing forward when the bus slowed
and surging backward when it sped up. Greg was glad to stretch his already stretched legs
and sit at the counter of the greasy pie palace that was this stop’s singular choice for food.
The plastic covered menu was an artist’s palette of after dinner condiments, greasy
fingerprints and what could have been icing from an Italian Cream cake.
Inside the plastic was a hand-typed “Specia s of the Day.” The old typewriter that typed the
menus appeared to have a missing “L.” This was confirmed in Greg’s mind when he read
down and saw that the rib sandwich came with “co es aw”.
Greg only had a few dollars left for the trip. He decided to just have coffee and a
glazed donut. A large Marine sat on the next stool. They each made a halfinch nod in the
other’s direction, but said nothing. Greg knew that if he asked the Marine how it was going,
he would say “fine,” which would be the first lie. This would lead to another or, worse, the
truth. If Greg was going to stand the next leg of the ride from Lordsburg to Las Cruces, he
did not want to do it buddy-carrying any of the emotional items from the backpack of a
Marine heading home.
A grizzled old soul in a hunting cap with flaps walked up behind Greg and the
Marine, put a boney arm around Greg and moved him slightly clock-wise.
“Would you two look at that,” old boney arms
Pezzed his head toward a young hippie-looking couple
at a table near the window.
“You boys over there while these two cutie-pies pick flowers and get high on peyote.
It makes me sick at my stomach.”
Sure it’s not the Special? Greg wanted to say but did not want to encourage the old bigot.
The hippie man turned toward the three at the counter. Boney-arm stepped behind
Greg and the Marine.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you, pot head. Why don’t you-”
COLD.”
“GUS, YOUR CHILI OMELET’S GETTIN'
“’Bout time Lois. A guy could starve around here,” old Boney-arm replied.
Gus shuffled back to his chili omelet with extra onions and beans. He never once
thanked either Greg or the Marine for their service. But at this point a “thanks” would have
surprised them both. Neither Greg nor his stool mate reacted.
“Air Force, huh?” the Marine asked. Greg nodded. “We say ‘Semper Fi’. What do you
guys say?” “Duck!” Greg said with a straight face.
One gold tooth surrounded by a choir of white teeth made an appearance just as the
waitress set a club sandwich in front of the Marine.
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