Brautigan and Scotti in the Piggly-Wiggly Food Court
By Lou Blodgett
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Time passed. The light in the food court dimmed, and sunlight glinting off vehicles flashed on the two and on the walls about them. One series of flickers was extended, thus obviously from a ‘Hog Greyhound’ passing on the highway. The florescent lights came on in their standards, taking nothing from the dimness, as they also do at night, thus the adage:
“Don’t Go Into The Piggly-Wiggly Food Court At Night.”
And, you’re welcome.
In answer to something Vito Scotti asked, Richard Brautigan answered,
“On the other hand, it would be bad luck if mildew got into the umbrella.”
Scotti responded brightly.
“How perceptive! The thing is, it’s a paradox! You come in from the rain, and you’re faced with another paradox.”
Brautigan nodded sagely.
“That’s why you’re a writer.” Scotti continued. “I can only interpret…”
“At least you’re sincere.”
Scotti leaned back and nodded, winding up with his chin pointing down; his head ponder-askew.
“Oh, I’m sincere alright. I have sincere gravitas comin’ out the wazoo. Wooah!”
He had looked around, and the statistics studyin’ mother and counter worker was there behind him with a pot of coffee.
“Sherry’s Mother!” Brautigan half-cried. “I thought this place doesn’t have table service.”
“It doesn’t, and don’t expect it in the future,” the woman answered. Vito Scotti was amazed. “But,” she said, “we made the pot three pages ago, and in the meantime…”
Both patrons knew what that meant. Scotti rubbed his hands together and Brautigan downed what was in the bottom of his cup.
“…it’s been sitting there getting thicker and thicker…”
With an “Ooh!” they both slid their cups on the table to her. She filled them with as much flourish as she could manage. And, as she left, Brautigan asked her:
“Staying hydrated?”
From the shadows was heard-
“I’m sixty percent water.”
They both toasted each other and took a sip of the sludge. They shuddered and shouted,
“Damn!”
Simultaneously.
“Was that percolated?” Brautigan asked.
“It was something!” Scotti shouted, too loud.
“Reminds me of percolated.”
“You got that right!”
“Illegal in some states.”
As they toasted the toast and sipped the mud, the food court became truly a set. The other tables, the walls, the counter in the background disappeared, and the two sat alone. Then, Sherry’s mother faded to, far behind them, partially luminescent.
“You know,” Scotti expounded, “we could be up in Seattle, drinking this for three hundred dollars a cup.”
“You got that right,” Brautigan agreed.
“The beans swallowed whole by lemurs, then dropped to ferment in the night. Gathered by people in lab coats and brought up five thousand miles by specially trained mules. Wearing slippers. Each one…”
Sherry’s mother stepped toward them slowly. But Brautigan didn’t see her. He nodded encouragement to Scotti.
“Each one, a star! And it would taste the same.”
Brautigan leaned back and pointed.
“Scotti, I must say, you’re showing form.”
The woman continued to approach, carrying two small plates. It was then that her mystical quality was most in force. You want what she has. Which, in this case, is pie.
“Who needs agents?” Scotti shouted, in a moment of self-realization.
“Not you,” Brautigan answered. “And, with coffee like this, who needs dessert?”
“Who needs dessert!”
The two friends raised their cups and finished the dirty deed. They shuddered again, in a caffeine rush. Then they noticed Sherry’s mother behind them again. She said,
“These slices have been out since we opened this morning.”
“But,” Brautigan said, “we don’t expect table service.”
Scotti remained silent, and unanimated.
“Like you said,” Brautigan clarified.
“No matter,” the woman said. “If we left them out overnight, they would go bad.”
And, Scotti shouted,
“Okay! Pie!”
The woman placed the slices on the table and departed, sliding slowly backwards, facing forward, slipping into the shadows. Brautigan and Scotti began eating their pie. Vito Scotti paused between bites.
“Mine’s peach.”
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