SOME SORT OF EXPLANATION WILL FOLLOW

DRY TEARS

 

It is noon when I reach Santa Monica and 12:20 when I find a vacant metered parking space. Andy must be furious because I'm late. There's a long lunch line outside of Allegro's that I side step, go inside, to the outside gardens. Almost all the colorful sunbrellas are open. Charlie McArthy mouths move but I can't make out the words. Waiters bring in hot coffee, cold beer. Andy and I see each other at the same moment. He stands and waves to me. 'Where the hell have you been?' are his welcoming words. 'I had to order or be thrown out. Here, try a cold English muffin with marmalade. It sucks but that's all I have left.'

 

'Come on, Andy. I was here on time but circled the streets, alleys for 20 minutes before I found a meter and then ran 5 blocks to meet you.
Sorry.' He only says, 'Order.' I tell the waiter blueberry pancakes with plenty of blueberries, a side of crisp, not burned bacon, coffee strong.'

 

Then–the boom, the explosion, the screams reverberate into the garden. Tables over turn, food slides across straw mats. Hot coffee spills on my arm. I hold it with a cloth napkin and run with the others into the front area. It is almost empty. The front window is shattered. Salamis that were hanging on chains a few minutes ago are on the floor. Patrolmen are everywhere, moving us outside in orderly fashion, down the street to Franie's Flop Shop. Franie displays only bedroom sets, sleep sofas and loungers. There must be 40 of us former diners now calm and comfortable. Officer Jackson interviews me and finishes the big deal in two minutes. When I hand him my driver's license I shriek, 'Oh, my god, my meter's run out. My car may be booted.'

 

Captain Fine gets our attention. 'Ladies and Gentlemen. There was no bomb. It looks like the main gas line to the ovens and range broke open. The heat of the cooking caused the explosion. You are lucky people. We have a few bruises, one broken leg and a lady's hair piece has disappeared.  Mr. Alle thinks he can reopen for business in ten days or less. You may all leave now. Watch channel 10 tonight. Maybe some of the cameras caught you.'

 

I walk the now six blocks to my car that is no longer at the meter. It has not just been booted but taken to the DMV where I have to go and pay my fine.

 

'What a day,' I say aloud. I have no car to drive there. I had no time to spend with Andy. I still haven't eaten lunch. I was almost killed by a heated salami sandwich and now I need car bondage money. On top of it all I wasn't even visible on the 11 P.M. news. Andy was in front of me. So it came and so it went.