Saturday's Storyteller: "June couldn't stop thinking about what the old man had said to her on the bus."
by Belinda Roddie
June couldn't stop thinking about what the old man had said to her on the bus. It hadn't been an uttered warning, carried by an ominous wind on the pointed tail of Louisiana. Nor had it been a condemnation of her life or her choices, drawn out from a psychic mind like sticky taffy from a clenched nozzle. No, as the twenty-something woman hopped off the rickety bus and headed toward her car, she remembered that the geezer had said one word alone: Eggs.
June had not eaten an egg in over fifteen years. She blamed the Garcia effect, some psychological babble from a battered textbook she had found in the corner of her high school classroom. Last time she had consumed yolk, she had become sick to the point of nearly dying in a Baton Rouge hospital. Eggs, indeed. Did the enigmatic stranger even know?
Oh, well. The "end of the world" awaited the lass, as she drove her battered automobile to little Venice. Population: a handful of desperates. Living conditions: As best as they could after Katrina. Along the still oil-slicked shorelines of the gulf, a little bar where her father worked housed a good fifth of the population. All the fishermen and crab hunters would be huddled inside, drinking dry beer and reminiscing over days of more fishing and crab hunting. Their lives were far different from the comforting receptionist job June had in the bowels of New Orleans. Her store was right next to one of the hottest seafood stops, and the smell of gumbo and spiced pan-fried gator never got out of her clothes.
Walking into the bar, June sat down in the corner and watched her father work. He wasn't the typically scrawny tender stooped with age, but indeed was dark, prematurely white-haired, and extremely tall. He could grip three glasses at once in his enormous hands. The tourists kept rambling about growth issues and hormonal anomalies. June just remembered her father as the giant who kept everyone happy. Not quite like the jolly green giant, save for his green eyes.
"And how was your day?" he asked June as he got a standard stein of ice cold, refreshing water for her.
"Some guy on the bus said something to me on my way home."
He clucked his tongue. "I figured there'd be crazies. What did he say?"
"Not much. Just 'eggs.'"
"Eggs?" Her father frowned. "Now how does he know about your taste aversion?"
" 'Taste aversion?' When did you start getting fancy, pop?"
"When you decided not to eat my omelets anymore." He then hollered over his shoulder. "Keith, chocolate stout coming!"
As much as Venice was a hurricane-violated, grungy little place with holes where buildings used to be and oil seasoning the fish occasionally, June and her father were definitely a foreign type. Not that they were the only educated ones - that wasn't fair to any of the two hundred or so people living there. They simply were unaccustomed to the labor life. They excelled in hospitality. Socializing. Serving. And in the end, they were embraced so long as they kept the pint glasses full and the customers coming in Orleans.
June's father took a break from the bar and let his little apprentice, Bobby, take his place. He sat down with his daughter at a corner table, where they tried out the snapper.
"So. Eggs." He growled it out, mid-chew. "You ever thought of retrying them?"
"Hell, no."
"Pity." June's father swallowed his fish and sighed. "Because I actually just found a recipe book that's all about different ways to cook eggs. Missus Hart gave it to me after I took care of her hubby after that storm. Maybe this guy sensed I had it."
"I doubt it."
"Well," smiled June's father, "anything's possible, isn't it?"
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
June couldn't stop thinking about what the old man had said to her on the bus. It hadn't been an uttered warning, carried by an ominous wind on the pointed tail of Louisiana. Nor had it been a condemnation of her life or her choices, drawn out from a psychic mind like sticky taffy from a clenched nozzle. No, as the twenty-something woman hopped off the rickety bus and headed toward her car, she remembered that the geezer had said one word alone: Eggs.
June had not eaten an egg in over fifteen years. She blamed the Garcia effect, some psychological babble from a battered textbook she had found in the corner of her high school classroom. Last time she had consumed yolk, she had become sick to the point of nearly dying in a Baton Rouge hospital. Eggs, indeed. Did the enigmatic stranger even know?
Oh, well. The "end of the world" awaited the lass, as she drove her battered automobile to little Venice. Population: a handful of desperates. Living conditions: As best as they could after Katrina. Along the still oil-slicked shorelines of the gulf, a little bar where her father worked housed a good fifth of the population. All the fishermen and crab hunters would be huddled inside, drinking dry beer and reminiscing over days of more fishing and crab hunting. Their lives were far different from the comforting receptionist job June had in the bowels of New Orleans. Her store was right next to one of the hottest seafood stops, and the smell of gumbo and spiced pan-fried gator never got out of her clothes.
Walking into the bar, June sat down in the corner and watched her father work. He wasn't the typically scrawny tender stooped with age, but indeed was dark, prematurely white-haired, and extremely tall. He could grip three glasses at once in his enormous hands. The tourists kept rambling about growth issues and hormonal anomalies. June just remembered her father as the giant who kept everyone happy. Not quite like the jolly green giant, save for his green eyes.
"And how was your day?" he asked June as he got a standard stein of ice cold, refreshing water for her.
"Some guy on the bus said something to me on my way home."
He clucked his tongue. "I figured there'd be crazies. What did he say?"
"Not much. Just 'eggs.'"
"Eggs?" Her father frowned. "Now how does he know about your taste aversion?"
" 'Taste aversion?' When did you start getting fancy, pop?"
"When you decided not to eat my omelets anymore." He then hollered over his shoulder. "Keith, chocolate stout coming!"
As much as Venice was a hurricane-violated, grungy little place with holes where buildings used to be and oil seasoning the fish occasionally, June and her father were definitely a foreign type. Not that they were the only educated ones - that wasn't fair to any of the two hundred or so people living there. They simply were unaccustomed to the labor life. They excelled in hospitality. Socializing. Serving. And in the end, they were embraced so long as they kept the pint glasses full and the customers coming in Orleans.
June's father took a break from the bar and let his little apprentice, Bobby, take his place. He sat down with his daughter at a corner table, where they tried out the snapper.
"So. Eggs." He growled it out, mid-chew. "You ever thought of retrying them?"
"Hell, no."
"Pity." June's father swallowed his fish and sighed. "Because I actually just found a recipe book that's all about different ways to cook eggs. Missus Hart gave it to me after I took care of her hubby after that storm. Maybe this guy sensed I had it."
"I doubt it."
"Well," smiled June's father, "anything's possible, isn't it?"
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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