The Last Cafe

   “Hi, hon,” Myrna Zeligman said.  She placed before me the lunch special: turkey pot roast with snow peas and a glass of milk.  Her other hand deftly balanced a tray of dishes over her shoulder.
      “Myrna,” I said.
      “Seems we got so much company this morning I didn’t have time to come by and say hello.”  Myrna smiled at Linda Love and placed a plate of Raoul Goldblum’s Turkey Bagelritos before her.  “Who’s this pretty thing, Morty?”
      “Myrna Zeligman, owner of The Last Cafe,” I said, “may I introduce Linda Love, passing through, English scholar, and owner of the blue Toyota lost in the skmesh.”
      “Skmesh?” Linda Love said.
      “Huk huk!”  Myrna’s laugh was a husky rasp, procured from the three packs of Chesterfield Kings she smoked daily for forty years. “He’s telling the spacemen story, isn’t he?”
 “Snow...I meant to say snow...”
      “Spacemen?” Linda Love said.
      Myrna placed an iced tea before Linda.  “Morty’s been to outer space, where he learned a new language.”
      “Myrna,” I said.
      “Morty?” Linda Love said.
      “He calls snow ‘skmesh’ because, how’d you put it, Morty?  You like to keep up on languages, earthling or otherwise?”
      “Myrna.”
      “Morty,” Myrna said, “I wish you would put down the bottle.”
      “I don’t drink anymore, Myrna,” I said, now painfully embarrassed that Myrna, as usual, aired my dirty laundry before a rare visitor from beyond The Last Cafe.
      “Uh huh,” Myrna sarcastically grunted with a wink in the direction of Linda Love.  “But, honey, he can sure tell some whoppers, drunk or sober!  Huk huk!”
      “No,” Linda Love said, “I don’t believe that for one moment.”
      I was flattered by Linda’s defensive posture.
      “Give him time,” Myrna said, rubbing her hand in my hair.  Myrna and Elsa both have something about hair; or, the lack thereof.  “I’ll bet he told you the one about him being a writer.”
      “Myrna,” I said.
      Linda’s look was small.  “Yes,” she said.
      “Huk huk!  Never had a thing published in his life!” Myrna said.
      “Morton?” Linda Love said.
      Before I could speak, Myrna interrupted.  “Has everything stacked up in his basement, honey,” Myrna said.
      “Morton,” Linda Love said.  “Is it true?  Did you fool me?”  She stopped to reconsider.  “But, it was Elsa who told me you are Song Marshall.”
      “Oh, sure,” Myrna said.  “He’s Song Marshall.  Morty’s got fifteen poetry books published, but I’m talking about the mysteries; the gobbledy-gibbledy he writes.  Morty, didn’t you tell her about the mysteries?”
      “No,” I said.  “Perhaps you would like to clear it up for us now.  Perhaps you would like to go on the television and tell the entire free world.”
      Myrna set the tray upon our table and placed one hand on her hip, grabbing her wrist with the other.  “Honey,” she said to Linda Love.  “Mr. ‘I’ve Got Fifteen Poetry Books Published’ fancies himself a mystery writer; not a poet at all!”
      “No,” Linda Love said.  She wryly smiled at me.  “Morty, is this true?”
      “Yes,” Myrna said.  “Morty gets lecture invitations from universities all over the world, but he turns them down because nobody’s interested in Mac McDougal.”
      “Mick Majors,” I said.
      “Fifteen books,” Myrna said, counting them on her fingers.  Actually, it came to fourteen and a-half with her fingers.  “He probably has more money than everybody put together in this town, but all he does is gripe, gripe, gripe over his latest rejection slip from somebody who didn’t like his Mac McGoohey books.”
      “Mick Majors,” I said.  “And, Linda, I assure you that I have very little money.”
      “Hoosh!” Myrna sneered.  “And Jesus ain’t a Jew...”