She seats me in a booth by the window, the table I’d requested. It is an exact place with a view of shrubs and asphalt.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asks with a practiced smile. Her nametag says, Lola.
“Yes, I’ll have whatever Fatty Arbuckle was drinking at that party with the dead girl.”
She gives me a clueless look. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Neither did Fatty.”
“Uh, I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”
Nobody understands my sense of humor. Oh well, it’s not as if I aspire to write for Fred Allen.
I bought some old slides at a yard sale for twenty-five cents. I don’t have a projector so I held them up to my eye to see what they depicted. They were taken in the early 60’s. A young couple traveling in Europe. I name the man Bob and the woman, Melissa. Bob and Melissa by the Eiffel Tower. Bob and Melissa on Carnaby Street. Bob and Melissa standing beside a wax sculpture of Stan Laurel. I wonder who took the pictures. It’s the kind of mystery that drives me crazy so until I learn otherwise, Gary had the camera.