“Yo, Homer!” yelled Bliss at the top of her substantial lungs, a
greeting forceful enough to cause three customers to look up from their
newspapers. Homer waved.
One of the now dislodged customers was the
inevitable Officer Brice Sweetman, who was carving the final scrapings of red
jam from its little plastic coffin and carefully spreading it on a slice of
cold whole wheat toast.
“Honest to god, I think you actually live here, Brice!” boomed Bliss.
He smiled wearily.
“I drop in,” he replied.
Bliss introduced him to Michael.
You know,” Officer Sweetman said to him,
looking sadly at his toast, “this jam actually tastes red.”
“Red?” asked Michael.
“Yeh, red. Not strawberry. I
wonder if an actual strawberry ever came close to it?”
“And if it did, how long ago,” added Michael.
“Hey Homer,” Officer Sweetman yelled in the direction of the
kitchen, “why don’t you get some real
jam? Put it in a little pot on the
table.”
“Ask Nick,” said Homer, suddenly flipping
the bacon so its violent new hiss drowned out everything else.
“I’m asking you,” said Officer Sweetman.
Homer shrugged.
“Homer,” said Bliss suddenly, “Come out
here a minute. I what you to meet
my big deal writer friend, Michael.
You can call him Zorba!”
“No you can’t,” Michael told them both.
“Who’s Zorba?” Homer asked, striding from
the kitchen and wiping his hands on his apron.
“A Greek writer,” said Bliss.
“He’s not a Greek writer, he’s a character in a novel
by a Greek writer. Damn it, Bliss,
I’ve told you this a dozen times
now!”
“Weird name,” muttered Homer.
“So is Homer,” countered Bliss.
“I wanted to talk to you some more,”
Michael explained to Homer,
speaking loudly enough to
be heard over Homer’s sizzling grease-fire, “because of what Bliss has told me
about your love of Renaissance painting—and about how good you are at painting
in that manner.”
“What manner?” said Homer, walking back to
his spitting grill where now lay the inert oval patty for the cheeseburger
someone had ordered ten minute ago.
“Your Old Master manner,” Michael replied.
“I don’t know what that is,” Homer
shouted, over the sizzle of the still frosty hamburger patty.
Michael glanced at Bliss.
“He really doesn’t.” She told him.
“He’s just a cook,” interjected Office
Sweetman. “And not a very good one
at that.”
Bliss lumbered out into the kitchen.
“But he’s my sweet babybaby,” she cooed
affectionately, snaking her heavy arms around Homer’s apron’d waist.
“He is?” said Michael, surprised.
“Oh sure,” replied Officer Sweetmam taking
a final sip of his cold coffee, “they’ve been at it for some time now—six
months maybe.”
“Bliss and Homer?”
“Right. Homer and Bliss. Homer and Bliss and Fish. Hard to figure,
huh?”
“Quite hard, yes,” Michael replied.
Hearing the sound of his name, Fish padded
over to Officer Sweetman’s stool and pissed against his leg.
“Goddammit, Bliss!” howled Office Sweetman, “can’t you teach
this stupid mutt some manners?”
Homer came hustling back into the
restaurant.
“Watch it, Sweetman,” he said, with what Michael took to be
unusual menace.
“Or else what?” said Officer Sweetman.
“Just don’t call Fish stupid,” Homer replied. “He’s not stupid at all.”
“No, in fact he’s just as smart as Homer
is,” added Bliss.
Michael and Officer Brice Sweetman looked
at each other and grinned.
“Do you want the punchline?” Michael asked
him.
“Oh no, you go right ahead. Be my guest!”
***********************************************
