Coobie knew no one at the diner paid him any never mind in that threadbare beige sweater he loved, sittin' on one of only two stools after the last curve of the L-shaped counter with me next to him on the other.
Irene had a case of the sharps and figured him rightly and early-on to eat the same thing every mornin': a grilled sweet roll, poached egg on top, and coffee. Fact is, she gave him the name, "Coobie" cuz every time she'd poke him with a question, "Think it's gonna rain, today?" or comment like, "That girl's gonna win American Idol," he'd answer "Could be," which sounded like "Coobie" to her un-Southern ear.
A man o' habit, Coobie would read the obituaries, then tackle the crossword, always getting stumped on them cheatin' ones like, "fourth letter of the Hebrew alphabet." Coobie's fascination centered on folks' reading and chatter at the diner, the 'head seeds' he called 'em, as some talked Suns/Lakers, or Obama, or read about oil spill or health care, plantin' them head seeds of wonder or worry that would sprout and aromatize the day's thinking between the ears of the patrons.
He liked me (prolly cuz I was from South Carolina) and convinced me that I didn't need to take-on slices of that emotional pie to carry through what he called "God's glorious day," sayin' it would either work out or it wouldn't, which sure lifted a load from me, I'll tell ya.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment