The Maltese Rooster

Two o'clock in the morning, and the only light in the joint came through the window, red and mean. If I walked to the window, I knew it would say Paradise, winking on and off. I was only across the street but as far from Paradise as you could get.

The power was off, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. The condo board was gone, leaving me high and dry--dry except for the bottle I was drinking out of. The paper bag it was wrapped in was still damp from the rain. Another day, another chance for glory. But it was two a.m., and so far no glory had come knocking. I took another slug.

I heard someone tramping up the stairs, whistling. That would be Smitty from the condo. Never anyone so glad to give bad news to a woman drowning her sorrows with the last bottle on tap. There probably wouldn't be power for weeks, going by the whistling indicator.

Slam! Slam! Slam!
Okay, not Smitty. He always tapped the glass with his key, the jerk. I screwed the top back onto the bottle and set it in my desk drawer. They don't drink Doctor Pepper in these Northern burgs. I get tired of explaining.

Slam! Slam! Slam!
"Keep your shirt on," I growled. "Coming!"

I toddled my way to the door, in light as fleeting as my prospects. I took my pistol out of its holster and like a spring chicken, opened my door at two a.m. to a complete stranger. Call it the drinking, the red light, or maybe, just maybe, that trouble is my business.

"Now here's real sugar." The voice was low, cool.  I like that in a man.

"I'm fresh out of sugar, buster."
"I'm not Buster, I'm  Humf. Looking for a lonely angel."

Humf, like Humphrey. "I'm not alone." I brought up the pistol, aimed it right to the brisket.  "I'm entertaining Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. And if they don't like you, all your angels will be fallen ones."

"Fallen, huh? You don't have a clue. I'm making a delivery." He held out a bird statue.
"It's a Maltese Rooster," he said. "It's for you."

Some people say never to look a gift chicken in the beak. But in the end, nothing's free. I don't always mind paying. I just want to understand the lay.

"Right. I have a clue or two," I lied. "The bird contains some key to a state secret, but you whacked the goose with the golden egg. Now I'm supposed to fry while everybody scrambles."

He spread his arms wide. "It's on the sunny-side up, sweetheart."
"It's a chicken, and this ain't a roost." It's better that way.

"You just gotta say thanks, link up to the giver," he said. "Guy name of Slamdunks. He's got a blog, says you're familiar."

"Yeah, I know Slamdunks. But I don't know how you know him."
"Everybody knows Slamdunks. That's just how it is."

He was right about that, but I still had the pistol up. It was still two a.m. The Paradise still was the only light in town. Humf leaned against the door jamb, casual-like. But I wasn't fooled.

"The real catch is you gotta say five things about yourself," he said. "You do that, and you get me for life."

"Be still, my heart."

"I figure a dame like you has something to say for yourself. I hear you're always cracking wise." He grinned in the suddenly on-light of the Paradise. "You can keep the Maltese Chicken if you say how you like  your eggs."

"Hard-boiled."

"So, the Maltese Chicken is yours. Now you gotta give the Quillfeather Award to some other people. Spread the glory, you know."

"That's it?"
"Sure, that's it. Slam, he'd never set you up." He snapped his fingers. "I figure you can say five things. Come on, look at this mug. Don't you want my image for all time?"

"One rooster at a time, Humf." I was still cracking wise, but something about the big yegg--

I lowered my guard, holstered my pistol and accepted the Maltese Chicken. Now it was only Humf. I'm a sucker for a guy who doesn't give up.  I walked to the window. Humf didn't know it, nobody did. But talking from the heart isn't easy for a gal like me.

The lights of Paradise blew on again. So did the lamp on my desk. Damn if it wasn't Bogey. So it was true confessions time. Sometimes a gal just has to grab for the glory . . . or for its image . . .

--
1. The most embarrassing date I ever had was with one college student from a fraternity with bad manners. We were being waited on by another guy I had dated casually. Oooh, eek! Then the waiter brought our coffee. Mine was all milk with a dash of coffee thrown in. "That's how she likes it," he told my date.

Zing, zing, triple zing! I could not Wait to get out of there.

2. I sometimes make refrigerator magnets for a hobby. I take interesting pictures to Kinko's, reduce them on a color printer, paste them to magnet sheets, then cut them up. When I left RiverTown, I gave every employee at my store a set of hand-made refrigerator magnets in a theme they would like. The one I remember best was the series of Altoids advertisements for the guy who always had a tin of them, and who frequently shared.

3. My desk is a dining table, fairly old, from Ruff n Ready furniture. The guy that runs it has hair down to his waist and has obviously lost teeth from too many fights with pool cues. The table sheds sawdust. At first I was afraid it had termites (!), but no--it's from getting wet once too often. It works great and is still pretty. Next to my chair is a pile of books. Thesaurus, Atlas, and Rhyming dictionary, two maps of Manhattan and a poetry anthology are permanent in the stack. Everything else changes. A week or so ago, World War II. Yesterday, Joseph Mitchell. Today, Machiavelli--

4. I like beautiful things, and I like them to be a bit dilapidated. Unless it is a tube of toothpaste or a paperback book, new things are never quite as good as the things that have absorbed the stories of others. When I buy used books, frequently they have old bookmarks, old notes, old train tickets. I always leave them in the books. They are new every time I find them, and I see the signs of other lives.

5. I lied to the yegg. My real favorite way to eat eggs is over-easy, with homemade hash browns, whole wheat toast or a fluffy biscuit, and crispy bacon or link sausage. This is about a million calories, so I have it about once a year. And I Really enjoy it, too. With orange juice and strong coffee with some (not all) milk in it.
--
Now that I have claimed my Awards, I can confer the Award on others! All you have to do is keep the chain, link to me and then to your future awardees. That way people can backtrack their way across the blogosphere.

Quillfeather Awards

I'm giving these to the guys whose shells are tough to crack. Maybe they'll open up about breakfast.

Captain Joe Schmoe at Report on Conditions
For leadership, the love of the desert, and the Men of Moron . . .

Bob G. at The Pa-in Erudition
For flowers and bald eagles, crime reports, and boot-strappin' philosophy . . .

You're Going Places, Baby Awards

 Tell five things about yourself, large or small. And may the going places  be grand!

peedee at Queen of the Dogs
music, fun, self-improvement, and let's kick-it-back n' shoot the breeze . . .

The Observer at The South Kansas City Observer
she loves her hometown, stray animals, EMS, cars, politics . . .

Here's looking at you, kids! Thanks again, Slamdunks! And to all my readers for stopping by!