Breakfast with Morticia at the Rat Tail Cafe

I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I stumbled through the door of the Rat Tail Cafe ("You run over 'em, we grill 'em"). The clock on the wall said 7:52. She would be arriving in precisely eight minutes.

"Hey Spud," yelled Sally, who was the waitress, hostess, cook, manager, and owner. I nodded and replied with a hey.

All but two of the tables were taken, and several pairs of eyes glanced up and acknowledged my presence. As I walked to a table -- I picked what looked to be the cleanest of the two -- I was met with the usual greetings.

Alvin Hoffer, manager of Gee Whiz Groceries ("If you open it and it's blue, don't eat it"), looked up, said, "Hey Spud, hot enough for you?" and nodded.

Ty Stetley, who worked at the local dry cleaners ("We get the smell out of the clothes but not out of you"), looked up, said, "Hey Spud, hot enough for you?" and nodded.

Phyllis Anniset, owner of Phyllis' Pedicure ("We do things that make your toes curl"), looked up, said, "Hey Spud, hot enough for you?" and nodded and smiled.

One thing about the Rat Tail: you might question where the food came from, and the conversation wasn't always exactly what William F. Buckley would have called stimulating, but you could never question the friendliness of the clientele.

Clem Lee ("If it's got notes, I can play it") was sitting over in the corner playing his harmonica, giving us the most stirring rendition of Elvira that I've heard in a long time.

Sally called out across the room, "What'll it be, Spud, the usual?"

"No Sal, I got a date this morning."

At this, all conversation in the establishment stopped and, in unison, every person -- and I mean every single soul -- said, "Ooooooo," with a pitch that rose and then descended, sort of like a vocal rendition of the wave.

"Who's the lucky gal, Spud?" Hank Westermeyer, owner of Comfy Coffins ("Guaranteed worm free for the first sixty days") asked, three tables over.

"Yeah, who is she?" Marty Budson, owner of Marty's Hair Care ("You'll never part with it"), echoed.

"Well," I began. "It's a long story. I met her online a few nights ago, and ..."

"Oh not another computer geek," Sal sighed. "You know what happened with the last one," she said, directing the question at everyone in the room but me.

"No," said Papa Boomer, owner of Herb's Herbs ("We've got the thyme"). "Do tell."

With that being all the encouragement Sal needed, she stood up, hopped up onto a chair in a fashion that reminded me of a mama hippo hopping onto a wicker footstool -- not a good scene -- and began.

"I learned this little ditty way down in Kansas City. I can't say that it's pretty; in fact, it's kind of, uh, goofy. But here goes. Clem, let's take this one in D Minor."

Clem began with a blues strain that would have made Muddy Waters sound like Refreshing Falls. Sal jumped in with a strong voice.

There was a young man from Nebraska
Who emailed a gal from Alaska
Would you meet me for lunch?
I'd like to, a bunch!
And they rendezvoused near Lake Itasca.

To the restaurant this man brought his tuba
And equipment so that they could scuba
She liked not his big horn
And he, she did scorn
And she swam all the way down to Cuba.When she finished, sal took a curtsy. From somewhere in the room, a bouquet of flowers was thrown at Sal's feet, and she smiled and blushed.

As the applause and laughter died down a bit, Clem's harmonica went into a stirring rendition of Wagner's Die Walkure. That was quite out of character for Clem -- I had heard him play Rossini once, but that was the time the Pope made a surprise Papal visit to the Rat Tail -- and I wondered why he was straying from his usual repertoire.

Collectively, there was a gasp in the restaurant as all eyes had turned to look through the big front window.

Then I saw it. Into the parking lot of the Rat Tail, right next to Mean Bubba Brewster's Harley, pulled a black limousine about the size of a small Boeing 767, without the jet engines.

The chauffeur opened one of the side doors. I saw a shoe, then an ankle, and then out stepped a woman wearing a wedding dress!

I was somewhat relieved. I had thought at first that she might be the date, and the thought of having breakfast
with someone who arrived in a limo was kind of mortifying (but not as mortifying as the time the Pope asked me (during his Papal visit) if I knew any good jokes, and the only one I could remember at that moment involved a nun, an elevator, and a spear). Anyway, Limo Lady in her bridal attire obviously was going to the bridal shop two doors down from the restaurant.

But ... then she looked at the restaurant and began heading toward it.

Dude Jansky, owner of Dude's Road Kill Cleanup and Sausage Factory ("Don't ask"), rushed to the door and opened it for her. As she entered, Clem began playing Here Comes the Bride on his harmonica.

This could be no one but Morticia. She was wearing a stunning white dress with a Joni Keith neckline, Kimber sleeves, Kate Smedley lace, Debra Mann waistline, Alina Beck hemline, Yaffel skirt, and both Athlyn Green and SD Moore trains, a classical CutestPrincess silhouette, a Mama Heartfilled head piece featuring a Karen Gross tiara, a breathtaking QuinMonty86 pearl necklace, rare OhSugar diamond earrings, and a Lindalulu veil. She was carrying a Bren Parks bouquet and was wearing stunning DA Cournean shoes. Her hair was styled in the classic Louie Jerome look, and her makeup was the traditional Glynis Smy shading.

In other words, she was poetry in motion.

I have no objection to going on a date with a stunning woman, but I was somewhat flustered by the fact that she was wearing a wedding dress.

She sauntered across the room, stood before me, and extended her hand. I had seen scenes like this in the movies, so I took her hand, looked around the room, and shook it vigorously.

"Glad to meet you," I cordially exclaimed.

"Likewise," she countered.

With the formalities out of the way, I was planning on diving into deeper conversation, perhaps talking about the College Football Game of the Century (the 1971 Nebraska - Oklahoma game, of course), or asking where she was when Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth's home run record on April 8, 1974. Those were the kinds of conversations that I could really sink my teeth into.

"So tell me, Morticia ... 1984 Orange Bowl, the Huskers score and are down by one with less than a minute on the clock. Kick the extra point to tie the game, or go for the two point conversion and the win? What should Coach Osborne have done?"

"Dr. Tom made the right call," Morticia replied without hesitation.

I was liking this lady, at least until she spoke again.

"Well that's a disappointment!" she huffed bluntly.

"What is a disappointment?" I politely asked, providing an opportunity for her to bare her soul.

"You look exactly like your online picture."

"Aren't, uh, I supposed to?"

"Oh you know how people put up pictures of other people because online readers and buyers tend to frequent the sites of good-looking people. But in your case, I thought perhaps you were trying to use reverse psychology. That is, make yourself appear really dorky online. Well, you did, but the problem is that you look the same in real life."

All I could say was, "Ouch."

At that moment, though, Sal arrived.

"Vous avez choisi?" asked Sal.

Morticia thought a moment, and then said, "Yes, I would like le cafe' noir, les oeufs cocotte, le plateau de fromages, and, oh, let's see, la fraise ... is le boeuf served at le petit dejeuner?"

"Oui."

"Then yes, la boeuf."

"La cuisson -- saignant, a point, bien cuit?"

"A point."

"Les desserts?"

"Une tarte sucree."

There was silence and my head was spinning a bit. I knew enough French to realize that my date had ordered in French, but that was about it. For all I could tell, she had ordered a fried baseball over a plate of rice.

"Monsieur?" Sal asked, turning to me.

"Huh?" I responded as intellectually as I could. I looked around the room for my buddy Clovis to come to my rescue, but he was nowhere to be seen. I would have to go it on my own.

"Es Susanna en la casa?" Sal tried again.

"Cut that out, Sal. I'll take a western omelet, a slab of bacon, home fries, whole wheat toast with sorghum on the side, and a pot of joe."

"Got it, Spud," said Sal in the most sophisticated demeanor I've seen from her since the time she was Caller Number Five on the morning radio program and she won a three month supply of Carolina Red Hot Dogs ("We dye 'em, you eat 'em").

"Spud?" asked Morticia.

"That's not my real name. That's just what they call me here. My real name is ..."

At that moment, our conversation was drowned out by Clem's harmonica, which had broken into a tango.

Everyone in the restaurant stood up and started clapping and stomping their feet, all eyes on us. They were expecting a dance. And they weren't expecting a low country hoedown.

I stood up, holding my hand out to Morticia. She accepted my hand, also standing up, and we began an intense tango across the floor.

"Why the wedding gown?" I asked, as we were dancing cheek to cheek.

"Well it's a long story," she whispered.

"Um, where are you thinking about for our honeymoon?" I asked.

"Our honeymoon?" she asked, laughing.

"Surely you'd like a honeymoon!" I said.

"I'm not marrying you!" she exclaimed, laughing even harder. "Oh my, what ever gave you that idea?"

"Well, other than the fact that you showed up in a wedding dress, and ..."

"Oh, this. Well, yes, I am getting married, but my wedding isn't until 10:00 this morning."

"N-n-not me?" I stammered, with a mixed heart of disappointment and relief, mostly the latter.

"Oh of course not. Oh, I would have married you if you had asked me at the precise right time, from approximately 11:12pm to 11:17pm on the night of April 24th, when you left a sweet comment on one of my articles at the freelance writing site."

"What changed your mind?"

"Your brother left an even more endearing comment after your comment."

"You're marrying my brother?"

"Not exactly."

"Well who, then?"

"Well, to make a long story short, I'm marrying the guy who commented on an article that the third commenter on your brother's second article last night wrote. I didn't know about him until this morning at 7:22, but then I received a cell phone message from him. He's delightful. He's divine."

"Divine?"

"Divine."

"You've known him for less than an hour, and you can say he's divine?"

She looked at the wall clock. "I've known him one hour and two minutes. He's divine."

At that moment, she inadvertently stepped on a wad of gum that was on the floor. Her shoe caught, and she tumbled into Clyde Pasqualli's bowl of cheese grits, sending Clyde and his breakfast flying across the room.

"Oh ... fiddle," she said, exasperated. "Duffy, dear, could you help me?"

A well dressed man -- the chauffeur, who had been sitting in the corner the whole time -- approached Morticia. She hopped on his back, waved good-bye, blew kisses to the crowd at the Rat Tail, and left the premises, never to be seen by us again.

Sal arrived a moment later with my breakfast.

"You know how to pick 'em, Spud," she said.

"Do I?"

"To be honest, I'm glad she left before I brought her plate out."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"I couldn't understand a word she was saying."

"How did you know what to ask her?"

"Oh, just a few lines I picked up when I worked at the Louvre."

"You worked at the Louvre?"

"I was a painter."

"A painter? At the Louvre?" I whistled in admiration.

"Yeah, I painted all the walls and the trim."

"Say good night, Sal," I sighed.

"Good night, Sal."