Petunia

Stepping inside from the bright early afternoon sunlight, my eyes required a moment or two to adjust to the relatively dark restaurant. Not only were the shades pulled all the way down and the overhead lights on their dimmest setting, but the walls were stained a dark wood color and it seemed that two out of every three patrons were wearing black.

I should have known better than try to walk into the main reception area before my eyes had become accustomed to the lack of lighting. I somehow stumbled into the podium behind which the receptionist was standing. The podium hit the mahogany floor with a CRUSH!, just missing Sylvia or Sylvania or Saliva or whatever her name was -- I couldn't quite read her name tag, as she had also tumbled face down. I somehow ended up right on top of her.

"Welcome to Bertissimo's," she gasped.

"Thank you, uh, ma'am," I humbly mumbled.

"Table for one?" she asked in a barely audible tone.

"I'm planning on meeting someone here," I explained.

"Table for two?" she asked, wheezing in an attempt at gathering oxygen, which, in spite of all the uproar regarding the use of the world's natural resources, is still apparently in much demand these days.

"That would be lovely," I remarked in my best British accent, something of a cross between John Cleese and My Fair Lady's Eliza Doolittle. Have you ever noticed how the British seem to have cornered the market on politeness? In my home state of North Carolina, I was more used to responding with a phrase like, "Hey great, lady!" before belching once or twice and scratching myself.

So, as it was, this time I tried to be more polite. After all, it was a receptionist of a classy restaurant on whom I was reclining at the moment. And so, as I mentioned earlier, I said, "That would be lovely." And then I scratched myself.

"Sir?" she gasped.

"Uh, yes ma'am?" I replied.

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind standing up, I think I'm about to run out of air."

"Oh, of course. Sorry about that," I added, standing up and then helping her to her feet.

"Feeling a little blue, eh?" I continued, trying to inject a bit of humor after noticing that her face, her lips, her cheeks, and indeed all of her extremities seemed to have a blue tint.

She smiled faintly. Goodness, even her teeth were blue.

"Oh I'm fine," she remarked, noticing that I was staring at her pearly blues. "Today is Blue Lunch Day at Bertissimo's, and we are using only blue lighting."

Anyway, I had arrived at the restaurant a bit early so that I could get a table and scope out the menu before my date arrived.

As the Blue Receptionist was escorting me to a table, I saw a familiar figure sitting with her back to me. Holding one finger up to my lips, indicating to Ms. Blue that I wished for her to remain silent, I sneaked up behind the seated figure, and then, reaching my hands around her face, I quickly covered her eyes and yelled, "Gotcha!"

One word of advice have I for you. Never ever do that.

The figure in the chair quickly stood up, extended a leg behind mine, and threw an elbow into my midriff that sent me tumbling backwards, right into the Blue Light Receptionist. We ended up in a heap.

I was stunned but was vaguely aware that someone was hopping up and down on my back.

"M-m-m-mom, c-c-c-cut th-th-th-that ou-ou-ou-t!" I demanded. Though I was in great pain - Mom was wearing stiletto heels - I couldn't help but admire the way my words sounded like a motorboat, perhaps a Mercury outboard motor.

Mom began doing jumping jacks on my back.

"You (huff) deserve (huff) this (puff puff)," she cried out, breathing heavily.

"Mom, I'm sorry I surprised you," I said in the most apologetic tone I could muster.

"Son, you (huff) didn't (huff) surprise (puff puff) me," she replied.

"I didn't?" I exclaimed before standing up and sending Mom tumbling onto the next table, unfortunately occupied by my neighbor, Humperdinkel Winedot.

"No son, I knew you'd be here," she exclaimed, standing up and wiping a pound or so of fettuccine Alfredo out of her hair and back onto Mr. Winedot's plate.

"H-how did you know?" I stammered, bothered that Mom knew I would be here.

'Oh, I read the personal ads in the newspaper too, you know. I saw that some lady named Petunia was going to meet a certain Mr. Right here for lunch."

"And so?" I asked, still having no idea how she knew.

"Well you know, son, after you dated Petunia Begonia, Petunia Macedonia, and Petunia Hallucinia in college, I figured you had an affinity for women named Petunia."

"Gosh Mom, you're pretty sharp," I said admiringly. It had never occurred to me before that all three girls were named Petunia. Leave it to a mother to observe the subtle things in life.

"Further more," she said, "I ..."

"Hey Mom," I interrupted. "Good use of the word further instead of farther. Nicely done."

"Uh, thanks," she replied. "Now, I also know that most guys aren't so bold as to assume an identity of Mr. Right. But I knew you would be one of the few who thinks of himself as Mr. Right."

"Oh no Mom, it wasn't that. I was thinking about Wilbur Right, the first guy to play air guitar."

"Son, that's with a W," said Mom, correcting me.

"You mean like W-Wilbur?" I asked, still confused.

"No, I mean like W-r-i-g-h-t," she said.

'Ah, oh, I see," I remarked, thankful for the correction.

"And it wasn't air guitar, he flew the first airplane," explained Mom. "Didn't they teach you anything in school?"

"Mom, I was homeschooled."

"Well, your teacher should have ..."

"Mom, you were my teacher," I reminded her.

"Oh yeah, oh, that's right.

It was then that a rather remarkable looking woman walked through the door of the restaurant. All eyes turned.

Her hat was pulled down low over her eyes. Four or five flowers were sticking out the back. I couldn't quite make out all of her features in the dark room, but I could tell she was staring at me as she sauntered across the wood floor.

Then I saw her face (but, unlike the Monkees' song, it didn't make me a believer), and I realized she had to have been 104 years old, perhaps 105 or maybe 106. I had never tried guessing the age of someone that old.

"P-P-P-P," I began, trying hard to get the word out.

"Pe-TUN-ia," she enunciated.

"Petunia?" I echoed.

"One and the same," she confirmed.

Somewhere in the distance, tango music started up. Petunia had a spark in her eyes and she immediately stated - not asked, but stated -- "Let's dance!"

She whisked me away, put her cheek against mine, and off we went, tangoing up and down the restaurant.

No sooner had the tango ended than a jitterbug-paced song began playing, and again she dragged me around the building, throwing me hither and yon.

An hour later, I was exhausted and sweat-soaked. Petunia hadn't even broken a bead of perspiration.

I was curious, so I asked, "Petunia, how can you be in such great shape? You must be pushing 106 years old!"

"One hundred six, Sonny?" she asked. "You think I'm one hundred six?"

"Well, uh, maybe around there," I said honestly. "Did you ever meet Abraham Lincoln?"

She leaned toward me. "I have a secret to share. I'm not really nearly as old as I look."

With that, I began hearing the Mission Impossible theme song in the background, and Petunia reached behind her head and ripped off a rubber mask she had been wearing.

It was Aunt Ruth!

"Hello, my nit-witted nephew!" she remarked.

"Aunt Ruth! What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to meet Mr. Right. And now I realize that I somehow ended up with Mr. Wrong. I was hoping for a romantic interlude, you know, a respite from this weary world of business and politics, something a bit exciting and adventurous."

"Something exciting and adventurous? You?" I asked, somewhat in disbelief.

"Moi," she confirmed.

"And what do you consider exciting and adventurous?" I asked, curious.

"Oh you know, a walk to the drug store down the street where they have an old time soda fountain. I'd get a creme soda, my favorite, and we could have a belching contest."

"Belching contest?"

"Yep, you betcha. In my younger days I could say the whole English alphabet in one giant belch."

"My goodness," I whistled admiringly. "That must have gotten you lots of dates."

"Well not really, but I was a runner-up for the Gong Show once. I got beat out by that guy who played the Star Spangled Banner with his belly button."

"Oh yeah, I remember him. He put a whole new meaning into the phrase 'navel songs.'"

"So," she continued. "Your place or mine?"

"How about mine," I offered. "I made a new batch of elderberry wine that I'd love for you to try."

"Uh, oh wait, I forgot, I'm busy tonight," she stammered.

"Busy? Doing what?"

"I'm going to go home and stick knitting needles up my nose."

And she zoomed out of that restaurant faster than lightning.

Oh well, Mom was still there.

"Mom, how about some of my famous elderberry wine?"

"Aunt Ruth! Aunt Ruth! Wait up!" Mom called out. And a moment later, it was just Lady Blue and Mr. Winedot.

The music started up in the background. They were playing something from Saturday Night Fever.

"Care for a dance?" I asked, looking at Madame Blue.

"I'd love to," she remarked. And in one fluid motion, she pulled Mr. Winedot out of his chair, and the two of them turned onto a dazzling disco duo.

My unfortunate solitude lasted only a moment. I noticed a young couple walk into the restaurant, and with the receptionist busy, I took it upon myself to stand behind the podium and ...

CRASH!

Fortunately the podium missed me, but the young couple was piled on top of me.

"Table for two?" I gasped.

"Yes, that's quite fine. But haven't you forgotten something?"

"Forgotten something?" I was curious.

"Yes, you know, a grammar lesson or something?"

"Oh, well, I wasn't planning on this being an Aunt Ruth grammar story. She showed up by accident."

"By accident?"

"Yes, she was Petunia," I remarked.

"You mean you didn't know?"

"Know what?" I asked.

"Remember Petunia Begonia, Petunia Macedonia, and Petunia Hallucinia in college?"

"Uh, yes?" I stammered.

"Well, I hate to tell you this, but ..."

"Oh no. Don't tell me they were all really Aunt Ruth in disguise."

"You said it, not me."

"This is too weird," I lamented.

"Say good night, Mr. Right."

"Good night, Mr. Right."