at the counter. A desperation seat. A seat that came with a price—a half hour of Dale Hinshaw questioning your commitment to the Lord and speculating about the imminent return of Jesus.
Asa studied the bulletin board, hoping someone would vacate a booth, but with the rain coming down, they were there for the long haul, so after a few minutes he took the seat next to Dale.
“Hey, Dale. How ya doin’?”
“Just thankin’ the Lord to be alive.”
So that’s who we should blame, Asa thought.
Heather Darnell stopped in front of him, a glass of water and tableware in one hand, a paper place mat in the other, which she arranged neatly in front of him. Asa gazed at her discretely. Such a beauty. She smiled. Thirty-two beautiful teeth, not a cavity among them. Her hair was done in a French braid. Asa loved French braids.
“Hi, Mr. Peacock.”
“Hello, Heather. How are you?”
“Just dandy. What can I get for you?”
He studied the menu at length, even though he knew what he wanted, a clever ruse to keep her in his vicinity.
“Hmm, how about ham and beans and a glass of sweet tea,” he said, handing her the menu.
“You get two sides with that. What would you like?”
“Oh, I didn’t know it came with any sides. Maybe I better see the menu again.”
He had developed ordering into an art form.
He studied the menu once more, looking up every now and then to gaze at Heather, who was waiting patiently. She was so much nicer than Penny, Vinny’s wife. With Penny, you were lucky to get a menu. Penny terrorized the customers into submission, bending them to her will. “What’ll you want and make it snappy. I don’t have all day. And don’t be making a mess everywhere, or you’ll clean it up. I’m not your personal slave.”
“We have good coleslaw,” Heather volunteered.
“Coleslaw it is, then, with a dish of pudding,” Asa said, returning the menu with a flourish.
She hurried off to place his order. His eyes followed her. He inadvertently licked his lips.
“Matthew 5:28,” Dale said, snapping Asa out of his reverie.
“What?”
“Matthew 5:28. Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”
It was going to be a long lunch. He glanced around to see if a booth had come open. No such luck.
“So what are the doctors sayin’ about your heart?” he asked Dale, changing the subject.
The one thing Dale liked even more than quoting Scripture was discussing his ailments. He took Asa on a verbal tour of his body, starting with his toes, which had lately been aching with all this rain, and concluding ten minutes later with his scalp, which itched something terrible after his wife had switched brands of shampoo.
“So,” Dale said, summarizing his ailments, “with all these other problems, I just hope I live long enough to get a heart transplant.”
“We all hope that,” Asa said with a charity he didn’t feel.
“I can’t help but wonder what the Lord’s kept me around for,” Dale pondered aloud.
“There are many of us who wonder the same thing,” Asa said.
“I tell you one thing,” Dale said. “If the Lord sees me through this, I’m gonna start my Scripture eggs ministry up again.”
Three years before, Dale had housed a dozen chickens in his basement, feeding them scraps of paper with Scripture verses printed on them, then distributing their eggs to people who in his estimation needed saving—mostly Catholics, Democrats, and Masons. Mercifully, the chickens soon died of a poultry disease and the town was temporarily spared from Dale’s attempts to save them.
Fortunately, Heather appeared and placed Asa’s food before him. “Ham and beans, coleslaw, one pudding, and a glass of sweet tea. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Heather.”
She turned to Dale. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Hinshaw?”
“No, that’s about it.”
Heather bustled off. Dale stood, stretched, extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet, and laid
Asa studied the bulletin board, hoping someone would vacate a booth, but with the rain coming down, they were there for the long haul, so after a few minutes he took the seat next to Dale.
“Hey, Dale. How ya doin’?”
“Just thankin’ the Lord to be alive.”
So that’s who we should blame, Asa thought.
Heather Darnell stopped in front of him, a glass of water and tableware in one hand, a paper place mat in the other, which she arranged neatly in front of him. Asa gazed at her discretely. Such a beauty. She smiled. Thirty-two beautiful teeth, not a cavity among them. Her hair was done in a French braid. Asa loved French braids.
“Hi, Mr. Peacock.”
“Hello, Heather. How are you?”
“Just dandy. What can I get for you?”
He studied the menu at length, even though he knew what he wanted, a clever ruse to keep her in his vicinity.
“Hmm, how about ham and beans and a glass of sweet tea,” he said, handing her the menu.
“You get two sides with that. What would you like?”
“Oh, I didn’t know it came with any sides. Maybe I better see the menu again.”
He had developed ordering into an art form.
He studied the menu once more, looking up every now and then to gaze at Heather, who was waiting patiently. She was so much nicer than Penny, Vinny’s wife. With Penny, you were lucky to get a menu. Penny terrorized the customers into submission, bending them to her will. “What’ll you want and make it snappy. I don’t have all day. And don’t be making a mess everywhere, or you’ll clean it up. I’m not your personal slave.”
“We have good coleslaw,” Heather volunteered.
“Coleslaw it is, then, with a dish of pudding,” Asa said, returning the menu with a flourish.
She hurried off to place his order. His eyes followed her. He inadvertently licked his lips.
“Matthew 5:28,” Dale said, snapping Asa out of his reverie.
“What?”
“Matthew 5:28. Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”
It was going to be a long lunch. He glanced around to see if a booth had come open. No such luck.
“So what are the doctors sayin’ about your heart?” he asked Dale, changing the subject.
The one thing Dale liked even more than quoting Scripture was discussing his ailments. He took Asa on a verbal tour of his body, starting with his toes, which had lately been aching with all this rain, and concluding ten minutes later with his scalp, which itched something terrible after his wife had switched brands of shampoo.
“So,” Dale said, summarizing his ailments, “with all these other problems, I just hope I live long enough to get a heart transplant.”
“We all hope that,” Asa said with a charity he didn’t feel.
“I can’t help but wonder what the Lord’s kept me around for,” Dale pondered aloud.
“There are many of us who wonder the same thing,” Asa said.
“I tell you one thing,” Dale said. “If the Lord sees me through this, I’m gonna start my Scripture eggs ministry up again.”
Three years before, Dale had housed a dozen chickens in his basement, feeding them scraps of paper with Scripture verses printed on them, then distributing their eggs to people who in his estimation needed saving—mostly Catholics, Democrats, and Masons. Mercifully, the chickens soon died of a poultry disease and the town was temporarily spared from Dale’s attempts to save them.
Fortunately, Heather appeared and placed Asa’s food before him. “Ham and beans, coleslaw, one pudding, and a glass of sweet tea. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Heather.”
She turned to Dale. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Hinshaw?”
“No, that’s about it.”
Heather bustled off. Dale stood, stretched, extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet, and laid
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