poker buddies, and now it’s euchre, and this is our secret lucky snack mix that we’re passing off as trail mix to go along with biking.” Rudy added handfuls of nuts. “I was thinking a bag of snacks with a bike rental is a gimmick just like you said. I’m going with BOGO Week to get our name out there like you see on TV all the time. Buy one get one.”
“Rent a bike and get a bag of trail mix? Not bad,” I said.
“More buy the trail mix and get a bike,” Rudy laughed. “Twain says,
Many a small thing has been made large by the right kind of advertising.
Ed here had that hanging in his office in Chicago for years.”
Personally I thought that was asking a lot of trail mix, but I just fell out of a barn, so what did I know? But why did I fall out, and why did Smithy go all Jekyll and Hyde on me? And how could he not have seen someone else up in that loft? Smithy didn’t want me up there for some reason, but what was it? I pinched up a bit of the trail mix and set it in front of Bambino and Cleveland, then plucked up a cat treat and popped it in my mouth trying to make sense of what happened at the barn.
“Holy cow, this mix is terrible!” Drool pooled at the corners of my mouth, my tongue shriveling into the back of my mouth.
Rudy grabbed the bag out of my hand. “You just ate Friskies Seafood Sensations. The good news is you won’t have urinary problems or hairballs.”
“Herbs,” I blurted. “A perfect addition.”
“You didn’t even taste it,” Ed groused.
I tossed a handful of mix in my mouth. I needed to take another look at that loft and wanted an excuse to go now before any evidence got destroyed, and I didn’t want to tell Rudy what was going on. “What about an upscale adult taste—throw in some rosemary or sage? Bet Smithy would sell us some. You know how everyone loves things homegrown.”
I opened the back door. “I’ll go see him right now.” Not that I intended to chat it up with good old Smithy, who clearly didn’t want to talk to me. It was Smithy’s barn, but someone could have easily followed me. I had been admiring the scenery and not paying attention, so anyone could have pushed me.
“Stop at the medical center, get something for your poison ivy,” Ed called, leaning out the door, knowing to avoid the broken step. “See if there’s a psychiatrist hanging around. Think therapy. You’re eating cat food.”
I turned the corner onto Main thinking about my header into the lilacs and jumped back as Irish Donna whizzed right in front of me on the red primer bike she’d rented. Her hair streamed out behind her while horses reared and fudgies dove for the sidewalk, Donna screaming, “Whoa, Paddy, whoa.”
The street leveled out, Donna dragging her feet, the bike slowing, then bouncing off a black-and-white porch post in front of Millie’s Pub. Donna flopped over onto the street facedown, the bike toppling on top of her, fudgies gathering, staring, snapping pictures.
“Say something,” I called out to Donna, people parting like the Red Sea when they caught a glimpse of my splotchy arms and face. I picked up the bike and helped Donna to stand. Squaring her shoulders, she sniffed in a lungful of air, shoved her red curls off her forehead and snatched her purse from the bike basket. She pushed a fudgie out of the way, then yanked open the pub door.
“Pour me a pint, Brad me boy,” Donna bellowed to the barkeep. “I’m a woman in need.” She sank into a booth, grabbed the hot sauce off the table and gave a big squirt directly into her mouth, smacking her lips in satisfaction. “Faith and begorra I’m restored!”
“What happened?” I asked Donna after I added an order of fried green beans—vegetables my way—to the beer request and took the seat across from her. Millie’s was vintage island decor with a stamped tin ceiling, a mirrored bar reflecting liquor bottles stacked in front and those little black-and-white tiles like Grandpa Frank had in his
“Rent a bike and get a bag of trail mix? Not bad,” I said.
“More buy the trail mix and get a bike,” Rudy laughed. “Twain says,
Many a small thing has been made large by the right kind of advertising.
Ed here had that hanging in his office in Chicago for years.”
Personally I thought that was asking a lot of trail mix, but I just fell out of a barn, so what did I know? But why did I fall out, and why did Smithy go all Jekyll and Hyde on me? And how could he not have seen someone else up in that loft? Smithy didn’t want me up there for some reason, but what was it? I pinched up a bit of the trail mix and set it in front of Bambino and Cleveland, then plucked up a cat treat and popped it in my mouth trying to make sense of what happened at the barn.
“Holy cow, this mix is terrible!” Drool pooled at the corners of my mouth, my tongue shriveling into the back of my mouth.
Rudy grabbed the bag out of my hand. “You just ate Friskies Seafood Sensations. The good news is you won’t have urinary problems or hairballs.”
“Herbs,” I blurted. “A perfect addition.”
“You didn’t even taste it,” Ed groused.
I tossed a handful of mix in my mouth. I needed to take another look at that loft and wanted an excuse to go now before any evidence got destroyed, and I didn’t want to tell Rudy what was going on. “What about an upscale adult taste—throw in some rosemary or sage? Bet Smithy would sell us some. You know how everyone loves things homegrown.”
I opened the back door. “I’ll go see him right now.” Not that I intended to chat it up with good old Smithy, who clearly didn’t want to talk to me. It was Smithy’s barn, but someone could have easily followed me. I had been admiring the scenery and not paying attention, so anyone could have pushed me.
“Stop at the medical center, get something for your poison ivy,” Ed called, leaning out the door, knowing to avoid the broken step. “See if there’s a psychiatrist hanging around. Think therapy. You’re eating cat food.”
I turned the corner onto Main thinking about my header into the lilacs and jumped back as Irish Donna whizzed right in front of me on the red primer bike she’d rented. Her hair streamed out behind her while horses reared and fudgies dove for the sidewalk, Donna screaming, “Whoa, Paddy, whoa.”
The street leveled out, Donna dragging her feet, the bike slowing, then bouncing off a black-and-white porch post in front of Millie’s Pub. Donna flopped over onto the street facedown, the bike toppling on top of her, fudgies gathering, staring, snapping pictures.
“Say something,” I called out to Donna, people parting like the Red Sea when they caught a glimpse of my splotchy arms and face. I picked up the bike and helped Donna to stand. Squaring her shoulders, she sniffed in a lungful of air, shoved her red curls off her forehead and snatched her purse from the bike basket. She pushed a fudgie out of the way, then yanked open the pub door.
“Pour me a pint, Brad me boy,” Donna bellowed to the barkeep. “I’m a woman in need.” She sank into a booth, grabbed the hot sauce off the table and gave a big squirt directly into her mouth, smacking her lips in satisfaction. “Faith and begorra I’m restored!”
“What happened?” I asked Donna after I added an order of fried green beans—vegetables my way—to the beer request and took the seat across from her. Millie’s was vintage island decor with a stamped tin ceiling, a mirrored bar reflecting liquor bottles stacked in front and those little black-and-white tiles like Grandpa Frank had in his
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