Winnie Speaks Out

The Forb and I both arrived at the End of Time around 7:30 this morning. As we walked from the parking lot I noticed that he had a magazine rolled up in his hand; he held it like he was about to use it as an offensive weapon. I waited until he was ready to begin his morning lecture.

“Max, this country is going to hell in a handbag. I just read about the list of Republican hopefuls for the next Presidential election, and I’ve never seen such a band of idiots in my life, except at the last election. And the one before that.”

“Somebody’s idiot always gets elected, Forb,” I offered with caution. “Don’t both major parties have their fair quotas of idiots?”

We walked in the door and I waved to Mirna, who floated by humming something by Buffalo Springfield. Winnie was alone at my booth, which surprised me. She wasn’t usually so forward as to invade my sovereign territory without permission. As we passed through the café, Limerick Bill was in The Forb’s usual booth, scribbling busily on some new literary masterpiece. He looked up with bloodshot eyes as we passed by.

“Hey, Maxwell,” said Bill, “is ‘mesticles’ a word?”

We stopped and The Forb looked at me, waiting for my answer, as though a serious one could be produced.

“I don’t think so, Bill.”

“Damn,” he said, scratching out some shred of creativity that wouldn’t see the light of day.

“You can’t find a rhyme for everything, Bill,” said The Forb.

The Forb followed me to my booth and sat next to Winnie, while I sat across from the both of them, wondering when I had lost the rights to my personal domain.

“Good morning, Mr. Forbish,” said Winnie.

“Hello, Winnie,” said Forb. “You’re looking fetching today.”

Winnie turned tomato red at the compliment and fixed her eyes on the menu. She only glanced at me. “Hi, Max.”

“Hi, Winnie,” I said.

“Anyway, Max,” continued Forb, “You can’t tell me that these people are completely bereft of legitimate leaders somewhere. Instead, all they come up with are morons and tycoons. And I still can’t believe how people in our country are going giddy over the likes of Donald Trump and Sarah Palin.”

Winnie looked up from her study of the menu. “I like Sarah Palin, Mr. Forbish.”

The Forb just stared at her. I intervened, hoping to avert disaster.

“What is it about her that you like, Winnie?”

Winnie set the menu on the table, folded her hands, and gazed at the ceiling while she gathered her thoughts.

“Well,” she said, “I like it that she’s a woman and that she is having an impact on politics. She is a family person, she’s smart, and she’s a Christian. I think her faith is important; at least, it’s important to me.”

I waited for The Forb to launch his counter-attack. Instead, his face softened, and he reached over to place his hand over hers.

“Winnie, my dear,” he said, “I really appreciate what you’re saying. I think all those things are probably true. And let me say that she’s also the prettiest contender we’ve ever seen. But let me suggest something: You are one of the finest people I’ve ever met. I may not see eye-to-eye with you on everything, but you are nothing if not sincere and honest. You are lovely, and tender, and your deep faith—a complete mystery to me, I might add—is a wonder.

“But I must say, all those fine characteristics don’t necessarily mean that you should be President of the United States. I’m sure that Mrs. Palin is a good person, but she shouldn’t be the leader of this poor, confused nation either. The only thing worse that could happen is if I became President!”

Winnie giggled at that last comment. I didn’t recall ever hearing Winnie actually giggle, and I was smitten by it.

“I’ll think about what you’ve said, Mr. Forbish. I’m not sure I agree with you, but your kindness could win me over.”

The Forb took Winnie’s hand and kissed it. He left our booth and joined Limerick Bill, and recharged his lecture, undoubtedly giving Bill inspiration for a new, filthy poem.

I think I just referred to my kingdom as “our booth.” I may be in over my head.