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dinner the previous evening, a distance of not more than a quarter of a mile up the road. I even felt smug because I jogged. |
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The parking lot was jammed and so was the diner. Most of the early morning customers were sitting at the counter slurping coffee out of heavy green china mugs with spoons still in them. Unlike the small town I grew up in, there was no light banter. Instead, the assemblage had their heads down, tending to their own business, postured in somber melancholy. |
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The locals had the seats at the counter filled, so I was shuttled off into what had to be the tourist area next to a middle-aged couple with two of the ugliest kids I've ever seen. The pimply, thickly lensed progeny were complaining about soggy french fries which they had buried under the remnants of two half bottles of runny ketchup. The combination of whining kids and the smell of french fries at a little past six in the morning was more than my constitution could handle. I ordered my coffee to go and decided to find a quiet place where I could stare at the water and destroy my health in solitude. |
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I picked my way down a narrow path in back of the diner, found myself a spot on a stretch of sandy, rock-studded beach and assessed the situation. There was a lot to think aboutMadden's definition of the problem, the role of Brenda Cashman in all |
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