Wayne Michael DeHart    (Finally, 4 years. dozens of start-overs, and 177 edits later!)

A 6,567-word labor of love.

Writer’s Introductory notes:

– Be forewarned, this is a no-holds-barred, frivolous story of a man, a woman, and one whimsical week in wacky world. The writer dared himself to bring back his “19 and naughty” state of mind, with the goal of just having fun at the keyboard again, as time ticks away. The result is a fun-lovin’ roll in the hay, and a left-handed roll of the dice. It’s a smorgasbord of unrefined, unpolished humor, featuring flirty folks, playful pokes, fart jokes, and breast strokes. Yes, it’s suggestive and seductive in places, but steers clear of the Salacious city limits. No human or animal gets sued, arrested, beaten, or killed. And just when you think you can’t take any more of the relentless wordplay, it’s over. The last words. Exhale. Have a cigarette, or a ham sandwich.

— Included are approximately 40 parenthetical interjections from the writer’s alter ego, “Thinker153”, a pushy SOB who thinks he’s better-lookin’ and funnier than the author. And he probably is.

— Some parts of this tale may seem a bit bawdy to those with actual standards, but hey, it’s 2025, and “Seinfeld,” “Friends,” and “Cheers” set the bar on similar content on network TV back in the ‘90’s. (If it meets Jennifer Aniston’s standards, well, by golly, it meets the author’s.) Those instances are presented comically and lightheartedly, to be sure. Nothing in the story is “dark” or nefarious in any way. The “f-word” didn’t have the price of admission, and was referred to The Comedy Channel for employment opportunities. Malice and malevolence took the last train for the coast. Politics, in all of its forms, went with them. (No room at the inn.) Fair warning though, this tale is NOT suitable fare for minors. Or miners. Non-minors, proceed with caution, put your feet up, and see where it takes you. You just might come out the other side undamaged and untarnished, still of sound mind, and with your morals intact!

— The writer, admittedly and shamelessly, parties in the deep end of a pool of wordplay, double entendres, alliteration, random rhymes, pop culture references, literary leeway, and, yes, titillating tomfoolery. But there’s actually a “guy n’ girl” story included as a bonus gift! He’s old, alone, and bored. (The author, not the “guy.”) Writing stuff like this puts a gleam in his eye and a dent in his printer’s ink supply, but not one cent in his checking account. Which means no taxes on profits. And that’s his take on Cents and Sensibility!

– I’ve cleared the decks, so if you have 30-40 minutes to give (that you’ll never get back), c’mon, my Uber’s here. I’ll drop you off at the very beginning, but tread lightly,
the only way out is … The End.

*******

I.

Sunrise, Sunday, August 9, 2015 – San Jose, California

A lifelong bachelor living a solitary life, Ted D awoke just days away from quietly celebrating his 70th birthday. He planned to observe the occasion by spending a leisurely Saturday at home, alone. He would devour an entire chocolate cheesecake for breakfast, watch some Giants baseball on TV, then stream his boyhood favorite, Roy Rogers, in “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Might get a generous dose of the lovely Dale Evans as well. Sweet deal. Six days away.

He rolled out of bed, went through his morning routine, donned his favorite San Jose Sharks cap, and headed out on foot to the friendly, familiar confines of Rose’s Capella Café.

Then, stuff happened. Lots of stuff.

II.

Ted D, his mother, and his kid sister, Elise, had moved from the Louisiana bayou to faraway Phoenix when he was twelve, soon after his philandering father staggered into New Orleans one weekend and never returned. Mama D had long since quietly exited the earth’s surface, and Sis was somewhere back East, drifting from town to town, frequenting dimly-lit bars and sharing squalid living quarters with ill-mannered men of dubious distinction. Over the years, Elise had brushed aside Ted’s many offers to help get her life in order, even suggesting she relocate west for a fresh start in new surroundings. “Nah, I’m good.” Good, she wasn’t. She was warped, wanton, and wound way too tight. In contrast, Ted’s path had been comparatively bland and unassumingly benign. The guy took pride in having lived a life of civility, compromise and compassion. Little Sis was cold, hard, tutti-frutti with cracked walnuts; Big Bro was soft-serve French vanilla, with a scattering of chocolate sprinkles, and a light caramel drizzle.

Ted revealed a lighter side after retiring from his mundane government desk job in Arizona. He moved to San Jose, where he frequently engaged his favorite waitress at Rose’s Capella Café in mutual spurts of flirtatious repartee, while also trading tangy tidbits with some of the moldsters (moldy oldsters) that frequented the establishment on weekend mornings. He had sized the server up as “funny and fifty-ish” from the first cup of coffee she ever poured for him, when she said, “Drink this, hon, you look like someone stole your bacon this mornin’.” She then proceeded to look around, before slipping him three slices of bacon on a bagel. “On the house, darlin’, but don’t rat me out to the Big Boss.” No creature of the feminine persuasion had addressed him as “hon” or “darlin’” since his Valentine’s Day venture to Vegas back in ‘04. But here was this good-natured soul doing her thing and making his day – “just spreadin’ sugar, hon.”

III.

She soon developed a soft spot for the undersized, long-haired senior who stopped in for the Sausage & Strudel Special every Sunday morning. He was articulate and bright-eyed. Her orange name tag read “Red” in blue lettering, though she sported a stale brown, plaited bun, oddly paired with streaked, feathered bangs. “Some hairball asked me if I would plait my bun just for him some day,” she once told Ted. “So I tossed a sticky bun on a saucer, handed it to him with a sigh and a roll of the eye, and told him I hoped it was as good for him as it had been for me.” Then she moseyed off into the kitchen, cackling like a blind rooster at midnight.

Both server and served gained an implicit familiarity and mutual sense of kinship across scores of Sunday mornings. Upon his arrival at one of her tables, she would sashay toward him with a coffee pot in one hand and a smile in the other. He’d nod and say “Red.” She’d nod back and say “Ted.” Then they’d both grin like teenagers gleefully watching Buffy void vampires with head butts and throat cuts.

In reality, Red fed Ted.

In her fanciful reveries, Ted wed Red. (Cheap wine and California dreamin’ will do that, girl.)

IV.

The Sunday before his landmark birthday, while still 69 and somewhat spry, Ted made his move. While reaching into his Billabong bi-fold for his usual $5 tip for the $7 breakfast, he asked if she could sit with him for a few minutes sometime, maybe on her break. He said there were three “maybe kinda personal” questions he had been wanting to ask her. Intrigued, she plucked out the chair on the opposite side of the table, then plunked her well-rounded derrière down with a soft, whooshing sound. She coyly leaned in toward a flabbergasted Ted, her ample assets resting comfortably on the table in front of him. He was caught off guard by her proximity, the magnitude of her mojo, and the suddenness of the tête-à-tête.

“Looking for answers, eh?” She flashed him a seductive wink. “Sure thing, hon, here’s a pair for ya. They’re both real … and they’re spectacular. Next question?” Ted’s face immediately distorted into “Say what?” territory. Red instantly surmised that her twist on the notorious Seinfeld gem, which usually delighted her more earthy male customers, had whistled past his head at breakneck speed. She knew she needed to move to higher ground.

“Would you prefer I call you Teddy, Ted? I’ve heard that real slim, shady guy call you Teddy a few times, and you didn’t raise an eyebrow.”

Ted’s raised his right eyebrow . “Oh, you mean retired U.S. Marshal Bruce Mathers, the big man with the classic salt n’ pepper beard? Don’t let him hear you call him shady, ya know. He’ll slap the cuffs on you and haul you away to a cabin in the woods.” Red ooh-ed. (She more than ooh-ed. She tingled with excitement and anticipation upon hearing that, but back to Ted.) “He’s not saying Teddy. It’s Ted (pause) D.  As in Ted DePharteau. The name is Wallonian, (It’s what, Ted?) and it has a big fat, funky ‘Phart’ smack dab in the middle of it. Civilized women here in the West don’t line up to become a future Mrs. DePharteau, as my late mother did back in Louisiana, where phartin’ is considered phunny. So here I am, up a creek, with no wife. No kids. Few hugs. Fewer kisses. Long, lonely nights.” She nodded, relishing his openness, and still thinking about the cuffs. She quipped, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be Red (pause) D one day.” “Ready?” he asked, not picking up on her pause. Ted was well-educated, but remained kinda slow on the uptake sometimes, as they say in the Cincinnati suburbs. “Ready for what?” (Ready for you, Teddy!)

*** Note: If you just started reading here to save time, welcome to Rose’s Capella Café. Have a seat. The coffee’s hot, the water’s cold, the buns are warm, and the waitress with the big personality is cool.

Ted’s Red rose readily, having noticed newly-arrived customers. “Gotta go, the Boss might be watching, and I don’t mean Springsteen. A real hard-azz, ya know. Listen, there’s a green wooden bench in front of Flo’s Fancy Floral Boutique, just down the street. I’m outta here at two, meet me there at 2:15. Can do?” Grateful for the extra few hours to gather himself, Ted nodded, tipping his totally teal San Jose Sharks cap to her. “Red.” As she turned away, she unfurled her fingers toward him, releasing neither a lightning bolt nor pixie dust, but rather a smile and a breath of fresh air. “Ted.” She was off to take an order; he was off to take a breath.

V.

Ted glanced at his watch on the five-block walk home to his loft apartment. 10:10 AM. His stomach churned slightly, his right eye twitched. He hadn’t expected to be seeing Red outside the familiar, friendly setting of the eatery this soon. The guy hadn’t had so much as a two-armed hug in almost twenty years (not even in Vegas? Dang, man.), so this impromptu rendezvous offered a wealth of potential for meaningful interaction. His insecurity raced to the surface as he wondered how many men she had lured to that bench over the years. Had one, or five, or all of them, fidgeted while waiting, stepped inside the flower store, then welcomed her warmly with roses or rhododendrons? Maybe daisies or daffodils? (Bet they did.)

He wondered what one wears for casual, outdoor, adult wooing, California style. He decided to stay with the garb he had on, except maybe switch out his Sharks cap for another color. “Shark talk” reigned at the Café all year round, and Ted had become a hardcore hockey-holic since moving to Teal Town.

Back home, stretched out aboard his deluxe denim recliner, he was having second thoughts about the entire affair. Sure, he was curious about, and demurely attracted to, the unassuming server, but to her he was probably just another long in the tooth customer who tipped well and laughed and smiled at her good-natured joshin’. She was right about her playful shenanigans, of course – they were certainly real and, yes, they were indeed spectacular at times – but why bring them up out of the clear blue like she did earlier? And what did she mean by “both?” Maybe she was double-talking to avoid his questions. He wondered if he should have minded his own business, and not put her on the spot like that. Yet she had seemed unfazed, to say the least, at his unexpected inquiry. Those arriving customers, in hindsight, had handed him a temporary reprieve. The last thing he wanted was to get her in trouble with Boss Hard-azz, a phantom owner who apparently kept an extremely low profile on Sundays. He had the Boss pegged as a burly, bearded, bald guy who probably named the place after his Junior Prom date, or that Titanic girl who went overboard for Jack.

VI.

Ted eventually picked up a pen and notebook to write out his three questions, not wanting to risk stumbling his way awkwardly through them come showtime. Minutes later, his belly was barking, despite his full breakfast. He sauntered off to the kitchen, returning with a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a cold can of cola. His anticipation of “alone time” with Red was growing by the minute, and he grew anxious with uncertainty. Should he say this? Should he ask that? Tell a joke? Rub his chin? Rub HER chin? He was soon chomping his cookies with reckless abandon, and swilling the soda like it was the last can in California. Gnashed and gnawed. Slurped and swallowed. Chewed and chugged. Gobbled and guzzled. When he hit bottom, he paused, and took a breath. Then another. Deeper, and longer. “Ted, you got this.” His confidence suddenly skyrocketed, and so did his blood glucose. (“Sugar in the mornin’ … ”) Minutes later, however, he was frettin’ and sweatin’ all over again.

An accomplished worrywart, Ted considered the possibility of finding white bird droppings splotched across the green bench upon arrival, thus deciding that beige slacks would be more strategic than the black pair he was wearing. Among his Sharks caps was a pristine white one, which he had never worn away from home, lest it become soiled, smudged, stinky, or stained. He quickly concluded it would be the strategic choice for him to offset any post-arrival bird bombs. As for Rose, well, he would offer her his handkerchief should a bullseye or two belt her in the bangs as she looked up.

Returning to the kitchen, he passed the hallway floor-length mirror, stopped, flexed what remained of his once formidable biceps, and asked the guy looking back at him, “Not that bad, right?” The guy lowered his eyes in silence. Well, shoot.

Upon looking closer, a glutton for punishment, he became even more unsettled, and his confidence dwindled downward. Dagnabbit, when did he himself become a moldster? He panicked, resolving to blow off the bench date, and never go to Rose’s Capella Café, or see Red, ever again.

VII.

Despite some tizzy and turmoil, and a ton of trepidation, Ted eventually bounced back into the saddle as the clock struck noon. He took a quick shower, dodged the mirror, donned a hooded robe (Nooo, not THAT kind!), and imagined himself a spunky and spirited boxer entering the ring. He bobbed and weaved and jabbed at the air, raising his arms in victory before sitting back down to work on his questions. After making some headway, he yawned a big one, then closed his eyes for just a moment to envision the two of them hitting it off in the afternoon sun. Tick tock. Moments became minutes – many, many, minutes.

Alas, the clock was silently screaming 1:56 PM when he suddenly bolted upright in the recliner, like he had been goosed by a gander. The notebook was in his lap, the pen was on the floor, and his lapse into LaLa-land was over. The details mostly escaped him, though he remembered, in order, singing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” with Dionne Warwick on the Golden Gate Bridge, hanging out with Rita Hayworth in Shanghai after arriving there on a slow boat to China, then having a sudden and urgent need to replenish the Yellow River in person just before he woke up. (We moldsters have all had that one, Ted. Sometimes several times a night.) Anyway, enough codswallop! Focus, man. Red from Rose’s will be sauntering up to that bench in just 19 minutes, and he was a brisk ten-minute walk away. (He hated driving in the city.) Looking down at the notebook, a pair of the questions were there, but not the third. Ugh, and uh-oh.

VIII.

Ted composed himself, carefully avoiding the mirror from hell. He popped a mint and donned the great white Sharks cap on his way out the door. He walked briskly (for a geezer), arriving at 2:12. Whew. Grateful she wasn’t early, he hot-footed into Flo’s place and paid an arm and a leg for a single yellow rose. ($$$ Ted, that’s why the sign reads “boutique” instead of “shop.” $$$)

Outside, he saw red (no, not THAT Red) upon observing a leashed beagle gnawing on what looked like a glazed doughnut, smack dab in the middle of the bench. The bench that he had wiped clean of crusted pigeon sap with his monogrammed hanky, just before entering the fancy flower emporium. A short distance away, a witchy woman clad in purple polka pants was snapping pics of the dog now hungrily humping the doughnut hole. The two-legged Red’s arrival was imminent, and the scene was woefully unwelcoming. A flustered Ted was fixing to finger-wag the feisty hag, when she abruptly approached the bench, picked up what turned out to be a rubber doughnut toy, and unfastened her companion’s leash from the bench. In a blink of Ted’s twitchy right eye, the two mischievous mammals were gone. Vanished. They just beat it, a la Michael Jackson.

Ted’s watch proclaimed 2:16 PM. Red was officially tardy, giving him time to use his already-soiled handkerchief to wipe the fresh dog spittle off the bench seat, and swipe away whatever parched pigeon poop he had missed earlier. He sat down on one end, moved to the other end, then back again, wanting her to be looking at his best side, though he wasn’t sure he had one. He settled for the middle, tactician that he was, so that she could choose and present her own best side. Clearing his throat and checking his biceps, he looked at the flower he was clutching like it was a winning lottery ticket, and began to hum “Yellow Rose of Texas.” Looking down at his trendy sneaks, Ted surprisingly saw four feet. He raised his eyes slowly upward, paused to take in the grandeur of the twin peaks now shading him, and saw the lady fair beaming broadly back at him. “Ted.” He stopped humming, and smiled like he was nineteen again. “Red.”

IX.

He rose up to greet the lady, a courtesy learned in his bayou boyhood. Should he shake her hand? Should he touch her arm or shoulder ever so lightly to provide guidance and support as she lowered herself onto the de-spittled, turd-free bench? He was visibly antsy, unsure what to say, how to act. Red sensed it immediately, as she had hours earlier when she suddenly sat down at his table and leaned right into him, like a dentist about to say “Open up, let’s take a look.”

He stood where he sat, right in the middle of the bench, prompting her to ask, “Which side of this mug do you wanna look at in this bright, summer sunshine?” He was jazzed that she had actually brought up that very same logistical consideration that he himself had been wrestling with moments earlier. Then she doubled down on loosening him up by pulling a Sharks coffee mug from her bag, pointing at it playfully, and asking, “This side?” – she spun the mug around – “Or this one?” Smooth move, Red. Ted was flat out digging her crackerjack wit. She had broken the ice with a hole big enough to fish through, and the rendezvous had just begun.

Ted chose his words carefully. He said he had seen her own mug from all angles on those Sunday mornings, and that it was his judgment that every side was equally pleasing, thus she should just sit herself down at whichever end fits her fancy. (“And fits her fanny,” giggled the devil into his ear.) Red grabbed onto his belt, lifting his libido, and playfully pulled him away from the bench. Startled, he babbled incoherently, something like “tish awging hean crof!” Red paid his garbled message no mind, as she just wanted to move him out of the way so she could park herself in that center spot, which she did, thus ping-ponging the “which side” decision back to him. Doing so ensured physical closeness either way, because it was pretty much a three-person bench, and she was removing the opposite-ends option. A thinking man, Ted remembered that the dog had drooled in delight on what was now her right side, so he plopped himself down on her left side. Both beamed. By any definition, the meet-up was going splendidly so far.

Minutes later, she politely asked, “Is that rose for me, or for your secret crush?” He realized he had forgotten to give her the pricey yellow flower. He said the two were “One and the same, Red.” (Aww. Kudos, Ted.) That was the right answer, and Red’s eyes twinkled like shimmering sequins. Yet he continued to hold onto the bloom. Had she inadvertently created a thorny issue with the rose? Her instincts told her it might be so. (Spill the beans. Drop the tea. Tell us why.)

X.

Red gave notice that she had used the interim hours to come up with three “kinda personal” questions for him as well, intending to get a few bites of his own apple. (Was the worm about to turn?)

Silence set in, but only briefly. Ted raised the rose to his nose, mainly to clear his senses, but also to look cool for this chick as well, but Red suddenly turned away. Then he heard it. Snickering. Snorting. Downright tittering, followed by an outright larger-than-life fit of laughter. Red turned to him and she was chortling so hard, tears were sloshing down her face, soaking her upper cheeks. Ted’s mind was racing a thousand miles a minute. Crazy as this seemed, it got more so. She reached out and pulled him close and squeezed him in a titillating, chest-to-chest, two-armed hug, ending his twenty-year drought. She patted his shoulder and told him she was fine and to ignore her outburst, suggesting they move on to his three questions.

Ted, befuddled by what had just happened, had trouble letting sleeping dogs lie. He had to know. “Red, did I miss something? I could use a laugh myself.”

She started to speak, but began chuckling again, so hard that her eyes got big and she howled like a hyena in heat, right there on the green wooden bench in front of Flo’s Fancy Flower Boutique in San Jose, California. “Tell me,” he implored her, joking that a passer-by might call 911 thinking she was being “moldstered” in broad daylight, and insisting that he would not fare well in prison with shrunken biceps. It was then that she finally fessed up.

She’d had two hard-boiled eggs and leftover cole slaw for breakfast, then gobbled up a big ol’ bean burrito and guzzled down a liter bottle of Nasty Nate’s Extra-Bubbly sparkling water on her noon lunch break. A little bit ago, sensing sudden and imminent disaster downstairs, she had breathed a last-gasp, impromptu prayer to the Gods of Flatulence to quickly intervene, but apparently they too were out to lunch. The jig was up; the eggs and beans were at war, and the cabbage had caught fire. Helpless, she caved, reluctantly firing off an extra-bubbly, ginormous, gut-gas grenade that ripped through her nether regions in search of an exit. Spotting an opening, it rocketed roughshod through her alimentary canal, landing softly and silently in her floral frillies, where it rapidly disintegrated. She had hastily dropped down onto the bench in an attempt to quash its somewhat tangy, and nearly noxious, fumes, butt (<<) … it was too late. Fire burn and cauldron bubble! Her non-subtle scents, born of uncommon sense and bred in innocence, had produced effervescence, and that spelled trouble, my friends, right there in River City, er, I mean San Jose. (Well, crap, with a capital C!)

She then naturally assumed that he had noticed the sudden arrival of a lively, lingering zing in the air, because Lordy, she sure had! “I thought that’s why you were practically inhaling that rose a few minutes ago, and wouldn’t give it up.” It seems Ted was a smart feller, but not a phart smeller. He had not noticed any pungency or putrescence (or any other P.U. words) penetrating his nostrils. He “hmm-ed,” wondering if she was symbolically, and rather brazenly, auditioning to be Mrs. DePHARTeau, by concocting a half-baked yarn to beef up her credentials for the title. Had the ritzy rose he was clutching been red (the color), he might have handed it to Red (the phartress), to keep her in the game, in pursuit of his name, like on “The Bachelor” (which he was.) Pheromone-filled and flattered, he stifled a smirk, but only briefly. Because the shinola was literally about to hit his biggest fan.

Red asked if he had something she could use to wipe away the tears of laughter, but as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, he remembered it was full of Beagle spittle and bird slop that she would be wiping onto her face. She snatched it out of his hand as Ted cringed at what was sure to follow. Now it was his turn to look away. He started laughing, detesting himself all the while for doing so. He heard her say, “Ooh, yes, that feels much better. Think I got it all. How’s it look?” Hearing that, he bit his tongue way too hard, and now there were tears rolling down HIS kisser too. With her freshly-wiped facial features now sporting blotchy bumps and speckled streaks that blended nicely with her newly-acquired, ear-to-ear, pasty hue, Red sweetly offered the stanky hanky back to him. But seeing the tears running down his cheeks now, she swiftly reached out and daubed all around his eyes with the filthy thing. “Let Sugar dry your tears.” (“Yuck, and another word that rhymes with it,” silently mused the bachelor.) Ted, his eyes burning, but ever the gentleman, told her to keep it because he had several more just like it at home. (Well, Ted, maybe not “just like it” any more!) But his biggest fan insisted, and he politely pocketed the raunchy rag.

XI.

Red suggested they meet back at the Café “at seven or so”, to pose their questions in a quiet, familiar environment. “The place closes at five and the staff are always under orders to lock up by six. I have my own key. Knock three times and don’t worry about The Boss.” “Seven or so is a bit more ambiguous than I’m used to, Red. Should I arrive right at seven?” “About seven will do.” “About?” She smiled. “Too broad for you?” “Well, guess I’m just overly precise sometimes.” (Ya think, Ted?) She winked, just like she did that morning, and did her trademark Café sashay as she moved away. “Wasn’t asking about no arrival time, hon.”

She stopped, came back to him, and fondled the yellow rose that he had never stopped clenching. She tried again. “May I?” He smacked his forehead and offered it to her with a knightly bow. “Milady, this lonely fellow chose a rose of yellow, because your name has likely led to a lifetime of roses red, from names unsaid, unlike this one, from your friend Ted.” Touched by his creativity, she held it tight and reached out and touched him in return. (Nothing unseemly, mind you. Just a playful poke to the ribs.) She reached into her bag and placed the aforementioned Sharks mug into his still outstretched palm, replacing the fragrant flower. She got serious, looked into his eyes, and told him that she had bought it for him when the team’s season ended in April, and had been carrying it around ever since, hoping for a moment like this. The moment was tender. And so were Ted’s ribs. Then, in two blinks of a teary eye, she was gone. Red had beat it, fast, just like Michael J. and Ms. PurplePolkaPants before her.

A hug, a mug, a lifted libido, her DNA on his hanky, and maybe a fractured rib – quite the haul for a friendly fossil, who now had a date at seven or so with the funny, fifty-ish, good ol’ girl from Rose’s Capella Café.

She was a true “Shark Girl”, a character, a hoot, and two toots (!oo!) – and Ted D was hooked like an Alaskan salmon, reeled in through that hole in the ice – the one that had lightened the mood, and led to the meat of their meet-up.

XII.

A spruced-up Red was lying in wait when Ted, remembering her instructions, thumped three times on the door. It was 7:00 PM sharp. He was taken aback by how stylish and chic she looked as she greeted him. She was wearing loose clothing that highlighted her ravishing, Rubenesque form and full features. Her hair was shiny and straight and rested softly across her shoulders, a far cry from the familiar top-knot and grace-saving bangs she usually “rocked” in this very building.

“Hello, stranger. I’m Lady Juliette. I was expecting my lover, but you can sit for a spell.” She pointed to a corner booth in the dining area. “There.” It was like meeting someone for the first time, and they played it out. “So what’s your name, handsome?” “Slim Shady, doll.” “Are you the … real Slim Shady?” “Aye, I am.” “Then … please stand up.” He had placed the nail and she hammered it home. They high-fived and bumped knuckles, and she brought out lattes and cream pastries.

(It should be noted that Eminems were not among the sugary offerings that evening, though some discarded Skittles were seen spread haphazardly across the owner’s desk. No offense, Marshall, and stay tuned.)

“Okay there, Slim, I have three questions for you. Have you ever been arrested? Do you smoke, gamble, or use drugs? Does my “extra padding” turn you off? Will you take me to the Sharks first home game against the Ducks on October 10th? I have two tickets. How’s your creampuff?”

“Lady Jigglytitz, er, Juliette, that was five questions, including a three-parter. But here goes … a big no, no-no-no, heck,no, and I’d be delighted.” Red’s face lit up. She suggestively sipped Ted’s caramel latte, milking the moment, then moaned insatiably with each bite of her jumbo red velvet cupcake. With eyes meeting hers, he belatedly added that his creampuff had been soft and sweet, a pleasing treat, just like her. (Ted D for the win!) Heart fluttering, Rose offered Ted the very first bite of her succulent cannoli, an elusive privilege heretofore granted only to members of a certain “metal” rock group back in 1996 when they gave an impromptu free concert on a flatbed truck in the Tower Records parking lot in San Jose. (They pretend they don’t remember Red, but she sure remembers them, and yes, she says, The Sandman DID enter. But don’t tell Ted!!)

Once again, Red fed Ted.

He had forgotten his own questions by now, but somehow knew he had all the answers he’d ever need.

Hours later, they disappeared – just beat it – into one of Van Gogh’s seductive, starry nights.

Seems Red was “out sick” for the next several days, due to unspecified sore muscles, and Ted failed to show for his Tuesday canasta club and his Thursday chair yoga lesson.

Had the Bay Area’s famous fog plucked them up and dropped them hard? (Good question. Better keep readin’, I’d say.)

XIII.

The following Friday evening, August 14^th, Ted DePharteau and Rose “Red” Murdeen, aka Boss Hard-azz, the imagined burly, bearded, bald owner of Rose’s Capella Café  — (Wait – so Red was the Rose? The Rose? That Rose? Well, Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat & Jiminy Crickets, Batman!) — were married at sunset in the parlor of the main lodge at the Brigadoon B&B over in Verona. Many obliging guests of the inn attended, along with Rose’s three-times-widowed mother, Mona “The Belle” Bellabona, still feisty and fine at seventy-nine. Mona’s fondest wish had been for her daughter to not grow old alone. “He’s not bad, dear, but … why a moldster? And a scrawny one at that.” Red then laughingly whispered into her ear. “Ohhh, I see. Well then, ride ‘em, cowgirl. Yee-haw !”

Music was provided by The Tooter Trio, who played an extra-bubblicious version of “Classical Gas,” and the Skittles Sisters, who sang “Yellow Rose of Texas.” Sausage and strudel, as well as bacon on a bagel, were served to the guests. Cupcakes, creampuffs, and cannolis followed, pumping up the mood. Oh, and warm, sticky buns from Rose’s Capella Café, were served on a saucer to the hairball who flirted with Ted’s main squeeze at check-in. The mood was light, and cheap wine flowed freely.

Ted had resolved to withhold from his ravishing Red Rose the slimy details of the besmirched handkerchief for at least five years, or until the expiration of the statute of limitations for heinous acts, whichever came first. Seemed he had finally learned to let a sleeping dog lie. Conversely, she vowed never, ever, to mix phart-phorming phood with bubbly beverages again. Wedded bliss seemed certain for Team DePharteau.

They retired to Cabin 4 shortly before 10:30 PM. For the bride, California dreamin’ had become a reality, now that … Ted wed Red.

Shortly after 6:00 AM, most of the guests were awakened by a pair of piercing screeches and a couple of high-pitched, incoherent squeals from the newlyweds’ hut. Everyone came a-runnin’ outside in their sleepin’ garb, like in one of them late-night, murder mystery movies on cable. Ted had awoken – hung over, rumpled, and suddenly a septuagenarian. He was about to mindlessly mess with that dang sleeping dog. (The proverbial one. Be nice. Jeez.) Then he roused Red by playfully tapping on her shoulders to the bouncy beat of La Cucaracha, while gently kneading her shadberries in perfect rhythm. Still fuzzy-brained, Ted impulsively straddled her chassis and blurted out every detail of the funky handkerchief story to his unsuspecting, bleary-eyed bride. Then came an unscripted moment of silence. Ted’s eyes grew wide. Red’s eyes grew wider. Taken aback (while on her back) and just a tad ticked off, his beloved Red Rose tore his tappers from her shoulders and removed his knuckles from her knockers. She felt a naughty need to knee him in his knapsack, which she promptly did (Screech #1), with a triumphant cry of “Aieeeeyahh!” (Squeal #1) She then impolitely kneed the target area a second time (Screech #2), doubling down on her response for good luck (hers, not his). “Who’s got a pasty face now, Mr. Slim Shady?” (Squeal #2) Shoving him aside in agony (his, not hers), she bolted upright. Laughing like a ghoulie girl, she stretched out her loving arms in front of him as he gasped for air. (Been there, done that, Ted. Takes a minute.)

Red had used the Slim Shady reference pursuant to the banter from that incredible nighttime Café hook-up that led to her becoming Red D, but in the moment had unwittingly called to mind the “real slim, shady” guy from her morning shifts – retired U.S. Marshal Bruce Mathers of salt n’ pepper beard notoriety. She was in a momentary disconnect and blurted out, “Cuff me, Marshal, ‘cuz we’re already at the cabin.” Ted was hurtin’ like hell and envisioning Dale Evans riding in on Buttermilk to rescue him. Red was deliciously delirious, despite being on the brink of living her best life via her previous California dream. She chose the high road, meaning her runner-up U.S. Marshal dreamin’ would not become a reality until Ted passed gently away, or until her next lifetime, whichever came first.

Their mutual moments of chaos ended abruptly, however, and the duo came to their senses. Both breathed deeply. (Much more difficult for Ted because, you know …) Husband and wife quickly repented, each entering “guilty pleas(e)” to their crimes against each other’s humanity.

“Ted, admit you’re guilty, please.”
“I am. You too, Red.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Red.”
“Ted.”

They called things even and opened the door to the mob, greeting them with sheepish grins. “Just newlyweds bein’ frisky, folks. Old, but not cold. We ain’t dead yet.” Red flashed her big, broad … smile, topped off with a pair of … wicked winks. “But we’re so sorry for the kerfuffle, really. My Teddy’s quite the tiger, ya know.” The first responders weren’t buying that baloney, but everyone played along and heartily ha-ha’d. They had all read the book and seen the movie. Red’s mom slept through it, along with her assigned roommate for the weekend, George the gardener. As for the other wannabe rescuers, who were somewhat relieved that no one was dead, Red cheerfully sent them on their way with two shakes of her boo … ty, and one leftover tasty pastry per person. Not surprising. Girl just never stopped spreadin’ the sugar.

Capella’s Rose, by any other name, may not have smelled as sweet that day on the bench, but she sure had good scents, and sense, when it really counted.

Told ya stuff happened.

XIV.

Two comfy San Jose Sharks fans, one funny and fifty-ish, the other repping soft-serve French vanilla with a scattering of chocolate sprinkles, crowned with a squirt and a squizzle of caramel drizzle, celebrated their first wedding anniversary on their favorite wooden loveseat in the whole wide world. Good vibes flowed in front of Flo’s. Their newly-adopted, non-drooling beagle slept contentedly at their feet. They drank lattes from Sharks mugs. They hugged, chest to chest, in the coveted center spot, and not a soul passed by without offering a pleasant greeting or extending a playful gesture. This man and that woman became them and they, we and us, one and the same. Separately, the long, lonely, trek of each of them through adulthood, along deserted paths, through abandoned streets, past warm inns with locked doors, had ended in the warm sunshine of a welcoming green bench in San Jose, and the rustic and peaceful green fields of Verona. Finely, and finally.

The man dabbed a few tears of happiness from his lady’s eyes with an immaculate, monogrammed handkerchief. She kissed his nose. Softly. Gently.

Both wore white baseball caps – just in case.

And yo, at about seven or so – they just beat it, for old time’s sake.

L’amour c’est l’amour, mes amis.

Love is love, my friends.

{On that joyful French note, you have reached The End … of this story, of Thinker 153’s cheeky comments, of the plethora of phart phrases, phunnies, and phoolishness. For the DePharteaus, however, it’s just the beginning. Look closely next time you pass a cheeky, cuddly couple smoochin’ on a green wooden bench. Reach out to them. “Ted? Red?”  You may be surprised to find that … they’re both real, and they’re spectacular!}

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