“Good morning, Beverly,” I greet our waitress cheerfully.
“Yes, howdy,” joins John equally enthusiastically.
Beverly stares at us unknowingly. “Margaret, would you card these two guys who just came in. I don’t recognize them!”
“Wait, it’s us,” replies John.
“That should be ‘It’s we’…the verb to be requires the nominative case,” I correct.
I’m on your case all right,” retorts Beverly. “Margaret, and where is that sign I asked you post yesterday. The one that says, ‘No littering, loitering or lingering permitted. Management reserves the right to kick you to the curb.’”
“Ok, ok, I’m sorry,” I apologize.
“Me, too,” adds John. “Whatever it was?
You’ve been absent that’s what,” snaps Beverly. “What’s up with you dudes, anyway?”
“I’ve been checking entries in my high school year book,” John opens the book as he lays it on the table.
“OMG, don’t tell me you’re running for office again!” Beverly moans.
“Yep,” I note. “And you better bring us two pots of your daily special. This could be painful.”
“Margaret, bring both the Cauvery Peak and the Monsooned Malabar,” urges Beverly.
“Thanks,” worries John. “I feel a bit marooned this morning looking at my yearbook.”
“It’s monsooned, John. It’s….oh, never mind,” I surrender.
“Open it up, man,” Beverly instructs as she joins us after pouring each of us a cup of the daily special. “Let’s see how you screwed up in high school.”
Fabian Forte “Tiger” playing on jukebox.
“Uh…no…I don’t think you really want to do that,” I caution.
(YEARBOOK) “Dear, Fabian! Between Mr. Jones, your Bermuda shorts and your wonderful singing, we’ve had quite a year!
“Fabian! You were called Fabian in high school!” Beverly gasps.
“You mean like that Laverne & Shirley show with Fabian!” shrieks Margaret.
“Good grief, girl! Get a grip!” orders Beverly.
“I categorically deny that…that…I ever wore Bermuda shorts in high school!” John stammers.
“Fabian…uh…John, that could be trouble for your presidential campaign,” I warn.
“And I never, ever sang” John protests.
(YEARBOOK) “Dear, John (or is it Fabian?) I imagine you can sing better than he. Well, we’re finally done with that dull Spanish class. What a drag it’s been!”
“See, I took Spanish in high school. That should help with the Latino vote!”
“Yeah, I’m sure they will be real happy that you thought it was dull!” Beverly cautions.
“You were Fabian? “Margaret asks faintly and passes out.
“Hey, I never said Spanish was dull! Someone else wrote that!”
“But at least the phrase ‘..better than he.’ was grammatically correct,” I stress.
“Oh, yeah, right! Like proper grammar is going to trump angry Latinos,” asserts Beverly.
(YEARBOOK) “You’re just one swell guy. However, as the old saying goes—“Flattery will get you nowhere.”—I guess I’m beating my head against a brick wall! I’ll never get you—woe is me!”
“See, see, there!” John gestures triumphantly. “I can get the women’s vote!”
“Oh, Fabian!” Margaret whispers unconsciously.
“Not the #MeToo movement, Fa-bi-en!” Beverly snarls sarcastically. They’ll interpret that entry as toying with and objectifying females!” Beverly stands up and takes the coffee pots back to the counter.
“Wait! read this one,” John begs.
“Too late, your presidential campaign is toast!” Beverly shouts.
“Speaking of toast, do you have any of those cinnamon rolls left,” I query.
“I’ll vote for you, Fabian,” sighs Margaret.
“I think you’re the only one,” concedes John shaking his head.
“Don’t be sad, Fab,” Beverly laughs as she plugs a quarter into the jukebox. “This will always be our song.”
Jukebox plays Fabian “About this thing called love”