Friday, 12 June 2015

For the Love of a Good Reuben

Found a fun way to incorporate 'temple' in the second round of Sheryl Gwyther's 52-Week Flash Fiction Challenge on Facebook.
For the Love of a Good Reuben (500 words) 
‘It’s him!’ Ma attempted to whisper at me across the booth. ‘Looks as good as he did in his Temple of Doom days!’
‘For real?’ I asked, turning to take a look. 
‘Don’t!’ squeaked Ma. She’d turned into a crazy person. ‘Harrison wouldn't want people making a fuss,’ she motioned at me with her hands like I should tone it down. 
The waitress came to take our order. ‘What’ll it be?’ she asked, topping up our coffees. 
‘Pastrami on Rye and a side of Slaw,’ Ma ordered her usual, then shielding herself from Harrison’s view as discretely as Ma could, she asked, ‘and is that…’ 
‘Sure is,’ the waitress cut in before Ma could finish, ‘comes in for a Reuben every Wednesday like clockwork – unless he’s outta town – says it’s the best he’s ever had.’ She brushed some imaginary lint from her frilled apron and curled her lips ever so slightly revealing a glimmer of pride. 
I ordered the Cobb Salad. 
‘Told you so!’ cried Ma when the waitress had gone. ‘Closest I've ever been to someone famous, apart from that time Al Roker took my cab. I gotta call Joyce!’ 
She stopped dead part way through the call and I thought for a second she was having a heart attack. ‘Oh my God, don’t look now, but he’s coming this way!’ Now she was singing at me. She dropped her phone and checked her perm. I assured her it hadn't moved for two weeks and it wasn't about to start. 
‘Excuse me Ladies, may I borrow the salt?’ he asked. His suit was exceptional. 
I smiled and handed it to him then raised my eyebrows at Ma who’d entered some sort of catatonic state. I made a mental note to check her meds. ‘Ma! Close your mouth!’ I said. ‘You look like a bullfrog waiting for a fly.’ She finally snapped it shut when the waitress brought our meals. 
Ma took a bite of her sandwich. ‘Harrison Ford!’ she shook her head in disbelief. ‘The very same diner as Harrison! And Harrison’s using our salt!’ I thought technically the salt belonged to the diner, but I let it slide. ‘We’re practically having lunch with Harrison,’ she added. ‘I gotta call Joyce!’ 
‘Ma,’ I said. ‘Finish your sandwich and let’s make a move.’ 
‘Move? No way, José! I'm not budging ‘til Harrison does,’ she had a steely look in her eyes, ‘people would pay big money for this booth!’
I busied myself with my salad. 
‘Thank you Ladies, and enjoy your lunch’ he placed the salt shaker along with a signed napkin and a crisp Benjamin Franklin on the table in front of Ma. 
‘Best Wishes, Harrison Ford,’ read Ma once he’d disappeared through the diner door and into the safety of his limo, ‘and three kisses! I gotta get this framed!’ 
I learned three things that day: Ma was certifiable, Donald Trump was a pretty generous guy, and next time I was in the neighbourhood, I’d try the Reuben.

No comments:

Post a Comment