Sunday, May 14, 2017

They Always Come Out on Tuesday



Early morning. Greasy-spoon diner.
A haggard old man walks in, with a baby harp seal on a leash flopping after him. He sits at the bar. The harp seal hops up on a stool and pushes his head onto the counter.
“Aye, what’ll it be?” the barkeep asks, eyeing the seal nonchalantly.
“Gimme a cup o’ coffee. Black. Oh, and, uh …” The old man glances down at the seal. “A bowl o’ porridge for m’ seal, here.”
The seal gazes up at the bartender with a vacant, happy expression. The bartender gives the old man a cock-eyed look.
“Mister, I think he’d prefer some fish.”
The old man looks incredulous. “Even at this hour?”
The barkeep looks at the old man, then down at the seal. The seal slaps a flipper on the counter and barks.
“Yessir, I do believe so.”
The old man sighs. “Fine. Haddock will do.”
“Haddock?” the bartender snorts. “What do I look like, a fishmonger? We got bacon, eggs and grits on our breakfast menu, mister.”
“Then what the hell you gone bring up fish for?”
“What the hell you orderin’ porridge for a seal for?!”
The old man stands up in a huff, then gently tugs at the leash. On cue, the seal gazes up at him with those vacant, black eyes.
“Come on, Petunia. I know when we ain’t wanted.”
A woman motions to the barkeep. He shakes his fist at the departing man-and-seal, then goes to the woman.
“Who was that strange man?” the woman asks.
In an instant, the old man stands before them. The seal barks happily at his feet.
“Wench! I am … The Seal Whisperer … ererer … erer.”
“The hell you are!” The bartender glares at the old man. “Seems to me a seal whisperer would know what a seal eats!”
“I know what a seal eats,” the old man mutters.
“Oh, what an adorable little snookie-kins!” 
The woman seems to have suddenly noticed the seal, and kneels down to pet it. The animal pushes his head into every one of the woman’s strokes, making a sound not unlike purring. 
“I’ll bet you’d like a nice, warm bowl of porridge, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”
The old man puts his arms out, palms up, and gloats at the barkeep. The barkeep snorts, turns.
“They always come out on Tuesday.”