white spot waitress

she greets me with a forward face and we play from there. “want some?”
“i’d love to but my bosses would frown.”
she is my white spot waitress.
“well, if all they’re going to do is frown…”
“and maybe something else that starts with an F.” she’s funny, quick-witted, slow of step.
my bills, split because business doesn’t pay for booze, tell me that her name is Amy.

Amy Amy Amy.

i wonder if i’ll serve again. it seems to have that appeal of hopeless desparity that the magazines seem to love. But then i wouldn’t get flown to far off Canadian towns like Kelowna for work. that’d be a shame.
John Henderson tells me the prime reasons he’s upset about having to retire. “in those days it would be me and sheryl and we’d drive across BC for shows. we got stuck in Prince George for 4 days once in a snowstorm. That was when CBC had money…” 

i think my plane is boarding. Amy tricked me and i’m staring at the largest ‘pint’ in airport history. white spot is closing for the night and 2 more sips of this yellow slooge and i’ll be in the sky.


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