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About the Author: Carl Robinette is an author of many popular short stories and a freelance journalist. His fiction has been seen in multiple publications in print and online, including Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Carl is currently developing new fiction while working as a contributing reporter with the Los Feliz Ledger in Los Angeles.
Thanksgiving. San Fernando Valley. Eighty-nine degrees. I was reclining in my little drive-up kiosk that I lease. The place used to be a drive-through coffee shack. Now it was my office shack, and also temporarily my apartment. A guy walked over from the bus stop at the corner and asked if I by any chance sold cigarettes. I said no, I don’t sell anything. He tried ordering a coffee. I told him again—I don’t sell anything. He wanted to know what I meant. I told him I wanted to know what he meant asking me what I meant. He asked me if I realized the coffee mug painted on the side of the shack made it look like a coffee place. I told him to cram an egg in it and scram. The guy stank-eyed me and walked across the lot to Judy’s Donuts.
Thanksgiving. An honest holiday. No presents. No fireworks. No used-car-lot inflatable decorations on front lawns. Just good stuff. Overindulgence. Wine. Family fighting. Champagne. The sting of old regrets bubbling out and making me sentimental. I wanted to be grumpy about everything. Then my mood brightened when a big strong woman in firefighter’s clothing walked into Judy’s shop.
Caution: Wet Floor. Cuidado: Piso mojado.
Judy is a compulsive floor polisher. I once told him he was going to kill someone or get sued, big yellow warning cone or not. His doughnut shop is slip city. I know the man as Judy but he also has an entire different name. His actual name. I guess the shop was called Judy’s when he signed the lease and the man just rolled with it.
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