The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Down here on the wild wild South End, rugged individualism still reigns supreme. Little wonder there were cheers from the trailer parks to the gated communities for the fast exit from the Paris Climate Accords. “We have to take care of our own,” Fairlane Freddy, one of the regulars at the Diner, said the morning the news broke. “I’m tired of babysitting the rest of the world.”

“That’s right,” Jerry chimed in. “This isn’t about coal jobs, it’s about independence. The Chinese got off easy and we’re supposed to pick up the heavy end.” Two Toke Tom, his fork halfway to his mouth with a load of biscuits drenched in gravy, stopped suddenly and I shook my head no, but too late. Tom and I were badly outnumbered by this mob of Flatheads here for the vintage car club’s breakfast meeting. Why is it, I thought, that we can’t just leave well enough alone?

“You think maybe driving those carbon spewing old Hudsons is a God given right, I suppose,” Tom asked, his gravy dripping onto the formica of our table, eliciting an involuntary groan from me and more than a few raised eyebrows from the Flathead tables. I began to calculate an escape plan, something to do with a trip to the rest room then out the back door to my waiting beat up Toyota pickup. With a little luck I could toss a ten dollar bill for my tab without undue notice.

But Tom was suddenly smiling. “America first, that’s the deal!” With that he lofted his fork into his grin. Freddy was caught off guard a moment. “That’s right, Tom, us first. You got a problem with that?”

Two Toke was chewing languidly now, a cow with her cud, unperturbed. “Not me,” he finally said. “Trump knocked that president from Montenegro out of his way for a photo op. Got to look out for himself, I guess. The days of courtesy are over, eh? New sheriff in town.” That bathroom near the exit began to look like two miles away.

Anita suddenly appeared with a steaming coffee pot. “Boys, how many times I got to tell you, NO POLITICS at breakfast. Take that to the Pilot Lounge, they don’t care if you drink and run your mouth. We got families here, gentlemen, paying customers. So zip it up, that’s all I’m gonna tell you.” She turned to
Two Toke. “You want a refill or the bill?”

Tom chuckled sheepishly. “I apologize, Anita. I’d prefer a refill.”

“How about you, Fred?” she asked, still holding the pot. Fred nodded yeah. “Fill Tom’s first, why don’tcha, Anita.” And Anita did just that.

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