poster that completely blocked one of the filling station’s big plate-glass windows. Hand-drawn palm trees, pink flamingos and stylized blue waves surrounded a cartoon drawing of a black man in an apron and a chef’s hat. Beetle brows and a gold-toothed grin suggested the character was Ed. Emerging from his mouth was a comic-style text balloon.
The Missus Is On Vacation, it read. No Ham And Beans On Wednesday. Come On In For Ed’s Special Jamaican Pork On A Bun.
When I pushed the door open, I discovered that my hot-pink shirt blended in nicely with the filling station’s new decor. And amusement chased away the bleakest of my thoughts.
A Beach Boys tune was playing over the store’s speaker system.
Throughout Statler’s Fill-Up, pink flamingo yard ornaments roosted on all of the horizontal surfaces—floor, shelves, counter and tables. And a mounted swordfish—one that I recalled his missus wouldn’t allow in the house—was hung in a place of honor above the beer cooler.
The counter area was furnished like a party-store version of a beachcomber’s hut. An eight-foot-tall inflatable palm tree shaded the filled doughnut tray from the fluorescent lights overhead. A fisherman’s net hung from the ceiling, weighed down by the catch of the day—shells, bits of driftwood and loops of colorful Mardi Gras beads. Obstructing the narrow cigarette shelves on the wall behind the counter was a bamboo-framed photograph, blown up to heroic proportions, of Ed standing on a beach.
But the store’s decor paled by comparison to Ed’s outfit. A parade of tiny pink flamingos marched along the hem of a lemon-yellow shirt. Below the shirt were brown surfer’s shorts trimmed with stylized yellow and pink waves and palm trees. Ed’s grizzled hair was covered with a hot-pink silk ball cap with a hooked brown bill that suggested a flamingo’s beak.
I could practically see the laughter bubbling up inside Ed as the filling station’s heavy glass door swung shut behind me. As he struggled to keep his laughter from escaping, his lips compressed, the edges of his mouth tipped down and his eyebrows slanted up over his dark eyes.
Traffic stops pretty much ensured that I was confronted daily by the absolutely ridiculous or the totally improbable. So I’d had plenty of practice keeping a straight face. I used that job skill now as I lifted my hand palm out and splayed my fingers in an exaggerated attempt to shield my eyes from the bright colors. Then I dropped my mirrored sunglasses back down on my nose and made a show of sniffing the air.
“Got some kind of head cold, Officer?” Ed asked, though he knew darn well I didn’t.
“No, sir, I don’t. I’m checking for the sweet smell of Mary Jane,” I said, though I knew darn well he didn’t.
One of Ed’s mobile eyebrows crawled up his shiny black forehead, until it was stopped by his cap.
“Say what?”
“Y’know. M.J. Magic smoke. Mary and Johnny. Mexican locoweed. The kind of stuff beach bums and old hippies are known to smoke.”
Ed grinned and his eyebrow relocated close to his eye.
“Oh, you mean pot. Well, why didn’t you say so, Officer? What do you think makes my doughnuts so special?”
I slipped my sunglasses back into my breast pocket, picked up a doughnut and made a show of examining it carefully before I took a bite.
“I was certain that it was all that deep frying and sugar…”
“Definitely the deep frying,” Ed retorted. “Give ’em time. They’ll probably make that illegal, too.”
Then Ed and I both laughed. His laughter deep and hearty. Mine closer than it had been in long time to a young woman’s giggle. And though I didn’t know what Ed’s morning had been like, when we finally wound down to gasping and tears, I felt a heck of a lot better.
Ed took off his silly hat to wipe his eyes and then perched it on top of the cash register.
I filled my mug with coffee, then I leaned comfortably against the counter. As I sipped my coffee and nibbled on my doughnut, I looked at Ed’s shirt a little more closely. That’s when I realized that the flamingos were doing a bit more than marching. The busy pattern made their behavior subtle, but the birds were definitely engaging in X-rated activity. The shirt didn’t violate any local decency ordinances, but it sure did push the limits of good taste.
Though I didn’t have nearly the talent that Ed did, I let one of my eyebrows slide out of place, then waved my fingers in the direction