Cupid's Arrow
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Old customers make an unfortunate miscalculation.
_____________________________________________________________________
Revenge can be profitable. – Edward Gibbon
The Cupid Diner, on the corner of Randolph and Wiley, had for decades been a mainstay for the town’s laborers, pensioners, and drifters. While it appeared rundown and neglected, its cheap food was palatable enough, although regulars joked that its coffee had the consistency of caulk. Despite that, the diner’s habitués chugged it down.
The eatery’s owner was Sam Mishkin and to a select few he was its central attraction because of his salty language and gruff, if not endearing, personality. He was not above telling the occasional new customer that the establishment’s recent cases of food poisoning were a conspiracy by the health department. Most of the time his comment would be met with a chuckle, but there were those would-be patrons who would make a beeline for the door––much to the amusement of Cupid’s longtime devotees.
“Jeez, Sam, you sure know how to make a great impression on first-timers,” remarked Tom Wells, a retired bricklayer and longtime customer.
“Yeah, you ain’t exactly building on your customer base. When we die off, who you gonna have coming in here?” added Colin O’Gorley, a worker at Pilgrim Die Casting.
“Hey, you mean you ain’t dead yet? Sure looks like it, Colin,” quipped Sam, wiping down the grill with a cloth as dark as its surface.
“Well, this joint would make a good place to store bodies,” said J.J. Polski, a mechanic at the Mobil station across the street.
“I’ve been thinking about renting out space to the funeral home down the street for its holiday overflow.”
“Think you already have. Looks like you got a dead one in the back booth,” said Wells.
“Hey, Duff, your break is over, buddy!” shouted Sam. “Better get back out there before the cans and plastic bottles are picked up by someone else.”
The man lifted his baldhead off the table and grunted an acknowledgment. He then stood up and gave everyone a broad, toothless smile.
“Damned if he ain’t still alive, Sam. There goes your storage fee,” said J.J., swallowing the last of his cup’s contents and then holding it out for a refill.
* * *
Two PM was the diner’s closing time and there were always the same handful of customers who had to be cajoled into leaving. Once the place was empty, Sam would do a cursory cleanup and then retire to his small apartment in the rear of the building for a nap. This had been his daily routine for as long as he could remember. He’d never married, and he considered his motley clientele to be family. While his life was mundane by anyone’s standards, he had become content enough with it and expected nothing more.
That is until the day after he turned 68 when he opened the local newspaper to see a photo of his restaurant. Before he could read further, Tom Wells entered and shouted “Congratulations!” at the top of his phlegmy lungs.
“What the hell you yapping about, you crazy old bastard?” asked Sam.
“It’s right there in front of you, if you open your eyes. The Cupid has been given the ‘Best in Town’ award.”
“Huh? That’s bullshit! You been drinking already this morning, Tom?”
“I thought I was hallucinating when I saw it. But the Gazette gave this sorry ass place of yours an award. Says, and I quote, ‘The Cupid Diner is a wonderful haven for the palette.’ Imagine that. Somebody out there has lost their taste buds.”
Sam focused on the copy under the photo and then angrily crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch! When I find out who did this, I’ll strangle him,” growled Sam, shaking his head in disgust.
“Why you so pissed?” asked J.J.
“I been working all my life to make this place what it is, and now someone goes and votes the place the ‘Best in Town’. Shit!! What bastard would do such a miserable thing to me?”
“Whoa, stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, Sam. It ain’t so bad. Think of all the new customers this should bring in,” said Wells.
“Don’t want more customers. Got enough of you deadbeats already.”
* * *
Indeed, the eatery was crowded until closing time the day of the surprise announcement. But when Sam counted his receipts, he cheered up.
“Holy crappers, never made this much money in one day. Hell, not even in several days.”
By the week’s end, Sam had more than come to terms with the sharp increase in customers and revenues, and within a month he had decided to renovate the place.
“So you’re going to doll up the Cupid?” asked J.J., tentatively, when he heard that workers would soon be removing the ancient booths for nifty new ones.
“Yeah, I think if the place is spruced up even more people will come in.”
“But it’s already become a mob scene,” complained Colin.
“Yeah, we can hardly get in here any more,” grumbled Wells.
“Not like the good old days,” bemoaned J.J.
“Well, if you jerks hadn’t pulled that joke on me by writing to the newspaper for that award, there’d still be plenty of room for you,” said Sam, removing the empty cups in front of his old cronies.
“How did you find . . .? Hey, what are you doing?” asked Wells.
“C’mon, fill ‘em up,” pleaded Colin and J.J.
“Sorry, guys, new policy: only one refill per customer. Now if you’d please make room for those waiting to be seated.”
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Old customers make an unfortunate miscalculation.
_____________________________________________________________________
Revenge can be profitable. – Edward Gibbon
The Cupid Diner, on the corner of Randolph and Wiley, had for decades been a mainstay for the town’s laborers, pensioners, and drifters. While it appeared rundown and neglected, its cheap food was palatable enough, although regulars joked that its coffee had the consistency of caulk. Despite that, the diner’s habitués chugged it down.
The eatery’s owner was Sam Mishkin and to a select few he was its central attraction because of his salty language and gruff, if not endearing, personality. He was not above telling the occasional new customer that the establishment’s recent cases of food poisoning were a conspiracy by the health department. Most of the time his comment would be met with a chuckle, but there were those would-be patrons who would make a beeline for the door––much to the amusement of Cupid’s longtime devotees.
“Jeez, Sam, you sure know how to make a great impression on first-timers,” remarked Tom Wells, a retired bricklayer and longtime customer.
“Yeah, you ain’t exactly building on your customer base. When we die off, who you gonna have coming in here?” added Colin O’Gorley, a worker at Pilgrim Die Casting.
“Hey, you mean you ain’t dead yet? Sure looks like it, Colin,” quipped Sam, wiping down the grill with a cloth as dark as its surface.
“Well, this joint would make a good place to store bodies,” said J.J. Polski, a mechanic at the Mobil station across the street.
“I’ve been thinking about renting out space to the funeral home down the street for its holiday overflow.”
“Think you already have. Looks like you got a dead one in the back booth,” said Wells.
“Hey, Duff, your break is over, buddy!” shouted Sam. “Better get back out there before the cans and plastic bottles are picked up by someone else.”
The man lifted his baldhead off the table and grunted an acknowledgment. He then stood up and gave everyone a broad, toothless smile.
“Damned if he ain’t still alive, Sam. There goes your storage fee,” said J.J., swallowing the last of his cup’s contents and then holding it out for a refill.
* * *
Two PM was the diner’s closing time and there were always the same handful of customers who had to be cajoled into leaving. Once the place was empty, Sam would do a cursory cleanup and then retire to his small apartment in the rear of the building for a nap. This had been his daily routine for as long as he could remember. He’d never married, and he considered his motley clientele to be family. While his life was mundane by anyone’s standards, he had become content enough with it and expected nothing more.
That is until the day after he turned 68 when he opened the local newspaper to see a photo of his restaurant. Before he could read further, Tom Wells entered and shouted “Congratulations!” at the top of his phlegmy lungs.
“What the hell you yapping about, you crazy old bastard?” asked Sam.
“It’s right there in front of you, if you open your eyes. The Cupid has been given the ‘Best in Town’ award.”
“Huh? That’s bullshit! You been drinking already this morning, Tom?”
“I thought I was hallucinating when I saw it. But the Gazette gave this sorry ass place of yours an award. Says, and I quote, ‘The Cupid Diner is a wonderful haven for the palette.’ Imagine that. Somebody out there has lost their taste buds.”
Sam focused on the copy under the photo and then angrily crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch! When I find out who did this, I’ll strangle him,” growled Sam, shaking his head in disgust.
“Why you so pissed?” asked J.J.
“I been working all my life to make this place what it is, and now someone goes and votes the place the ‘Best in Town’. Shit!! What bastard would do such a miserable thing to me?”
“Whoa, stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, Sam. It ain’t so bad. Think of all the new customers this should bring in,” said Wells.
“Don’t want more customers. Got enough of you deadbeats already.”
* * *
Indeed, the eatery was crowded until closing time the day of the surprise announcement. But when Sam counted his receipts, he cheered up.
“Holy crappers, never made this much money in one day. Hell, not even in several days.”
By the week’s end, Sam had more than come to terms with the sharp increase in customers and revenues, and within a month he had decided to renovate the place.
“So you’re going to doll up the Cupid?” asked J.J., tentatively, when he heard that workers would soon be removing the ancient booths for nifty new ones.
“Yeah, I think if the place is spruced up even more people will come in.”
“But it’s already become a mob scene,” complained Colin.
“Yeah, we can hardly get in here any more,” grumbled Wells.
“Not like the good old days,” bemoaned J.J.
“Well, if you jerks hadn’t pulled that joke on me by writing to the newspaper for that award, there’d still be plenty of room for you,” said Sam, removing the empty cups in front of his old cronies.
“How did you find . . .? Hey, what are you doing?” asked Wells.
“C’mon, fill ‘em up,” pleaded Colin and J.J.
“Sorry, guys, new policy: only one refill per customer. Now if you’d please make room for those waiting to be seated.”
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com