76.7 F
Charlotte Amalie
Monday, November 28, 2022

AT LAST!

Well, IT finally happened, and I'm alive and here to tell it, sort of. Anyhow, as best as I can.
They said He, – Cronkite, you twit, — was here on his boat (again), and out on the end of the Frenchtown dock (again), and here I was (again), burdened down with two ice teas for my lunchtime customers at the Hook. Line and Sinker..
This time, though, I composed myself. I casually set down the two teas, grabbed a copy of my previous article (which I just happened to have lying around), and, apron and pens flying, charged out on the dock.
He was there, relaxed in the cockpit, looking quite at peace. "Good morning, Mr. Cronkite," I offered, wondering what I'd say next. He didn't hear me. I tried again louder and he turned his head. "You don't know me," I brightly explained, "but I wrote an article about you, about missing you, last time you were here."
Meantime, his wife beside him in the cockpit, was staring at me. But then, I thought, she must be used to this. I tried another tack. "I'm sorry to impose upon you (haha), but would you mind signing my article?"
By this time, I guess he had become resigned and he climbed out of the cockpit and graciously took my clipboard! My heart spun. I told him about my boss, Teddy Luscz, who owns the Hook Line where I work, and who had taken the picture of him in the previous article, and how crazy Teddy is about him. I explained "Teddy is your number one fan in the whole world. . . ."
About this time, I realized that he was reading, really reading, my article and chuckling. Really. He handed me back the article with an inscription, "Nice piece, Molly. Congrats. Walter Cronkite." I sputtered my thanks, taking careful note not to fall in the cockpit, and somehow wafted back off the dock, booty in hand.
When I walked back into the Hook Line dining room, I found my customers restive, looking around for sustenance.
Frank Jordan was scowling. Frank scowls a lot.
"I'm getting your check right away," I reassured him.
"I'd rather have the small Caesar salad I ordered with my lunch," he retorted.
"Well, I'll trying to find Mr. Caesar," I replied as I moved with dream-like steps away from the table.
"Hey, Molly,"shouted Wally Zeman from across the room, "Am I going to get fed today?"
"Maybe, maybe,"I murmured as I drifted into the kitchen, clutching the clipboard to my breast.

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