A Summer Day in March

Today I declare a turning point!  The city bugged the barista like a spoiled kid with clueless parents.  The mountains drew him as the moon pulls the tides.  Resistance was futile  The Dolphin was poised.  Dumb asses at work and at home brought the barista down.  If not for the cinnamon girl, I’d be gone by July.

Deano nearly turned on the conditioned air in the car as he drove the barista back to the Big Crabcake. 

“It nearly feels like June today,” the barista said to his pops. “But maybe we should save the Freon for summer.” 

Spring fever gripped the barista like a slugger grips his bat in the Grapefruit League.  He was returning from a weekend at the Old Creek Home to ring in Mart’s 33^rd year on the planet.  While there, he patched the roof of his mini-recreation vehicle.  The Dolphin sat idle on Deano’s driveway for a year-and-a-half.  It had to move.

The barista armed his self with a silicon gun, climbed out the skylight and lathered all around the 27-year old roof.  He installed a new battery for the engine.  He propped up the ceiling above the overhead bed with a bamboo rod.  Beads of sweat dripped down his cheek, so he slugged a Lord Chesterfield Ale.  He wiped away the mouse turds bordering the sink.  He aired out the mattresses; then aired out his lungs.  He reminisced about the 5000-mile road trip he took in the Dolphin nearly three years prior.  I’m cycling back—back to the mountains.

But the soil under the barista’s feet proved fertile.  He did not know at the time, but he was about to be promoted at le café.  Responsibility knocked.  So he would stay.  He hired a new staff.  He embraced the position Shelly graciously offered him on Jennifer’s thoughtful recommendation.  But he planned an escape to the mountains—if only temporary.  Shasta was too far, but not Shenandoah.