Death Valley Days
Rex and I were on our way home from our annual camping trip to Death Valley. This year he got to chase wild burrows through the sage, and I think he fell in love with a teacup poodle at the Furnace Creek General Store. He woofed at the pup fish in Salt Creek, and he peed seventy or eighty times as we explored the ghost town ruins at Chloride Cliffs. I swear, he has to have the healthiest renal glands this side of the Pecos.
The highlight of the trip, though, was our walk up the hill in back of Death Valley Scotty’s Castle to pay tribute at the graves of Scotty and his favorite dog, Windy. Rex held off on hosing down the grave stones, which I thought was very admirable on his part.
On the way out of the Valley, we stopped at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells for a bite to eat and to savor the last of our time in Death Valley.
Figuring the county health department made very rare appearances at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells, I tucked Rexie under my arm and walked into the eatery.
I knew when I saw the chalkboard menu specials I was in for a culinary challenge: the Catch of the Day was Fish Sticks.
The waitress waddled over to the table. To say she was heavy would be an understatement—she had more chins than a Chinese phonebook. As she sauntered over to the table, scuffling her Muk Luks over the 1950s linoleum floor, she noticed a dog sitting in the booth with her new customer.
She growled, “Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”
“And good day to you, too.” I leaned over to whisper to her, “This is not a dog, this is my nephew Rex from Indiana . . . don’t stare at him; he was a thalidomide baby.”
Humor evidently was not her strong suit. She took out her order pad and licked the tip of her pencil, stoically poised to take my order.
The Catch of the Day worried me, so I asked her, “What do you suggest?”
“Eat at Denny’s,” was her curt reply.
Like a fool, I went for the humor route again. “Ah, those fish sticks. Are they wild or farm-raised?”
“Don’t know. We buy them from Monsanto.” Her grumpiness didn’t become her.
“Indeed. And do you have stomach pumps on request?” Tough audience. That reminded me never to try stand-up comedy.
She glared at me. “Cute. Don’t ever try stand-up. No we don’t have stomach pumps, but the table setup includes mustard, ketchup, and Pepto-Bismol.”
“That’s comforting. Say, do you suppose I could get a hamburger or something along that line?”
“Yeah. We have two to choose from. The one with green lettuce and brown hamburger is five bucks. The one with brown lettuce and green hamburger is two-fifty.”
“Hhhhmmmmm. Let me think that over. Oh, by the way, is the lettuce wild or farm-raised?”
“I’ll be honest with you. It ain’t real lettuce. It’s pieces of brown butcher paper. If someone wants the fancy five-dollar burger, we spray paint it green.”
“What an ingenious approach to what I’m sure is a masterful presentation. I’m sure that would make a stunning centerfold in ‘Sunset Magazine.’”
“Don’t know about that, but we did make the centerfold of ‘Ptomaine Digest.’ Got a few copies left if you want to buy one,” she huffed.
“Are they wild or farm-raised?”
“Listen, smart-mouth. I’m going to backhand you if you don’t stop with the ‘wild or farm-raised’ bit. It’s not funny, never was funny, and never will be funny. Now what to you want to eat?”
Rex wagged his tail furiously upon hearing her admonishment of me. I could deal with him later.
“Oh, I’ll splurge and get the five-dollar burger. And one for Rex as well. No lettuce. No bun.”
Without comment, she shuffled back into the kitchen and returned in a short while with a burger on a paper plate and slammed it down in front of me. She turned to leave and said, “Rex’s will be ready in a minute or two,” and set sail for the kitchen again.
In a moment she came back and regally placed a chopped-up filet mignon on a silver platter in front of Rex. Rex put his paws up on the table and dove into his steak. She left for the kitchen again without saying a word. I tentatively lifted up the top of the bun to survey the contents of my burger. Looked okay, so I munched away as Rexie lapped up the last of his filet.
I finished and took Rex to the counter to pay. She wandered out of the kitchen and wrote up a bill for five dollars. Curiously, I asked, “Only five bucks? What about the steak for my dog?”
“Dog? Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”
I gave her a five and she held it up to the light, as if inspecting it. She gave me a suspicious look and asked, “This five-dollar bill. Is it wild or farm-raised?” Then she burst out laughing and handed the money back to me. “The meals are on me. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun! Bye, Rex. You two come back, ya’ hear?”
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Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.
