Part 9 - Good Sprinkles

Imogene left the coffee shop early enough to visit her ex-stepfather, Eric. She rarely saw her real father, but she usually had each of her three ex-stepfathers over for dinner on a weekly basis. This kept her well stocked in leftovers, and they didn’t mind eating the meat pastries that she enjoyed dreaming up.

Tonight was different, though. Eric had gotten a small part in a community theatre production, and they were going out to celebrate. He was going to play the part of Mabel in a production of the Pirates of Penzance that his beard and moustache club was planning. He was going to lip sync.

They met at the Chinese restaurant, where they always met when they went out. Eric was her first ex-stepdad, so they had been meeting for weekly visits since Imogene was only four years old. The owner of the Chinese restaurant got to know them so well that he went and got their orders when he saw them come in.

“Looking punky tonight, you little cuss,” said Eric, who did talk more like a living embodiment of Yosemite Sam than most people that Imogene knew. He had been raised in Iowa, in a mild mannered Methodist family, but had picked up an idiosyncratic way of talking from reading Robert Service poems. At first, he had talked that way to be funny, but eventually it stuck, just like holding your eyes crossed will. He now was the only insurance broker in town who, instead of ending telephone conversations with “goodbye,” said “Keep yer powder dry.”

“I’m a bit frustrated. I’ve been trying to drum up some business for my dog singing sideline, but I’m not getting any calls.”

Eric whistled, knocked on the table and rolled his eyes like she was off her rocker, but it didn’t phase Imogene in the least.

The waiter came with Imogene’s hot and sour soup and fried yams. He set a dish of beef with green beans in front of Eric.

“Oh, it’s a big night,” said Eric, “We’ll have ice cream for dessert.” The waiter smiled and said, “okay.” He stole a look at Imogene, then he refilled the last quarter inch of her teacup, as he always did, and walked away.

Minutes later, an older Chinese woman approached the table.

“You getting married?” she asked, point blank, with her hand on the table, as if maybe she might snatch away the food if Imogene answered wrong.

“Oh, no,” smiled Imogene. “I’m not getting married. I just look sad because nobody will let me sing to their dogs.”

The woman glared and her, shrugged, and then yelled something in Chinese to the waiter. He had clearly been in love with Imogene since she turned 15. Whether or not he was trying to conceal it was hard to tell, but if he was, he wasn’t being particularly opaque.

When Imogene walked in, his head would jerk in her direction and he would immediately stop what he was doing, even if it was waiting on a customer. One time, he had been serving a scoop of rice to a woman, and when he saw Imogene, he just set the scoop, rice still in it, on the woman’s plate.

It was clear that whoever had host duty was temporarily discharged when Imogene walked in. If, for some reason Larry (that was his name) was in back, they would say, “Uh, just a minute,” and disappear, and Larry would miraculously appear in their place.

Imogene brought up the matter up to Eric when Larry was busy squeezing the soft ice cream out of the dispenser. Imogene always ordered extra sprinkles, and Larry always took a long time arranging them with chopsticks into a delicate leaf pattern.

“Do you think I’m betrothed?” she asked Eric confidentially, sincerely concerned that maybe just the act of ordering fried sweet potatoes was code for “I love you,” and she just didn’t know it.

“Ah, hell’s bells,” said Eric. “Imogene, girly, you’re purt near the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. He’s set his cap for you, but you can’t marry every sodbuster that wants to park his mule in front of your barn. You’re breaking hearts all over town, but that’s your row to hoe. It’s just this feller shows it more than most.”

“Huh,” Imogene said, stirring the last of her sweet potatoes around in a dish of pot sticker sauce. She wondered, if she was such a wondrous beauty, why nobody but the Chinese waiter seemed to pay her much attention.

Larry arrived, beaming, with the ice cream. Today there were small flowers, done in red sprinkles, among chocolate sprinkle leaves. Imogene smiled and thanked him.

He waited by the table expectantly, so she dug her spoon in and took a bite.

“Mmmm,” she said, “Good sprinkles.”