Free Pig-Out Inn by Lois Ruby Page A

wouldn’t know, because you don’t read. Oh, of course you read , but you only read true crime and things like that. Not the realistic world of romance, the world of mynah birds and scones.”
    The Gentleman lowered the Journal of a couple of inches. “For those who are interested, a scone is a flat cake, similar to, but flatter than, a muffin, and not as sweet.”
    Okay, I was a little off on this one—but not as far off as Stephanie. Still, it stung just a little. “I don’t think we’ve got anything on our menu like that,” I said hotly.
    â€œAn English muffin will do. You have English muffins?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œA biscuit, perhaps?” His eyes were teasing.
    â€œI can give you a biscuit, but it’ll be like a hockey puck.”
    â€œAllow me to revise my order. One cup of creamed coffee, steaming hot, and one warm hockey puck.”
    â€œMister, are you from London, England?” Tag asked.
    â€œNo, but I’m an English teacher. I was an English teacher.”
    â€œAn English teacher!” Stephanie jumped up and slammed her notebook shut. “It just so happens that I’m writing a fiction novel.”
    â€œRemarkable,” the Gentleman said.
    â€œI could show you some of the best parts of it,” Stephanie generously offered.
    â€œVery brave of you,” he replied, “but I couldn’t accept the compliment.”
    â€œSure you could. Here, just read the smashing opening sentence.” She slid the notebook in front of his Journal of and waited eagerly.
    His eyes flew over the notebook, and he gently put it down. He took a bite of the hockey puck. “I haul meat and fresh produce and milk,” he said. “I don’t critique papers.”
    â€œOh, I understand fully,” Stephanie gushed. “But just let me read it to you, for the full dramatic impact. ‘On a sun-blistered afternoon deep in picturesque rural Kansas, a desperately handsome and sinewy Army lieutenant named Andy Marini walked through the door of an oasis on the prairie to behold the face of his one true destined love, Honorée.’ Well? What do you think?”
    The Gentleman responded, “I’m not paid to think. Just to drive.”
    â€œBut what do you think?” I insisted.
    â€œHonestly?”
    â€œAbsolutely honestly,” Stephanie assured him. She whispered aside to Tag and me, “I always get A’s in English.”
    â€œResponding strictly as a sophomore English teacher, I would say your spelling, punctuation, and sentence structure are excellent.”
    â€œSee?” Stephanie said, practically spreading her plumes.
    â€œResponding as a creative writing teacher, I would say your opening sentence is …” He sighed deeply.
    â€œGo ahead, tell her!” I urged him.
    â€œTrite.”
    â€œWhat does trite mean?” asked Stephanie, not sure just what kind of compliment this was.
    â€œOrdinary. Predictable. Overblown.” There was a small gasp from Stephanie, and he added hastily, “But I haven’t come to the part about the Malaysian houseboy yet, or the mynah named Mango. That’s surely where your story begins to sparkle with originality.”
    â€œYes,” Stephanie said, backing away with her notebook. “That’s a definite high point.”
    The Gentleman said, “I urge you to keep writing. It’s an excellent romantic outlet for a girl of your obvious … sensitivity.”
    â€œOh no, you’ve encouraged her,” I groaned, for now Stephanie’s pencil raced over the pages of the notebook and I knew I wouldn’t get a stick of work out of her for the rest of the morning.
    â€œSo how come you’re not teaching school?” Tag asked in that way he had of piercing right through to your gut. Come to think of it, my way.
    The Gentleman reached for his wallet and spread three pictures on the counter, all bald babies dressed in