Free Please Don't Go by Eric Dimbleby

absorbent ears. Rattup was the new definition of enigma , and Zephyr hoped to gather whatever slivers from the truth pie that he could easily obtain without making waves in the geezer’s life.
    Stopping in his tracks, huffing with annoyance ( so many inconsequential things to do, so little time in which to pretend that he was doing them ), Richter turned and asked of his lowest totem-grasper, “What does it matter to you, Z? Just bring the food, right? Make the old fart happy, maybe you’ll get a tip. I don’t give two shits either way.” Richter shrugged his shoulders. He only begged, with his eyes, that Zephyr not offend their steadily paying customer, and that he would continue to call in hefty orders (especially with the twenty-five percent special delivery markup of all items that went directly into Richter’s happily bloated pocket). Rattup’s happiness was Richter’s happiness was Zephyr’s happiness. There existed a beautiful and symbiotic relationship that was not to be tinkered with by perpetual personal questions.
    “ Right,” Zephyr replied curtly, adding, “But have you ever met him? Has he ever come into the market before?”
    “ No, as a matter of fact. I’ve never met the windbag, only talked to him on the phone. Sounds like a real piece of work, though. Thinks he’s fucking Shakespeare, always ranting about different foods and where they come from, like I give a damn. What does it matter to you?” Richter repeated. “I don’t pay you to sit around pondering these douche-bags. Just bring him his food and we all sleep well.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
    8.
     
     
     
    “ The young apprentice returns!” Rattup trumpeted as Zephyr labored through the narrow door, peeking through the bevy of grocery bags cradled in his arms. Rattup patted him on the shoulder enthusiastically, grabbing hold of a bag to lighten his apprentice’s load. Rattup already thought of Zephyr as such, even though they had met but one time in all their lives. He had rolled the word apprentice over his tongue several times in practice, in the mirror, while waiting for his delivery. Now Rattup scurried to the kitchen with Zephyr in tow, plopping his bag on the table, and asked, “And how is the blossoming love life of this young man? Does her flower scream for your pollen?” Rattup blushed at the comment, as it had slipped from his tongue without preparation, impromptu and potentially off-color in its nature. His gaffe had mildly embarrassed him, but that feeling soon faded as Zephyr burst into laughter at the wording of his question.
    “ I’d say she receives adequate pollen, sir. She is doing just fine. Things are well,” Zephyr replied. “And how are you?”
    Rattup gave pause, placing his finger to his lips in contemplation. Zephyr unloaded his burdened arms on to the kitchen island and started to remove the various goods from the brown paper bags. “Please, leave those. I can unpack while I make our lunch,” Rattup noted, returning to his zen-like state of silence, staring at nothing in particular. He squinted his eyes and stated with quiet gratitude, “Splendid. I am doing splendid.” At this, he burst into a more comical response, “Every single day is splendid when you are free of the rigors of mankind! Look about you, son. I am the lone wolf in every sense of the phrase. I only deal with the bumblers and nimrods of the world on the phone, for they are not welcome in this house, unlike you. They are away from me, where they ought to be. There could be nothing more pleasing for a man, you will one day find. Though the soft touch of a woman would be nice, once in a while, I cannot say that it would solve any of my immediate or long term problems. In fact, it would surely create new dramatics for me to handle. I am far too old for that.”
    Zephyr grinned at Rattup, “But I’m sure you get lonely. Right?” He had purposefully disobeyed Rattup’s no-unpacking order for one obvious exception, removing the