Russian Roulette

based on a true story

When I was asked to contribute to Killing Dan Malmon, I was tickled. Kate and Dan Malmon are two of the best people in the crime fiction community, and I was happy to write a story to benefit MS research. I didn’t want to kill Dan in a story, but I would do it for a good cause. This one is based on a real event that happened to me in Minnesota, and features many of my favorite Twin Cities haunts and restaurants. Dan’s family ran a famous deli and I recall he loved a local sandwich called the Russian Roulette, so…

Russian Roulette

by Thomas Pluck, for Killing Dan Malmon

The guy cut Dan off like he wasn’t even there.

Cut in line! At Big Irv’s deli!

Un-fucking-heard-of.

The Highland Deli made the best corned beef within a thousand miles of Chicago. Irving sliced away at the slab with a knife thinned to a silver whisker from sharpening, by hand, no slicing machines. “One Pastrami Swami!” He called, and the acne-pocked kid rang up the register.

The lines were long, especially at lunch on a weekend, but you waited your turn. Maybe if you had chutzpah you chatted with a friend ahead of you, how the Gophers were doing this season, and when Irv asked what you wanted, you shrugged to the person behind you like it was an accident.

Dan was a good Minnesotan, and didn’t belief in the death penalty, except maybe for cutting in line. Especially at Irv’s. Who was this guy?

Glossy hair brushed down flat, shaved into a triangle on the back of his neck, like the point of home base, in beaver pelt. Wearing a leather coat, in the balmy 45℉ weather. Not a local. Dan wore shorts and sandals, like a couple of the other regulars. It wasn’t even cold yet, not really. But he did wear socks. No need to share hairy toe knuckles while people were getting lunch, like some sort of hobbit savage.

It pained Dan physically, to confront anyone. Like thumb ground between his ribs. But he hadn’t had a Russian Roulette from Irv’s in forever. He planned to surprise Kate with it while they binged on the next season of Daredevil. He’d grabbed her bag and dashed out, while she showered after her bike race. Irv only took cash, and he had none in his wallet.

“Excuse me,” Dan said.

“What?” The guy turned around. He had eyebrows to match his hair. Thick and brown-black.

“There’s a line.” Dan wasn’t a big man by any means. He ran, cycled, kept in shape. He puffed up a little.

“Yeah, and I’m in front of you.” Beaver Head smirked. “Nice purse.” He showed Dan his back.

Dan seared holes in the back of the guy’s neck with his eyes. Not just a line-cutter, but obviously an unenlightened character. And stupid, to boot.

Big Irv called out a Russian Roulette, and Dan could taste it.

“The bag’s mine,” Dan said, and reached inside. “It’s my tactical bag.”

His guts squirmed. Why did he say that? It’s just a sandwich.

Not any sandwich. Irving’s famous Russian Roulette. Juicy, spicy corned beef sliced paper thin, piled on high with turkey and swiss on black rye, slathered with Russian dressing. No cole slaw to make the bread soggy. Perfection.

Beaver Head half-turned, eyes slits. “Sure it is.”

How did this goon know this wasn’t a man-pack to carry a concealed firearm? His confidence ticked Dan off. He gripped a handful of keys, loose wrapped candies, and something large and soft. He pressed it against the bag to make a bulge.

“Why don’t you be sure, and get to the back of the line?”

“I’m sure,” Beaver Head said, and gave Dan his back. The buttery tobacco-colored leather stretched over his shoulders. Hello, the seventies called, they want their jacket back, Dan thought. But didn’t say. He let go of the purse clutter, defeated. The big jerks win again.

“And who gets the Slip of the Tongue?” Irving said. A customer raised his hand and took the huge sandwich.

“Um, sir,” a young woman whispered.

Probably wants to cut in line. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got a um, pad stuck to your hand.”

Dan looked down. A maxi pad had attached itself to his hirsute knuckles. He shoved his hand into the purse, and mouthed a silent thank you.

The big jerk moved up to order. “You got any Taylor Ham?”

“Don’t know what that is, sir.”

A huff. “Then gimme four corned beef with swiss and mustard.”

How pedestrian. Must be an out of towner. Irv’s had made a splash on that Food TV show with the guy who looked like a bleach-blonde hedgehog in cargo shorts and Crocs. The lines had gotten even longer, filled with rude tourists. Big Irv sliced away.

“Douche,” Dan whispered.

“What you say?”

Not quiet enough, apparently.

“I said touché,” Dan said, and patted Beaver Head on the back. “That’s the best sandwich on the menu.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He sneered, took out a thick wallet, and paid. Then he walked out with a maxi-pad stuck between his shoulders, ignoring the snickering as he passed.

“I can’t believe he cut in line,” a man behind him said. “You showed him.”

Dan grinned. He sure had.

He ordered two Russian Roulettes. He deserved it. Besides, they tasted even better the next day.

In the car, Dan unwrapped a sandwich while the Violent Femmes crooned Gone Daddy Gone on the radio. He took a huge bite of Russian Roulette. The creamy tang of the Russian dressing with the turkey and the bite of the swiss and the heady corned beef… tasted almost as good as sticking it to that jerk.

Together, they tasted great. Too bad he couldn’t see the look on the guy’s face. Hopefully he would walk around all day with that pad on his back. Do all the things tourists do. See the big cherry in the sculpture garden. Dance the polka at Nye’s Polonaise. Maybe visit the Wabasha Street caves for the gangster tour. All the while looking like the douche he was.

Across the lot, three men in an angry-looking sharp-edged Cadillac laughed out loud. Beaver Head got out of the driver’s seat, shucked his jacket, while three of his buddies hooted and stomped, rocking the car on its springs.

“You always were a big pussy, Craig!” One in the back shouted.

Craig, aka Beaver Head, ripped the maxi-pad off his coat. He pitched the pad at the ground, then thumbed the glue stuck to the leather. He looked up and met Dan’s eyes.

The corned beef turned to lead in his mouth.

Dan spun the wheel of the Subaru and reversed, half a huge sandwich stuffed in his face. He narrowly missed a Jeep and flinched as the driver hammered the horn. He bounced into the street cut through yellow light as it changed.

He panted through his nostrils, eyes flicking to the mirrors, looking for the silver Cadillac. A police siren bleeped from the next lane. The officer waved him over.

“Went pretty fast through that intersection there, dincha?”

Dan handed over his license with greasy fingers.

She gave a look of admonishment. “I know those sandwiches taste better hot, but no excuse to drive so fast. Since you’ve got a clean record, I’ll let you off with a warning this time.”

The Cadillac rolled slowly past. The driver’s wink chilled Dan to his bowels.

“Thank you, officer.”

Home, the sandwiches and Daredevil binge let him forget it all. He didn’t relay Kate the story. It was too embarrassing. Matt Murdoch clobbering ninja thugs was a welcome distraction. If only he were a lawyer blinded by toxic waste, with deadly martial arts training, instead of a miffed mook with maxi-pad.

He kept an eye out for the hot rod Cadillac in the Twin Cities traffic, and when walking the dog. Round his neighborhood, even the luxury cars were more practical. That wasn’t a car for the snow. And only the cake-eaters would show off a summer sports car, or maybe the kind of guys who had dinner at Mancini’s steakhouse in St. Paul every night.

Dan bent to pick up one of Franklin’s steaming leavings. The little Boston terrier looked up at him proudly.

Dan didn’t want to think about the Mancini guys.

Near Cossetta’s, famous for its shrine to Frank Sinatra and New York-style pizza, Mancini’s was old hardwood and old school. Anyone could eat there, and did, but the one time he’d gone there for a work celebration after a big project, he felt like he’d stepped through a gateway into a different world, where men who winked at the rules and flashed gold jewelry hid from the light.

Guys like Craig, with the hair like a beaver pelt glued to his scalp.

Franklin yipped and reeled out the leash. He found something at their curb. A whole pile of somethings.

He bounded back with a yellow cigar in his mouth.

“Hey little guy, what do you have there?”

Some sort of candy bar. Like a fat Pixie Stick. Dan reached for it, and Franklin jumped away. “No! Come here. Put that down.”

He got hold of it and yanked. The plastic wrapper read Tampax.

It tore and Dan slipped and fell on his ass holding a little plastic whistle, while Franklin bounded away with his prize, dangling from his muzzle by a string.

Someone had dumped an entire box of them in front of the house. Thankfully new ones, in the wrapper.

“Bad dog! Bring that back!”

Dan pulled back on the leash. Franklin dropped the cotton tube in his lap, then licked his face.

The Mancini’s boys had paid him a visit.

Dan thought of reporting it to the police, before realizing how ridiculous it would sound. He imagined a grizzled detective squinting at him. “So what you’re saying, Mister Malmon, is that these tampons came with strings attached?”

He picked them up one by one, stuffed them in Franklin’s poop bag, and dumped them in the trash. The boys had had their fun. But hey knew where he lived.

The last of the snow mountains melted from the parking lots, and Kate suggested a bike ride in the balmy 50 degree weather. It was the kind of weekend where everyone drove to the lakes to get houses ready for summer, so traffic was down, and they made use of the bike lanes to head toward Lake Phalen, where they could hook up with the trail to Stillwater. Helmets on, Franklin leashed in a riding basket up front, they made good time out of inner ring, and waved to Bud Gannon, an old high school friend, stuck in a backed-up highway lane. It was part of what made the Twin Cities great, getting the amenities of a big city but keeping a small-town feel. You were always running into people.

They cut through the old city of St. Paul, and Dan pulled ahead and waved a left. Mancini’s was a few blocks ahead, and he didn’t want to take any chances. Kate shrugged a questioning glance, and she was right. Going out of the way was silly. And besides, how did he know those goons ate at Mancini’s? Or that they were even Italian? So what if he sounded like some guy from Jersey named Tommy Salami, when he’d ordered at Irving’s. That was kinda racist, when it came down to it. So they rolled past the white brick institution, with its maroon awning and classic neon-bordered sign reading Mancini’s Char House, fine Steaks and Cocktails, since 1948.

Maybe Dan had watched Goodfellas too many times. The place had that look, the kind of place Joe Pesci and pals would go to, laughing too loudly. With guys who would rib him endlessly about that time some mook stuck a maxi-pad to his jacket at the Jewish deli. Until he felt compelled to run the guy’s license plate and dump a box of feminine hygiene products at the curb.

The scent of charred flesh wafted from the kitchen exhaust vent, and the valet nodded as they biked past. Dan knew it was only his imagination, but was there something sinister in his smile?

They made it through the city without a hitch and pumped their legs on the bike trail. An easy one, to work their way into longer rides, but invigorating and beautiful as the sun gleamed off the lakes. They took a break and gave Franklin a walk, ate a packed lunch and watched the boats, before hydrating up for the ride home.

The traffic had picked up a bit, trucks pincushioned with fishing poles and Volvos full of sleepy children nudging their way into the bike lanes. They made sure to signal and pass with care. Still, a big white SUV honked from behind. Some drivers were just antagonized by bicyclists, even ones who were fastidious about following traffic rules. Dan had an argument, no, more of a spirited discussion, with a co-worker who was angry at bike lanes “causing traffic.” The same guy who hated HOV lanes, and thought he should be able to buy a special tag that let him use them, because his taxes paid for them. The SUV’s windows were tinted, but Dan imagined the driver was a lot like his blustery coworker, who had also raved throughout an entire lunch hour over an artist’s co-op on the waterfront, that had been restored entirely with hard work and money of its tenants, as “government waste.” Dan knew one of the artists who lived there, they held “art walks” where you could tour the building and support the artists. He and Kate went every year. Dan had tried to explain that the artists had pooled together and bought the building when it faced condemnation, but he was convinced that they had used “a loophole” that robbed “hard-working taxpayers” like himself.

The horn blared again. The big white Escalade wanted to use the bike lane to make a right turn. Dan felt an electric tingle shoot down his arm, telling him to flash the jerk a middle finger.

“Just ignore him,” Kate said.

She was right. He scratched Franklin’s ears and let the anger fade. Jerks were gonna be jerks.

They turned onto the main road back home, where the jerk would have two lanes to get around them. The Escalade roared ahead, leaving an invisible tang of exhaust for them to ride through. When he first started biking he’d put cards in the spokes, as a nod to bikers with “Loud Pipes Save Lives” bumper stickers, but Kate made him remove them.

A Metro Transit bus lumbered ahead in the left lane, advertising the State Fair. He pumped to pedal past it, to get out of its diesel wake. The ad conjured images of deep fried cheese curds and pickle dogs. Nowhere as good as a Russian Roulette at the Highland Park deli, but something to look forward to. So much that he didn’t see the white shark of the Escalade cutting out of a parking space and into his lane until its mirror nearly clipped his helmet.

“Dan!” Kate shouted.

He swung into the right lane and palm-slapped the white truck’s flank. “Hey! Bike lane!”  He had once considered mounting an air horn on his handlebars, but figured that was too obnoxious. Now he wished he’d mounted a paintball gun so he could strafe this pearlescent moby douche wagon.

The driver had seen him. They just didn’t care.

The truck paced him beside the bus, squeezing him between. He felt like he had the middle airplane seat between the Incredible Hulk and the Juggernaut. He gripped the brakes and the truck stopped with him. His handlebars scraped the side of the bus and the truck mirror pressed against his face.

The tinted windows dropped, revealing a familiar swarthy brick face in the driver’s seat grinning around a stogie.

“How you doing, buddy? Bet you wish you had some padding!” He pressed a button that bent the mirror in, releasing Dan, who slumped against the bus.

The guys in the back burst out laughing.

Franklin yapped and tugged at his harness, eager for blood. Adrenaline had stolen Dan’s chance at a witty riposte. “Go get your fuckin’ shine box, beaver puss!”

The passengers loved that even more. The driver nearly choked on his cigar.

Kate had swung around the side and pounded on the hood. “Hey! I got your license plate!”

Beaver Puss flipped his cigar into Franklin’s doggie basket, and pulled away with a roar.

Kate swiveled over. “Are you okay? What a gigantic asshole!”

Dan clenched the handlebars like a gel foam throat as the truck pulled the corner. Toward Mancini’s.

At home, Dan relaxed with a can of Surly brewing Coffee Bender brown ale and watched Daredevil clobber a hallway full of ninjas. Franklin rested his head on his master’s knee, while Kate called a friendly officer she knew from work and asked what course of action would be most fruitful.

“I know you’re both shaken up, but no one was injured, so it won’t be considered high priority.”

“But he could have been killed.”

Dan debated whether to tell her the jerk’s name was Craig, and this wasn’t the first incident, but it was too humiliating to explain his juvenile prank and how it blew up on him.

“I understand, but the law’s not good with what-ifs. Let me run the plate and see if the driver has any open warrants or complaints. Maybe an officer issued him a warning, and I can ask them to pay him a visit.”

She thanked him, grabbed Dan’s favorite ice cream from the fridge, and slumped against him on the couch, holding up a scoop on a spoon.

“It sucks, but that’s the best Jordan can do.”

He submitted to a shoulder rub and fell asleep on the couch with uneasy dreams.

He was a French trapper canoeing down the Mississippi, long before St. Paul was known as Pig’s Eye. Franklin had grown to mastiff proportions, his only companion on the wild frontier. His boat sank low in the water with his heavy bounty of beaver pelts.

They hunted the legendary Le Castor, a beaver the size of a wolverine, with mighty claws and a tail as large as an oar. It had gnawed through a pine which fell and killed two of his brother trappers, and his vengeance would not be denied.

He carried his canoe across many portages as he followed a trail of bite marks on the trees that could only be left by the mighty Castor. The waters grew deep and the waters wide, the forest silent but for calls of loons hidden in the mist. The canoe shuddered. He drew his knife and peered over the side. He had heard tales of lakes where the muskellunge grew to rival sturgeon as long as three men are tall. But only his grizzly bearded complexion stared back from the crystal waters.

A shadow as wide as an oar length passed beneath.

“Steady, Franklín,” he said, in thick French-accented English, for a reason only Freud could decipher. When he turned back, a massive visage appeared at the head of his canoe. With two yellowed buck teeth a palm wide, attached to an enormous ratlike face that could only be Le Castor.

He drew his flintlock and fired in a blast of smoke. When the gunsmoke cleared, Le Castor’s face had been denuded of fur. Beaver Puss winked at him, and bit down on the tip of his canoe like one of his cigars. “How you like me now, eh?”

He thrashed the canoe in his teeth, sending Trapper Dan and Franklin the Mastiff into the icy waters of Leech Lake.

Dan sputtered awake in a pool of drool on the couch. Kate had her phone to her ear.

“So it’s a stolen plate,” she whispered. “Because the driver wasn’t a ninety year old woman, and it was a truck, not a Buick.”

Franklin snorted awake only long enough to release a petite yet squalid fart, before returning to slumber.

Dan covered his mouth and fought back tears.

He knew what he had to do. Tomorrow, he was taking a trip to Mancini’s.

The Char House was open for lunch on weekdays until two, then closed until five for dinner hour. His tormentors weren’t the kind to be lunch crowd, but to be sure, Dan packed lunch and ate it in the car while he drove across town to look at Mancini’s parking lot. Neither the white truck or the silver sedan were there. The valet from Saturday was on duty. and Dan popped his collar, put on his sunglasses, and pulled up with a twenty in his hand.

“Parking is free, sir.” Hands in pockets. Up close, his face was pockmarked, thinning on top. He wouldn’t meet Dan’s eyes.

“You ever park a white Escalade, or a silver Cadillac sedan?”

He looked at the bill like Dan was a cat offering him a dead bird. “I’m sure I have sir.”

Dan wiggled the bill. “A friend of mine… Cast… I mean, Craig, he drives one, sometimes.” Dan was surprised to find himself talking in an East Coast cadence, like the bozo in line at Irv’s. “We rib each other, you know? I wanna to leave him a surprise. Nothing nasty. When does he usually drop in?”

The valet looked back to the kitchen door, then snatched the twenty. “Happy hour, the cheap fuck. And I never saw you.”

Dan nodded, and pulled away.

Happy hour kicked off at five. With traffic after work, he’d be lucky to make it by six. That was fine, he wanted Beaver Puss punchy. It was time to put an end to this.

He parked on the yellow curb across the street. His gut knotted at the idea of it, but told himself that tough guys didn’t care about parking tickets, and today he was a tough guy. Not the guy who stuck maxi-pads to people’s jackets when they cut in line, but the one who jerked a thumb and told them, take a hike to the end of the line, buddy, that’s not how we do things ‘round here.

It was tough to see where he was going inside the dimly lit restaurant with his polarized bicycling sunglasses on. He strode past the host station and  d’ and headed straight to the masculine leather chairs of the lounge, but the hunched shoulders of the patrons were not clad in that tobacco-colored jacket. Nor did it hang from the coat hooks.

Dan took out another twenty and ordered a glass of liquid courage. No craft beer, so he ordered a whiskey, neat, like the guys in the crime novels he read did. They liked their whiskey neat and swallowed their pills dry, because they were tough, and that’s what Dan had to be, so he shot back his Maker’s neat, and he let his eyes water to keep from choking as the fire spread across his chest. The Kentucky hug, as he knew it was called.

He hated hugs, but this embrace was one he needed. He left his bill on the bar and sauntered across the scalloped abstract carpet toward the kitchen. Nobody stopped him. It was something in his stride, or the fact that they were setting up for dinner rush and thought he was going to the men’s room. But he didn’t, he followed the scent of seared flesh into the kitchen where men in whites worked the salamander, and pushed in the first door he found.

Slabs of beef hung from hooks in the brick aging room. Crusted with salt and mold, the mineral scent of decay clogged his nostrils. On a seven foot butcher block, sat a rack of knives like sabers and a full hacksaw, the blade shiny with use. A standing rib roast, ready to be cut. Dan liked a good steak, but the behind the scenes details caught in his throat.

The door opened behind him and someone gripped his shoulder. “Heard you were looking for me, tampon.”

Dan grabbed a slicing knife and spun around, pressing the blade to Beaver Puss’s throat.

“Whoa, easy!” the man skidded backward into a side of beef. He wore his favorite coat, a garish silk shirt, and a coal-dark speckle of hobo stubble. Dan held the knife to his neck and shaved a thin swath of pink skin.

“This ends now,” he snarled, and felt through the man’s pockets. He felt like a cliche, the gumshoe shaking down a thug named Bruno who had to have a carry piece. But he felt a heavy lump beneath his beer belly, and came away with a hefty black revolver. “Holy shit.”

“Just relax,” Beaver Puss said, hands up.  “I apologize, but there’s an explanation.”

Dan stabbed the carving knife into the aging slab of beef and thrust out the revolver. “You nearly killed me and my dog!”

“And I’m sorry,” he said, face glistening with sweat. “I’m undercover, and I couldn’t let your tampon crap go, not in front of the guys.”

Dan liked the weight of the gun in his hand. The power. How it made the tough guy instantly polite and pliable. Dan jabbed the muzzle into the man’s belly. “You expect me to believe you’re a cop?”

“No, but I got no better answer,” he said, and backed away, sidestepping the meat, hands high. “If I was a wiseguy, you think I’d make that up? I’d tell you how I’m gonna whack your whole family. Which is what I should’ve said, but this has gone way too far already. Just give me my piece and get out of here. I’ll send you tickets to a Vikes game. Sideline.”

“If you’re a cop, why did you dump tampons in front of my house?”

“What? I didn’t do that. That’s disgusting.”

“No way that was coincidence.”

“It wasn’t.” Dan heard the raspy click of a hammer being cocked by his ear. One of the backseat goons stepped in, holding a chunky silver automatic. “I dumped them, when I checked to see if you did what you said you would.”

Dan held up the revolver and the man behind him took it away.

Beaver Puss sighed with relief. “Madone, Jerry. I thought you’d never show up and get this jagoff outta my face.”

“Shut up, you. I heard everything.” He shoved Dan toward Beaver Puss and covered them.

“That was just talk, I was stalling him.”

Another backseat goon joined them. “The fuck’s going on in here?”

Jerry handed the new guy the automatic. “Craig’s a cop. Say we do him right here. Room’s got a drain and everything.” He nodded toward the hacksaw.

“Whoa, wait!” Craig ducked behind a slab.

“All I wanted was my Russian Roulette sandwich!” Dan cried. “Why can’t you leave people alone?”

Jerry smiled. “I got an idea.” He flipped open the revolver’s cylinder and removed five copper cartridges, spun the wheel, snapped it shut. “You’re not a cop? Stuff this in the mook’s face and pull the trigger.” He held it out, butt first.

Craig swiped back his snub nose. Dan covered his face. He felt the cold muzzle against his forehead, heard the immediate sharp snap of the pin on empty chamber.

Dan removed his hands from his eyes to their laughter.

“You didn’t even hesitate! Who does that?”

“Someone who’s not a cop,” Craig said.

“Now make him do it,” Jerry said, gesturing toward Dan.

“Why?!”

“Because he makes my balls itch! You give a shit about this guy?”

“No.”

“Then shoot him.”

Craig aimed and fired at Dan again. Click.

“What’s wrong with you people? I’m not a cop!” Dan huddled behind a side of beef.

“He’s definitely not a cop. He pissed his pants.”

“I still wanna see him play Deer Hunter. Give him the gun.”

“You crazy, Jerry?”

“That sounds like cop talk, Craigy.”

He aimed at the beef and fired.

Click.

“I’m very uncomfortable right now!” Dan screamed.

“You believe me now? This turd’s not gonna talk. Let’s dump him by the river, kick the shit out of him.”

Jerry winced. “See, I believed you a minute ago, but now, you’re starting to sound like a cop again.”

Craig rolled his eyes, stuck his gun in Dan’s side and jerked the trigger.

“Jesus!”

Click.

“What was that, five times?”

Jerry folded his arms. “Four. Cop.”

“You are not helping!” Dan threw up his hands, then crouched in the corner as Craig aimed at him again.

Click.

“Fuck!”

Jerry nodded. “So you got some balls. Still don’t mean you’re not—”

The explosion rang in Dan’s ears. Then three sharp pops. He didn’t hear himself scream over the ringing in his ears. He felt thumps and concussions around him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Craig straddled over Jerry’s chest, bringing his revolver down again and again on his face.

Craig took a speed loader from his sock and reloaded his revolver, then crouched by Dan. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You blew a six month operation.”

Dan tried to stand, but rolled to his side like a dog showing belly. I can’t breathe, he mouthed, and no words came out.

Craig tore his shirt open, pressed his palm to the little black hole pulsing blood beneath Dan’s left nipple.

Dan sucked air and coughed blood. “Sorry,” he wheezed. “Just… wanted… sandwich…”

Craig smeared blood on his phone screen as he called 911. “Wanna hear the funny thing? If I had a maxi-pad or a tampon, you might not bleed out.”

It hurt so much more when Dan laughed.

—

The story behind the story…

Just so you don’t think I’m some sort of tampon weirdo, this story was inspired by my last trip to Minneapolis. On the plane I wore a leather jacket. I thought I looked pretty sharp. Someone else didn’t, because when I met a lady friend in the pickup area, she hugged me and found a maxi-pad (thankfully, unused) had been stuck to my coat sometime between when I got off the plane and walked through the airport to her car.

We had a good laugh over it. Minnesotans don’t like people too who think they’re too big for their britches.

Unless they’re Paul Bunyan.

©2017 Thomas Pluck, all rights reserved