Got a text from an old friend letting me know he’s on his way down from the moon …
I wasn’t even done cleaning the kitchen when I heard a knock on the door.
“Pies!” He shouts, pushing past me.
“Hello to you too. They’re on the table.”
Hating to watch him eat, I head back to the kitchen.
“You’ve outdone yourself this time. Sam! Make more for me to take home to Elsie and the kids, will you.”
God! Why can’t he finish eating before speaking! Cringing, I imagine crumbs and spit flying out of his mouth and landing on my great-great-grandmother’s mahogany table. Guess they don’t teach manners on the moon.
“No can do! Have a client stopping by for sexual healing in less than an hour and you cannot be here!”
“Text me the recipe.” He sputters. Brushing the crumbs off his jacket and pants.
Anger rises as I feel each crumb hit the polished light oak herringbone floor. Reclaimed wood, of course.
“Secret family recipe.”
He glares at me and says through clenched teeth, “I won’t share it!”
“And neither will I. Anyway, you won’t find the ingredients on the mo …”
Dude lunges and has me in a chokehold before dropping me into my duffel bag. “You don’t want to share, fine. You can bake them on demand for me.”
I yell from inside my bag, “Yo! I have clients to service! How long is this gonna take? … Hello!” Why does it smell like Dre’s bedroom in here? “Hello!!!”
You’ll notice The Man is wearing a bowtie and a tie. I don’t try to correct him anymore. Also, he recently started carring partially eaten moon pies in his barchetta pocket. No class!
Sam
palmsupward.com 
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