We pick up this week where we left off in last week’s Six Sentence Tale from the Six Sentence Café and Bistro…
Tom, the sometime cook at the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, other time CPG (Certified Public Genealogist) flew up the three stairs at the Café’s front door more like a man on fire than a man looking to report one.
He had to be verbally thrown from the kitchen by the Bartender who remained, intent on reenacting forest fire control with baking soda rather than 9000 fluid gallons turned foam, Phos-Chek from 800 feet.
Running down the sidewalk, his arm extended in the air in hopes of catching a signal, Tom’s “made in a country he couldn’t pronounce phone/wristwatch/sleep monitor” refused to pull in even the weakest of signals from whatever satellite was overhead; instead, he heard the strains of a solid-state lullaby softly singing from his wrist. Spotting a police car that was driving along a parallel street, he sprinted in the direction of the black and white.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen of the Six Sentence Café and Bistro, Denise could hear the clinking and rattling of the glass bottles and decanters sitting on the shelves lining the length of the mahogany bar, dancers at a rave, threatening to tumble from their precarious perch as the vibration from 30 tons of approaching fire and rescue vehicles signaled help would soon arrive.
The high-pitched wailing grew in volume if not ferocity, piercing the silence of mid-morning calm that enveloped the streets surrounding the Six Sentence Café and Bistro…