The Man Who Hated Pickles


The lunch crowd was just starting to die out around the time Marty entered the dingy old diner. No doubt the dive had seen better days, probably before Sputnik caused millions of Russkies to raise a toast to the skies. The joint smelled of greasy burgers and body odor, and the Box Tops were warbling “The Letter” out of small distorted speakers strategically placed around the establishment.Marty had taken two steps inside the door before a twenty-something brunette baby doll in an apron walked out to greet him.

Baby Doll ushered him to a red vinyl booth that seemed to be held together by silver duct tape. Marty slid into the booth and picked up a menu.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” asked Baby Doll. Marty didn't look up from his menu, but said yes, he would take some water. He scanned the typo-laden menu, which looked as though it had been printed around the time Ronnie Raygun took his bullet, when a small blonde girl clutching a stuffed Teddy bear approached his table.

Marty looked up at her, blinking. “Mister?” she inquired, utterly unfazed by his adultness.

Marty nodded, signaling that she had his attention.

“Do you got a quarter?”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)