Every community has its own peculiarity or bane it must live with. The Drizzle Creek Curse raises its ugly head quite regularly at the debating table at the Bakery. We don’t even have to wait until ten o’clock to start a rumour.
“Who’s that new guy I see around town this week?” wondered the Runt as he waited impatiently for his order.
“Stranger? What stranger?” shot a suddenly alert Moose who prides himself as being the first to recognize anything different in the town.
“Officious looking dude all decked out in a suit and tie. I see him going into the restaurant the last couple of mornings. He must be staying at the motel,” said the Runt, delighting in stealing a march on Moose in the observation department. Moose put down his toast seeming to have suddenly lost his appetite along with his slipping social status.
“Yeah, looks like a government official. Like, maybe from Revenue Canada. I wonder if the Income Tax is in town doing surprise audits,” continued the Runt then hitched his chair up to the table and tied into his double order of flaxseed toast with extra peanut butter.
The rest of the table was not so non-chalant.
“Income tax audit,” two or three others murmured nervously.
Murray who had been unusually quiet that morning suddenly began to stir his tea furiously and the pace of his nervous tick accelerated.
Moose pulled some change from his pocket, paid his bill, - even leaving a tip- and left without finishing his toast.
Bugs nervously pulled out a cigarette and began to fire it up before remembering the smoking zone was at the table outside.
Pickle, uncommonly late walked through the door and asked, “Anyone know who that new dude in town is. Sure looks officious.”
In unison most of the chairs at the table emptied and headed out the door, the rattle of coins on the counter, scraping chairs, and shuffling feet the only sounds.
“What did I say?” wondered Pickle as he pulled up a recently vacated chair. The Runt tried to fill him in but as he continued to chow down on his toast, the generous layer of peanut butter stuck on the roof of his mouth was hindering his speech.
I intervened explaining the Runt’s earlier revelations. Checking at the door I noted most of the recently departed were heading for the Clinic, undoubtedly to get renewals or reinforcements for their high blood pressure and nerve prescriptions.
The clinic noted the unusual rise in emergency refill requests, but dutifully met all requirements. By noon a sudden surge of customers were seen heading into the pharmacy.
As inquiring minds want to know, I headed in to view the parade. There they were all lined up, new prescriptions in hand and silly looks on their faces as they waited to be served by the new-to-town temporary pharmacist, an “officious looking dude”.
Luck was with them all. Seemed like a great day to pay one’s stupid tax and buy a Lotto 6-49 ticket.
