I’d been waiting for the monument sign for six weeks. The company had broken the mold and had to order a new one from the factory.
Urger Shack, people drove by and laughed and no one stopped in. What the hell is an Urger ? They’d yell as he sat on the bench outside the front door, always leaving the AC on since it was the middle of summer and the food in the kitchen would spoil fast.
For six weeks he’d sat on this bench, trying to figure out how to use “urger to his advantage, maybe start a trend, even a cult would work if it got people to stop at the care, even for a coke.
Urger Shack, Urger shack. Wait? That ‘s it. If we’re going be silly let’s go for it. Urger Hack, get rid of the S and pretend it was cool. Urger Hack, Urger Hack, or Hurger Sack, no that made no sense at all.
It was getting later, around 3 or so in the afternoon when the bus stopped. A bus, 37 screaming kids in a school bus from Salinas. Hey buddy the driver yelled, got any ice cream to shut these punks up? He was a large man with mutton chops and a big red, bulbous nose. Ice cream, I said, what in the hell would make you think we sell ice cream at the Urger Hack? All I got left is baloney, mustard and alittle sugar packets.
The breads gone bad, but maybe we could call it country bread and they’d never know the difference.
He was still sitting on the bench, really not quite believing that there was a bus full of rowdy boys and a sweaty looking driver actually asking him a question.
He had not had a conversation with anyone for six months. To be continued.
©2010 Sharon J Corrigan All rights reserved