Well, you might have noticed that this is Saturday, not Friday, as usual. Long story, but suffice to say I flubbed up in scheduling this story to go out. Sorry it’s late!
Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.
— Hugh
“Would you like some pepper, dear?” Hillie leaned over Herman’s plate, grinder poised.
The small, nervous man seemed not to notice she was even there. His gaze was fixed on Willard Thompson at the other side of the table. The big man took a swig from his tin cup and smacked it back down on the table.
“Pepper?” Hillie repeated, shifting from one foot to the other.
Herman continued to study Willard, who had taken a bite of potatoes and was chewing with his mouth open, reading last week’s copy of the Gravyton Gazette. He was oblivious to his dinner companions there at Hillie’s Hostel.
Willard swallowed his food, then drained the contents of his mug.
“It’s not working!” Herman said in a hoarse whisper after a few seconds.
“What?” Willard grunted and flashed wild eyes across the spread.
Hillie kicked Herman’s boot under the table and squinted at him in irritation.
“I was just asking Herman if he wanted pepper with his ‘taters,” she said, eyes focused on Herman.
“Oh, oh, sure,” Herman said, shifting in his seat, nerves tingling under Willard’s glare and the guilt of the whole thing.
Hillie flaked a layer of pepper over his plate, then shuffled toward the head of the table, stopping to place the grinder back on the worn pine surface. She picked up a metal pitcher.
“You want more lemonade?” She directed this inquiry to Willard and walked toward his side of the table. She cast a glance back at Herman, who sat gawking at his travel associate.
Hillie nodded curtly at Herman’s plate, and he flinched in his chair, suddenly aware he was staring again, feeling self-conscious. He picked up his fork and lifted a bite of potatoes to his lips.
Hillie smiled, ever so slightly, and leaned in to fill Willard’s cup.
Across the table, Herman began to choke.
“Careful, dear,” Hillie said, not bothering to turn toward Herman. “Make sure to chew your food.”
“What’s in this?” Herman gasped.
Hillie and Willard exchanged glances. She smiled.
“Why, they’re just potatoes, Herman,” she said. Now she turned to gaze upon her other guest, who was turning blue. Herman stood and staggered backward, clawing at his throat.
“Are … there … peanuts … in … this?” he managed to ask.
“Now that you mention it,” Hillie said, holding a finger to the corner of her mouth and looking off wistfully into the air, “I did crumble up a few peanuts in that pepper.”
She swiveled her head toward Willard. “Special request from your friend here. Said it always makes food taste better.”
“But … we … had … *gasp* … a … deal!” Herman croaked, and then keeled over.
Hillie stood on her tiptoes to peer over the table at the man sprawled backside on the floor. His chest heaved unevenly and he looked at her with resentful eyes.
“The world’s a tough place,” she said. “Gotta get yours where you can. Gotta go with the highest bidder.”
Herman squeaked out one final breath, then his head plopped down hard on the weathered oak floor.
Hillie smiled and nodded. She looked at the front door, then at Willard. He arched his eyebrows, questioning.
“Not much we can do for him now,” she said. She doddered to her own chair at the head of the table and sat down. “We can settle up, and clean up, after supper.”
Willard swallowed another bite of potatoes. He pulled on his lemonade again.
“Say, what’d Herman mean when he said it wasn’t working?” Willard coughed. Cleared his throat.
Millie watched him, bobbing her head slightly to the left, then to the right, to make her assessment.
“And what’d you mean by ‘highest bidder’?” Willard continued. His doughy face was turning red, and a light sweat had broken out across his forehead.
“Well, like I told Herman,” Millie said, standing again and retrieving the pitcher. “A girl’s gotta get hers in this world.”
Willard was wheezing now, just a bit.
“All of hers,” Millie said as she stepped to Willard’s side. “The highest bid really just gets you in line first, dear.”
“You mean?” Willard’s eyes shot wide open, surprised and scared.
Millie filled his mug with lemonade.
“Drink up, dear. It’ll speed things up for you.” She smiled warmly. “I’m afraid this concoction is not as neat and painless as a peanut allergy.”