“My girlfriend just broke up with me,” lamented Big John Hudson as he nonchalantly strolled into the diner and casually took his place at the big round table that played host to the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club.

“I can understand why she broke up with you,” snorted Jimmy as he motioned to Sarah for a refill on his cup of coffee. “What I don’t understand is, when did you get a girlfriend?”

“Oh, we’re not going to meet for another couple of hours.”

Harry barely looked up from his Cream-of-Wheat and Melba toast. He’s been on a new diet that is supposed to help him lose weight, improve his eyesight, and mellow his disposition – so far he has gained a pound and a half, still can’t make out the texts on his new-fangled smart-phone, and is not happy about any of it. “She broke up with you before you even met?” he asked, in between spoons full of gruel.

“She’s a psychic. She already knows it’s not going to work out.”

“Bad choice, dating a psychic,” opined Tommy Jones, the man in the group least qualified to hand out dating advice. Tommy’s dating career involved exactly one girl. He married his high school sweetheart and stayed happily married to her for the next fifty-eight years. “I think dating someone that could see into the future would take all the guess work out of the relationship. I was married for more than a half century and every day was a surprise. Some of them I actually liked.”

“I think being able to know the future would be a terrible thing,” reasoned Firewalker. “No one could throw you a surprise birthday party, there would be no reason to wrap your presents, and you couldn’t get rid of hiccups by being startled.”

“I’m thinking this was the woman of your dreams,” laughed Harry. “You dreamt her up and then dreamt she dumped you.”

“I never understood psychics,” mumbled Mort, while dabbing at the catsup that dribbled off his scrambled eggs and onto his shirt. “If you were to meet one on the street, would they shake your hand and say, ‘Hi, how are you?’ Shouldn’t they already know?”

“I don’t know if I believe in psychics,” mumbled Sal once he had finished his mile-high stack of pancakes, dripping in butter and oozing in syrup. “Do you think they know what they don’t know?”

“Well, my conscience is clear. We didn’t have a long relationship, she didn’t lead me on, and I didn’t spend on lot of money on fine wine at expensive restaurants,” sighed John, resolutely.

“When did you start doing that?” grunted Jimmy with well-founded skepticism.

“I was going to in about two hours, but it’s too late now.”

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.