I HAD LUNCH WITH THE ECONOMY AND GOT STUCK WITH THE CHECK!

The Economy walked into La Maison de la Food, looking, I thought, a jot sluggish, and made a bee-line for the table in the back in the corner in the dark where the proprietor, Flipjack Wilson, had thoughtfully reserved a niche for anonymous conversation, and possibly some hanky-panky. As the Economy slid unnoticed into the seat opposite, I didn't bother to get up because my shoes had become stuck to a syrupy film on the floor recently appliqued, no doubt, by a youngster not yet schooled in the fine art of pancake adornment.

"You're looking a jot sluggish," I said, peering over the top of my plastic menu, to which my nose had also just become affixed owing to the handiwork of the self-same junior patron whose sojourn at this very chair clutching this very menu had, doubtless, immediately preceded mine.

"What can I tell you?" retorted the Economy signaling the barmaid with a salacious wink. "Everywhere I go it's the same old story: Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. That's all I hear night and day. "

"But, Night and Day, you are the one," I replied.  "Only you beneath the Moon or under the Sun, that's all people talk about these days."

"Well, it's enough to drive you batty," sighed the Economy. "One moment I feel so up, the next moment, not so much. I need a drink."

The buxom, young waitress now stood before us wide-eyed and bushy-tailed hanging onto our every word, possibly using some kind of invisible crampon, but I couldn't be certain.

"I'll have anything with tonic," snapped the Economy. "What I need is a good tonic. Bring that and some humble pie, and a heaping portion of sour grapes." The waitress dutifully recorded this instruction on a little pad of paper that she produced ingeniously somewhere from the depths of her pocket, although, I suppose, it could have been her soul.  "He'll have whatever he's having," the Economy continued cynically, gesturing towards me without so much as a glance in my direction.

"Bring me some varnish and a clean cloth," I uttered laboriously, my speech slurred by my bottom lip which now, too, had become melded to the part of the menu advertising (somewhat ironically) a Tongue Sandwich Special with a Half-Sour and a Dr. Brown's.

Behind the wall, just feet away from where we sat, we could hear the sounds of shattering glass and plates crashing to the floor, followed by a great wail and cry in a language that was at once strange and familiar using words also strange and familiar, but also unprintable. Every time the swinging doors to the kitchen were flung open revealing the inner-workings of the  operation, we were eyewitnesses to the unfolding sturm und drang. Dishwashers ran around like headless chickens waiving mops and brooms frantically, and sous chefs knelt over the fallen victuals, selecting choice portions for re-plating. Meanwhile the maitre d'   stood on a counter belting out a soulful theme from Flight of the Valkyries. In the way back, through the haze, we could see some actual headless chickens hanging around, smoking with the sax player and an unidentified groupie.

I was rather plussed by this startling tableau.  But the Economy seemed non.

"Look, I'm not trying to make excuses," the Economy piped up.  "It's like Roosevelt said: 'The only thing we have is fear.' "

"I don't think that was the precise quote," I corrected.

"Don't be a wiseguy, boychick," said the Economy.  Remember what Kennedy (Sorensen) said: 'Ask not what your country can do for you; ask: what have you done for me lately?' "

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that wasn't the line, either," I said.  

But the Economy was having none of it. For just at that moment, a runaway train came careening around the corner, and the Economy leaped up, ran outside, and hopped aboard.

"Where are you going?" I cried to the Economy through a hole I poked in the menu with my nose.  "I don't want your damn sour grapes!"

"Then try the Humble Pie," the Economy called back as the runaway train pulled away.  "It's good for you!"

The server arrived with our order and the bill on which she had written: "Thanx! Have a Nice day! Melanie."  Next to a picture of a smiley face.   

"Screwed by the Economy, again" I thought, measuring out the varnish carefully by pouring it all over myself. Melanie disappeared in search of a doggy bag and some mints.