And Now It Is Time For An Answer (told in three parts) - 3

“And now it is time for an answer!  That’s exactly what I told him and how I told him.” My miffed barista gal-pal yammered on as she retells the story of her latest tête-à-tête with her newest actor beau.

And Now It Is Time For An Answer (told in three parts) - p3

By Stephán Amery McKenzie

She goes on and on about how this ‘number one sperm donor request’ will not commit to going away with her for a month because he had to be available for auditions. At first, I was rapt with attention. Her stories are so full of interesting twist and turns. Well, in all honesty I am sort of hoping she has more pictures to really bring her story to raging engorged climax. But after another fifteen minutes of, “Then you know what he said” and my canned response, “Oh. No. He. Did not” it dawned on me I came in here for her to give me some of her Miss Cleo sage advice and not get wrapped up in another episode of ‘How Sexy The Coffee Bean Groans’.

As soon as my barista gal-pal takes her next breath I am going to cut in or cut her; but one way or another I am going to get what I came for. And I have to do it before the time on my meter runs out. I think she is about to breath or sneeze… “So—”, she holds up her hand. I stop speaking, my mouth still open. “Wait. You came here to get something, right? What is it?” She says with genuine concern and focus on me. Miss Cleo has entered the building!

“So—”, she holds up her hand, AGAIN! I stop speaking; my mouth hangs open, again. “I understand,” she says nodding her head in deep thought. God, my barista gal-pal is good. She opens her mouth, then closes it. The perfect spark must have gone off in her head because she lights up, “Don’t you have someone in that world that could give you an inside track of how to navigate The Who and Mister Excitement?” What is she talking about? Has my personal Oda Mae Brown lost her touch? Why have the gods forsaken me in my most desperate of time? Watching me silently drama-queen in dismay, exasperated, she blurts out, “Hello?” I stand there with a blank look on my face. She screams, “I am Cured!” Whoever in this coffee shop was not watching us before is certainly watching us now. I cannot believe I am going to have to beg for more bread crumbs because I have no idea what “I am Cured” is supposed to mea—I shriek, “Of course! My Star Boyfriend.” (see “I am Cured”)