by Jim Whitehouse
“There’s Benny walking by on the sidewalk,” says my friend Lyle Pratt. We’re sitting in the café having coffee.
“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” I reply, turning my head just in time to see Benny’s backside disappearing from view.
“Odd duck,” says Lyle. “He’s the only kid I can remember who had a mustache in 6th grade.”
“That wasn’t a mustache,” I said. “I think it was dirt.”
“Smart, though. He could do math problems in his head, even when he wore that goofy Davy Crockett coonskin hat, and those weird glasses with no lenses,” says Lyle.
“It would be hard to go through life being odd,” I say.
“You should know,” says Lyle.
“Me! You’re the odd one,” I say. “Who else wears yellow tennis shoes with a suit and tie?”
“One time!” he says. “You’ll never let me forget that, will you.”
“You’re odd,” I say.
“Not as odd as you,” he says. “How many times did you shave yesterday?”
“Twice, of course. I always do,” I say.
“I rest my case.”
“There’s nothing weird about shaving twice every day,” I say. “My Uncle Doug was a high ranking Naval officer who had a heavy, dark whiskers and often shaved twice.”
“That was your Uncle Doug,” says Lyle. “You don’t have dark whiskers and they aren’t heavy from what I can tell.”
“I don’t like stubble,” I say.
“I don’t like to shave,” says Lyle, rubbing his 3-day growth.
“It shows. You’re lazy.”
“So why do you shave twice every day?” he asks, signaling Marge the waitress for more coffee.
“I just told you. I don’t like stubble, particularly when I’m ready to sleep, so I shave just before going to bed. Otherwise, I can’t sleep with those whiskers on my neck. Besides, my beloved wife Marsha likes a smooth face.”
“Right. So you shave at 11:00 at night and again first thing in the morning?” says Lyle. “That’s nuts.”
“Nope. It’s smart. You know how it sort of hurts to shave if your whiskers get too long?” I say.
“Sure. That’s why I hate to shave,” says Lyle.
“Because I shave twice, it doesn’t hurt to shave in the morning,” I say. “The whiskers never get long.”
“You are very odd,” says Lyle, putting ice cubes in his coffee along with three packets of sugar and 4 little plastic tubs of creamer.
“Black,” I say.
“What?”
“Black. Coffee. No ice. No cream. No sugar. Like a real man,” I say, downing a slug of hot black coffee. “You are very strange. That isn’t coffee you’re drinking. It’s a milkshake.”
“Real men have whiskers,” says Lyle.
Just then Benny walks in the door of the restaurant, spots us and pulls up a seat.
“Guys!” he says. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” says Lyle. “What have you been up to?”
“Same old same old,” says Benny. “Just playing the stock market, going to chess tournaments, and enjoying my grandkids.”
“Do they wear coonskin caps and glasses with no lenses?”
“Ha!,” laughs Benny. “They’re just ordinary kids. But when they dress up for church, they ALWAYS wear yellow tennis shoes.”
I laugh. Lyle scowls.
“Benny, did you know that Jim shaves twice every day?” he says to deflect the yellow shoe thing as he gulps down the last dregs of coffee milkshake from his mug.
“He’s always been an odd duck,” says Benny, reaching up to twirl the ends of his handlebar mustache.
