Stan's Place was it's usual bustling establishment during the after work rush for for people who wanted a hot dinner that someone else made. Beaten down trucks, crashed up rust buckets shared a paved but crack parking lot with Mercedes and Audis as their owners -- doctors and lawyers in suits, painters and immigrant workers in less formal attire-- shared stools and booths inside. The town wasn't that big and no place served a better Wednesday night special like Stan's.
With the good food came camaraderie came good tidiings and well wishes among all who entered. Everyone could agree on what to play on the jukebox while the few kids in attendance were well behaved, considerate of their siblings and mindful to adults as a rule. Stan's was Nirvana, a place that existed as part of but apart from the angry world outside. Anyone entering immediately became part of the populace of this eutopia
That is why when Ott Brown, retired now these last twenty years, entered with a creased brow and worry in brown folds under his eyes everyone took notice. A few quieted when the revelry didn't change his countenance. But everyone froze when he spoke in no more than a sandpapery whisper.
"The Old Man has returned."
With the good food came camaraderie came good tidiings and well wishes among all who entered. Everyone could agree on what to play on the jukebox while the few kids in attendance were well behaved, considerate of their siblings and mindful to adults as a rule. Stan's was Nirvana, a place that existed as part of but apart from the angry world outside. Anyone entering immediately became part of the populace of this eutopia
That is why when Ott Brown, retired now these last twenty years, entered with a creased brow and worry in brown folds under his eyes everyone took notice. A few quieted when the revelry didn't change his countenance. But everyone froze when he spoke in no more than a sandpapery whisper.
"The Old Man has returned."