“I’m jest ‘bout new-aged up,” said Windy Wilson, sitting down and flipping his coffee cup to the upright and fillable position. Mavis filled it.
The other members sipping caffeine at the philosophy counter at the Mule Barn truck stop looked over at Windy. No one wanted to ask, so by the process of mind reading and silent linguistics, they managed to hold their tongues. They all knew Windy would never be content to leave it like that, and they were anxious to see how the feedstore philosopher would introduce the subject.
Windy sipped and looked around. He had their attention, all right, but no one asked.
“It’s like this here, fellas,” Windy finally said. “You know the widow, right? You know, the one that eats raw stuff? That new-age stuff?”
Still no one said anything.
“Name’s Mamie Dilworth,” Windy said. “The artistical one? The one that tried to get me to eat bait?”
Heads nodded, but were silent otherwise. Everyone waited to hear the latest attempt to drag the old cowboy and camp cook into modern times. They all knew Mamie gave it her best shot.
“T’other day it was,” Windy continued. “I sluiced over to Mame’s house to see if she had a cup of that five-dollar coffee, you know? But she smiled up at me and said, ‘Why Windy, haven’t you noticed how cold it’s been?’ Wellsir, I ‘llowed as I had and then she said she was goin’ ta give me a glue vine.
“I had to scoot on outa there, guys. First thing you know, she’d a-had me wrapped up in sticky ol’ ivy or honeystickle or somethin’ and you know I didn’t want that there stuff getting’ on my good shirt.”
Windy was wondering why his friends were laughing and choking on their coffees. Strange guys, you know?