On my last jaunt to Austin , I stopped by the cafe and took a seat next to the older-middle-aged-men's table.
I think the guys have begun to draw an audience; I had to squeeze between a bearded student and a suit-and-tie type. As I stirred my cup of black-beans, eggs and pico de gallo, I hoped for a saucy Hill Country story to share here, maybe something like the tale about tent sex.
They faked me out on my last visit. Just as I was standing to leave, the goateed guy referenced a bar he'd owned near the state capitol and went on to say, "Well, you'd be surprised at the politics that happened in the urinal." The musician answered, "Oh, are we telling urinal stories this morning?"
Have you ever heard a more promising story lead? I put my bag back on the bar and returned my bottom to the stool. But the conversation took a detour and I took my leave shortly after.
While I waited this time to hear something worth retelling, I looked out the window.
In front of the cafe, a redheaded, mid-30's woman in an aquamarine tank top and driving gloves was leaning out the side doors of her dark Toyota Sequoia. She lifted a folded wheelchair to the ground and clicked it open and upright. Then she inserted a seat pad, tucked in a pocketbook, grabbed the arms of the chair and in one motion, swung herself out and into the seat, twisting her legless body in the air to settle facing the van.
As she wheeled around and rolled herself toward the door, the voices droned on at the table behind me but I didn't hear the words. My eyes were focused on my paddle-shaped feet and creaky knees, my heart thankful.
Copyright 2009-2010 Kathleen Scott ,for Hill Country Mysteries. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.