Gumboot Manor - Let's Tarantino this.
The last semblance of a thought that whipped through my head as we were leaving?
"You keep your battle cries, crazy trucker man, I'll win this war AND take your ice cream."
Midway through our escape from the north, the bus pulled over at a roadside diner called Gumboot Manor. It was an interesting place that leaves you feeling like you had suddenly become an unwilling participant in a Tarantino movie.
Climbing off the bus, you are aware of just how much noise your shoes make, crunching gravel with each step. You're a bit thirsty, as you've been on a bus for 7 hours straight drooling over mountains erupting gracefully from vast plains of sagebrush dotted with tiny purple flowers that you may never know the name of. In search of water originally, you beeline through the propped open doors into a diner straight out of a movie. Immediately, your attention is drawn to the delicious looking menu options written on the far wall.
And then I saw it. LAMB. BURGER. ::mental fist pump to the air:: Money changes hands, the deal is made and I turn in search of a fine flat surface to properly enjoy my meal and people watch from. Best to stay close to the exits. Avoid the bathrooms, that's where they always get you. Nobody wants to meet their end in a diner bathroom, its cliche.
My traveling companion eyes me warily as she walks in the room.
"Why in gods name did you buy food here, you lunatic" her eyes enunciate to me.
"Lamb. Burger." Says me.
A look of understanding and dispassionate interest sweeps across her face as she seats herself opposite of me.
As I wait patiently for my plate to arrive, my food brain reminds me that Im still thirsty as all get out. Over on a wall casually plastered with 1970's flowery wall paper, I spy the tower of highball glasses and tell-tale vase. Water. (Sidebar for my fellow Americans: here in New Zealand there generally isn't water on your table right as you sit. Usually, the waiter brings you empty highball glasses and a recycled wine bottled - the cool kind with a hinged stopper - filled with cold water. At times it's simply self service on a side table.)
Approaching the table, I notice that this particular water vase has some sort of crocheted doily like thing, edged with beads in different shades of ocean colors, placed atop it. I assume to keep flies out. Little did I know, this particular item was the catalyst for a series of events, leading directly to the best faux movie scene I've ever created in my wrinkled brain.
It happened like this:
My fingers grazed the surface of the crocheted stitching. Each fiber hooking to a cliff in my fingerprint like organic vel-cro. Simultaneously lifting a highball glass with one hand, I remove the doily apparatus from the vase. In doing so, causing the glass beads to tinkle against the thick glass neck of the vase.
It's safe to say, at this point, that the ping those beads made against the glass may just be the cleanest sound I've ever heard. They rung like a bell in a prize fight, and my imagination took off like a rocket.
Three things happen in quick succession:
1. My heart skips a beat.
2. My tongues skims quickly across my lips.
3. I lock eyes with the burly kiwi trucker across the room.
This trucker was truly a fine specimen of "I may or may not have just stabbed someone in the bathroom". Sitting in a corner booth, draped in a dingy plaid shirt, he is casually eating an ice cream cone and staring straight at me. Lets call him Harold.
I strategically return to my seat, water in hand, avoiding his gaze. Then, my darlings, the most beautiful thing happened. Tears of joy were shed, a thousand perfect sunsets blazed across the horizon like wispy fireworks, wailing babies stopped crying.
The lamb burger had arrived.
It was glorious. Perfectly toasted bun piled with crispy lettuce leaves, juicy tomato slices, onion, MINT jelly and the most adorable lamb patty ever.
Open mouth, insert burger, bite. FLAVOR explosion in mah mouth.
I went carnivore on that poor burger. Demolished it, absolutely destroyed it. Shoving the last beautiful bite into my pie-hole, I look up and see Harold staring at me again.
So we're doing this then? Game on, Harold, game on.
Begin fight scene.
The camera swoops in for a close up of his face. Harold licks his ice cream cone. Zoom in on a drop of ice cream on his dirty man beard.
In my minds eye, he takes one more lick from the ice cream cone and calmly sets it on the table. Lifting a hand, he points his grungy finger at me.
I set my water glass down on the table ::clunck:: and pick up a fork, tilting my head to the side.
Your move.
Enraged, Harold leaps from his chair and bum rushes me, arms clasped around my middle as we tumble to the ground. My fork weakly clatters to the ground. Chairs fly as we crash through the dining room and land on the order counter.
I reach behind me grasping for any kind of weaponry, success! The rack of candy finds its way to my fingers. I start throwing them rapid fire at his face. Snickers. Tim tams. Skittles. Tic tacs. Finally my hands find the holy grail of candy fire power.
Paydays.
Little bricks of pain, I hurl them at my assailant. Nailing him in the right eye, he staggers back, giving me time to recollect.
Crouching tiger style, I jump impossibly high landing on the rafters above. Harold follows suit. We then execute a complex, but perfectly framed, series of battle moves.
Knee to gut, backhanded pimp slap, half nelson, fork stab, payday to the face, haymaker, Ron Swansons, Christmas grenades, etc.
Falling back to earth, I am bleeding from a bite wound badly, but he has a fork protruding from his foot and Payday peanuts stuck in his eye. He knows that I have won, but just to drive point home, I roundhouse kick him in the jaw. Chuck Norris would be proud, if he could feel feelings that is.
I hear the bus rattle to life outside and move towards the exit, past a fetal positioned Harold on the floor. You keep your battle cries, crazy trucker man, I'll win this war AND take your ice cream.
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