HENRY MILLER AT DENNY'S

O.K .
So we are driving to Sacramento.
The usual crew:
Liz, Troy, Paula me and you.
We stop at Denny's for something to eat.
A shake,
a bake
and a bellyache.

Troy tells me to look in the corner.
I can't believe this.
A man, old and cold,
looms over his coffee cup
and reads a paperback.
I can't read the title,
something by Bukowski,
or me maybe.

I want to get closer.
I want to inherit him.

We decide that this man is without doubt Henry Miller.
Troy has always had the opinion that Henry faked his own death,
in a bold bid to regain some sense of solitude.
It was all to do with useless students apparently.
Troy even suspects that Henry may be working at Denny's as a cleaner.

'He's in-between shifts at the moment, buddy.'

Troy drinks a hell of a lot of coffee these days.

The old man slugs the last of his coffee,
pays the bill.
No tip much to Troy's delight.
He walks right past us.
We catch a glimpse of the paperback.
'How To Make A Million At The Track.'
Troy becomes hysterical.
'Jesus Christ! Henry's playing the horses.'

Outside in the parking lot we see the old man again.

He stands still.
His gaze fixed on the traffic.
He turns around,
laughs at me,
punches the air
and walks briskly across the fields.

We continue our journey.
Silence in the car for at least twenty minutes.