extra blood earmarked for southern delivery found itself suddenly
diverted to his face.
“If you’re shopping around for some romance,” the waitress
continued, “you might try Frieda’s Road House down the highway—
I’m sure you’ll find someone there who thinks you’re the just the
dog’s pajamas. But if you’ve just come to eat, well then, you can park
your pie-hole here.”
They agreed, followed her to a table and she invited them to sit
down. Actually, they would have to sit way, way, down because there
were no chairs. Influenced as it was by the traditional Asian style of
dining, all patrons at Pangaea sat on the floor. However, there was
nothing Asian about the table. It was a miniature replica of King
Arthur’s round table, but the legs were lopped off. On the center of
the table stood a large bowl of exotic, but plastic, fruit. So exotic was
the fruit that Milo just figured that someone had left their sports
equipment laying around.
“Hey, Harv’, go out for a pass!” cried Milo, grabbing a
polyurethane jackfruit and running across the room. Harvey neither
paid attention nor raised his hands for a catch, as he was absorbed by
the enormous stuffed fish on the wall behind their table. It was
emblazoned with the caption, “Give a Carp. Change the World.”
Harvey stared at the display for a good, long moment.
Just then, the plastic jackfruit struck him hard on the temple. He
fell over with a crash on to the diminutive Arthurian dinette set,
sending the remaining fruits bouncing all over the assorted Arabian
rugs, bamboo mats and psychedelic shag carpets that covered the
beaten-earth floor of the restaurant.
“Hey man, sorry about that. I thought you were gonna do one of
those over-the-shoulder catches. My fault, man.”
“Are you all right, honey?” said the waitress compassionately,
helping him to his feet.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Thank you Miss—uh—uh—” He was trying
to read her name tag, but it proved more mystifying than usual.
“Shiva Eaglefeather,” she replied.
“But,” Harvey said, “Shiva is an Indian God, and Eaglefeather
suggests you’re an American Indian. That’s kind of…”
“Yup,” she replied, “I know. My mother was Asian Indian, my
father a Mojave.”
“And isn’t Shiva a male god?”
“Uh-huh,” she sighed wearily, “My mother didn’t know much
H O L Y S H I T !
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