Don't Order Dog_ 1(2)

“What is it Jeri?” Chip Shepherd asked from his usual seat at the bar. Chip was a regular at Joe’s; one of the sixty-something-year-old locals who considered retirement a fair excuse to drink away the afternoon hours in the ancient saloon that sat on the outskirts of Flagstaff’s old downtown. He ran a hand through his scruffy salt-and-pepper hair and furrowed his brow in curiosity.

“This letter I just got in the mail. It’s the funniest, strangest thing I’ve ever read.”

“Who’s it from?” the older man asked.

Jeri glanced again at the precise handwriting etched across the heavy pages of hotel stationary and shook her head in bewilderment. “I have no idea,” she replied as she dropped them on the counter of the bar and picked up the envelope they’d arrived in. The familiar red and blue stripes of an airmail parcel were stenciled on its battered edges and nearly half of the front side was covered in colorful exotic stamps and postmarks. Jeri stared at them admiringly for a moment before turning the envelope on its side and shaking it gently. A small Polaroid photo fell into her hand.

The photograph was just as the letter described. A large, ancient-looking temple sat off-center in the background, surrounded on both sides by a dense wall of lush, tropical trees. And in the foreground, wearing a blue Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirt, Jeri’s mysterious admirer stood casually.

Unfortunately, as warned, the photographer had failed to include the author’s head.

Jeri studied the picture closely for anything that might reveal a clue to the man’s identity. His tan, muscular arms were crossed loosely, his thin frame leaning slightly back towards the right. She briefly imagined a handsome, equally tanned face with a mischievous grin staring back at her. Unfortunately, nothing in the image, real or imagined, seemed to offer any answers.

Across the counter, Chip leaned forward inquisitively. “May I read it, or is it some kind of pornographic love letter from your fan club?”

Jeri broke her stare from the Polaroid and smiled at Chip.

“Nothing pornographic, Chip. But don’t blame me if that antiquated heart of yours can’t handle it.” She slipped the photo and letter back into the envelope and slid it across the counter.

“Wow… all the way from India, huh?” the older man said quietly, admiring the envelope.

“I guess so,” Jeri answered absently. The image in the Polaroid still hung in her mind.

“Well, let’s see what was important enough to be airmailed from India,” Chip replied. He unfolded the letter and slowly sipped at his beer as he read.

As she waited for Chip’s inevitable opinion, Jeri gazed out the saloon’s arched window at the cars that flashed by on Historic Route 66 outside. It was her favorite time of year, when the late autumn sun bathed everything in warm, honey-golden light. She watched quietly as the leaves of the maple trees planted along the sidewalk trembled at the passing cars, their red-orange colors shimmering with an ethereal glow.

Chip dropped the letter on the bar and picked up the Polaroid with a slow, deliberate motion. He examined it carefully for a few moments before placing it and the letter back in the envelope. Jeri watched as he then drained the last of his beer, a thoughtful expression painted on his face.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, tucking an errant strand of copper-brown hair behind her ear.

Chip stared absently at his empty glass for a moment before leveling his stare on her. “I think I need another beer.”

“Fine,” Jeri replied as she walked over to the beer taps. This was what she loved most about the old man. Everything about him was deliberate and calculated. Even the gaze of his piercing blue eyes had a calming effect as they peered out from his handsome, weathered face. A professor of archeology in his earlier days, Chip was an amalgam of some of her favorite things– part gray-haired professor, part rugged cowboy, and part grumpy old man.

She poured him a fresh beer from the tap and handed it over with a prying smile.

“So?”

“So I think the same thing I thought before I read the letter,” Chip answered, a paternal tone creeping into his deep voice. “That I still don’t understand why a beautiful, brilliant young woman like you is wasting her life pouring drinks for gruff old men like me and witless little Neanderthals like them.” He pointed his thumb at a group of college-age men sitting at a table behind him. The men were too engrossed in a conversation to catch the insult, but Jeri knew Chip wouldn’t have cared either way.

Jeri rolled her large, amber-colored eyes. “Do we have to have this conversation every week?” she asked, feigning annoyance. In truth, she didn’t mind the older man’s fatherly advice. The death of her real father just a year earlier had left Jeri devastated. Until that moment, he had been the stable center of her impetuous, wildly adventurous life. Brilliant and endlessly patient, her father had been her rational tether to reality as she bounced from one adventure, destination, and interest to the next. But all of that had changed with his death, and Jeri was still trying to accept the absence. If nothing else, Chip’s occasional words of wisdom provided a comforting if only fleeting dose of the man she missed so much.