A Rumination (Writing Practice)

        Laslo awakened from a bad dream. As he arose out of the fog of sleep his surroundings coalesced into reality and in an instant he realized the dream was probably better. It was approximately high noon and he was laying face up in the bed of his old Dodge pickup. It was hot and muggy, and the sun beat down upon him unmercifully from its blinding perch in the middle of a hazy blue sky. He was wearing jeans, t-shirt and work boots. Around him were toppled, mostly empty, cans of beer. Some had spilled and sloshed on the uneven wooden planks that made up the bottom of the pickup bed. His clothes were wet in places.  

        He heard the droning sound of a farm tractor and he knew without looking—he remembered—that he was parked atop a levee along the Missouri River near the town of Sibley. The river would be to his right, the field of soybeans to his left. 

He needed to relieve himself, and he was hungry. He wondered if his head would hurt if he sat up. Maybe if he did it slowly. 

        He woke up again. This time he was lying on the black and white checkered tile floor of the Busy Bee Café. Denise knelt beside him, hovering over him. Her red hair formed a curtain-like halo around her face. “Hey!” 

        “What?” Laslo said.  He struggling to get his bearings and seemed to find a reference point in Denise’s green eyes.

        “You OK?” 

        “Uh huh yep. I’m good,” he said. 

        “Get up then,” said Denise. She stood and stepped back. “You’re too big for me to do it for you.” 

Doris appeared. She looked kindly with her frazzled orange hair and her cook’s apron. Staring right at Laslo, she spoke to Denise.  “Is he OK?”

“Maybe if he ever gets up.” 

“I’m good, I'm up. I'm up,” Laslo said. He sat up and that made his head hurt. He rose to his feet, looked around the café, out the front window onto 18th Street and then behind him at the counter and the kitchen beyond that. The tables on the dining floor were empty. The café was closed. Norman and Dave had gone home, and apparently the burglars, or whatever they were, were gone—after hitting Laslo over the head with something.  A frying pan? Laslo touched his head. 

“That’s going to be a goose egg,” Doris said. The mood lightened. 

        Laslo turned to look at Denise. “You all OK?”

Denise nodded. “Snorri drove them off with his sword!” Doris let out a guffaw and that made Denise giggle. Laslo smiled. 

“Vikings,” he said simply, shaking his head.