The Lemon Wedge Lodge

The Lemon Wedge Lodge

It was an early morning. The sunshine streams into the windows, boldly declaring that the day has begun. I shower, brush my teeth, and put my pants on one leg at a time. I leave the home and head to the local Lemon Wedge Lodge to hear my favourite regulars ramble on about some topic or another, and to catch up on the miscellaneous random banter missed throughout the week.

I park my car in the grassy lot behind the lodge, and knock on the door in a secret sequence. A little sliding door opens and a voice behind the door says, "Password?" I give the password ("mediocre muskrat") and the door flings open. The lodge is dimly lit, not in a romantic manner, but in a haphazard way with old lights found at the local thrift shoppery.

I pull up a stool and take a seat at the bar. The bartender slides me my favourite brew.

"Where's the crew?" I ask the bartender.
"Don't know." he says.
"Don't know? Don't they work here?"
"Yeah, but they're all scrubbin' pots in the back. Jeff's peeling potatoes. I think Tommy's sleeping."

The bartender wipes up a spilled white russian at the end of the bar.

"Did they print their weekly newsletter?"I asked.
"The Weekly Lemon?"
"Yeah."
"Nope. Couple of 'em went to a dance last night, others have been managing another project all week. Scott mentioned something about playing an instrument."
"Huh. So... basically nothing new you say?"

"It happens, son." the bartender says.
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New Podcast and Overheard next week, pinky promise.