As I was sitting in my favorite restaurant, I noticed one of the Mexican bus boys just standing by an empty table, holding a sliver platter, and staring wide-eyed into the sliver platter, slowly tipping it back and forth, in a trance. I was studying his face, trying to think what was going on in his mind. Was there a little water in the platter? Why was he rolling it side to side? He had high cheekbones, a jaw that protruded out, with straight black hair. Was he thinking of “Matthias Grunewald, Madonna, Mescaline, Yucca, Gore.” I went back to eating. When I looked up later, there he was, at the end of the restaurant, sliver platter in his hands, holding it close to his heart. Maybe he will take me into a candle-lit room of red velvet, and talk of ghosts, witches, fairies, voodoo; or should I just let him go on thinking about the three stooges?
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