Monday. Fred calls from the Okanagan where he’s vacationing with his family. It’s midday, and I know the weather is fine, so I immediately assume he pocket-dialed me while rolling over on a chaise lounge.
“You’re right about the lying down part, but it’s on the floor, and it’s been all weekend,” he says in a painful, short-of-breath sort of way.
“You’ve fallen and you can’t get up,” I say mockingly, “have you called the concierge?”
“I’m waiting for a doctor,” he replies. “I tore a few stomach muscles trying to get up on one ski. What’s the name of the drug you take for your back?”
He’s referring to the three herniated discs I’ve been living with for years. Although I’ve never had a holiday ruined by my bad back, I was once, while incapacitated, carried up a flight of stairs by a couple of firemen, which did a fine job of ruining my ego, albeit temporarily.
“I guess your Three Dog Night tickets next week are up for grabs,” I quip.
Tuesday. Mrs. Mink calls to say Trixie has booked Mesachie Lake again this year and has extended an invitation for us to come for a week.
“Can you commit to the time off?” she asks hesitantly.
“I can’t say today there won’t be a chocolate crisis tomorrow. You and the kids and the dog go for sure, and put me down as a maybe.”
I could tell from the painful, short-of-breath sort of way she answered that absent an emergency radical discectomy, my summer vacation was being planned for me.
Wednesday. I overhear a customer asking Emma what the seasonal fruit is that we’re serving with the fondue.
“Beautiful, big, juicy cherries,” says Emma.
“Are they canned?” the woman asks.
Momentarily stunned, Emma replies that they are indeed fresh, which is why we’re able to claim seasonal status.
“It’s rude to spit pits in mixed company,” the woman says. “You should re-think your menu.”
Thursday. Jack comes in and sets up at table three, which is our Cafés equivalent of the corner office with a commanding view. He takes his big Nikon off his neck, points it at me, and asks me to look important.
Through the din of much chatter and music, I hear it as im’potent.
He takes a picture.
“I’ve been shot,” I yell, curling over my crossed legs in mock distress.
“You’ve gone batty” Jack says. “You need a vacation.”
Realizing he’s more right than not, I take out my phone and text message my wife.
“Chocolate crisis averted. Gas up the car. Minky’s going on holiday!
Mink Chocolates Inc.,
Mink A Chocolate Cafe Ltd.
Call the store: 604.633.2451
Call my mobile: 604.376.3464
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In Person: 863 Hastings Street West, Vancouver, BC V6C 3N9