“Another fish fell from the sky today,” I say.
“And what happened to the fish?” the doctor asks me.
“He asked for some smokes, but I don’t smoke, so I told him I don’t smoke.”
“Okay,” the doctor nods.
“Then he started flip flopping out of my yard, crossed the street, and asked my neighbor. He smokes,” I add.
“No,” the doctor says. “You threw your dinner across the hall at Mr. Salsbo, and then asked him for a cigarette.”
“You say tomato, I say tomato.”
The doctor massages the bridge of his nose, groaning. “I can’t help you if you won’t accept the truth.”
I laugh, “There’s no such thing.”
Sighing, the good doctor leaves me alone in my cell. I really wish they’d stop serving fish on Fridays. I’m not even Catholic. I can smell the odor of Mr. Slasbo’s smoking, and I wish I had another fish to throw at him.
Tale Told 