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Turkey Town


by Robert Vaughan


Last Saturday I had to work the banquet at Turkey Town. The room was crammed with oversized people stuffed into tuxedos. The shouts of drunken frat boys doing jello shots echoed through the December hall like it was an after-hours party. Who gets married in December? Shot guns. That's who. We ran out of the beef bourguignon, and people were not happy with our clams casino. They smelled like Aunt Ethyl's room at the home. Some lady grabbed me, her hand a hundred years old. Hey can you get me another one of these? Five sheets to the wind. Sure, I grabbed her glass. She'd never remember which penguin she spoke to. We weren't supposed to touch the food, but it's a long corridor from the kitchen to the serving trays. I had a whole plate stashed behind the bread trays in the pantry. Old man Mertz nearly caught me chowing. I pretended I was messing with my braces. He didn't care. Get back on the floor, son. When they announced the father-of-the-bride dance, I snuck out back. Didn't want to watch that crap. Not knowing where my Dad even is. The cold hurt my lungs, made it hard to breathe. A kerjillion stars. My breath billowed, like a cartoon.

 

 

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