Half a Stick of Butter

I had lunch with Bill today. Bill and I used to work together. I designed stuff and he made the tools and machines to build the stuff. We both are semi wondering (and wandering) around 5 years later. Bill won't eat anything un-American. Not even Tex-Mex, how American is that? Even Dubya probably eats Tex-Mex. So we settle for one of those bars-in-front, dining-in-the-back kind of places that have lunch specials like Cajun Chicken over Pasta. We order the Cajun Chicken over Pasta. I drowned mine in red pepper flakes and sprinkle cheese. It was the conversation that mattered. We have a company in common we are consulting for. We discuss cool ways to make an adjustable thing and lament the dearth of even semi-motiviated workers in our little corner of Manufacturing America who couldn't even put it together with a brain transplant from Peter Drucker. We discuss what medications we are on. We used to talk about women, especially those that would walk right by us at the moment. We had a rating system, we were bad. Now talking about medication is better? I'm not sure.

We part company on the corner. I go to my car and right on the edge of the brick walkway, right next to the Japanese restaurant that Bill won't eat in, right next to the open air park-for-50-cents parking area is half a stick of butter, laying on the ground, with the wrapper and all. It is one of those sticks of butter that comes 4 to a box. It is half of a quarter. Laying on the ground. It couldn't have been there long. Of course it was 15 degrees out, how do I know for sure. How did it get there? No one lives near there, the Japanese restaurant doesn't use store bought butter if they even use butter. Half a stick of butter. I stop and stare. A lady stops and sees me staring at the ground and stares too. So does a big giant policeman wearing a uniform that is way too tight. He has a big holster belt thing and a flip book for writing parking tickets. "How did that get there?" I ask out loud. I am thinking if this cop was from Law and Order we would be a half an hour closer to solving a murder.